Read Online Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims by Lynda La Plante - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynda La Plante
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teeth. “Have you got a realistic time for when the fire started?”
“Yes,” Otley said, getting up. “About nine-thirty.” He yanked his crumpled jacket straight at the back. “Jackson could have done it! Even if he didn’t, this could be what we need to get him off the streets so we can get the kids to talk.” He stared hard at Tennison. She thought some more and then gave a swift nod.
“Okay. You get hold of the probation officer and Martin Fletcher, and bring Jackson in for questioning . . . just helping inquiries,” she added quietly, staring him out. In other words, no more bloody cock-ups that would leave her holding the shitty end of the stick.
Tennison wanted to see for herself. Statements, autopsy reports, tapes, photographs told one version of events. They might be true and accurate, but they were one-dimensional, open to interpretation. Nothing like being there, seeing it, smelling it, touching it.
She took Otley along with her to Vera Reynolds’s flat. The Fire team was still there, sifting through what remained of Vera’s most treasured possessions. A plastic sheet had been taped over the window to keep out the draft. Even so it was cold, the air acrid with the lingering smell of smoke that seemed to enter every pore, making Tennison’s eyes sting.
“Body was found here, on the settee.” Drury showed her, his gloved hand tracing the outline of Connie’s body on the singed fabric. “This is, or was, a paraffin oil heater, and the seat of the fire.”
He pointed to the white cross on the carpet.
Tennison crouched down for a closer look, lifting the tail of her beige Burberry raincoat to prevent it getting soiled. “Was it an accident?”
“No.” He was very definite. No pussy-footing around. The man knew his business, and his confidence gave her a lift. “The heater was pushed or kicked forward. And there are signs that paraffin had been distributed around the room, probably from a canister of fuel that we found by the door.”
“So somebody started the fire,” Otley murmured, stroking his jaw.
Tennison leaned over to inspect the covering with its ghostly imprint of Connie’s last few seconds alive. No longer just a poor dead lad, she thought; now he was the subject of a possible murder inquiry.
“If you stand by the fireplace, for example, and say you trip . . .” Drury acted it out for them. “There’s an armchair, a footstool, a coffee table, but none would indicate the victim had fallen. Coming from the opposite direction . . . if he had, say, fallen against the heater, then he wouldn’t have been lying that way around. His head would be at this end.”
Tennison pictured it in her mind. It was as important to know what hadn’t happened as what actually had. She thanked him with a smile and stepped onto the duckboards leading outside. In the Sierra Sapphire, heading for the morgue, she asked Otley if anything had been found in the flat that might be a possible weapon.
Otley sat in the passenger seat, not wearing his seat belt as she’d asked him to. “Yes, taken to the labs,” he said, rhyming them off. “A heavy glass ashtray, a pan, a walking stick handle, er . . .”
“Any prints on them?” Otley shook his head. “What about Vera Reynolds? She in the clear?”
“Time of the fire he was on the catwalk in a tranny club.” Otley looked across at her. “He still insists he didn’t know the boy. You want to talk to him?”
“I suppose so.” Tennison sighed, gnawing her lip. “But if Connie was killed, it won’t be down to us to sort it.” Seeing her murder inquiry vanishing over the horizon, she said, “We won’t get a look in.”
Like a kid who’s had an ice cream snatched from under her nose, Otley thought. It should have made him feel gleeful, her disappointment, but somehow it didn’t.
“DCI Tennison’s gone walkabout,” Halliday said darkly to Commander Chiswick. “Nobody knows where she is.”
Chiswick closed the door and
“Yes,” Otley said, getting up. “About nine-thirty.” He yanked his crumpled jacket straight at the back. “Jackson could have done it! Even if he didn’t, this could be what we need to get him off the streets so we can get the kids to talk.” He stared hard at Tennison. She thought some more and then gave a swift nod.
“Okay. You get hold of the probation officer and Martin Fletcher, and bring Jackson in for questioning . . . just helping inquiries,” she added quietly, staring him out. In other words, no more bloody cock-ups that would leave her holding the shitty end of the stick.
Tennison wanted to see for herself. Statements, autopsy reports, tapes, photographs told one version of events. They might be true and accurate, but they were one-dimensional, open to interpretation. Nothing like being there, seeing it, smelling it, touching it.
She took Otley along with her to Vera Reynolds’s flat. The Fire team was still there, sifting through what remained of Vera’s most treasured possessions. A plastic sheet had been taped over the window to keep out the draft. Even so it was cold, the air acrid with the lingering smell of smoke that seemed to enter every pore, making Tennison’s eyes sting.
“Body was found here, on the settee.” Drury showed her, his gloved hand tracing the outline of Connie’s body on the singed fabric. “This is, or was, a paraffin oil heater, and the seat of the fire.”
He pointed to the white cross on the carpet.
Tennison crouched down for a closer look, lifting the tail of her beige Burberry raincoat to prevent it getting soiled. “Was it an accident?”
“No.” He was very definite. No pussy-footing around. The man knew his business, and his confidence gave her a lift. “The heater was pushed or kicked forward. And there are signs that paraffin had been distributed around the room, probably from a canister of fuel that we found by the door.”
“So somebody started the fire,” Otley murmured, stroking his jaw.
Tennison leaned over to inspect the covering with its ghostly imprint of Connie’s last few seconds alive. No longer just a poor dead lad, she thought; now he was the subject of a possible murder inquiry.
“If you stand by the fireplace, for example, and say you trip . . .” Drury acted it out for them. “There’s an armchair, a footstool, a coffee table, but none would indicate the victim had fallen. Coming from the opposite direction . . . if he had, say, fallen against the heater, then he wouldn’t have been lying that way around. His head would be at this end.”
Tennison pictured it in her mind. It was as important to know what hadn’t happened as what actually had. She thanked him with a smile and stepped onto the duckboards leading outside. In the Sierra Sapphire, heading for the morgue, she asked Otley if anything had been found in the flat that might be a possible weapon.
Otley sat in the passenger seat, not wearing his seat belt as she’d asked him to. “Yes, taken to the labs,” he said, rhyming them off. “A heavy glass ashtray, a pan, a walking stick handle, er . . .”
“Any prints on them?” Otley shook his head. “What about Vera Reynolds? She in the clear?”
“Time of the fire he was on the catwalk in a tranny club.” Otley looked across at her. “He still insists he didn’t know the boy. You want to talk to him?”
“I suppose so.” Tennison sighed, gnawing her lip. “But if Connie was killed, it won’t be down to us to sort it.” Seeing her murder inquiry vanishing over the horizon, she said, “We won’t get a look in.”
Like a kid who’s had an ice cream snatched from under her nose, Otley thought. It should have made him feel gleeful, her disappointment, but somehow it didn’t.
“DCI Tennison’s gone walkabout,” Halliday said darkly to Commander Chiswick. “Nobody knows where she is.”
Chiswick closed the door and
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