Free A Face in the Crowd by Lynda La Plante Page A

his ballpoint. She noted down the details, then keyed in a new code, and the computer responded.
    “LOAN REPAYMENTS TAKEN OVER BY MRS. EILEEN REYNOLDS, 6 6 90.”
    “Well done, boss,” Haskons murmured admiringly. You had to hand it to the woman. Like a bloody terrier with a bone.
    Tennison was scribbling on the pad. “Do you fancy a drink?” she asked, the Nicorette bulging in her cheek.
    Haskons hesitated. “I should get home really . . .”
    Tennison glanced around. “Yes, right—the twins.” She gave him a grin and a quick nod. “Off you go.”
    “ ’Night,” Haskons said, on his way out.
    “ ’Night, Richard.”
    The door swung shut, rocking to and fro on its hinges. The room was silent, except for the low hum of the computer. Alone, crouched over the keyboard, in a world of her own, Tennison clenched both fists and stared at the screen in triumph.
    “Got you . . . got you!”
    Muddyman drove along Wandsworth Road, heading for Clapham. Beside him, Tennison was doing her best to control her impatience. They were twenty minutes behind schedule, caused mainly by a traffic tie-up on Waterloo Bridge. The day couldn’t be far off, Tennison fantasized, when they’d switch from cars to helicopters; given the paralysis of central London, it would soon be the only way of getting around.
    The Lloyd George Estate was situated to the northeast of Clapham Common. It was easy to find, four twenty-story concrete towers sticking up into the overcast sky, some of the balconies festooned with washing. Muddyman drove into the parking lot of Dwyfor House and found a space. As he switched off the engine, Tennison hung up the handset in its cradle, having received a message from Lillie back at base.
    She said, “They’ve done the tests on Nadine’s skull. Seems she was of mixed race, West Indian and English.”
    “That would explain the Nigerian bracelets,” Muddyman said.
    Tennison climbed out and stared up at the tower block. “Right.” she muttered, a gleam in her eye. “Let’s see what David Harvey can tell us.”
    The elevator was out of order. Harvey lived in Flat 136, on the thirteenth floor. They began to climb the concrete stairs, trying to ignore the unidentifiable odor that permeated the place; the nearest Tennison could come to it was a mixture of greasy cooking, stale underwear, and dead cat. She inhaled Givenchy Mirage from her silk scarf, and plowed steadily onward and upward. Muddyman lit up, pausing on the half-landings for a swift drag.
    Tennison said, “You know, you ought to give up cigarettes. Make you feel a whole lot better.”
    Leaning against a wall, taking a breather, Muddyman gave her a fishy-eyed stare. “There’s nothing worse than a born-again nonsmoker,” he growled.
    Tennison hadn’t formed any preconceived idea of what David Harvey would be like, but even so she was taken aback by the appearance of the man when he opened the door of 136. It was a small miracle that he’d made it to the door at all. A slight, stooped figure in a grimy striped shirt and threadbare cardigan, he had a pale, rinsed-out face and bleary blue eyes, a ragged gray mustache adding to his mournful, hang-dog look. Just standing there, he seemed to be fighting for every breath, and Tennison could hear his chest whistling and wheezing. The hand holding the edge of the door was thin and veined, visibly trembling.
    “Mr. David Harvey?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’re police officers. We’d like to have a few words with you.”
    Harvey didn’t seem surprised; but then he didn’t seem anything. It was as though he’d lost interest in the business of living, or it had given up on him.
    As he led them inside, Tennison glanced at Muddyman. He met her look, registering the same faint sense of shock she felt. They hadn’t expected to be interviewing a semi-invalid.
    Harvey shuffled across to an armchair, trousers hanging baggily at the seat, and using both arms, lowered himself into it. There was a lit cigarette in