A Face in the Crowd by Lynda La Plante Read Free Book Online Page B

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    “. . . I can make no such assurances. I am unable”—Kernan valiantly tried again, almost drowned out by the racket from the floor—“I am unable to give any such assurances.”
    “The idea is not to create no-go areas,” Phelps said, responding to the point but directly addressing the audience and the cameras. “Quite the reverse. We’ve heard from your Community Liaison Officer—who is of course a white police officer . . .”
    Kernan was stung. “Surely that’s a racist remark.”
    Ignoring him, Phelps steamrollered on. “. . . heard about sensitive policing, so-called community policing. Yet once again local people are being treated as second-class citizens.”
    A chorus of cheers at this, waving fists, the bottled-up antagonism and anger of the black crowd as potent as an invisible, yet deadly nerve gas.
    It was obvious what Phelps was referring to, and for the first time Tennison spoke up, determined to get her two cents in before Phelps turned the meeting into a one-man election address. “If you are talking about the investigation that I am heading—”
    “I am!”
    “Then I believe it’s being carried out in a—”
    “In a hostile and intimidatory manner—exactly.” Phelps was nodding, and almost smiling, happy to have scored another point. “With violent arrests being made by your officers . . . though of course, no charges were brought.”
    It would be so easy, too easy, to get into a slanging match with Phelps, but that would have been catastrophic. He held all the aces. The best she could do was to remain calm, state the facts as best she could, and trust that there were enough reasonable people out there to give her a fair hearing.
    “One of my officers was provoked into making what in retrospect was seen as a hasty action . . .” The hall erupted in a storm of derisive laughter and catcalls. Tennison waited for the din to die down.
    “Look—the most important thing is that we have a murderer who has been walking free for six years. We have to find that person. To do that we need the support and cooperation of this community. Now, I and two of my colleagues are going to stay behind afterward to see if you can help to give us some crucial information. For example, who lived at Number fifteen before the Viswandhas.”
    “We know, we know that . . .” Midway down the hall, Nola Cameron was on her feet, waving her arms, appealing to those around her. “He left at the same time as Simone was missing. What was his name? Someone here will remember . . .”
    Before anyone could, however, Don Patterson had what he thought was a more pressing question. “I’d like to ask Mr. Kernan about the heavy police presence in the Honeyford Road area at the moment . . .”
    About to reply, Kernan was cut short by a young guy in the audience, who leaped up, face livid, dreadlocks swinging, pointing an accusing finger. “I wanna ask him how he’s got the nerve to come here at all!” he shouted, “when Derrick Cameron’s locked up for somethin’ he didn’t do!”
    Kernan held up his hands. “Obviously, I am unable to discuss the details of that case . . . but I should have thought my mere presence here this evening is an indication of good faith.”
    Howls of laughter at that. More people were climbing to their feet, gesticulating, screaming their heads off, and the whole thing was fast sinking to the level of farce. Tight-lipped, Kernan glanced aside at Tennison, shaking his head as if to say, What was the use?
    Phelps waited for a slight lull and seized the opportunity.
    “The justifiable anger and unhappiness at what has happened to Derrick Cameron cannot be so easily dismissed by a police officer who was stationed at Southampton Row.”
    “I’m not dismissing anything,” said Kernan heatedly. “I’m just trying . . . I’m just . . .”
    “When the boy,” Phelps went on, “supposedly confessed. Because—just let me finish—the Cameron case focuses on a