Read Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims for Free Online Page A

his seat next to Superintendent Thorndike. He flopped down, belching, grinning at everyone for no other reason than he was half-pissed. Thorndike pursed his lips. He didn’t approve of such behavior in a senior officer. He didn’t actually approve of Kernan full stop, even though it was Kernan who had wangled him the post of Super at Southampton Row. It should have gone to Kernan’s next in line, his senior detective Jane Tennison, but Kernan, a founding member chauvinist pig, wasn’t going to stand for that. So prissy boots Thorndike got promotion and ball-breaker Tennison got dumped.
    At the microphone, Trayner was burbling on about more good old days with good old John Kennington. This time it was Manchester, not Cardiff, from where Trayner had some very happy memories, and some not so great ones. “. . . and John here brings a Tom into the station. He was writing up a charge sheet, listing drunk and disorderly, abusive language, and—as the lady in question was stark bollock naked at the time . . .”
    Kernan leaned in Thorndike’s direction. His eyes were gone and his breath enveloped Thorndike like a toxic cloud.
    “Why don’t we just give him his watch, eh, and piss off home? Eh?” He guzzled some more brandy. “Unless there’s a cabaret—eh? Is there a cabaret?” He squinted at Thorndike, whose thin wrists stuck out of his starched cuffs like celery sticks. Prim and proper, he was like somebody’s bleeding maiden aunt, Kernan thought sourly. Never had really took to the man, but then Mike Kernan didn’t take to the human race in general.
    “You not drinking?” he asked suspiciously. He reached for the brandy bottle and poured Thorndike a whopper. “Bill Otley’s with the same squad, did you know that? With Tennison—Vice Squad!”
    Kernan laughed loudly, coinciding with the general laughter at something Commander Trayner had said. He pushed the glass across.
    “Have a drink! This is going to be a long night!”
    Thorndike hesitated, but finally took a sip. Keep on his good side. Never know when you might need him.
    “. . . if you think I was pissed,” Trayner was saying, building up to the punchline, “wait until you see what’s inside the greenhouse!”
    Not having a clue what the story was about, Kernan banged the table, joining in the laughter and applauding like a maniac, bellowing, “More! . . . More! More!”
    Edward Parker-Jones tilted the boy’s head to the light and examined his face. Bruising around the forehead and left cheekbone. A diagonal gash extending from his ear down to his jawline. His lower lip was split and had dried into a crusty scab.
    “What am I going to do with you, Martin?” Parker-Jones sighed. “Look at you! Have you eaten today? You haven’t, have you?” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Do you want some soup? Cup of tea?”
    Martin Fletcher twitched his thin shoulders in a shrug. He was reluctant to even open his mouth. The beating he’d taken from Jimmy Jackson the night before, down by the canal, had scared him to quivering silence, his gut churning as if he were riding a roller coaster, jumping at shadows. He’d spent the rest of the night curled up in a shop doorway, whimpering. Today he’d wandered the streets, a forlorn lost figure in a grimy windbreaker and jeans ripped open at the knees, his toes sticking through his sneakers.
    The recreation and advice centre run by Parker-Jones was the only refuge he could think of. It was an oasis of warmth and comfort—a hot drink and a bite to eat—before slinking back to the streets for the night. But it wasn’t safe even here. That bullying swine Jackson sometimes showed his ugly, pockmarked face, on the prowl for some poor kid who owed him money, or a favor, or who Jackson just might want to beat the shit out of for the sheer fun of it.
    Parker-Jones put his arm around Martin’s shoulder and led him through the reception area, where a few lads were idling the time away gazing listlessly over