Mirren captivates her audience again as Jane Tennison, this time exploring the character even more thoroughly and fearlessly than in the first two episodes. Here Tennison fights for every decision, even those in her past. In a scene with her former lover at his hotel, she shows us what she's given up for her job, not by explaining it to him, not by breaking down in tears, but by glancing at his hair as she stands behind him. This is perhaps the most wrenching of the Prime Suspect series, because it has children at its focus, abused in a world of drugs, sex, and AIDS by unscrupulous adults, and because that focus intensifies Tennison's own struggle over the choices she has made and the one she faces when she finds herself pregnant.

DCI Tennison and the "lads" of Prime Suspect

Anyone who thought the first two Prime Suspects a bit dark and forbidding should be warned that the third miniseries is the grimmest yet.Tennison has been transferred to the vice squad and promptly sets to work solving the murder of a young male prostitute (a "rent boy," as British jargon puts it) with links to a gang of pedophiles. Her investigation takes her into the dankest corners of the sexual twilight world and also into the upper echelons of department ranks. Tennison wouldn't be Tennison if she weren't stepping on toes willy-nilly and risking allin the relentless pursuit of duty.

Prime Suspect 3 is grippingly suspenseful virtually from the get-go. Although Tennison has slain most of the male chauvinist dragons with whom she's come into contact, she is reunited in the first installment with an old intimidating nemesis: Tom Bell as Detective Sergeant Bill Otley. Part of the suspense as the serial goes along is trying to figure out who among her male colleagues is leaking information to higher-ups as Tennison goes about her business.

The prime suspect in the murder of 17-year-old Colin Jenkins (Greg Saunders) seems clear early on. Jimmy Jackson (played to mealy-mouthed perfection by Davis Thewlis) is a pimp, a whore, and a pornographer, plus God knows what else. But then another suspect emerges, Edward Parker-Jones (Ciaran Hinds), who runs a youth center designed to shelter boys from the very evils to which he may be exposing them.

Other denizens of the deep whom Tennison encounters include actor Peter Capaldi as Vera Reynolds, a perpetually frightened transsexual who opens the serial singing "Falling In Love Again" à la Marlene Dietrich at a supposedly posh gay bar. As she sings, fire is consuming the apartment in which young Jenkins lies. Prime Suspect 3 takes one into a world of shadowy sex; at times, the "rent boys" seem sad descendants of the urchins Charles Dickens wrote about in the nineteenth century. In a way, this is Oliver Twisted.

Most of the pedophilia described in the serial is homosexual. To balance the portrait of gay men, writer Lynda La Plante includes an honest, upright, non-child-molesting gay cop who "comes put" in Part 3. Even so, Prime Suspect 3 may earn the odd distinction of offending both gay groups and the right-wingers who regularly like to attack public television.

If it seems that excessive attention is being paid to Tennison's private life--mainly, a breakup with a boyfriend--this element pays off later with a startling revelation and a disquieting resolution. Tennison carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and even she comes within an inch of cracking now and then. Indeed, in one episode she actually weeps, but turns her back to the camera when she does it. What she keeps in firm grip is her stubborn integrity. As a cop in Manchester says to her, "I hear very good things about you. You're not scared of anything."

Prime Suspect 3 is probably better than Prime Suspect 2 in terms of plot and atmospherics, and almost as good as the original miniseries overall. The one area where it dissapoints is the ending devised by La Plante, which is not as conclusive as one would hope. Perhaps La Plante was trying to be socially portentous, telling us that even if culprits are apprehended, the tragic problems of child prostitution and pornography will not go away. Or perhaps we are to make an assumption about the fate of one character based on the lingering last shot. Still, you may feel cheated, as I did, and even find yourself thinking, "That Lynda La Plante can go take a flying leap."

Even with this shortcoming, which is minor in the long run, Prime Suspect 3 remains one of the most absorbing, well-acted, and mercilessly nerve-wracking dramas of the season. "Sensational" would not be too strong a word.

British to American glossary:

pram -- baby carriage
fags -- cigarettes
got shot of -- got rid of

Jason came in from the kitchen. He was tall and very thin, with straggling hippie-length hair, and to Tennison's consternation he was exceptionally good-looking. Over ragged blue jeans he wore a striped pajama top. The buttons were missing, showing his ribs and flat, fish-white belly. He was barefoot, the nails long and curved, grime between his toes.

"She's no need to be in on this."

"Not unless you want her to be," Tennison agreed.

Jason jerked his head. "Go on." The girl went out with the baby. Jason heeled the door shut.

"I'm Jane Tennison, and this is Brian Dalton. Can we sit down?"

"Sure. Sorry about the mess." He pushed both hands up into his hair and flung his head back.

Tennison sat down in the lumpy armchair, shifting to avoid the spring. Dalton chose a hard-backed chair, well away from the fire. Jason semicircled on the arm of the settee, one knee pulled up to his chin. "You want tea or...?"

"No, thanks," Tennison said politely. That was the second surprise. He had a lazy, low-pitched voice, easy to listen to. What had she been expecting? she asked herself. Grunts and slobbering growls? She glanced at Dalton, making sure he was taking notes, and smiled at Jason. "So, where do you want to begin?" He was studying his thumbnail. "You're from Liverpool originally, aren't you? How old were you when you went into the home?"

"Which one?"

"The home run by Mr. Edward Parker."

"Ten." Jason flicked away something he'd found under his thumbnail. "I was sent there from a foster home. I got into a bit of thieving, so they got shot of me."

"Would you be willing to act as a witness for the prosecution?"

"Sure." Jason twitched his thin shoulders in a listless shrug. "Would you tell me when the sexual abuse started?" His eyes flicked toward her, and quickly away. He had thick, dark lashes that any woman would have been proud of. And any woman would have fallen for the full-lipped mouth with a slightly sullen droop to it.

"Second or third day I was there., Parker just called me into his office and that was it...started then. And you couldn't say anything, or do anything about it--like he was a law unto himself. And it wasn't just me, he was having us all. He'd give you a certain amount of fags, like five say, for a blow job. Always knew when the kids had gone the whole way with him, they were flush with fags. Have you got one, by the way?"

Tennison reached into her briefcase. "I have, as a matter of fact. Here, keep the packet, I've given up."

Jason uncoiled from the arm of the settee and knelt down to get a light from the gas fire. Tennison rumuged for matches, but he was already lit up. He stayed where he was, long legs stretched out on the tatty hearth rug. The pose was overtly sexual, the pajama top falling open combined with his tight jeans. It made Tennison unsure whether he was behaving naturally, unself-consciously, or trying it on, deriving some secret amusement from the situation. He was a very disconcerting young man.

"I'm grateful that you're being so frank with us," Tennison said. The heat of the closed room was making her perspire, and she was sorry she hadn't taken off her raincoat when she came in. Now didn't seem the right time.

"No other way to be, really, is there?" he said, dribbling tiny puffs of smoke from his mouth.

"What made you report him?"

"He shortchanged me on some fags, so I thought--screw him. So I went to the probation officer. Stupid bitch, I think she fancied him--he used to get it off with women, too. Anyway," Jason said in a long sigh, "she went on and on at me, did I know what I was saying, what it meant? I said, 'Oh yeah, you know what it f***in' means to me?' I said, 'If you don't do something, I'll go to the cops.'"

"And how old were you?"

"Twelve or thirteen."

"And did you go to the cops?"

"Yeah..." Jason rolled onto his stomach, flicking ash onto the carpet. "Well, he wouldn't leave me alone, and she wasn't doing anything about it. So I went to the police station, made a statement, and then--sort of everybody run around, like, asking me all these questions. Then a doctor examined me, and..." He dragged deeply, letting the smoke trickle out. "Oh yeah. This copper. He gets me into his office."

"And?" Tennison leaned forward. "What happened then, Jason?"

He said that if I said I was lying, that he would make sure I had it cushy--you know, money, cigarettes. Things like that. And that they'd move me, somewhere nice."

He shook his hair back and looked up at her. He had beautiful eyes, but their expression was opaque, a deadness deep down.

"Do you remember the officers name?" Tennison asked quietly. "Was he wearing a uniform?"

"Nah! He was a friend of Parker's. They worked it between them." His tone was dismissive. That's how the world operated. Those with power and influence dumped on the great unwashed below. Fact of life. "So they sent me back," he went on, and laughed without humor. "They never got around to moving me, and I became a very heavy smoker."

Jason took a long last drag and stubbed out the cigarette on the tiled hearth. He sat up and favored Tennison with a sunny, beaming smile.

"That's it."

Tennison nodded. "Do you remember the name of the doctor? The one who examined you?"

"Be no help if I did. He died of cancer, nice guy. Think his name was something Ellis."

Dalton made a note.

Tennison said, "Was it all the boys, Jason? Or specifically the very young ones?"

"The little 'uns, he like the little ones."

"Do you have a job?"

"Nope. No qualifications. A five-year-old kid reads better than me. I do odd jobs around the place, fix up cars." He smiled in a simple childlike way. "I get drunk, and sometimes I get angry."

"And then you get into trouble?" Tennison hesitated. "Have you ever told anybody about your past, Jason?"

"There's no point." Again the offhand dismissal. "I just have to live with it."

Tennison fastened her briefcase and sat with it across her knees, her hands gripping the sides. She said softly, "I will do everything possible to put this man away. I promise you."

Jason stared at her, as if she might possibly mean it, and then he laughed harshly. "You haven't even got him, have you?"

She couldn't find it in her heart to lie to him. She shook her head, and Jason laughed again, harsh and angry.

He led them out, past the pram in the hallway, and stood on the concrete balcony in his bare feet. A short flight of steps led down to the walkway, littered with broken bottles and crushed beer cans. The breeze ruffled Jason's pajama top. A change had come over him. He followed after them, speaking in a mechanical monotone, telling them a tale, his breathing rapid.

"One night at the home we was watching a documentary, Nazi thing. This guy ran a concentration camp, you know what they are?"

Tennison and Dalton had paused to listen. They both nodded.

Jason leaned back, his shoulder blades pressed against the concrete wall. "Yeah, well, this guy was called the 'Angel of Death,' right? And after the war, he escaped, right? He was never hanged, nobody arrested him, nobody brought him to trial..." He gave a peculiar croaking giggle. "Just like Parker. You know what we used to call him? We called him 'The Keeper of Souls'" He grinned down at them.

Tennison put her hand out. "Go back up the stairs, Jason. There's glass on the stairs, you'll hurt yourself..."

Jason's fingers tore at his pajama top. He ripped it off and flung it down the stairs. "You want to see what the 'Keeper' did to me?"

He staggered down the steps towards Tennison. Dalton tensed, about to dive up, thinking he was about to attack her. But Jason turned around, showing the pale scars on his skinny back. Tennison touched his shoulder, and moved her hand gently down the hard ridges of puckered flesh. "I will make him pay, Jason, I promise you..."

Jason slowly turned, and Tennison could barely tolerate the terrible desolate anquish in his eyes. The buried pain, the torment of those years, was even worse than the horrible scars. His lips trembled, but he couldn't speak. He bowed his head and nodded mutely, his hair hanging down over his bare white shoulders.

Tennison went down. Hunched inside, her throat dry and tight, she heard his agonized whisper, swirled by the breeze down the concrete stairwell. "Keeper of souls...Keeper of Souls."

Bronwen stood by the car, the rear door open. "We'll only just make your train."

Drained of all energy, Tennison tossed her briefcase inside. She turned, holding the door, taking one last look back at the godforsaken place. She clutched her throat. Jason was balanced on the edge of the balcony. His arms were spread wide, exposing his ribcage, the narrow chest. He swayed forward.

"Jason! No!" Tennison cry was shrill, almost a screech. "No!"

He fell, a pale blur, turning over in the air, and they heard his body hit the ground, a soft moist sound, hidden behind a concrete parapet. Dalton raced forward across the scrubby patch of mud and scrambled over the wall. Tennison, in her heeled boots, struggled up the slope. She gripped the wall and craned to see over. Dalton was kneeling by the crumpled body, feeling for a pulse. He lifted the eyelids, searching for a reflex. Very gently, he cupped Jason's head in his hands, and looked towards Tennison.

Badly hurt, but he wasn't dead, Tennison knew that, because the boy was weeping. She could see the tears streaming down his cheeks from his closed eyes.

She closed her own eyes and rested her forehead against the rough gray concrete. Tears smarted her eyes, but she wouldn't cry. She refused to cry. She held onto the emotion, hoarding it, needing it like a fix, feeding her the strength for what she had to do.

"Is there any way you can do a cross-check on this for me?" Bronwen hesitated, rubbing her palms. "It's lunchtime, come on, see what you can do."

Bronwen took the sheet and went out, almost colliding with Dalton. Tennison looked up anxiously.

"He'll live. Broken leg and hip bone." "He's okay." "You've been a long time."

"Yeah, he...he wanted me with him." Dalton cleared his throat. "He was crying, kept on saying he was sorry...sorry for crying." Dalton gave a wan smile. He was still badly shaken. "His wife and kid, I sent a cab for them."