Read Online Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims by Lynda La Plante - Free Book Online

out, when she heard Kathy saying to Hall, “Guv, there was an emergency call placed at nine-fifteen, night of the fire. Caller did not leave his name.”
    “What emergency call?” asked Hall.
    Tennison paused at the door.
    “Somebody called an ambulance.”
    “An ambulance?” Hall frowned. “For Reynolds’s address? Get the emergency services to send over the recording.”
    Tennison hurried along the corridor, catching up with Halliday as he passed her open door. Norma was laboring mightily, logging the stacks of files and placing them on the shelves. Soon it might start to resemble an office.
    Halliday turned to Tennison, rubbing his forehead. He looked distinctly green around the gills.
    He said, “Last night a lad called Martin Fletcher was brought in—Otley will explain the circumstances—but the last thing we need is any aggro from Social Services about questioning underage kids without legal advisors.” He shot her a warning look, then his face creased with pain. “Christ, I’ve got a headache . . .”
    Kennington’s farewell bash was taking its toll. Serves you bloody well right, Tennison thought with satisfaction.
    “I’d like you to set up meetings with the British Transport police, get to know all the centres and halfway homes in our area. I’d like us to try for another swoop on those areas we’ve targeted.”
    “Sir, this boy in the fire, Colin Jenkins,” Tennison said as Halliday walked on to his office and opened the door. “According to the team he was on the game!”
    “Well, he isn’t anymore, so he’s one less to worry about.” Clutching his head, Halliday went in and slammed the door.
    Norma looked up as Tennison came smartly in, heels rapping. She didn’t need smoke signals to know that a storm was brewing. Tennison sent her off to get Martin Fletcher’s file, and when she returned her boss was pacing the small space between the desk and window. Still pacing, Tennison quickly scanned through the file, and then snatched up the phone. Norma kept her head down, literally, sorting out the files.
    “DCI Tennison. Extension seven-eight, please.” While she waited, fingers drumming, she spotted some Post-It memo slips stuck to the blotter and attracted Norma’s attention.
    “There were three messages. The Fire team, Forensic department, and someone called Jessica Smithy. She’s a journalist. Said she is doing a piece on rent boys—”
    “What paper is she from?” Before Norma could answer, Tennison said into the phone, “Would you please ask Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall to . . .”
    There was no need, as Otley tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Tennison banged the phone down. Hall followed the sergeant in.
    “That’s it, Norma,” Tennison said. “Out, thank you.” She waited until the door had closed and came around the desk, brandishing the file.
    “What the hell do you think you’re playing at— no! Don’t interrupt!” Otley shut his mouth as Tennison glared at him. “Last night, according to the roster, you were not even on duty—but last night the pair of you interviewed a Martin Fletcher, correct?” She opened the file, glancing down at the yellow slip paper-clipped to the top sheet. “When later interviewed by his probation officer, a Miss Margaret Speel, she noted that this same Martin Fletcher had extensive bruising to his face, arms, and upper neck . . .”
    “Wait, wait,” Otley said, shaking his head rapidly. “We brought him in like that!”
    “ Don’t interrupt me, Bill.” Tennison’s eyes blazed. “This same probation officer has subsequently filed a complaint against this department—which, in case you two had not bloody noticed, I am head of !” Her voice sank to a dangerous whisper. “Martin Fletcher, you idiots, is fourteen years old!”
    Otley swore under his breath and flopped down into a chair, a hand covering his eyes. Hall stayed on his feet, goggling.
    “Oh, man—he swore under caution he was seventeen. He