Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims Read Online Free PDF

“Vernon was probably taking a few quid for letting them use his place.”
    “Has he admitted that?”
    Hall shifted uneasily under her gaze. Where the fuck was Otley? “No, ma’am . . . well, he’s not likely to, is he? He’s saying he doesn’t even know who was in there.”
    Tennison scented that matters were spinning beyond her control. Nip it in the bud. No mavericks on her team. She said briskly, “I’d like a full report on this fire business and then I will tell you whether or not this department wishes to continue with the investigation. Our priority is Operation Contract.”
    Hall stared at his feet. The other officers, munching sandwiches and slurping coffee, exchanged looks. First morning in and she was throwing her weight around. This was going to be a load of fun, they didn’t think.
    With a curt nod of her head, Tennison indicated that work should continue. The officers turned back to their desks, to their mounds of paperwork, reaching for phones. They were all aware of her scrutiny: new regime, new boss, and they were being required to pass muster.
    Tennison beckoned to one of the WPCs standing in a small group next to the wall-length filing section. She came over, a tall, striking girl with frank, open features and friendly blue eyes.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Kathy.”
    “Can you give me a brief rundown on the operation?”
    WPC Kathy Trent led her over to the large board. “I’ve been trying to question as many of the kids as possible.” She smiled diffidently, eager to help.
    Tennison watched closely as Kathy took her through it. She still hadn’t got a handle on this Operation Contract thing. The board was crammed with information. Under “TOMS”—police slang for female and male prostitutes—a long list of names and locations: Waterloo Street, Golden Fleece, Earls Court, Euston Station, Stars & Stripes. Farther along, headed “OPERATION CONTRACT,” photographs of young boys, some of them no older than eleven or twelve, with video stills of supermarket checkouts, tube station platforms, mainline station concourses. More typed lists of targeted locations—cafes, coffee shops, street markets, soup kitchens, cardboard cities—spotted in different colors. Tapes led from these to a huge map of central London with corresponding colored pins. A duty rota of officers on surveillance was marked up in black felt-tip, with dates, times, and frequency, all cross-referenced to file number such-and-such. At first sight it seemed to be an efficient and comprehensive operation, well planned, rigorously executed.
    “Most of the older rent boys are carrying pagers, portable phones, so our team—four of us, ma’am—concentrate on the younger ones skiving around Soho.” Kathy pointed to a sheet marked up in colored felt-tip, a blizzard of asterisks, arrows, code numbers. “We staked out the Golden Fleece, Euston Station, Earls Court . . .”
    Tennison nodded, content for now to listen and learn, get some kind of grip on it.
    “Our problem is that when the kids are actually out on the street, they’ve already accepted the lifestyle.” Kathy didn’t sound sad, simply resigned to reality.
    Over by the door, behind Tennison’s back, Sergeant Otley sneaked in, made a rapid gesture to Hall. The Inspector scuttled over.
    “You’ve been with Reynolds and the Fire team,” Hall said under his breath, tapping his nose.
    “I haven’t.” Otley grinned. “I’ve been up at Records and we got . . .”
    He pulled Hall behind the half-open door as Tennison glanced their way.
    “. . . boy is Colin Jenkins, known as Connie.”
    Otley punched Hall’s arm. He then made a show of arriving for the first time, all innocent, to be met face-to-face by Tennison, who’d marched smartly over.
    “Sorry I’m late, ma’am,” said Otley with a straight face. “But I’ve been seein’ if I can get your drawers loosened.”
    Everybody heard but nobody laughed.
    Tennison stood with her back to