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

for chrissakes!”
    “There’s no point.” She repeated quietly, “There’s no point.”
    “Then why did you come?” Jake asked stiffly.
    “I just wanted to ask you your opinion about something I’m working on.” Tennison glanced away from him. His eyes were like lasers on her cheek.
    “I don’t believe you.”
    The stewardess placed Tennison’s drink in front her, along with a napkin and dish of peanuts. Jake took the bill and nodded his thanks.
    Silence then, while Tennison stared at her untouched drink. She said, “I knew you were married. I shouldn’t have stayed.”
    “Why did you?”
    “Because . . .” She gave a tiny vexed shake of her head. “Because you wanted me to. Don’t—” She held up her hand as he tried to speak. “I wanted to, Jake. I wanted to be with you.”
    It was hell to handle, and the only way she knew how was to make light of it, kill the feeling with fake humor.
    “I’ve always been a glutton for punishment, maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job. I’ve got that, you’ve got a family—perhaps we’ve both got what we wanted. If I haven’t, then I’ve no one else to blame but myself.”
    Jake sighed miserably. “What a mess.”
    “No, it isn’t,” Tennison said briskly, “because we’ll do what we agreed. We won’t see each other again. You’ll get on the train, and in the meantime . . .” She reached down for her briefcase.
    Jake turned his face away from her, but she could see his throat working. “I love you,” he said, hardly moving his lips, and took her hand, holding it tightly.
    “Yes, I know,” Tennison said softly.
    Jake let go of her hand. He took a huge breath and turned back to look at her. “So . . . what’s this case you’re working on?”
    Larry Hall looked up from the computer as he heard the door swing. Otley was standing there, hair plastered to his forehead, hand on the shoulder of a puny kid with terrified eyes in a face that had been through the mangle.
    “I want an interview room and somebody to take a statement.”
    It was 7:43 by the clock on the wall of the Squad Room. Hall frowned. “You’re not down for tonight, are you?”
    A couple of officers were working a few desks away. Otley lowered his voice. “This lad knows something, but he’s scared.” He nodded toward the corridor. “Come in with me?”
    Hall took his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped into it, automatically adjusting the knot in his tie. He looked at Martin Fletcher, then tugged the lobe of his ear. “Hey, Bill, how old is he?”
    “I think your boy was already dead,” Jake said, studying the pages of the autopsy report spread out on the table. There were some grisly morgue photographs that Tennison had shown him and quickly tucked back into her briefcase. She leaned forward, her clasped hands resting on her knees.
    Jake indicated a paragraph. “Says here that the fluid taken from the blisters showed no sign of vital reaction.”
    Concentrating hard, Tennison tried to put the pieces together. “So, if the fire wasn’t accidental, he was murdered? . . . Is that what you’re saying?”
    Muted chimes rang out. “The train on platform thirteen is the eight  P.M. Pullman Express to Liverpool, calling at Watford, Crewe . . .”
    “What does ‘pugilistic attitude’ mean?” Tennison asked, fretting.
    “Arms held out, legs flexed.” Jake thought for a moment. “It’s caused by the coagulation of the muscles on the flexor surface of the limbs . . . so the body could look as if it was in a sitting-up position.” He raised his eyebrows. “Jane? I’ll be back in London next week, and maybe—”
    “No, we agreed, no more meetings.” Tennison shuffled the pages together and closed the file. “That’s your train.” She put the file in her briefcase and snapped the locks. “Don’t call me again, please.”
    Jake picked up his bag. He dropped it and fished in his pocket for change. Tennison got up and took the bill from