was Otley’s turn to inspect the carpet. “He was just . . . very young, quiet.” Small shrug. “Very quiet.”
“Take Dalton with you. I want Martin Fletcher brought back in.” Tennison’s face was stony. “I presume you can remember who he is.”
She walked off and Otley trudged back to get Dalton and do the bitch’s bidding.
With his brief present—Mr. Arthur, a short squat little man with a sweaty bald head, wearing a threadbare suit and scuffed brown suede shoes—Jackson seemed more inclined to talk. The cockiness was still there, the indolent sprawling posture, the sneering fleshy lips, the chain-smoking. You can’t touch me, I’m fireproof: he might have carried it around with him as a neon advertising sign.
Tennison and Hall listened, not interrupting, getting as much down on tape as was possible in the time. Time was the problem.
“. . . and there was another kid, Kenny Lloyd, he was there. And—oh yeah, Driscoll. Dunno his first name. Disco Driscoll, and Alan Thorpe, Billy Matthews, they was with me, from . . .” He sucked on the Marlboro, held the smoke in, let it explode through his nostrils. “ ’Bout half eight onward, at the advice centre.” He wagged his head, lips pursed. “Played some pool, watched TV . . . I told you this, I told you about even Mr. Parker-Jones being there.”
“Well, we will check out these witnesses, but until then you will remain in custody,” Tennison said officiously. A fair and honest copper playing it by the book.
Mr. Arthur was agitated. His false teeth weren’t a perfect fit, and his speech was accompanied by constant clicking and a spray on the sibilant consonants. “But my client has clearly stated to you that on the evening in question he has not one, but five witnesses, and you were given their names last night!”
Tennison said primly, “Mr. Arthur, until we are satisfied that these witnesses can verify that Mr. Jackson was where he said he was . . .”
She looked up at Otley, who had just entered the room and was beckoning to her. She went over to him while Mr. Arthur’s querulous clicking voice kept on complaining.
“What about these other charges? I mean, you have held my client for nearly twenty-four hours. If there are other charges to be leveled at my client, then we have a right to know exactly what they are.”
Otley said quietly in Tennison’s ear, “Nobody can trace Martin Fletcher. He was in the Bullring last night, Waterloo underpass this morning.”
“The probation officer, Margaret Speel, doesn’t she know where he is?” Otley shook his head. Tennison ground her teeth. This bloody investigation was falling apart at the seams. She poked her finger into Otley’s chest. “Then you’d better get out and find him! Find every one of Jackson’s alibis and wheel them in. All of them!”
She turned back to Jackson, who was lighting a cigarette from the stub of the last one. Cocky little prick. “Take him back to the cells,” she said to Hall.
Jackson grinned at her. He said to his brief, “How long can they hold me here?”
“What time did you bring my client in?” Mr. Arthur asked Hall, almost bouncing up and down in the chair. “The exact time, Inspector . . . ?”
Tennison glanced back from the door, then made a swift silent exit.
She went directly to the Squad Room. One of the team was writing up the names of Jackson’s alibi witnesses in black felt-tip on the board: ALAN THORPE. BILLY MATTHEWS. ?? DRISCOLL. KENNY LLOYD.
Kathy was showing Norma some holiday snaps. “Not got any work on, girls?” Tennison asked.
Kathy hesitated, then passed one over for Tennison to see. “They’re my kids.” She exchanged a quick guarded glance with Norma; neither of them had worked under a female DCI before—hardly surprising when they were rarer than duck’s teeth—and they weren’t sure how to take Tennison.
“I was just saying that after each one I’ve got to start all over
“Take Dalton with you. I want Martin Fletcher brought back in.” Tennison’s face was stony. “I presume you can remember who he is.”
She walked off and Otley trudged back to get Dalton and do the bitch’s bidding.
With his brief present—Mr. Arthur, a short squat little man with a sweaty bald head, wearing a threadbare suit and scuffed brown suede shoes—Jackson seemed more inclined to talk. The cockiness was still there, the indolent sprawling posture, the sneering fleshy lips, the chain-smoking. You can’t touch me, I’m fireproof: he might have carried it around with him as a neon advertising sign.
Tennison and Hall listened, not interrupting, getting as much down on tape as was possible in the time. Time was the problem.
“. . . and there was another kid, Kenny Lloyd, he was there. And—oh yeah, Driscoll. Dunno his first name. Disco Driscoll, and Alan Thorpe, Billy Matthews, they was with me, from . . .” He sucked on the Marlboro, held the smoke in, let it explode through his nostrils. “ ’Bout half eight onward, at the advice centre.” He wagged his head, lips pursed. “Played some pool, watched TV . . . I told you this, I told you about even Mr. Parker-Jones being there.”
“Well, we will check out these witnesses, but until then you will remain in custody,” Tennison said officiously. A fair and honest copper playing it by the book.
Mr. Arthur was agitated. His false teeth weren’t a perfect fit, and his speech was accompanied by constant clicking and a spray on the sibilant consonants. “But my client has clearly stated to you that on the evening in question he has not one, but five witnesses, and you were given their names last night!”
Tennison said primly, “Mr. Arthur, until we are satisfied that these witnesses can verify that Mr. Jackson was where he said he was . . .”
She looked up at Otley, who had just entered the room and was beckoning to her. She went over to him while Mr. Arthur’s querulous clicking voice kept on complaining.
“What about these other charges? I mean, you have held my client for nearly twenty-four hours. If there are other charges to be leveled at my client, then we have a right to know exactly what they are.”
Otley said quietly in Tennison’s ear, “Nobody can trace Martin Fletcher. He was in the Bullring last night, Waterloo underpass this morning.”
“The probation officer, Margaret Speel, doesn’t she know where he is?” Otley shook his head. Tennison ground her teeth. This bloody investigation was falling apart at the seams. She poked her finger into Otley’s chest. “Then you’d better get out and find him! Find every one of Jackson’s alibis and wheel them in. All of them!”
She turned back to Jackson, who was lighting a cigarette from the stub of the last one. Cocky little prick. “Take him back to the cells,” she said to Hall.
Jackson grinned at her. He said to his brief, “How long can they hold me here?”
“What time did you bring my client in?” Mr. Arthur asked Hall, almost bouncing up and down in the chair. “The exact time, Inspector . . . ?”
Tennison glanced back from the door, then made a swift silent exit.
She went directly to the Squad Room. One of the team was writing up the names of Jackson’s alibi witnesses in black felt-tip on the board: ALAN THORPE. BILLY MATTHEWS. ?? DRISCOLL. KENNY LLOYD.
Kathy was showing Norma some holiday snaps. “Not got any work on, girls?” Tennison asked.
Kathy hesitated, then passed one over for Tennison to see. “They’re my kids.” She exchanged a quick guarded glance with Norma; neither of them had worked under a female DCI before—hardly surprising when they were rarer than duck’s teeth—and they weren’t sure how to take Tennison.
“I was just saying that after each one I’ve got to start all over
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