Prime Suspect

1

Mrs. Corrina Salbanna was woken from a deep sleep by the sound of the front door banging in the wind. She squinted at her bedside clock; it was almost two. Swearing in her native Spanish, she threw off the bedclothes and stuffed her plump feet into her slippers.

She shuffled up the steps into the hall and towards the still-open front door, wrapping her dressing-gown around her against the chill. The naked light bulb gave the seedy hallway a yellowish hue that did nothing to enhance the peeling wallpaper and brown, flaking paint. Pursing her lips, Mrs. Salbanna slammed the door hard. There was no reason why anyone else in the house should be allowed to sleep if she couldn’t.

As she turned again towards her warm bed, she noticed a light beneath Della Mornay’s door on the first-floor landing. She put two and two together; it must be that little tart who had left the door open. Della owed three months’ rent, and had been warned about bringing men back to her room. Now was the time to catch her red-handed. Moving as fast as she could, Mrs. Salbanna returned to the basement and collected the master keys, then panted back up to the first floor.

“Della, I know you’re in there, open the door!”

She waited, with her ear pressed to the door. Hearing nothing, she rattled the door handle. “Della?”

There was no response. Her face set, Mrs. Salbanna inserted the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The large room was as seedy as the rest of the rundown Victorian house, which had been divided into efficiency apartments long before Mrs. Salbanna and her husband had taken it over in the sixties, and many of the rooms still had the feel of the hippie years. Only the posters in this room had changed; Jimi Hendrix had given way to more modern rock and movie heroes. The first thing Mrs. Salbanna saw was a large photograph of Madonna, lips pouting, which dominated the squalid, clothes-strewn room from above the head of the old-fashioned double bed. A red shawl had been draped over the bedside l & in its glow Mrs. Salbanna could see that the pillows and red satin eiderdown had been dragged to the far side of the bed, revealing the stained ticking of the mattress.

There was no sign of Della. Shivering, Mrs. Salbanna looked about her with distaste. She wouldn’t put it past the little bitch to be hiding; she’d been devious enough about not paying her rent. She sniffed: stale body odor and cheap perfume. The smell was stronger when she peered into the mahogany wardrobe, but it contained only dresses and shoes.

The wardrobe door, off its hinges, was propped against the wall. Its full-length, fly-blown mirror was cracked and missing a corner, but reflected enough to show Mrs. Salbanna a leg, protruding from beneath the bedclothes on the floor. She spun round.

“You little bitch! I knew you were in here!”

For all her weight, the landlady moved swiftly across the room and crouched down to grip Della’s exposed ankle. With her other hand she threw the bedclothes aside. Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came; she lost her balance and fell, landing on her backside. In a panic she crawled to the door, dragging herself up by the open drawer of a tallboy. Bottles and pots of make-up crashed to the floor as her scream finally surfaced. Mrs. Salbanna screamed and screamed…

By the time Detective Chief Inspector John Shefford arrived the house in Milner Road, Gray’s Inn, had been cordoned off. He was the last on the scene; two patrol cars were parked outside the house and uniformed officers were fending off the sightseers. An ambulance stood close by, its doors open, its crew sitting inside, drinking tea. The mortuary van was just drawing up and had to swerve out of the way as Shefford’s car screeched to a halt just where its driver had intended to park. Shefford’s door crashed open as he yanked on the handbrake. He was on the move, delving into his pocket for his ID as he stepped over the cordon. A young PC, recognizing him, ushered him up the steps to the house.

Even at two thirty on a wintry Sunday morning, word had got round that a murder had been committed. There were lights in many windows; people in dressing-gowns huddled on their front steps. A couple of kids had appeared and were vying with each other to see how close they could get to the police cordon without breaking through it. Five Rastafarians with a ghetto-blaster were laughing together on a nearby wall, calling out remarks and jokes, as if it was a street party.

Shefford, a bear of a man at six foot two, dwarfed those around him. He had been notorious on the rugby field in the late seventies, when he played for England. With his curly hair standing on end, his crumpled shirt and tie hanging loose he didn’t look or feel in a fit state to start an investigation. He had been hauled out of the celebration bash at the end of a long and tedious murder case, and he was knackered. Now he was about to lead the investigation of another murder, but this one was different.

Many of the officers in the dark, crowded hallway he had worked with before. He scanned the faces as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He never forgot a face, and he greeted each man he knew by name.

At the foot of the stairs he hesitated a moment, straightening his tie. It wasn’t like him to shrink from an unpleasant duty, but he had to force himself to mount each step. He was sweating. Above the confusion of voices a high-pitched wailing could be heard. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the basement.

Hearing Shefford’s voice, Detective Sergeant Bill Otley stopped pacing the landing and leaned over the banister. He gestured for his guv’nor to join him in the darkness at the far end of the landing. He kept his voice low and his eye on the men coming and going from the victim’s room.

“It’s Della Mornay, guv. I got the tip-off from Al Franks.”

He could smell the booze on Shefford’s breath. Unwrapping a peppermint, he handed it over. The boss wasn’t drunk; he probably had been, but he was straightening out fast. Then Otley shook out a pair of white overalls for each of them. While they struggled to put them on, their dark recess was lit at intervals by the powerful flash of a camera from the efficiency.

As Shefford dragged on a cigarette he became aware of a familiar low, gruff voice that had been droning on all the time he had been in the house. He moved towards the door and listened.

“… She’s lying next to the double bed, on the side nearest the window and away from the door. She’s half-hidden beneath a red silk eiderdown. The window is open, a chest of drawers in front of it. We have a sheet, a blanket, a copy of the Sunday Times dated December 1990… Looks like it’s been used to wrap something in. She’s lying face down, hands tied behind her back. Wearing some kind of skinny-rib top, mini-skirt, no stockings. The right shoe is on the foot, the left one lying nearby…”

“She been raped?” Shefford asked Otley as he fastened his overall.

“I dunno, but it’s a mess in there.”

Mrs. Salbanna’s hysterical screaming and sobbing was getting on Shefford’s nerves. He leaned over the banister and had a clear view of DC Dave Jones on the basement stairs trying to calm the landlady. An ambulance attendant tried to help move her, but she turned on him with such a torrent of mingled Spanish and English with violent gestures that he retreated, fearing for his safety.

The pathologist was ready to talk, so Shefford and Otley were given the nod to enter the room. Shefford took a last pull at his cigarette, inhaled deeply and pinched it out, putting the stub in his pocket. Then he eased past the mess of broken bottles of make-up and perfume, careful where he put his size eleven feet, to stand a little distance from the bed. All he could see of Della was her left foot.

The brightly lit room was full of white-overalled men, all going about their business quickly and quietly. Flashlights still popped, but already items were being bagged and tagged for removal. The bulky figure of Felix Norman, the pathologist, crouched over the corpse, carefully slipping plastic bags over Della’s hands. He was a rotund man, oddly pear-shaped with most of his weight in his backside, topped off with a shock of thick, gray hair and an unruly gray beard. Rumor had it that his half-moon spectacles had been held together by the same piece of sticking plaster since 1983, when a corpse he was dissecting suddenly reared up and thumped him. But it was just a rumor, started by Norman himself. It was his voice Shefford had heard muttering into a tape recorder.

He looked up and gave Shefford a small wave, but continued dictating. “Obvious head injuries… possible penetrating wounds, through her clothes, her neck, upper shoulders… Lot of blood-staining, blood covering the left side of her head and face. Room’s damned cold, about five degrees…” Norman broke into a coughing fit, but he didn’t bother turning the tape off. He bent over the lower end of the corpse, but Shefford could not see what he was doing. Then he glanced at his watch and continued, “Say two to three degrees when she was found, the lights and everybody tramping around must have warmed the place.” He winked at Shefford, still talking. “Window half-open, curtains part-drawn, no source of heat… Door to landing giving a strong draft, front door had been left open…” He felt the corpse’s arms and legs, examined the scalp, then began checking for a weapon or anything lodged in the clothing that might fall when the body was removed, without pausing for breath. “Complete absence of rigor, no hypostasis visible…” Again he bent over the body, then sat back, waving a thermometer. He squinted at it. “Deep rectal temperature… Can’t bloody read it for the life of me… Ah, time is two thirty-eight a.m., thirty-five point eight degrees, so assuming she started at thirty-seven that puts it back to…”

Shefford shifted his weight from foot to foot and swallowed hard. As Norman gently rolled the body over he could see the blood matted in the blond hair, and he had to turn away. It wasn’t the sight of the blood, he had seen enough of that in his time, but how small she seemed, small and broken.

Two white-clad men moved in to examine the carpet where the dead girl had been lying. Norman had another coughing fit and Shefford took the opportunity to ask how long she had been dead.

“Well, my old son, she would have cooled off pretty quickly in here, with that window open an’ no heating on… Any time between midnight, maybe a little later, and… at a rough guess, twelve thirty.”

“Was she raped, Felix?” Shefford asked, although he knew Norman wouldn’t answer.

Norman just gave Shefford a foul look; he no longer bothered answering questions that presumed he was telepathic or had X-ray vision. He looked around the room and called to an assistant, “Right, body-bag!”

Two men lifted the body into the black plastic bag. Shefford winced and averted his head, shocked at the disfiguration of her face. He had seen only her profile, which was hardly recognizable as human; her nose and cheek were a mass of clotted blood and the eye was completely gone.

“Not a pretty sight,” said Norman, without emotion.

Shefford nodded, but his voice was muffled as he replied, “She was, though-pretty. Her name’s Della Mornay. Booked her myself when I was on Vice.”

Norman sniffed. “Yeah, well, let’s get her out of here an’ down to the mortuary. Quicker I get at her, faster you’ll get results.”

Even though he had asked once, Shefford could not stop himself repeating the question, “Was she raped?”

Norman pulled a face. “Fuck off, I’ll tell you everything you wanna know after the post-mortem.” He stared around the efficiency while the bag was closed and the body lifted onto a stretcher. “They’ll need a bloody pantechnicon to take this lot down to Forensic. You had breakfast? You’d better grab some before you schlepp over to me. Gimme a couple of hours.”

With a wave, Shefford shouldered his way to the landing. He paused and turned his back to the uniformed PC as he swiftly transferred a small object into Otley’s hand. No one had seen him slip it from under the mattress. Otley quickly pocketed the little book.

It was not yet dawn, but the street was just as lively when Shefford left the house. The spectators watched avidly as the stretcher was carried to the waiting mortuary van and the police brought bag after bag of evidence from the house. Mrs. Salbanna and Shefford himself had both identified the corpse.

The Scenes of Crime officers, or SOCOs, had started fingerprinting every possible surface, covering most of the room in a film of gray, shining dust. They were none too happy; many of the best spots had been carefully wiped.

After snatching a quick breakfast in the canteen and detailing Otley to make sure the Incident Room was being organized, Shefford was at the mortuary by nine o’clock. DI Frank Burkin and DC Dave Jones joined him there to discuss the day’s itinerary. They sat in the anteroom of the main laboratory, all but Jones blatantly disregarding the large NO SMOKING notices.

While they waited, John Shefford used the payphone to call his home. It was his son’s birthday the next day and Otley, the boy’s godfather, wanted to know what to buy him. His wife, however, had more on her mind.

“Have you booked the clown for Tommy’s party, John?” Sheila asked. “I gave you the number last week, remember?”

Shefford was about to confess that he had forgotten all about it when he was saved by the bell; Felix Norman’s assistant came to fetch him.

“I’ve got to go, love, they’re ready for me. See you later!”

Gowned up, masked and wearing the regulation wellington boots, Shefford joined Norman.

Two bare, pale feet protruded from the end of the green sheet, a label bearing Della Mornay’s name and a number tied to one ankle. Norman started talking before Shefford had even reached the trolley.

“Death, old mate, was around twelve-fifteen-it’s a classic, her watch got broken and stopped. The gold winder, by the way, is missing, so they’ll have to comb the carpet. The watch face is intact, but the rope that was used to tie her wrists must have twisted the winding pin off the watch. Now, you asked if she was raped; could be. Recent deposits of semen in the vagina and rectum, and in the mouth, extensive bruising to the genital area. I sent the swabs over to Willy at the lab…” he checked his watch, “five hours ago. Might get a blood type this afternoon. OK, the wounds…”

Norman threw the green sheet over the head to expose the torso, and pointed to the puncture marks. The body had been cleaned, and they showed up clearly.

“Upper right shoulder, right breast, lung punctured here, and here. Another laceration to the throat, sixth deep wound just above the navel. The wounds are neat, made with a small, rounded object, the point narrow, flat and sharp, like a sharpened screwdriver, perhaps. Not all the same depth-one three inches, one six inches, the one in the right breast is even deeper.”

Shefford examined the wounds and listened intently, nodding his head. Felix Norman was one of the best in his field, and Shefford had learned from experience to let him have his say before asking any questions.

Norman continued, “OK, she also has a deep puncture to her left eye, probably what finished her off. A real mess, wanna see?”

“No, just carry on,” replied Shefford with distaste, running his hands through his hair.

Norman referred to his notes. “Oh, yeah, this is interesting. Look at her hands. They seem to have been scrubbed, with a wire brush, by the look of them. But there’s a nasty little nick here, and there’s a smell of chlorine, some kind of household bleach. No doubt I’ll find out the exact brand when I’ve been given the time a man of my calibre likes to have in order to do his job thoroughly! Anyway, it looks as if the scrubbing job on her hands has eliminated any possibility of blood or tissue fragments under the nails. She probably didn’t put up much of a struggle, but then, her hands were tied…”

Shefford avoided looking at the naked torso as much as possible. “Anything else?”

Norman sniffed. “Yeah, something strange…” Laying his clipboard aside, he picked up one of the corpse’s arms. “See, same on both sides? Deep welts and bruising to the upper arms. At this stage I can’t say what caused it, but she might have been strung up. I’ll have to do some more tests, but it looks like she was put in some kind of clamp. Interesting, huh?”

Shefford nodded. Somewhere at the back of his mind a bell rang, but he couldn’t capture the memory… Norman covered the body again and continued, peering over his glasses. “Right-handed killer, height difficult to estimate at this stage, especially if she was strung up, but four of the wounds entered the body on an upward slant and two are straight, so I reckon he’s around five-ten. But don’t quote me until I’ve…”

Shefford pulled a face. Norman, for all his bravado, went strictly by the rules and hated being pressed for results before he was one hundred per cent sure.

“Thanks mate. Get back to me as soon as you’ve got anything. When the report’s ready, Bill can collect it personally. And, Felix-I really appreciate it!”

Norman snorted. He had worked fast, but then he and John Shefford were old friends. He watched as Shefford removed his surgical mask and began to untie his gown.

“You got anything, John?”

Shefford shook his head. “Looks like one of her johns was into bondage and things got out of hand. See you…”

At the station, Della Mornay’s effects were being sorted and examined. Her handbag had been found, but it contained no keys. They were able to dismiss robbery as a motive as her purse, containing fifteen pounds, was in the bag and a jewel box on her dressing table, containing a few silver chains and a gold bangle or two, was undisturbed.

In King’s Cross, Della Mornay’s territory, fifteen of Shefford’s men were interviewing every known prostitute and call girl. They were getting little assistance, but the feedback was that Della had not been seen for weeks. There was a suggestion that she might have gone to Leeds to visit a friend dying of AIDS, but no name was mentioned.

The painstaking task of checking every forensic sample, the tapes of fibers, the fingerprints, was barely begun, and had brought no results so far. The entire area was combed for a murder weapon without success. In that neighborhood no one ever volunteered information, especially to the police.

Shefford and Otley met up again at Milner Road and spent an hour or so interviewing and looking over the efficiency again, but they discovered nothing new. Mrs. Salbanna, recovered from her shock, was already asking when she could let the room.

Shefford was hungry and very tired. He had a few pints and a pork pie in the local, then kipped down in his office while Otley went home to his flat to fetch his guv’nor a clean shirt. Shefford often stayed over at his place and left a few items of clothing there for emergencies.

Although he could have done with putting his head down for a few hours himself, Otley sprayed the shirt with starch and ironed it, paying special attention to the collar. Pleased with his handiwork, he slipped it onto a hanger and sat down for a cup of tea. He had a system for avoiding washing up; he simply used the same cup, plate and cutlery all the time. He ate all his main meals in the station canteen, and had even given up his morning cornflakes because they were a bugger to get off the bowl if you left them overnight.

The silver-framed photographs of his wife, his beloved Ellen, needed a good polish, but he’d have to leave them until his next weekend off. They were the only personal items in the flat that he bothered with. Ellen had been the love of his life, his only love, since he was a teenager. Her death seven years ago, from cancer of the stomach, had left him bereft, and he mourned her now as deeply as the moment she had died. He had watched helplessly as she disintegrated before his eyes. She had become so weak, so skeletal, that he had prayed, anguished and alone, for her to die.

It has been obvious to everyone at work that Skipper Bill Otley had personal problems, but he confided in no one. His solitary drinking and his angry bitterness had caused many arguments, and his boys, as he called them, had at last left him to himself. In the end, John Shefford had taken him aside and demanded to know what was going on, earning his abusive response, “Mind yer own fuckin’ business, my personal life’s me own affair.”

Shefford had snapped back angrily that when it affected his work it became the boss’s business, and Otley would be out on his ear if he didn’t come clean about what was tormenting him. He pushed Otley to the point where he finally cracked.

Once he understood, Shefford had been like a rock. He was at the hospital, waiting outside the ward, when Ellen died. He had organized the funeral, done everything he possibly could to help. He was always there, always available, like the sweet, beloved friend Otley had buried. When Shefford’s son was born he asked Otley to be godfather; the bereaved man became part of the family, his presence demanded for lunch on Sundays, for outings and parties. He and Ellen had longed for children, in vain; now his off-duty time was filled with little Tom’s laughter and nonsense. So Otley wouldn’t just iron his guv’nor’s shirt; he would wash it, and his socks for good measure. John Shefford meant more to him than he could ever put into words; he loved the man, admired him, and backed him to the hilt, convinced that he would make Commander one of these days. No one would be more proud of him then than Bill Otley.

With the clean shirt over his arm, Otley whistled on his way back to the station.

At eleven, Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison parked her Ford Fiesta and entered Southampton Row police station. It was a crisp, frosty day, and she was wrapped up well against the cold.

She was officially off-duty, but had come in to prepare some final papers for a session in court the next day.

None of the blood samples taken from the efficiency had yielded a clue to the identity of Della Mornay’s killer. Hers was a very common group and the only one found at the scene. But the DNA tests on the semen taken from her body were a different matter.

The new computerized DNA system was still at the experimental stage, but already the results of thousands of tests taken in the past two years had been entered on it. As a matter of routine, Willy Chang’s forensic team ran the result from Della Mornay against the existing records and were astonished to find a match; a visual check on the negatives, using a light-box, confirmed it. The man Della Mornay had had sex with shortly before her murder had been convicted of attempted rape and aggravated robbery in 1988.

Willy Chang was jubilant; here was the lever they needed to press the government into releasing funds for a national DNA profiling system. He picked up the phone.

The message caught Shefford on Lambeth Bridge, on his way home for lunch and only a stone’s throw from the Home Office labs. He hung up the handset, turned the car around immediately and punched Otley’s arm.

“You’re not gonna believe this, we got a friggin’ suspect! He’s got a rare blood group and it’s on the ruddy computer!”

For the past three months DCI Tennison had been working on a tedious fraud case involving a tobacconist who was being sued for non-payment of VAT. The man’s ferret of an accountant had more tricks up his sleeve than a conjuror, and a long series of medical certificates exempting him from court appearances. But tomorrow, at last, Judge George Philpott would complete his summing-up. Known as the legal equivalent of Cary Grant for his good looks and slow delivery, Philpott had already taken two days; Tennison hoped he would finish quickly for once so she would have time to check her desk before the end of the day.

Not that there would be anything of interest; in all her time on the special Area Major Incident Team, known as AMIT, there had been little but desk work. She had often wondered why she had bothered switching from the Flying Squad, where at least she had been busy. The set-up of five DCIs and their teams had appealed to her, and she had believed she would be able to use her skills to the full.

Sitting at her desk, Tennison heard a screech of brakes from the car park. She glanced out of the window in time to see Shefford racing into the building.

“What’s DCI Shefford doing in today, Maureen?” she asked her assistant, WPC Havers. “He’s supposed to be on leave.”

“I think he’s heading the investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Prostitute found dead in her room in Milner Road.”

“They got a suspect?” Tennison snapped.

“Not yet, but they’re getting all the Vice files on the victim’s pals.”

Tennison bristled. “How did Shefford get it? I was here until after ten last night!”

Maureen shrugged. “I dunno, guv, I think it was a middle-of-the-night job. Probably hauled him out of the afters session in the pub.”

“But he’s only just finished with that shooting in Kilburn-and there were the Iranian diplomats before that.”

Tennison clenched her fists and stormed out. Maureen winced at the banging of the door.

DCI Tennison paced up and down the corridor, trying to talk herself down. Eighteen months she’d been waiting for a decent case, dealing with more paperwork than in her entire time at the rape center in Reading, and now the boss had gone out of his way to give DCI Shefford the case that should have been hers. She’d known when she applied for the transfer that she would be in for a tough time; had she stayed where she was she’d have been promoted to a desk job by now.

But five years with the Flying Squad had toughened her up. She went back to her room and put a call through to the Chief’s office, determined to have it out with him, but he was in a meeting. She tried to work on her statements for the court hearing but her frustration wouldn’t let her concentrate.

At midday Tennison was again disturbed by the racing of engines from the car park. Shefford was off again, and in a hell of a hurry. She gave up trying to work and packed her things; it was nearly lunchtime anyway.

Tennison missed the “heat” as Shefford gathered his team together, his booming voice hurling insults as he fired orders at them. He was moving fast on the unbelievable stroke of luck that had given him his suspect on a plate.

George Arthur Marlow had been sentenced to three years for attempted rape and assault, but had served only eighteen months. He had still been protesting his innocence when he was led away from the dock.

The case had been a long-drawn-out affair as Marlow insisted he was innocent. At first he had denied even knowing the victim, referred to only as “Miss X,” but when faced with the evidence he told the police that he and “Miss X” had been drinking together in a wine bar. He stated that she had blatantly encouraged his advances, but when it came to the crunch she refused him.

Marlow’s blood tests at the time had shown him to have an exceptionally rare blood group; he belonged to a small percentage of AB secreters, of whom there is only one in 2,500 head of population. He had been one of the first to be entered on the new computer, and when a lab assistant ran his details through the system she hit the jackpot.

The warrant was ready. Shefford high on adrenaline, called his men together. Already he had dribbled coffee down his clean shirt, and he followed it now with cigarette ash. Otley brushed him down as he bellowed, “DCI Donald Paxman holds the record in the Met, lads, for bringing in a suspect and charging him within twenty-four hours. Gimme me raincoat… cigarettes, who’s got me cigarettes?”

He shrugged into his coat with the effortless ability of the permanently crumpled man, lighting a cigarette at the same time and switching it from hand to hand as his big fists thrust down the sleeves. “We smash that record, lads, and it’s drinks all round, so let’s go! Go, go!”

Jane Tennison let herself into her small service flat which she had shared for the last three months with her boyfriend, Peter Rawlins. Six feet tall, broad-chested, his sandy hair invariably flecked with paint, he was the first man she had lived with on a permanent basis.

Peter came out of the kitchen when he heard her key in the door and beamed at her. “OK, we’ve got Chicken Kiev with brown rice, how does that suit?”

“Suits me fine!”

She dumped her briefcase on the hall table and he gave her a hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. “Bad day?”

She nodded and walked into the bedroom, tossing her coat on the bed. He lolled in the doorway. “Want to talk about it?”

“When I’ve had a shower.”

They had spent a lot of time talking since they had met; Peter had been in the throes of divorce and Jane had provided a sympathetic ear. Marianne had left him for another man; it had hit him hard because it was not just any other man, but Peter’s best friend and partner in his building firm, And she had taken with her the little son he adored, Joey.

Jane and Peter’s relationship had begun casually enough; they had been teamed together in the squash club tournament and had since met on several occasions for the odd drink or cup of coffee after a game. Eventually he had asked her to see a film with him, and on that first real date she had listened to the details of his divorce. It was only after several films that he had even made an attempt to kiss her.

Jane had helped Peter to move into a temporary flat while his house was sold, and gradually their relationship had become closer. When he started looking for a permanent place to live she suggested he move in with her for a while. It wasn’t very romantic, but as the weeks passed she found herself growing more and more fond of him. He was easygoing, caring and thoughtful. When he told her he loved her and suggested they look for a bigger place together, she agreed. It was a pleasant surprise to her how much she wanted to be with him.

When she had showered, Jane sat at the table in her dressing gown and Peter presented his Chicken Kiev with a flourish. She was so grateful and happy that she had someone to share her life with that she forgot her problems for a moment.

As he opened a bottle of wine she cocked her head to one side and smiled. “You know, I’m getting so used to you, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. I guess what I’m trying to say in my roundabout way is-”

“Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass.

“Yeah, to you, to me, to us…”

Marlow seemed dazed by the arrival of the police. He stood in the narrow hallway of his flat, holding a cup of coffee, apparently unable to comprehend what they wanted.

“George Arthur Marlow, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder…” Otley had to repeat the caution, then remove the cup from Marlow’s hand himself to put the handcuffs on him.

Moyra Henson, Marlow’s girlfriend, appeared from the kitchen, followed by the smell of roasting lamb.

“What the hell’s going on here? Oi, where are you taking him? He hasn’t had his dinner…”

Ignoring her, they led Marlow out to the car as quickly as possible. In his bewilderment, he almost cracked his head on the roof of the patrol car as he was helped inside.

The uniformed officers went in to search the flat, while a WPC took Moyra into the kitchen and told her that Marlow had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of a prostitute. Moyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head, disbelieving.

“There’s been a terrible mistake, you can’t do this to him, it’s a mistake…” She broke away from the WPC and ran to the front door. She shrieked like a banshee when she realized the police were taking out clear plastic bags of clothing at a rate of knots. Marlow’s shoes, jackets, shirts, all listed and tagged, were shown to Moyra while she protested shrilly. But she didn’t attempt to stop the officers, and they remained for hours, searching and removing items. When they had finished, Moyra was taken to the police station for questioning.

She was no longer irate, but coldly angry. She hated the pigs, hated them. They had already put George inside for a crime she knew he hadn’t committed, and now she was sure they were about to frame him for murder. All the whodunnits she watched on video and the moral standpoints of Dallas and EastEnders had taught her her rights, and not to trust the bastards.

Jane lay curled in Peter’s arms, telling him about Shefford and his attitude to her; not quite openly antagonistic but near enough. It was pretty much the same with all the men, but Shefford was so macho that he took pleasure in sending her up, albeit behind her back.

It was still a new thing for her to have someone to listen to her problems. She had been in such a foul mood when she had arrived home, making love to him had taken all the tension away. It was good to have Peter, to feel loved and wanted. She told him how the Chief had given her the usual speech about waiting, but she had to make a decision soon. The longer she waited and accepted the cases no one else wanted, the more she knew she would be put upon. If Kernan didn’t give her a break she would quit. The men gave her no respect…

Peter laughed. “They don’t know you, do they?”

She grinned. “No, I suppose they don’t. I’ll get a break one day, and by Christ they’ll know what’s hit them then.”

He bit her ear. “Get them to play a game of squash with you, they’ll soon take notice of that determined little face. First time I played against you I thought: Holy shit, this one’s a maniac.”

She laughed her wonderful, deep, throaty laugh. When they made love it no longer mattered that her bosses had overlooked her; only Peter was important. She had said it to him that afternoon, and told him she loved him.

He cuddled her close. “I’m glad we’ve got each other, because things are not going too well for me. We may have to stave off looking for a bigger place, the company’s in bad shape and I’m having to spend capital until I get back on my feet.”

She murmured that it didn’t matter, the place was big enough. She asked him then how it had felt, knowing his wife was having an affair with his best friend, a subject she had always steered clear of.

He sighed, stared up at the ceiling. “Like my balls had been cut off. I couldn’t believe it at first, it must have been going on for years behind my back. Then I felt like a bloody fool, you know, that I hadn’t clocked it faster. He was always round the house, but we were partners and I just accepted that he was there to see me. And he was screwing my wife in my own bed!” He punched his palm, hard; it made a satisfying smack. He sighed again. “I wanted to beat him up, have it out that way, but there was no point. I just walked away from it all. She’s got half the money from the house and I bought him out of the company, that’s one of the reasons why cash is so tight at the moment. I should have just told him to fuck off, but I’m not like that and there’s Joey to consider. I reckoned that if I got nasty about the divorce she’d try to stop me seeing Joey. I love that kid, couldn’t bear not to see him.”

Jane stroked his cheek gently. “Any time you want him to stay he’s welcome, you know that, don’t you?”

He hugged her. “Yeah, I do, and I appreciate it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I know things’ll work out for you, just be patient.”

She smiled, without mentioning that it was exactly what her Chief’s attitude had been. But she had no intention of being patient. Peter didn’t really understand how important her work was to her, but he was to find out sooner than either of them anticipated.

George Marlow was quiet and co-operative. His fingerprints were taken and he was led to the cells. He stammered a little when he asked to phone his lawyer, seeming shaken, and gave the number. Although on the point of tears, he went out of his way to be helpful, but he still kept asking why he had been arrested.

Shefford had been on the go all day. Now he was preparing himself to question Marlow. His face was flushed and he was chain-smoking, cracking jokes; it was obvious that the adrenaline was still flowing.

The men on the team were clapping him on the back, calling him a lucky bastard, what a break! Several were laying bets on the outcome.

DI Burkin suddenly remembered something. “Hey, it’s his kid’s birthday tomorrow! While we’ve all got our hands in our pockets, we gonna chip in an’ buy him something? You know Otley, he’s so tightfisted the kid won’t even get an ice-cream cornet from him. What d’you say, fifty pence each?” In great humor, they all coughed up.

Before he went down to the interview room, Shefford called his home to tell Sheila, his wife, that he would be late and she shouldn’t wait up. He was too keyed up to pay much attention to what she was saying.

“You didn’t answer me this morning, John. Have you booked the clown for Tom’s party?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it sorted…” He handed the phone to Bill Otley and whispered, “Talk to the missus, mate, you’re his bloody godfather, after all. I haven’t got time…”

He lit another cigarette and turned to the files as Otley took the phone and promised faithfully that he would dress up as a clown himself if they couldn’t get Biffo for the birthday party.

The lads had been wrong about their skipper; Otley had spent more time and money in Hamley’s toy shop that weekend than they could credit. The train sets had cost an arm and a leg, but he was prepared to dip into his savings. He and Ellen had spent hours planning what they would spend it on when he retired; now his godson would be the one to benefit. It was making the decision that took the time, as well as wandering around enjoying himself in the store.

Otley replaced the receiver and turned to Shefford. “OK, guv? Need anything else? Marlow’s brief’s on his way, be about an hour. Arnold Upcher, represented him on his last caper. Tough bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t scream a lot like some of the buggers.”

Shefford winked. “I want a crack at ’im before Upcher gets here. Nice one for us, eh? What a stroke of fuckin’ luck! See if we can’t sew up Paxman’s record. Get a bottle of fizz over to Forensic lot, tell ’em I love ’em, and tell Willy to stand by for all the gear from Marlow’s place. And, yeah, I’m ready, let’s go for the bastard.”

George Marlow was sitting in the cell with his hands in his lap, head bowed. He was wearing a blue striped shirt with the white collar open at the neck; his tie had been taken away from him. His gray flannels were neatly pressed and his jacket hung over the back of his chair.

With his Mediterranean looks it was obvious that he would have to shave twice a day, but as yet his chin was clean. He raised his head when a uniformed officer opened the door and asked him politely to accompany him to the interview room.

DCI Shefford had given instructions that Upcher was to be stalled if he arrived early. He wanted a chance to question Marlow without his lawyer present. He drew himself up to his full height, threw his massive shoulders back and strode down the corridor to Room 4C. He noticed the way Marlow actually jumped with shock when he kicked the door open.

With a gesture to Marlow to remain seated, he swung a hard wooden chair around with one hand, placing it exactly opposite the suspect, and sat down.

“George? I am Detective Chief Inspector John Shefford. This is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, and that’s DC Jones over by the door. Before we get involved with your lawyer-I mean, we might not even need him-I just want to ask you a few questions, OK?”

He drew the ashtray towards him, scraping it along the formica of the table until it squealed, then lit a cigarette. “You smoke, George?”

“No, sir.”

“Good… Right then, George, can you tell us where you were on the night of the thirteenth of January? Take your time.”

Marlow kept his head down. “January the thirteenth? Saturday? Well, that’s easy. I was at home with my wife. We don’t usually go out, we get a video and a takeaway… Yeah, I was with my wife.”

“Your wife? You mean Moyra Henson, the girl you’re living with? She said she’s not your wife, she’s your girlfriend. Which is it, George? Come on, son, don’t mess us about.”

“Well, she’s my common-law wife, we’re not actually married.”

Shefford’s tongue felt and tasted like an old carpet. He searched his pockets and found a wrinkled piece of Wrigley’s chewing gum at the bottom. It must have been there for some time as it had lost its outer wrapper, and the silver paper was covered with fluff and ash from using the pocket as an ashtray. He picked the foil off, examined the gray gum, then popped it in his mouth and chewed furiously. Marlow watched his every move, as if transfixed.

Shefford folded the wrapper into a narrow strip, ran his fingernail down it, then tossed it aside and lit a cigarette. “What were you doing, say around ten o’clock?” he asked casually.

“I’d be at home… Oh, hang on, earlier… I know what I did earlier.”

Shefford inhaled the last of his cigarette and let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “Well, want to tell me?”

With a rueful smile, Marlow shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I picked up a girl. She was on the game.”

“You knew the girl, did you?”

Marlow shook his head and glanced at Otley, who was sitting a few feet away taking notes. “I’d never met her before, but I saw her outside the tube station, Ladbroke Grove. She was, you know, bending down, peering into cars as they went past… Ladbroke Grove tube station. I pulled up and asked her how much.”

“But you didn’t know her?”

“No, I’d never met her before. I asked her first how much, and she said it depends. You know they like to hustle as much as they can out of you…”

“Oh, yeah? But you been done before, George. You don’t like hassles. Della Mornay pisses you off, right? Right?

Marlow frowned, then looked at Shefford. “Della Mornay…?”

Otley checked his watch and wondered how it was all going down in the interview room. It was past seven and Shefford had been at it since four thirty, now with Arnold Upcher sitting in on the session. Otley strolled down to the basement corridor and peered through the glass panel; he could just see Marlow, sitting with his head in his hands.

“Has he confessed yet? Only it’s drinking time!”

The PC on guard raised his eyebrows. “Been a lot of shouting goin’ on in there, and at the last count Shefford had consumed five beakers of coffee.”

“Ah, well, he would-this is pub hours, son!”

Otley turned away and went to the pub to join the others from Shefford’s team. He ordered a round and sat down with his pint, telling them there was no news as yet.

“But he had his head in his hands, looked like the guv’nor’s cracked him. Gonna break that bloody record…”

They set about betting on how long it would take Shefford to get a confession from Marlow and whether or not he would break Paxman’s record. They might not have been so confident if they had been privy to the statement that was being taken from Marlow right then.