Free Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims by Lynda La Plante Page A

them.
    At ten minutes to three, with Hall starting to fret that they were wasting their time, he got a call. He inclined his head, listening intently, and then spoke into the small transceiver inside his turned-up collar. “Is it him? Sure? Okay, we’re on our way.”
    He set off, Kathy walking briskly beside him. “Jackson’s hanging around platform seven.” He held out his hand, and Kathy slapped it. “You owe me a fiver!” Hall said, grinning. “I said Euston, you said Charing Cross!”
    The Liverpool train had just pulled in. Jackson was sitting on the metal barrier at the top of the ramp, eating a burger. He looked quite relaxed, waiting, it seemed, like several others, for the arrival of a friend. His eyes roamed over the passengers: businessmen, families, older people with their luggage on a cart, but he wasn’t interested in any of them. Then he spotted a young boy, fourteen, perhaps fifteen, scruffily dressed, carrying a cheap suitcase tied up with string. Jackson tossed the burger away and slid down. Wiping his mouth, he watched the boy coming up the ramp. He sidled to his left, getting into position to intercept the boy as if by chance.
    Hall and Kathy, and a third plainclothes officer, moved in slowly, threading their way through the stream of passengers.
    “Hi, how you doin’?” Jackson was all smiles, a friendly face in a strange, hostile environment. “Do I know you?” The boy gave a little nervous smile, shaking his head. “You from Liverpool? You know Steve Wallis?” Jackson patted his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not the law, just waitin’ for a friend. You got somebody meetin’ you? First time in the Smoke?” Jackson stuck a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to the boy. “Hey, man, you want a drag?”
    As the boy reached to accept it, Hall stepped between them, nose to nose with Jackson. Jackson fell back a pace. He half-turned, nearly colliding with the third officer standing right behind him. Hall muttered a few words in Jackson’s ear.
    Her arm around his shoulder, Kathy said to the boy, “Have you got somebody meeting you, love?”
    The boy shook his head. He looked past Kathy and got a glimpse of the two officers walking off with Jackson between them, merging into the crowd.
    Otley came into the interview room with a tray of canteen teas in proper cups and saucers. He slid it onto the desk between Tennison and Vera Reynolds. Norma was sitting next to the wall, plump black-stockinged legs crossed, taking notes. She looked bored to tears.
    “Vera’s admitted that she knew Colin.”
    “Connie,” Vera corrected Tennison. Her head was bowed, her long pale hands with the manicured nails clasped tightly in the lap of her leather skirt. She wore a loose halter-neck knitted top, colored bangles on her bare arms. “He didn’t like his name, sometimes he called himself Bruce.”
    Tennison made a note on her pad.
    “Bit butch for his kind, isn’t it?” Otley said, standing with legs apart, sipping his tea.
    Vera turned her face to the wall.
    Tennison’s patience was running short, but she summoned up some more. “Vera, the sooner this is all sorted out, the sooner you can leave.”
    “On the other hand, if you killed your little feathered friend,” Otley said, “then you’ll be caged up—with no makeup bag in sight.”
    Tennison looked at Vera over the rim of her cup. She glanced up at Otley, who rolled his eyes. They waited.
    “If it’s proved to be arson . . .” Vera’s voice was croaky; her eyes red-rimmed. “I mean, if somebody did it, does that mean I won’t get the insurance?” Her brow puckered as if she were about to cry. “Oh, God . . . all my costumes. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
    “Never mind your costumes, Vera, what about Connie?” Otley’s patience was running shorter than Tennison’s. “Who do you think set light to him?”
    “I don’t know.” Staring at the desktop, fingers plucking at the baggy sleeve of her knitted