Read Online Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims by Lynda La Plante - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynda La Plante
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said he was seventeen . . .”
“And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”
Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.
He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James—”
“So? Get to the point.”
“He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London—Euston, Charing Cross—”
“I know the stations. Go on.”
Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”
Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”
“We just wanted to talk to him about Colin Jenkins,” Hall added. “Then he starts to tell us about Jackson.”
“The bastard plucks ’em off the station,” Otley said, “takes them out, gives them food, offers a place to stay—that’s it, he’s got them.” His mouth twisted in his long, haggard face. “Keeps them locked up. Not just boys, it’s very young—only the very young—girls as well. He drugs them, keeps them dependent.”
Thoughtfully, Tennison went back around the desk. She leaned her knuckles on the edge.
“Did Martin Fletcher tell you all this? Or is it past history?”
“We’ve sort of known about the scams,” Hall said, “but we can’t get any of the kids to name Jackson—he was one of our main targets. We don’t know where he holds the kids, but Fletcher, he admitted—”
“Just hang on a second.” Tennison’s narrowed eyes flicked between them. “What do you mean, ‘holds the kids’? Kidnaps them?”
“No, they go with him willingly,” Otley said. His voice had a raw, ugly edge to it. “And then once he’s got them—that’s it. We’re talking about kids as young as twelve and thirteen . . .”
“None of the kids will talk. We’ve had him hauled in on numerous occasions, we’ve even got as far as getting charges compiled against him, but the statements are always withdrawn, the kids are terrified of him, they won’t go against him. So when Martin tells us Jackson beat him up because he wanted to know where Connie was, we reckoned we got something.” Hall gestured irritably toward the desk. “Have you read my report?”
Tennison straightened up. “Yes!” She flipped open the buff cover, and began to read out loud.
“ SGT. OTLEY: ‘Where does he stay? Do you know his address?’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did he beat up on you, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘Yes, sir, he did.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Why did he do that, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did you know Connie?’
FLETCHER: ‘No.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Come on, Martin, he was murdered.’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir!’ ”
Tennison brought her fist down on the page, glaring across the desk at them. “We do not as yet have any proof that Colin Jenkins was murdered.”
Hall took the file, turned it around and thumbed over a couple of pages. He looked up. “Excuse me, Guv . . .”
“Help yourself,” Tennison said curtly.
Hall read out loud:
“ INSP. HALL : ‘Tell me about Colin Jenkins.’
FLETCHER : ‘I don’t know him.’
INSP. HALL : ‘I think you are lying.’
FLETCHER : ‘I’m not, I didn’t know where he was, that’s why Jackson done it to me. . . .’ ”
Hall looked at Tennison. “Jackson beat up Martin Fletcher on the same night Colin—Connie—died.” He read on.
“ INSP. HALL : ‘What time did Jackson beat you up?’
FLETCHER : ‘Eight to nine-ish.’ ”
Hall closed the file and stepped back. During the silence Otley stared at nothing and Tennison tapped her thumbnail against her bottom
“And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”
Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.
He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James—”
“So? Get to the point.”
“He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London—Euston, Charing Cross—”
“I know the stations. Go on.”
Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”
Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”
“We just wanted to talk to him about Colin Jenkins,” Hall added. “Then he starts to tell us about Jackson.”
“The bastard plucks ’em off the station,” Otley said, “takes them out, gives them food, offers a place to stay—that’s it, he’s got them.” His mouth twisted in his long, haggard face. “Keeps them locked up. Not just boys, it’s very young—only the very young—girls as well. He drugs them, keeps them dependent.”
Thoughtfully, Tennison went back around the desk. She leaned her knuckles on the edge.
“Did Martin Fletcher tell you all this? Or is it past history?”
“We’ve sort of known about the scams,” Hall said, “but we can’t get any of the kids to name Jackson—he was one of our main targets. We don’t know where he holds the kids, but Fletcher, he admitted—”
“Just hang on a second.” Tennison’s narrowed eyes flicked between them. “What do you mean, ‘holds the kids’? Kidnaps them?”
“No, they go with him willingly,” Otley said. His voice had a raw, ugly edge to it. “And then once he’s got them—that’s it. We’re talking about kids as young as twelve and thirteen . . .”
“None of the kids will talk. We’ve had him hauled in on numerous occasions, we’ve even got as far as getting charges compiled against him, but the statements are always withdrawn, the kids are terrified of him, they won’t go against him. So when Martin tells us Jackson beat him up because he wanted to know where Connie was, we reckoned we got something.” Hall gestured irritably toward the desk. “Have you read my report?”
Tennison straightened up. “Yes!” She flipped open the buff cover, and began to read out loud.
“ SGT. OTLEY: ‘Where does he stay? Do you know his address?’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did he beat up on you, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘Yes, sir, he did.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Why did he do that, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did you know Connie?’
FLETCHER: ‘No.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Come on, Martin, he was murdered.’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir!’ ”
Tennison brought her fist down on the page, glaring across the desk at them. “We do not as yet have any proof that Colin Jenkins was murdered.”
Hall took the file, turned it around and thumbed over a couple of pages. He looked up. “Excuse me, Guv . . .”
“Help yourself,” Tennison said curtly.
Hall read out loud:
“ INSP. HALL : ‘Tell me about Colin Jenkins.’
FLETCHER : ‘I don’t know him.’
INSP. HALL : ‘I think you are lying.’
FLETCHER : ‘I’m not, I didn’t know where he was, that’s why Jackson done it to me. . . .’ ”
Hall looked at Tennison. “Jackson beat up Martin Fletcher on the same night Colin—Connie—died.” He read on.
“ INSP. HALL : ‘What time did Jackson beat you up?’
FLETCHER : ‘Eight to nine-ish.’ ”
Hall closed the file and stepped back. During the silence Otley stared at nothing and Tennison tapped her thumbnail against her bottom
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