Prime Suspect

11

As her patrol car raced through the heavy traffic, Tennison sat next to the driver, listening in on the open channel. Amson was sitting on the edge of the back seat, trying to see where they were going.

DC Oakhill was reporting George Marlow and Moyra Henson’s every move direct to them.

“Suspect leaving taxi now, with Henson. Entering Great Portland Street station. They’ve split up, she’s gone down to the trains and he’s coming out on the north side, over.”

DI Haskons cut in. “I got him! I’m on foot, heading down the Euston Road, outside Capital Radio, repeat, I’m on foot. He’s hailed another bloody taxi, over.”

“I’ll take the woman…” Oakhill’s voice faded out.

“We’ll go straight to Euston, see if we can head him off at the pass,” said Tennison.

George Marlow leaned in at the taxi window to speak to the driver, and pointed towards Euston. Then he hopped in the back, but the taxi made a left turn towards Camden Town.

A plain car, driven by DC Caplan, slotted into the traffic behind the cab. His passenger, DI Muddyman, reported, “OK, we’re there. Suspect in black cab, heading for Camden Town. No, right, he’s turned right, towards Euston again. We’ve got him, we’ve got him now, turning right again, back towards the Euston Road, over.”

DC Jones rushed out of the Floral Street beauty salon and stuck his head through the car window to talk to DI Burkin.

“They had her down for a full day on the second of January, the day before that modeling job where she had the long nails. But she didn’t book a manicure, and they don’t do these nails, whatever they’re called. One of the assistants, a Dutch chick, says she recommended a woman in the market.”

“Shit,” Burkin said. “We can’t get the car in there. You leg it, and I’ll meet you in Southampton Street.”

The black taxi weaved its way down a side street and reached the corner of Euston Road. There were two vehicles now between it and Muddyman’s unmarked car.

The cab edged into the solid traffic on the Euston Road. Marlow was out of the door on the far side and had disappeared into a junk furniture store before any of them could blink.

“Shit! This is Muddyman. Marlow’s out of the cab, taxi is empty, repeat, Marlow again on foot. Biker, come in, biker…”

Outside the junk shop the cyclist in the skintight Lycra pedal-pushers slowed down and bent to fiddle with his toe-clips. He spoke softly into his radio.

“He’s out, heading along the Euston Road again, on foot, over.”

On the opposite corner, Muddyman was out of the car and following, keeping a good distance from Marlow.

Oakhill came close to losing Moyra Henson in the crowded complex of tunnels and staircases at Baker Street, and had to force the doors open to board the southbound Jubilee line train.

He threaded his way through the carriage to stand by the next set of doors. Henson was staring into space; then she turned and studied her reflection in the dark window, and fished in her handbag for a square doublesided mirror. She licked her lips and threaded her fingers through the front of her hair and shook it out, then folded the mirror and zipped it back into her bag.

She was totally unaware of Oakhill watching her, strap-hanging only a few feet away.

Amson was leaning between the front seats with a map in his hand. “He’s here, could be heading for Euston or King’s Cross, but he’s ducking and diving…”

“Hold it, Control’s coming through.” She raised a hand to the earpiece on which she was picking up relayed messages. “He’s jumped on a number seventy-three bus. No, he’s off it, he’s turned in the direction of Battle Bridge Road, behind King’s Cross station…”

Amson pointed it out on the map. “That’s here. Doesn’t look like he’s going for a train, but there are lock-ups in the railway arches all along here…”

“Come on, you bugger, go for the car, get your bloody car!”

A voice said in her ear, “You’re out of luck, car five-four-seven. Your man’s just gone into a café, he’s sitting talking to the owner. It’s the taxi stopover…”

Tennison pursed her lips and tapped her foot regularly against the transmission tunnel of the car. Her ear was aching because she was so uptight at the possibility of missing a radio call that she kept pressing the earpiece harder into her ear.

“What the fuck d’you think he’s doing?”

Amson shrugged. “Could do with a cup of coffee myself.” His fingers drummed against the back of her seat. He was shrugging it off, but like everyone else he was right on the edge, waiting, waiting…

Among the crowded little stalls selling jeans and T-shirts, DC Jones found a tiny booth containing only a small white-covered table and two chairs. A sign nailed to the top of the wooden frame announced: “Noo-Nails by Experienced and Qualified Beautician.”

Annette Frisby, the proprietress, was bending over a client’s hand, carefully painting her new nails a violent pink. Jones squashed himself in beside them and showed Annette his identification and a photograph of Karen Howard.

“Have you ever done this girl’s nails?”

She squinted at the photo. “I couldn’t tell you, I do as many as eight a day…”

“Look at her again.” He tried to squat down to her level and pointed at the beautiful young face. “She was found murdered, on the fourteenth of January last. Look again, did she ever come to this stall?”

“January? I wouldn’t have been here anyway. My friend takes over when I can’t do it.”

Jones ground his teeth in frustration. “Have you got her name and address?”

The café was too small to contain more than a long bar and a few stools. George Marlow was sitting at the far end, drinking cappuccino.

The only other customer got up and left. Marlow approached the man behind the bar.

“Can I have the keys, Stav?”

Stavros pulled a cardboard box from beneath the bar. “Been away, have you, John? Haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Yeah. Mum was taken bad.” Marlow held his hand out for the keys. “What’s the damage?”

From across the street it wasn’t possible to see the object that had been passed to George Marlow, but when he opened his wallet Muddyman could see him counting out ten-pound notes.

Moyra Henson had changed tubes twice, doubling back on herself, then she hurried onto a Central line train. Oakhill was certain that she had no idea he was tailing her.

He was four or five bodies behind her as she went up the escalator and emerged at Oxford Circus. Keeping well back, he radioed in for back-up, fast; Oxford Street was packed with shoppers and Moyra was moving like the clappers. He stayed on her tail in and out of Richard Shops, then across the road to Saxone, back again to another shoe shop, then on up the street to Next.

His back-up arrived; a plain-clothes WPC to take over the close tail, plus a patrol car. The WPC followed Moyra in and out of shops as far as Wardour Street, where she entered a shopping mall. The driver of the patrol car and the uniformed officer took up their positions near the exits. Oakhill kept about fifty yards back from Henson, while the WPC peered into windows and watched Moyra try on shoes from a few feet away.

The patrol car was parked a good distance from the café and Muddyman, directly across the road, kept the radio contact going, informing Tennison that it looked as though the suspect was on the move again.

“Yeah, he’s buttoning up his raincoat. Shit! He’s sat down again. He’s having another bloody coffee!”

Tennison’s foot was still tapping and she was chain-smoking, building up a real fug in the car.

A message started coming through from Jones. “Would you believe Moyra Henson sometimes works from this booth in Covent Garden, and she was working here in January. An assistant at the Floral Street Health Club told me she directed Karen here. The woman who runs it can’t say if Karen had had her nails done here or not, but she says that when Henson was working here Marlow used to pick her up! Moyra could have done Karen’s nails, and if he saw her, knew her name…”

DC Jones was standing in the middle of a breakdancing troupe, battling to make himself heard. The steel girders above the stalls distorted the radio waves.

“How long does this Noo-Nail treatment take?” Tennison’s voice asked.

“The woman said she can do eight a day, so it must take a while.”

“You hear all that?” Tennison asked Amson. He nodded. “That’s how he could have known their names! If the treatment takes a while and he was hanging around…

Tennison stubbed out her cigarette. They were both beginning to sweat; it was coming down, they could feel it.

“It’s the two of them, then!”

“Looks like it,” Tennison replied. “Let’s pick Moyra up now, and see if the lads back at base have come up with anything from the cross-check. Della and Moyra both came from Manchester originally, it’s just their ages, Della was a lot younger. Car five-four-seven to base…”

“Looks like she’s been lying from day one!”

While Tennison gave the go-ahead for Moyra Henson to be picked up, Muddyman radioed in that Marlow was on the move. Then there was silence, but the crackle of the open channel added to the tension. Everyone was waiting…

“He’s moving fast now, turning left out of the café, crossing the road. He’s stopped, he’s on to me, looking over…”

Another voice cut in. “I’ve got him! He’s just passed me, walking briskly, crossing the road again. He’s heading for the lock-ups, he’s walking right along Battle Bridge Road to the lock-ups…”

The radio controllers nearly deafened Tennison with their cheering, as if Arsenal had scored a winning goal in the Cup Final. Like the men in the street, they were feeding Marlow’s every move to the cars and to the rapidly closing ring of officers in the area. Now they passed on the instructions for the lads to take up their positions…

“Yes!” Tennison yelled, and punched Amson’s arm. “He’s going for the goddamned lock-ups, I knew it, I knew it!”

Amson tapped the driver on the shoulder to warn him to be ready. He started the engine.

Tennison was gabbling. “Everyone keep back, just hold your positions, don’t frighten him off… Stay put until we get the go… Over…”

They could only listen, they couldn’t move out, couldn’t see, in case they tipped Marlow off, as the team moved in. Some were dressed as mechanics, bending over broken-down cars, another pedaled past with a ladder, someone else drove a grocery van, but they were moving in, surrounding Marlow. The tension was explosive…

George Marlow strolled casually along the street. He passed two open lock-ups where mechanics were at work. Cars in various stages of repair littered the street.

He reached the corner where a road ran at right angles under the railway lines. He paused, looked around, checking carefully to see if he was being followed.

“Hold your positions, no one move,” Tennison instructed. “Let him open up and get inside before you grab him.”

Apparently satisfied that he was in the clear, Marlow walked unhurriedly, swinging the keys around his finger as he went. He approached a lock-up that looked as though it hadn’t been occupied in years. A small access door was set into one of the huge main doors.

Tennison’s tense voice broadcast softly, “I want him to use the keys, everybody wait… wait…”

After another long look around, Marlow stepped up to the small door and selected a key from the ring.

Muddyman’s voice was low, breathy. “Shit, I think this is it, he’s going for it. Stand by, suspect has his key in the lock. He’s opening up! He’s opening up!”

The small door swung open and Marlow raised one leg to step over the high sill as Tennison shrieked, “Go! Go! Go!”

The cars converged into the street, sirens wailing, but before they could get to Marlow the lads emerged from their positions like greyhounds after a hare: Rosper, Caplan, Lillie and Muddyman. They charged across the street and before Marlow could step right inside they had him. Rosper, the first there, grabbed Marlow by the scruff of his neck, almost tearing the raincoat off him as he dragged him from the doorway. Marlow stumbled as his foot caught on the sill, and the next moment his head was cracked back on the edge of the door. They all wanted a go at him-it was part tension, part adrenaline-and they handled him roughly, pinching the skin on his wrists as they handcuffed him.

Muddyman was shouting the caution as Tennison’s car screamed up. She was about to get out when she hesitated, to give the boys a chance to spot her and ease up on Marlow. It was in that moment, no more than a few seconds, that she saw another side to her suspect.

He seemed completely unconcerned at being knocked around, arrested. In fact he was unnaturally calm. He looked up with a puzzled frown, first at Rosper, then Lillie. Tennison did not hear what he said, but she could see the expression on his face as if he was angry with himself.

But the lads heard him: “Ahhh… the painters.” He seemed satisfied that he had recognized them, but there was still a look of irritation on his face. He hadn’t suspected them, in fact he had trusted them. He had been foolish, made a mistake. They were not painters.

Moyra Henson emerged from a boutique with a large carrier bag and strolled along the mall, stopping beside the plain-clothes WPC, who was loaded with bags, to look in the next window. Their elbows nearly touched.

She was so intent on the goods in the shop that for a moment she didn’t clock the reflection of the uniformed officer speaking into his radio a few feet away. Oakhill moved in and the WPC right next to Moyra dropped her bags and held out her ID.

“Moyra Henson, I am WPC Southill. We would like you to accompany us to the Southampton Row-”

Moyra swung her boutique bag to slap Southill in the face, then went for her, kicking and spitting, screaming that she wanted to be left alone. Her screeching drew everyone’s attention: shop assistants rushed out to see what was going on, customers rammed into each other on the escalators, as Moyra’s screams echoed throughout the mall. Her face was puce with hysteria.

She seemed to cave in suddenly, her back pressed against the window, hands up.

“I just want to be left alone, ahhhh, please, please leave me alone! Don’t touch me! I’ll come with you, just don’t touch me!”

She started to retrieve her fallen purchases and stuff them into the torn boutique bag. She had hurled her handbag to the floor, spilling cosmetics, wallet, mirror all over the marble floor, and she insisted on picking everything up herself. She was crying now, her mascara running down her face, her hysteria over.

She allowed herself to be led to the waiting patrol car where she sat, sniffing noisily, her nose all red, and stared out of the window. As the car moved off and the siren started up, she seemed to gather her senses, taking a hankie from her bag and blowing her nose. WPC Southill watched closely as she pulled out a perfume atomizer and gave Oakhill the nod to check it.

“It’s perfume, Chanel, and it’s very expensive. Cost over thirty quid, and I only use it sparingly-I mean, too much and you overdo it. So if you don’t mind giving it back? What’d you think I was gonna do, spray it in the driver’s eyes and make my escape? Screw you, screw the lot of you, you’re all wankers!”

She spent the rest of the journey to the station checking her wallet, counting her money and repacking everything in orderly fashion. But she didn’t say anything else; she felt there wasn’t any point.

The lock-up was cavernous. Water dripped constantly, forming pools on the floor, and the shape of it amplified the eerie sounds of the trains overhead. The place stank of damp, ancient oil and many other things.

The far end was pitch dark. Near the center of the empty space Tennison could just make out a large, shrouded shape in the gloom. She chose to ignore the little scuttling, splashing noises of the rats.

“Everybody watch where you stand,” Tennison ordered, her voice echoing. “Lights, are there any lights?”

Fluorescent lights blinked on slowly, casting a cold blueish light which reflected in the puddles. Tennison advanced, picking her way slowly and carefully until she reached the middle. She lifted the old tarpaulin by one corner, exposing gleaming chrome and gold-brown paintwork.

“Well, we’ve got the car!” she called briskly, peering inside it. There was no radio between the seats. “I want the Forensic crowd down here ASAP. The less we move or touch, the better.”

DS Amson was tiptoeing through the pools of water towards her. She stepped back, knocking into him, and turned to give him an earful when she saw his smile freeze. He was looking past her to the far end of the lock-up. Tennison followed his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, and pointed. “This is where he did it.”

Arrayed on the wall like an exhibit in a black museum were chains, shackles and a hideous collection of sharpened tools.

“How are you going to play it?” Kernan asked Tennison.

She was tense, champing anxiously at the bit. “Henson first, break the alibi. Marlow’s brief’s on his way in.”

“Right, Jane, and… well done!”

“Not done yet,” she replied, flexing her fingers. “Not yet.”

Flanked by Amson and Muddyman, with Havers in her wake, Tennison swept along the corridor to the interview room. Muddyman and Amson entered first, going to opposite sides of the room. Tennison walked straight to the table where Moyra Henson sat smoking, her solicitor beside her. Tennison could feel the change in her; she was afraid.

She addressed the solicitor. “Mr. Shrapnel? This is Detective Inspector Muddyman, Sergeant Amson and WPC Havers.” With a nod to Havers to close the door, she sat down and placed some files on the table. “You have been made aware that your client has not been arrested at this stage, but is here of her own free will to answer questions and assist in the investigation into the murders of Karen Howard and Della Mornay.”

“Yes, I am aware of the situation, and my client is prepared to assist in any way that will not incriminate her or instigate criminal proceedings against her,” the small gray-suited man replied.

For the first time since entering the room, Tennison looked directly at Moyra.

“At twelve forty-five today we gained access to George Arthur Marlow’s rented lock-up garage in King’s Cross. A brown Rover car, registration number SLB 23L, was discovered on the premises, together with certain incriminating evidence. In your recent statement you claimed that you had no knowledge of the whereabouts of this car, is that true?”

There was no bravado left in her. “I didn’t know anything about it, I thought it had been stolen.”

“In the same statement you gave George Arthur Marlow an alibi, stating that he returned to the flat you share on the night of the thirteenth of January, nineteen-ninety, at ten thirty. Is that correct?”

Moyra glanced at her solicitor, then back to Tennison and gave a nod.

“When I interviewed you on that occasion, you were shown pictures of murder victims, do you remember? You stated that you had never met any of the women in the photographs.”

Again Moyra nodded and looked to Mr. Shrapnel. Tennison opened one of her files and brought out two photographs.

“On the sixteenth of May, nineteen seventy-one, you and Deirdre Mornay were on trial at Manchester Juvenile court.” She laid the photograph of Della on the table. Moyra did not react. “In early January of this year, Karen Howard was a customer at the booth in Covent Garden that you took over from Annette Frisby.” Karen’s photo was put in front of Moyra. Again she did not react.

Two more photographs; this time of the bodies of the murdered girls.

“Moyra, you are not looking at the photographs. If you don’t want to look at Della, then look at Karen. George called out to her, offered her a lift, then took her to King’s Cross and tortured her, mutilated her. But first, he hung her on the wall in chains and raped her. Look at it, Moyra, see her hands tied behind her back, the marks on her body… Look at her, Moyra!”

Shrapnel raised his hands as if to say, “That’s enough!”

“Your client, Mr. Shrapnel, stands to be accused as an accessory to murder. Don’t you think she should know what that crime involved?”

“My client has co-operated fully-”

Slowly, Moyra put out a hand and picked up the photos.

“Your client, Mr. Shrapnel, has systematically lied to us. Now she has a chance to-” Tennison stopped and watched Moyra’s reaction to the photographs; she stared at each one, then covered the one of Karen’s body with her hands and closed her eyes.

Shrapnel was saying, “Moyra is George Marlow’s common-law wife…”

Tennison raised a hand to quieten him as Moyra started to speak to her.

“Would you get the men to leave, just the women stay… I won’t talk in front of them.”

Amson gripped Shrapnel by the elbow and hurried out, followed by Muddyman. In the silence, Moyra sat with her hands over the picture of Karen, looking at Tennison with dead, unemotional eyes.

“I didn’t know Della, I didn’t even remember her. She was just a kid. But I did her nails, she used to bite them and… I didn’t know her, it was just that she used to come and have the odd nail replaced, you know, if she’d broken one.”

Tennison nodded without speaking. Moyra didn’t really want to talk about Della, this was not why she had wanted the men out of the room, there was something else. Moyra tugged at her skirt, darting glances at Tennison, her whole body twisting and turning, her hands picking at her own false nails. She looked at Havers, chewing at her lip, then back to Tennison. Then she leaned forward, her chin in her hand, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

“He… he did it to me once,” she whispered. Tennison leaned closer, but Moyra immediately sat back, coughed and stared at Havers. Tennison waited patiently while Moyra straightened her skirt yet again, twisted her hair. Then she released a deep sigh.

This time she didn’t whisper. She faced the wall. “He made this thing, with straps, for here.” She touched her arm. “He said it made… it made the vagina tight, you know, stretched out, but it hurt me. I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t do it.”

She hung her head, as if the horror was slowly seeping into her brain. She still couldn’t face Tennison; her head sank lower and lower until it was nearly resting on her knees.

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know… Oh, God forgive me, I didn’t know…”

Moyra buried her face in her arms and began to sob.

Amson, Muddyman and Shrapnel were all leaning against the wall of the corridor when Tennison’s face appeared in the glass panel. She opened the door.

“George Marlow was home by ten thirty that night, but he went out again at a quarter to eleven. She doesn’t know what time he returned.”

She stood very erect, head up, eyes blowing. “We’ve got him,” she said quietly.

George Marlow lay in his cell, staring at the ceiling. A uniformed officer outside kept a constant watch through the spyhole.

The key turned in the lock, and Marlow sat up, swinging his feet to the floor as his solicitor, Arnold Upcher, stepped in.

With a glance at his watch, Upcher said, “Five minutes!” to the officer, who remained in the open doorway, Upcher put his briefcase down on the bunk and faced Marlow.

“They are charging you on six counts of murder, George.”

Marlow shook his head, sighed, and looked up. “I don’t know what’s going on, Arnold. On my mother’s life, I haven’t done anything.”

Arc-lights had been brought into the King’s Cross lock-up to improve the illumination. White-suited Scenes of Crime men were moving in to start photographing and fingerprinting. The place was strangely quiet; only the constant rumble of the trains and the distant sound of a chained dog barking disturbed the silence.

The Rover had been surrounded by plastic sheeting. One man was kneeling on the plastic, leaning in through the open door, combing the fitted carpets with great care, passing anything he found to an assistant beside him.

DI Burkin and DC Jones were examining a row of old metal lockers.

“Oh, look at this!” exclaimed Burkin, holding up a hideous mask with cut-out eyeholes by his fingertips. He dropped it into a plastic bag.

In the next locker, Jones had found suits, shirts, ties, shoes, all covered in plastic dry-cleaner’s bags.

“Even his sneakers, look… Neat bastard.”

Burkin sniffed. “Jesus, this place smells like an abattoir.” He turned to stare at the wall where Marlow’s chains and torture instruments hung, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Two men were crouched near the wall, prodding at a small drain with sticks. Above the drain, where a single tap was fitted, a makeshift shower had been rigged up, with a plastic shampoo spray and a plastic curtain, spotted with black mold and streaked with blood. Beside it a dish contained soap, wire brushes and a plastic nail brush.

“This is caked in blood, we’ll need swabs of it all,” one of the men was saying. “Ugh, the drain’s clogged with it, and this looks like skin…” He covered his face. “Jesus, the stench!” he mumbled, retching.

Burkin had found a handbag. He handled it carefully, wearing disposable plastic gloves. Inside was a wallet; he flipped it open.

“It’s Karen Howard’s!”

More arc-lights came on, bathing the Rover in a bright pool of light. The SOCO was holding a pair of tweezers up and peering at the tiny item they held.

“The carpet’s been scrubbed, smells of cleaning fluid, and it’s damp. What’s this? Looks like a tiny gold screw.” He dropped it into the bag his assistant held open for him and something else caught his attention. “Was your girl blond?” he called over to Burkin and Jones as he carefully stashed a single blond hair into a bag.

Burkin was examining a jacket, peering at it through the plastic bag. “I got one of these jackets from his flat, he must have two sets of clothes… See his shoes, did you take his shoes from the flat?”

DC Jones wasn’t ready for it, couldn’t understand how it happened, but one moment he was doing his job, sorting through the gear, and the next he burst into tears. He stood there, unable to control his sobs, almost in surprise.

Burkin put an arm around his shoulder. “Go an’ grab a coffee, a few of the others might feel like one, OK?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I dunno what made me get like this…”

Peering into the cabinet again, Burkin replied, “We all go through it, Dave. I think it’s just natural, a release… Mine’s black, no sugar.”

Jones threaded his way across the duckboards, mindful of the plastic sheeting. He had to turn back because he couldn’t remember if it was four black and six white or the other way round.

The silent shadows of the men loomed on the walls where hideous splashes of blood, and worse, had dried. The greenish glow of the fluorescent lights and the brightness of the arc-lights did nothing to lift the dank darkness, the stench, the horror. This was where that sweet girl was brought; he could only imagine her terror, only imagine it.

DI Burkin had pulled out a thick black wardrobe bag, the kind used by the uppercrust type of dry cleaners. It was strong, would have fitted a full-length evening gown, and it had a zip from one end to the other. It was slightly open at one end and he could see a tangle of blond hair jammed in the teeth. They knew Marlow was strong-this had to be how he had carried his victims undetected, zipped up in the wardrobe bag, hung over his arm…

It was not for Burkin to find out, that was down to Forensic, but be wondered. He placed it into a see-through evidence bag, tagged it, then bent to check over Marlow’s shoes. They were all neatly wrapped in clingfilm, ready to slip on and walk out, or walk into Della Mornay’s efficiency. No wonder they had been unable to find a single item, a single fiber, in her room.

The tape recorder emitted a high-pitched bleep, and Tennison started talking.

“This is a recorded interview. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison. Also present are Detective Sergeant Terence Amson and Mr. Arnold Upcher. We are situated in room 5-C at Southampton Row Metropolitan Police Station. The date is Thursday the first of February, nineteen ninety. The time is four forty-five pm.”

Tennison nodded to Marlow. “Would you please state your full name, address and date of birth?”

He leaned forward and directed his voice towards the built-in microphone. “George Arthur Marlow, twenty-one High Grove Estate, Maida Vale. Born in Warrington, eleventh September, nineteen fifty-one.”

“Do you understand why you have been arrested?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I guess so.”

“It is my duty formally to caution you, and warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. You have been arrested on suspicion of the murders of Karen Howard and Deirdre Mornay. Do you understand?”

“I am not guilty.” Marlow turned and looked at Upcher.

“Would you please describe to me the meeting that took place between yourself and Karen Howard on the night of January the thirteenth, nineteen ninety.”

“I didn’t know her name, I was told her name later,” Marlow began. “She approached me. I asked how much she wanted. I drove her to some waste ground and had sex with her. I paid her for sex. I didn’t know her, I had never seen or met her before. Then after I dropped her off at the tube station…”

“What about the cut on her hand? In a previous statement you said that she, Karen, cut her hand on the car radio which was between the seats.” Tennison held up the statement for Upcher to see.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“The statement was taken on the fifteenth of January, nineteen-ninety. We have since discovered that there is no radio between the front seats of your car.”

He didn’t seem to register what she had said. He began. “I was at home at ten thirty…”

“So, you arrived home at ten thirty that night. Could you tell us what time you next left the flat?”

“I didn’t, I watched television with my wife.”

“You are referring to your common-law wife, Miss Moyra Henson, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Henson made a statement at three forty-five this afternoon. She states that you actually left the flat again at fifteen minutes to eleven. She cannot recall exactly when you returned, but you returned without your car. She says that your car was not stolen from outside your block of flats.”

“She’s wrong! My car was nicked, I never went out again.”

“You have denied having any previous contact with Karen Howard.”

“Yeah, never met her before the night she picked me up…”

“Miss Henson has, on occasion, worked at a booth in Covent Garden. She has admitted that she met Karen, and that she gave her a nail treatment. You were there at the time and you spoke to Karen. Is that true?”

“No.” Marlow shook his head.

“You have also denied knowing the other victim, Deirdre Mornay, also known as Della. Miss Henson agrees, however, that contrary to her first statement, in which she too denied knowing Miss Mornay, she was in fact lying. I suggest that you are also lying and that you did know Della Mornay.”

Marlow sat back in his chair, folded his arms. “I don’t believe you play these games. Moyra is scared to death that you are going to arrest her for tax evasion and claiming unemployment benefit. She’s terrified of the police since she was picked up on a false charge of prostitution. Well, you don’t scare me, I’m innocent.” He spoke to Upcher. “I don’t have to answer any more questions, do I?”

The team were kicking their heels in the Incident Room. Jones asked generally, “How’s the guv’nor? She must be knackered.”

Burkin shook his head. “Taking a long time. After what we found in the lock-up, I don’t think he’d admit to knowing his own mother right now.”

Slumped in chairs, perched on desks, propped against walls, they waited.

Marlow was looking tired. “How many more times do I have to tell you?”

Tennison pressed on. “This morning?” she prompted.

“I told you, I got an anonymous call, I dunno who it was. He says to me that he knows where my car is, he’s seen it on the TV program, right? It’s been reported stolen, right?”

“What time was the call?”

“Oh, about ten… Anyway, he says he knows where the car is, at King’s Cross.”

“He told you that your car was in a lock-up at King’s Cross, yes? Did he give you the keys?” Marlow shrugged, and she went on, “Mr. Marlow, you were seen unlocking the door.”

He answered angrily, “Because he said I could get them from a Greek guy in a coffee bar. So I picked up the keys, but I didn’t find my car because just as I opened the door the police jumped on me! I don’t know why I have to keep repeating myself,” he said to Upcher. “I’ve told them all this a dozen times…”

Tennison showed no sign of fatigue or impatience as she asked, “What was the Greek man’s name?”

“I dunno, the tip-off just gave me the address of the café.” He sighed.

Arnold Upcher shifted his position, checked his watch and glanced at Tennison. He was getting fed up. He looked around; Amson had sat down in the corner.

“Stavros Hulanikis has sub-let the lock-up to a man he knows as John Smith for eight years. After you collected the keys from him this morning, an officer, Detective Inspector Burkin, took a statement from him. Your Greek friend also does certain items of dry-cleaning and laundry for you, doesn’t he?”

Marlow shook his head in disbelief, not bothering to answer. Tennison continued, “Come on, George, how did you get Karen into the efficiency? Where are Della’s keys? You know the place was empty, didn’t you? You knew, because Della Mornay was already dead.”

Marlow leaned towards her. “You are trying to put words into my mouth,” he said emphatically. “Well, that’s it, I’m not saying another thing.” He appealed to Upcher: “Tell her that’s enough! I agreed to this interview, I’ve done nothing but assist them from the word go! I want to go home.”

Upcher replied quietly, “That won’t be possible, George,” then turned to Tennison. “It’s almost ten.”

Marlow was getting really uptight. He shouted, “I wanna go to the toilet, I wanna have a piss, all right? I have to call my mother, I don’t want her reading in the papers that you arrested me again! I want to be the one to tell her-”

“I agree to a fifteen-minute break,” Tennison told Upcher. To Marlow she said, “You will not be allowed to see Miss Henson, or make any phone calls until this interview is terminated. I will arrange for Miss Henson to phone your mother…”

Marlow pushed his chair back as if to stand up. Amson moved towards him.

“No! They don’t get on. I don’t want Moyra calling my mother.” He sighed with irritation and stood up with his hands on his hips, facing Tennison. “This is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, all right, I did it.”

Upcher jumped to his feet. Tennison just sat and stared at Marlow, then managed to pull her wits together.

“Could you repeat that? You are still under caution.”

Marlow closed his eyes. She could see his long lashes, every line of his handsome face. He licked his top lip, then he opened his eyes. The color seemed even more startling, the pupils were like pin-points. As if watching in slow motion, Tennison felt every tiny movement recorded in her mind.

He tilted his head to the right, then to the left, and smiled. No one in the room moved; they all focused on Marlow, on his strange, eerie smile.

“I said I did it.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Everyone in the room except George Marlow held their breath, ready to explode, but he seemed totally relaxed. Eventually Tennison breathed out and said, “Please sit down, George.”

He slumped into his seat. She watched him closely as she asked, “What exactly did you do?”

He checked them off on his fingers. “Karen, Della, Angela, Sharon, Ellen and…” He screwed up his eyes, trying to remember, then snapped his fingers. “That’s right, Jeannie…”

Only Tennison’s eyes reflected the impact of his words. George Arthur Marlow had just casually admitted to killing all six victims.