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

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    DI Hall tapped on the door and looked in. Otley went over, and Hall whispered to him, “I’ve got Jackson and the probation officer waiting to see . . .” He nodded at Tennison. “And Martin Fletcher’s being brought in.”
    Tennison was making one last try. “Vera, if you are protecting someone, then you had better tell me. You have already lied to us, wasted our time . . .” She looked across at Hall. “Five minutes.” Then back to Vera. “Why did you lie about Connie?”
    Norma looked at Hall, cross-eyed. She tapped her watch, blowing out her cheeks. He grinned and went out. Tennison leaned her elbows on the desk, waiting. Otley stood holding his cup and saucer, waiting. He glanced impatiently at his watch. Vera took a long time lighting a cigarette. She blew out a great gust of smoke, then, as an afterthought, hesitantly offered the packet.
    “I’ve given up,” Tennison said.
    “I’ve tried, I’ve had the patches.” Vera smiled weakly. “I’ve got patches for hormones, nicotine—my arse looks like an old pub table. I even tried the chewing gum. How did you give up?”
    “With great difficulty.”
    Norma’s mouth sagged open as she watched the pair of them. She looked at Otley, who gave her a snide wink.
    Tennison pushed the loaded ashtray across. “You had better help me, Vera, I am losing my patience. Why did you lie?”
    “I wasn’t lying—about knowing him. Nobody really knew him. He was very gentle, very beautiful. He wanted to be a model. A professional model,” Vera insisted, making sure Tennison understood the difference. “He used to answer the ads . . .”
    Tennison glanced up sharply and glared at Otley as his sigh exploded in the quiet room. She rapped her knuckles on the desk. “What about James Jackson, Vera?”
    Vera drew deeply on her cigarette. “He’s an animal, should be caged.”
    “Did Connie have someone looking after him? Say Jackson?”
    “You mean like a pimp? No, the older boys don’t have them, really. Not like the Toms.”
    The bing-bong of the chimes came over the wall speaker. “Sergeant Otley to main reception please.”
    He looked to Tennison, and at her nod left the room.
    “I would help you, you know that,” Vera said slowly, as if, with tremendous effort, she was forcing the words out of herself. “I always have in the past. You’re . . . you’re not like the others, and I’ve always appreciated the way you speak to me—” She broke off to suck in a lungful of smoke. “But—I can’t help. Maybe . . .”
    Tennison counted silently to five. “Maybe what?”
    “He used the advice centre, for letters, I know that.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Edward Parker-Jones runs it.”
    Tennison’s hand reached toward Vera’s, but instead of touching it she picked up the ashtray and tipped it into the wastebasket. Abruptly, she stood up. “Norma, will you show Vera the way out.” She tore the sheet from her notepad. “And check out this. Give it to Kathy.”
    Tennison went into the corridor, leaving the door open. She stood there, grinding her teeth. She was annoyed with Vera and bloody angry with herself. She found it difficult to concentrate, and her insides were jumpy. Was she coming down with flu or what? She wasn’t in top form, and knew it.
    Otley strode up. She faced him wearily.
    “Martin Fletcher’s now in reception, and the probation officer’s with him. I think you need to have words with Martin, and before Jackson.”
    Tennison nodded abstractedly, trying to get her train of thought back on the tracks. Vera appeared, clicking her handbag shut, followed by Norma, who pointed along the corridor. “Down the staircase and right . . .”
    Kathy hurried through the double doors from the opposite direction. “Guv, there’s a couple of messages—that reporter again, Jessica Smithy. I’ve told her to contact the press office but she’s really pushy, insists she wants to talk to you. So does Superintendent