A Face in the Crowd by Lynda La Plante

the only time the house was left unattended was . . . that must have been Sunday the thirty-first of August?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did you notice anything unusual when you got back?”
    Harvey scratched his chin with long, dirt-rimmed nails, his fingers brown with nicotine. “Unusual . . . ?”
    “No signs that anyone had been digging in the garden? No extra earth anywhere?”
    “No.”
    Tennison allowed a small silence to gather. Hands clasped on her knees, she tilted her head a fraction, raising one eyebrow. “I must say, Mr. Harvey, if someone asked me what I was doing the last weekend in August in 1986 I don’t think I’d be able to remember. How is it that you can recollect so clearly?”
    Without hesitation, Harvey said drably, “Because my wife died on that day the year before.”
    “Oh, I see . . .”
    “Eileen asked me down to stay with her—you know, so I’d not be on my own.” The front door opened and they heard someone enter. Harvey jerked his head. “That’ll be my lunch.” He took a drag and went on, “I spend that weekend with her every year. Don’t know how I’d manage without her. She always sends my food over.”
    Tennison looked towards the door. “Perhaps I can ask her a few questions while she’s here . . . ?”
    “Oh, no, that’s not her,” Harvey said, and with an effort craned around in his chair as a young man carrying a tray covered with a clean white tea towel came in. “This is my nephew Jason.”
    Jason paused in the doorway, pale blue eyes under fair lashes flicking from one to the other. “What’s going on?” he asked sharply.
    “We’re police officers,” Muddyman said. He picked up the typewritten sheet from the coffee table and dangled it in Harvey’s face. “You’re sure you don’t recognize the girl from this description?”
    Jason flushed, getting angry. “What do you want with my uncle?” he demanded, hands gripping the tray tightly. He wore faded jeans and sneakers, a dark Windbreaker over a white T-shirt, which he filled quite impressively. His blond hair was cut short and neatly brushed, though he favored long sideburns.
    In reply to Muddyman’s question, Harvey said in a tired, undisturbed tone, “Quite sure.” To his nephew he murmured, “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
    Jason was glaring at Muddyman with ill-concealed distaste. “You know he’s very ill?”
    “It’s fine, don’t worry,” Harvey said, waving a trembling hand placatingly. “I’m fine . . .”
    “No, you’re not! What’s this about?”
    “Your uncle will tell you later, Jason,” Tennison said, fastening her briefcase and getting up. “Thank you very much, Mr.  Harvey . We’ll see ourselves out.”
    “Have a good meal,” Muddyman said, and followed Tennison, Jason’s stare burning holes in his back.
    On the landing below, lighting up, Muddyman said, “Lying bastard. Trotting out his alibi like a speech he’d learned by heart.” He flung the match into the piss-stained corner.
    “Yeah, right . . .”
    “And he wasn’t shuffling about like that six years ago! If he could lay those slabs he could smash a young girl’s skull.”
    “Well, we’d better get a move on,” Tennison said, giving him a hard, sidelong look. “Before David Aloysius Harvey dies on us.”
    Superintendent Kernan pushed the swing door of the Incident Room and held it open for the tall, handsome, broad-shouldered figure who came after him. He looked around the busy room and approached Haskons at the duty desk. “Where’s DCI Tennison?”
    “Following up a lead, Guv.”
    The bustle ceased as Kernan called out, “Can I have your attention please.” Heads turned. Kernan held out his hand. “This is DS Bob Oswalde. Bob’s joining us from West Lane to assist on Operation Nadine.”
    There were one or two puzzled, uncertain looks exchanged; this was the first they’d heard about drafting in new manpower. Never one to waste time on formalities, Kernan waved to them