Free A Face in the Crowd by Lynda La Plante

upset her one bit, but it embarrassed Vernon Allen.
    “It’s my son David who’s the wizard at math,” he said, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.
    Tennison took the description of Nadine from her briefcase and handed it to the girl. “Do you recall seeing anyone like that in the vicinity of Honeyford Road?”
    Sarah hardly glanced at it. “Yes, of course, Simone Cameron,” she said curtly.
    “It’s not Simone. We’re quite sure about that,” Tennison stated evenly. “Would you look at the description, please.”
    Sarah blinked rapidly, obviously taken aback. Then the icy, scathing tone returned, this time with a touch of venom.
    “Well, then, if it’s not Simone, you’ll need to be a bit more specific, won’t you? That’s if you can be bothered!”
    “And would that mean . . .”
    Sarah interrupted, “The police aren’t exactly noted for their enthusiasm in solving cases when the victim is black, are they?” Again the sneering twist to her mouth, her contemptuous summing up of all police officers, be they male or female.
    Tennison raised her eyebrows. “Was she black? It doesn’t say so here.” Taking back the description, she gave Sarah a cool, level stare. “Maybe it’s you who’s jumping to conclusions.”
    Tony was in the hallway with Cleo in his arms when Vernon Allen showed Tennison to the front door. Tennison smiled at the little girl and asked, “When’s the happy day, Tony?”
    He looked down at the carpet, throat working, too shy or too tongue-tied to give a coherent reply. Sarah had followed them downstairs. She came into the hallway, transformed into a beautiful young woman by a beaming smile as she looked fondly at her brother and his daughter, and Tennison noticed that she gripped Tony’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
    “Two weeks away now,” Sarah said, and even her voice was different, warm and affectionate, when speaking of Tony.
    “Well, I’ll see you again before that,” Tennison said, nodding to Vernon Allen as he held the door open for her. “Thanks for your help. Good-bye.”
    It was late when she returned to Southampton Row. The cleaners didn’t start their assault on the disaster area of the Incident Room till the early hours. Everyone had gone, except for DS Haskons, who was tidying up his desk, getting ready for home. He looked frazzled after the long day, shirt collar wrinkled, tie undone, wavy, brown hair tousled from continually brushing his fingers through it.
    “Got anything on David Harvey?” Tennison asked, dumping her briefcase on the desk.
    “Not yet, Guv,” Haskons said wearily. He wondered what Tennison did in her spare time. Traffic duty at Hyde Park Corner? “We’ve tried the electoral rolls, NHS, DHSS, taxes.” He gestured at the piles of directories. “I’ve just finished working my way through the phone book . . .”
    “You know,” Tennison said, her brain still ticking over after twelve straight hours on the job, “Vernon Allen said Harvey was erratic in paying his rent. Have we checked out the credit reference agencies?”
    Haskons mumbled that they hadn’t. Tossing her raincoat aside and pushing up her sleeves, Tennison got down to it. She pulled a chair up to the computer terminal, and slipped a Nicorette lozenge into her mouth while she studied the code manual. Haskons leaned over, watching as Tennison keyed in the letters “SVR.” The computer clicked and whirred, and in a second or two the “CREDIT REFERENCE AGENCIES” program flashed up to the VDU screen.
    Tennison carefully typed, “DAVID ALOYSIUS HARVEY, 15 HONEYFORD ROAD, LONDON N1.” A few more clicks followed while the computer carried out its search. Then up came:
    “CREDIT REF: DAH/18329
    DATE: 12 2 86
    SUM: £5000 × 60 FIN.”
    Tennison leaned forward, rubbing her hands. “Yes . . .”
    The next line appeared.
    “FORWARD 3 10 90—136 DWYFOR HOUSE, LLOYD GEORGE ESTATE, LONDON SW8.”
    Tennison snapped her fingers for a pen. Haskons handed her