Prime Suspect

7

“I was outside Ladbroke Grove underground station,” Helen Masters was telling DCI Tennison, “waiting to meet one of the girls from the Hammersmith halfway house, Susan Lyons. She’d absconded a few days earlier, then she called to ask me to meet her. But she was late.”

Tennison nodded. Helen Masters was a terrific witness, a social worker, calm and unruffled, with, most important of all, a retentive memory.

“Were you standing on the pavement, or in the entrance? Tennison asked.

“Mostly in the ticket area, it was a pretty cold night, but I kept checking outside in case I’d missed her. That was when I saw them.”

“And who did you see?”

“The man, at first. I just watched him for something to do. There’s a bank across the road, a few yards down, and he was standing near the cash dispenser. He had dark hair… Then I saw Karen, the girl who was murdered. I’d seen her photographs in the newspapers, but it didn’t register until I saw them in color, on the TV program. For a second I thought it was Susan, she’s blond too. I stepped forward…”

“How close were you?”

“Oh, about five yards…” She looked around and pointed to a WPC on the other side of the room. “She was about there.”

“And then what?”

“The man over the road walked to the edge of the pavement and called to Karen.”

Tennison leaned forward and watched Helen closely as she asked her next question. “You heard him clearly, calling her name?”

Helen nodded. “There was quite a lot of traffic noise, but he definitely called out her name.”

Tennison relaxed a little. “Can you tell me what he was wearing?”

“A brownish jacket, with a light shirt underneath.”

There was a brief knock on the door and a uniformed DI entered. He gave Tennison a nod. “We’re ready for you, Miss Masters,” he said.

DI Sleeth led Helen Masters to the observation room next door, explaining the procedure as he did so.

“You will be able to see them, but they can’t see you, it’s one-way glass. Anything you want them to do, tell me and I’ll give the instructions over the address system. Take your time, and don’t worry. Any questions?”

She shook her head. DCI Tennison had already told her that another officer had to accompany her for the identity parade, to avoid any suggestion of bias. Helen gave Sleeth a nervous smile and sat in the chair he indicated, facing the one-way glass and the twelve men in the line-up. Sleeth gave Helen a small wink as he tested the microphone that linked them to the identification room.

The twelve men stood in a row, facing the observation window. Each man held a number in front of him; George Marlow was number ten. They were all dark haired and more or less of a size with Marlow, and two, like him, had a deep six o’clock shadow.

“Would you all please turn to your right,” Sleeth said into the microphone.

Helen looked at each man in turn, frowning, then made another request. Sleeth announced it.

“When I call out your number, please take one pace forward and say the name “Karen” clearly. Number one, step forward please.”

Number one turned slowly and obeyed. “Karen!”

Helen shook her head and Sleeth said, “Thank you, number one, you may step back.” He consulted with Helen and continued, “Number eight, please step forward and say the name ‘Karen’.”

The eighth man’s voice was indistinct. “Louder, please, number eight,” said Sleeth.

“Karen!” shouted number eight.

In the corridor outside the observation room, Tennison and Otley waited nervously. She was pacing up and down, smoking. The door opened and DI Sleeth came out.

“She wants a closer look,” he told Tennison, and led Helen to the main room. Tennison made no attempt to speak to her.

Otley tapped Tennison on the arm and gestured towards the observation room. It was against the rules, but she couldn’t resist. They scurried furtively inside to watch.

Helen was moving slowly down the line of men. She paused in front of number two, but only for a second. She stopped at number ten, George Marlow.

“Come on, Helen, that’s the one!” Tennison almost shouted in her excitement. Sudden panic made her check the sound system; it was set to receive only. She sighed with relief and whispered through gritted teeth, “Come on, number ten, number ten…”

George Marlow stepped out of the line, holding his card in front of him and staring straight ahead. Tennison’s spine tingled; it was as if he knew he was looking directly into her eyes.

“Karen!” he called loudly.

Tennison dragged on her cigarette as the tension in the viewing room built up. Otley leaned forward, gritting his teeth. She was staring too long at Marlow, taking too long… He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Come on, sweetheart, that’s him, yes… You’ve got him!”

The reception area of Southampton Row nick was a hive of activity. A woman was in tears because her Saab Turbo had been either towed away or stolen, and she swore to the desk sergeant that it had been legally parked. Two punks, wearing torn jeans and leather jackets, were being released after a night in the cells. The mother of one of the boys, a Princess Anne lookalike in a camel coat and Hermès scarf, was berating him in a voice that could have shattered glass.

“How could you be so stupid? This will ruin your chances of university! How could you do it… Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

Three of the men from the identity parade were leaving, pocketing their eight quid expenses, and in the midst of it all DCI Tennison was thanking Helen Masters, thanking her when she could have screamed the place down with frustration.

Arnold Upcher was guiding George Marlow through the crowd, but suddenly Marlow turned back and pushed his way past the punks towards Tennison.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” he said softly, and touched her arm.

Refusing to look at him, Tennison moved quickly, through the door which led behind the reception desk, reappearing next to the desk sergeant. Marlow faced her across the broad counter.

“Inspector Tennison! You’re making my life a misery! I was dragged out of bed at four o’clock this morning with no explanation. You’ve got people watching me night and day, tell me why? You know I’m innocent. If you’ve got something personal against me, tell me now, what did I ever do to you?”

Upcher, disapproving, grabbed his arm to drag him away. Tennison gave Marlow a long, hard stare, then turned her head to find two men taking great interest in the transaction.

“Inspector Tennison? Daily Express, can you spare us a few seconds?”

With a gesture to the desk sergeant, Tennison said, “Get them out of here!” The reporter was moved on by a uniformed officer at the same time as George Marlow, protesting, was being manhandled out of the door by Upcher.

“She’s got something personal against me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

Scenting a story, the reporter turned his attention to Marlow.

Everywhere Tennison went that day she encountered men with sore heads and matching tempers. Burkin was the worst for wear; his triumph the night before had been paid with a cut eye and lip. Tennison found the resulting lips irritating.

“Where the hell is Jones?” Tennison demanded. “I need him with me.”

Otley’s piggy eyes were bloodshot and seemed smaller than ever. “Dunno, ma’am.” He was having difficulty looking his guv’nor in the face; he had just been telling everybody that their great witness had picked out a tax inspector who’d been hauled in off the street. They were all at it; every time she turned her back one of them would purse his lips and run his hands through his hair in imitation of Tennison on TV.

Three minutes later Jones arrived, belching from the Alka-Seltzer he’d just forced down himself. His head throbbed, his tongue felt like rubber and he looked very pale and shaky. Totally unsympathetic, Tennison told him not to bother sitting down, they were going out.

WPC Havers came rushing in. “The Super wants to see you, ma’am, right away.”

“Tell him you can’t find me.”

“Marlow’s lawyer’s with him, screaming about you giving details of the car last night. Marlow’s never reported it stolen.”

“Shit! Well, someone had better get it sorted, and before I get back. We all know how careless filing clerks can be, don’t we? The Vehicle Theft Report’s probably just been misfiled, hasn’t it, Burkin?”

The DI was standing in the center of the room, yawning. “We keeping you awake?” asked Tennison.

“Sorry, ma’am, got a bit of a headache.”

“I just hope you won.”

He started to nod but thought better of it. On top of his injuries, the bevvies he had consumed after the fight didn’t help.

“It was in a good cause, ma’am. I got him in the last round-at least, I think I did. Old Felix was virtually in the ring with me, he used to box for…”

Otley smirked. “Made a nice little packet for the Sheffords, at twenty-five quid a ticket.”

“Yes, I know. I bought four tickets myself, I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there.”

She jerked her head to Jones to follow her as she walked out. Otley pursed his lips; nobody had told him that split-arse had chipped in!

“It was George’s decision to give notice,” said Edward Harvey, George Marlow’s boss at the paint factory he represented. “He was getting a lot of stick from the others. I’d never have asked him to leave, he’s too good at his job, been with us ten years apart from the time he was in jail.”

“He told you all about that, did he?”

“Yes, came straight out with it. I know he was found guilty, but…”

“But…?”

“Well, he was always a bit of a lad, popular with the girls. He swears he’s innocent, and I really can’t see why such an attractive bloke would go and do a thing like that. He was very distressed about it.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Harvey. Now, could you show us around? If you have time.”

“My pleasure.”

Mr. Harvey, a cocky little man in his fifties, showed them the well-equipped production line, stopping now and then for a word with the men on the floor.

“We employ three hundred salesmen up and down the country,” he told Tennison, while Jones all but disappeared head-first into one of the mixing vats. “We guarantee to match any color you want; the difficult shades are still mixed by hand.”

Tennison looked around with interest. “George Marlow always worked from London?”

“He started with the firm in Manchester. We moved our headquarters down here in eighty-two, and George came with us, but he kept his old routes. Had all the contacts, you see, and of course they still had family and friends up north…”

“They? Did Marlow travel with someone else?”

“Moyra always went with him on his trips…”

“How far back do your staff records go?” asked Tennison.

“Since we moved here. We had a computer system installed, but we’ve got all the files…”

“Would they include the hotels your salesmen used, expenses and so on?”

“This company is run like clockwork,” said Harvey proudly. “We like to know where our men are and what they’re doing.”

“We will need to examine them,” Tennison said, clocking Jones’ incredulous reaction. “Just Marlow’s, of course.”

Harvey looked puzzled, but said mildly, “Just so long as we get them back.”

Tennison was starving when she arrived back at the station. She grabbed a sandwich and tried to eat it in her office, but she was interrupted by Maureen Havers, who had contacted the Rape Center about Marlow’s earlier victim and managed to find out who she was.

“She wanted her identity kept secret, but it’s Miss Pauline Gilling, ma’am, from Rochdale. She’s been having counselling after a nervous breakdown, and the people in Rochdale say it would only aggravate the situation if we started asking questions.”

Tennison spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “I could be in line for a breakdown myself…” She took a sip of coffee. “Get back on to them and don’t take no for an answer.”

She finished the rest of her sandwich and started gathering items for the team meeting. “Oh, and Maureen, you don’t know where I am if the Super asks, OK?”

They were all there. Otley was pinning black-and-white photographs of Della Mornay’s and Karen Howard’s bodies on the notice-board. There were also blow-ups of the marks on their arms. He turned to the waiting men.

“Right, you can see the similarities of these marks. We got a DNA match on George Marlow’s sperm with the blood samples from when he went down for rape, but that’s no help with Della. It also doesn’t help that he admitted having sex with Karen, and gave a very plausible reason, which seems to check out, for the spot of Karen’s blood on his sleeve. We’re sure his car’s the key; find that and I reckon we’ve got ’im. So keep at it.”

He moved on to the photos of the bodies. “The clearest evidence linking the girls, apart from the marks on the arms, is the way their ’ands were tied. Not the rope itself, but the knots.”

“Ah, knot the rope, eh, Sarge?” Burkin put in, still lisping.

Otley gave him the finger and replied, “Yeah, very funny… The knots are the same, but any boy scout could tie ’em. Now it’s your turn, Inspector…”

Tennison entered the room, munching a packet of crisps. Burkin waited while she sat down, then picked up from Otley.

“The sack that covered Della Mornay’s body was the usual type of hessian, no markings, but there were traces of sump oil on it. There was also sump oil found on Karen’s skirt. It doesn’t mean a lot, Karen could have got it off her own car.” He nodded to Tennison. “All yours,” and sat down.

She crunched the last few crisps and screwed the bag up, tossing it at the wastepaper basket and missing. As she bent to retrieve it they all saw the edge of pink lace. Otley, who never missed a trick, pursed his lips and crossed his legs like an old queen.

“Karen didn’t put up much of a struggle,” Tennison began, spitting a piece of crisp onto her jacket and brushing it off. “Her nails were short, clean, no skin or blood beneath them, but her hands had been scrubbed with something similar to the kind of brush used on suede shoes. Gimme Della’s…”

Otley passed her a blow-up of Della’s hands and she put it up beside the others. “I asked for this because you can see scratch marks on the backs of the hands and fingers. Now, Della did fight, and her nails, unlike Karen’s, were long and false. She lost them from the thumb, index and little fingers of her right hand.”

Burkin asked, “Did Marlow have any scratches on him when he was stripped?”

“No, he didn’t. George Marlow is still the prime suspect, but we have no evidence to put him in that efficiency, no eye witness to link him with either Karen or Della, no mention of him in Della’s diary. The list of what we don’t have is endless. But if Marlow killed Della before he killed Karen, then he knew her room was empty. He might even have known that the landlady was away, probably hoped that Karen’s body wouldn’t be found for weeks. His mistake there was in leaving the light on. Mornay’s handbag was in her room, but there were no keys.”

Always ready to needle her, Otley piped up, “That reminds me, ma’am-handbags. We got a good selection an’ they’re still comin’ in; blue ones, green ones, big ’uns an’ little ’uns. What d’you want me to do with ’em?”

Tennison responded quite calmly, considering. “Get one of her flatmates in, let her go over them to save time. Right, the good news is, I’m going home. Sergeant Otley will now tell you the bad news.”

As she left the room, she could hear the moan that went up in response to the bad news; all weekend leave was cancelled.

“All leave, that is, apart from ’er own. We got to check through all that gear from the bleedin’ paint factory, an’ there’s a lot. It’s a wonder they ’aven’t computerized their salesmen’s bowel movements… Get to it!”

When he went to Superintendent Kernan’s office later that evening, Otley found him sitting at his desk, writing memos. Kernan pushed his work aside and poured Otley a large Scotch.

Otley sat down, took a swig and sighed. “We’re gettin’ nowhere, guv, we’ve ’ad nothing for days now,” he said bitterly. “It’s demoralizing, an’ it’s takin’ good men off the streets.”

“Most of them have been on the streets, and we’ve still got nowhere,” Kernan replied. “But now she’s digging up unsolved murder cases on Marlow’s sales routes. He covered the Manchester area, Rochdale, Burnley, Oldham.”

Otley shook his head in disgust and opened his mouth to speak, but Kernan wouldn’t let him.

“And I’ve OKed it, so cool off, Bill. I know what you’re after, but unless there’s good reason for kicking her off the case, she stays put.”

“It’s because she’s a woman, isn’t it? If it’d been any of my lads that done that cock-up on telly, given out Marlow’s registration number… You know he never reported it stolen! There’s no report in the log, and I heard his brief was in here creating about it…”

Pissed off with Otley’s attitude, Kernan cut him short. “Records had the report all the time, Bill. It was misfiled. She’s off the hook, and so am I.” He paused to let it sink in and wagged a warning finger. “Bill, a word of advice. Make it your business to get on with her.”

Otley downed his whisky and stood up. “That an order?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Kernan didn’t reply and he walked to the door, stopped with his back to the Super. “John Shefford was the best friend I ever ’ad. When my wife died, he pulled me through. I miss him.”

Kernan said gently, “We all do, Bill.”

Otley’s back was rigid as he replied, “Good night, sir, an’ thanks for the drink.”

Outside the office, Otley stopped and shook out his old mackintosh, folded it neatly over his arm. Jesus Christ, Otley, where the fuck did you get that raincoat, when you were demobbed? I’ll start a whip-round, get you a decent one, fancy one of those Aussie draped jobs? He could hear Shefford’s voice as if it were yesterday and he ached with grief. He missed his friend more than he could ever put into words, especially to men like Kernan.

Maureen Havers tumbled through the double doors, carrying a vast stack of files, and gave him a glum smile.

“You seen what’s coming in? We need a new trestle table for this lot… I thought you were on nine to three, Skipper? Haven’t you got a home to go to?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he offered to give her a hand, and as they walked along the corridor he said casually, “Do me a favor, would you, Maureen? If anything comes in from Oldham, let me have a shufti first, OK?”

“Sure! You got relatives up there? You know, I was almost transferred to Manchester, but I failed my driving test…”

They passed through the second set of swing doors and suddenly Otley felt better, because he had something to do. He was off-duty, but had nowhere to go, not now John Shefford was gone.

It was a struggle for Jane Tennison to open the front door. The files she carried were slipping out of her arms, and she dropped her briefcase to save them. When she finally made it into the hall she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, exhausted but glad to be home.

Joey’s voice wailed from the spare bedroom, “Nooo-o-o-o! Daddy, don’t go!”

“OK, Joe, just one more story,” Peter replied patiently.

Grateful that the door was closed, Jane tip-toed past it and into her own bedroom. She was in bed before Peter had finished the last story.

“And then, what do you suppose he did then?”

Silence. Peter peered at his son in the dim light of the Anglepoise l & he was asleep at last. He tucked the duvet around Joey’s shoulders and sat for a moment, staring at the gleam of his ash blond hair and the long blond lashes lying on his pale cheeks. He loved the boy so much, if only Marianne… But he mustn’t think like that, the past was done, buried.

Sitting in the semi-darkness, he was unable to stop himself going over and over it in his mind; the anger and hatred, the terrible things that were said, the dragging sense of loss… and the last time he had seen Marianne alone. She was so flippant, sometimes he could strangle her… He knew he could never let it rest until she told him the truth. She was pregnant again and, from Peter’s calculations, he knew that he could be the baby’s father.

Jane was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. When Peter came to bed, needing her, needing someone, he found her flat out, snoring lightly. Suddenly angry, he threw his dressing-gown off, climbed in beside her and thumped his pillow.

She shot up, blinking in panic, then collapsed with a moan. With her eyes still closed, she mumbled, “Whassa-matter with you?”

“Every night’s the same. You’re exhausted, asleep before I’ve even cleaned my teeth…”

She rolled towards him and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Pete.”

“You make me feel guilty if I so much as touch you. We haven’t made love for… I dunno how long, I hardly see you. And when I do see you, you’re always knackered. Our relationship stinks!”

Tentatively, Jane put out a hand and stroked his chest. “I love you.”

“You do? But if this-” he lifted her pillow and brought out her beeper-“If this goes off, I don’t exist! You’re always either giving someone a bollocking on the phone or buried in files.”

He switched off his bedside light, plunging them into darkness, and lay down, not touching her. Jane giggled, “You’re right! I’m sorry, I will make more time for us…”

He felt her moving beside him. A moment later, her nightdress flew across the room.

“There! Just to prove I’m not a frigid old bag…”

Peter smiled and propped himself on one elbow, reached for her.

“Daddy?” said a little voice. Framed in the light from the hall, Joey peered into the room. “Daddy…?”

Pulling the duvet over her head, Jane cracked up, with laughter. “Ignore him, he’ll go away… Go back to bed, Joey!”

Thinking it was a game, Joey snorted with laughter and jumped on the bed, trying to pull the quilt away from her.

“Don’t, Joey! Go back to bed! Joey!”

He tried to climb into the bed, but Jane hung on. “Joey, will you pass me my nightdress?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have any clothes on, that’s why.”

Peter lifted the duvet on his side. “Come on, get in…”

As he snuggled down, Joey demanded in his piped voice, “Tell me a story, about bums and titties!”

“Where did you learn those words?” Peter tried to sound angry, but Jane’s sniggers didn’t help.

“At school. My mummy goes to bed without any clothes on, sometimes, but sometimes she…”

He fell asleep mid-sentence. Peter lifted him into his arms. “I’ll just carry him back to his own bed. Jane? Jane…?”

All he could see was the top of her head, but he knew she was asleep. He sighed; the pair of them were out cold, but he was wide awake… Wide awake and thinking about Marianne, naked, in bed with his ex-best friend.