Prime Suspect

2

Shefford was using the regulation tape recorder. Marlow craned his head forward and directed his speech at the built-in microphone.

“I dropped her off at the tube station, and paid her.”

“OK, so then what did you do?”

“I went to Kilburn to get a video, and I was home by… about ten thirty.”

Marlow rubbed his chin. He needed a shave now, the stubble made him look darker, swarthier.

“Like I said, Inspector, I remember, when I looked back, she was peering into another car, a red… maybe a Scirocco, I dunno, but she was looking for the next customer. I just got the video and went home, got there at ten thirtyish. I can’t remember the exact time, you’ll have to ask Moyra, she’ll remember.”

“And you maintain that you did not know this girl you picked up? You had never met her or seen her before?”

“No, sir. Like I said, she just came over to my car.”

Shefford opened a file and held out a photograph of Della Mornay, taken from Vice records. “Is this the girl you picked up?”

Marlow leaned forward, without actually touching the photo, then sat back in his chair. “I’d never met her before, I didn’t know her.”

He looked to his brief, then back to Shefford. “I picked her up at about seven thirty. It was dark, I don’t remember her all that well…”

“You had sex with her, George! You tellin’ me you didn’t see her face? Come on, George…”

Marlow shifted his weight in his chair. “It was in the back of the car!”

“Let’s go again, George, an’ I want all the details.”

Peter was stuffing his work clothes into the overflowing laundry basket when Jane woke up. He rammed the lid on the basket. “We need a washing machine, you know.”

She yawned. “Yeah, but the kitchen’s too small. Besides, the launderette does it for me, they’ll even do the ironing if you want, but it’s fifty pence per article. I’ll get Mrs. Fry to take a load down in the morning.” She yawned again. “What’s the time?”

“It’s nearly six. I’ve got some bad news.” He sat down beside her. “Well, not bad news for me, but for you, maybe! It must be telepathy… You know, after you said Joey could stay, Marianne called. She’s bringing him over to stay the night. I didn’t even have to ask, she suggested it.”

“That’s OK! What time’s he coming?”

Peter shrugged. “Oh, about seven thirty. Look, you don’t have to do anything.”

Jane freaked. “Is she bringing him? I mean, will she come in?”

He shrugged again. “Look, I can take him for a hamburger, he’ll be no problem.”

“Bollocks! Go down to the corner Indian, they’re still open, and get some fish fingers. Kids like fish fingers, and baked beans, and Mars bars… No, tell you what, Smarties. I’ll make up the spare bed while you’re gone.”

“It’s already done, and I’ve put that Anglepoise lamp by the bed, he sleeps with a light on.”

“OK, I’ll wash my hair and get dolled up.”

“You don’t have to, he’s only six, for Chrissake! He won’t care what you look like.”

“Ah, but Marianne will be looking me over, and I want to make an impression. After all, I’m the Other Woman!”

“Not quite!”

“Oh, go on, get going…”

Jane rolled up the newspaper he had left on the bed and whacked him on the head with it, then dashed to the bathroom. Joey would be arriving soon, and she wanted to be ready.

At Southampton Row, Moyra Henson had been interviewed over and over again. She gave Marlow a perfect alibi and wouldn’t be budged; he was at home, she insisted, as he had said in his own statement. He had been at home watching television with her. Marlow had not left the flat all evening, and they had gone to bed together.

When she was finally let go, DI Burkin was ordered back to her flat to impound Marlow’s car, a brown, automatic three-liter Mark III Rover. He took two officers with him and gave Moyra a lift home.

She kept up a constant stream of abuse all the way back in the patrol car, sitting between the two officers. They didn’t say a word. Burkin, uncomfortable in the front seat with his long legs cramped against the glove compartment, was also silent, though Moyra’s voice was beginning to grate on his nerves and he would be glad when they got shot of her.

There was no sign of the Rover; it was not in the parking bay or anywhere in the vicinity of the flats. Sullen and uncooperative, Moyra accused the police of stealing it themselves.

As she shampooed her hair under the hot water, all Jane could think of was how John Shefford had done her out of a murder case. She had to make an effort to shake herself out of it, she was becoming obsessed. Before she knew it, Peter was back from the shop.

He yelled that he’d got a few extras. He opened the bathroom door.

“I got a chocolate cake, that one you like. It needs defrosting so I’ve left it on the draining board, OK?”

“Yep, just give me a few minutes to get my glad-rags on and I’ll set the table.”

But by the time she had dressed and dried her hair, Peter had done it all. Jane shrieked that she had wanted the best china, and started collecting the plates. Peter caught hold of her.

“Hey, this is just fine! Don’t put out the best stuff, he’s liable to smash something.”

“Do I look OK?”

He held her at arm’s length. “Yeah, nice blouse, looks Victorian.”

“Well, it’s not, it’s cheap Laura Ashley, so I bought two, but they’re my best!”

She was wearing a full skirt from Next and a pair of red suede shoes she had never worn before; every time she had put them on she had felt they were a bit too flash, so they were pristine, not a scuff in sight. It tickled Peter that she was making such an effort, even down to perfume.

When the doorbell rang Jane flushed, and he grinned. “Just relax, she’ll only stay a minute.”

Jane hovered near the kitchen while Peter opened the door. Joey flew into his arms, yelling, “Dad! Dad!” Peter swung him up and kissed him, then put him down, but Joey hugged his dad’s legs.

Jane peered at the door, expecting the ex-wife. First came a huge bag, large enough for Joey to stay two months, then a box of toys. Finally Marianne’s back was visible.

She spoke to someone who was invisible to Jane. “I won’t be a sec, darling!”

Peter’s face was like stone. He had not even acknowledged Marianne’s new husband, his old friend.

Marianne was wearing a short, frilly evening dress. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was the type that novelists describe as silky, a real shampoo advert. To Jane’s surprise she seemed much younger than her thirty-eight years.

“Hi, Pete, I’ve brought everything he could possibly need, and a lot he might not…”

Peter turned to introduce Jane. “Jane, this is Marianne.”

“Hi, nice to meet you, it’s good of you to have Joey.”

“Oh, that’s OK, nice to meet you.” She bent down to the little boy, who still clung to his father’s legs. “And you must be Joey? You know what we’ve got? Fish fingers, do you like fish fingers?”

“What else have you got?”

“Chocolate cake, you want some? Yes? Come on, then, let me show you the kitchen.”

She held out a hand to Joey, who shied away at first, but then he edged forward and gripped her hand tightly. “I got a new Revenge of the Joker mask!” he confided.

“Have you? Is that from Batman, then?”

Joey nodded. Anxious to get away from Marianne’s critical gaze, Jane smiled and said, “Would you like a drink, Marianne?”

“No, Steve is waiting…”

Duty done, Jane and Joey scuttled into the kitchen, but Jane could hear every word through the thin door. She showed Joey the cake box, opened it and reached into the top cupboard for a plate.

Marianne smiled and tossed her streaked, blond hair back. She leaned confidentially towards Pete.

“Pete, I’m pregnant.” She gave him a long, direct look.

Peter swallowed. “It’s not…” He glanced nervously toward the kitchen.

“Who knows? Anyway, I really appreciate this. You know what I was like in the early stages with Joey, I’m so sick every morning, awful.”

He pulled himself together. “You look OK!”

“Well, it’s all show. Underneath this I’m white as a sheet and getting hideously fat.” She wasn’t; as far as Peter could recall she hadn’t even put on much weight with Joey. Marianne went on, “She’s not at all what I expected! Is it working out?”

He nodded, and glanced again towards the kitchen door. “You’d better go, I don’t want him getting upset.”

“Oh, he’s fine, and I should say goodbye to… what’s her name?”

“Jane.” Again Peter looked towards the kitchen door. “Jane! Marianne’s leaving!”

The partly defrosted cake was halfway to the plate when it slipped off the bread knife and back into the box, showering Jane in the process. Peter opened the door to see her covered in chocolate and cream, trying in vain to wipe it off with a tea towel.

“Bit of an accident! Good to meet you, Marianne, hope you have a nice dance.”

“Oh, it’s not a dance, just a small dinner party.”

Jane covered her astonishment with a smile. If she had got herself done up in a dress as glitzy as that, it would have been for a ball at the very least.

Joey kissed his mother, apparently unperturbed at her leaving, then ran back to the kitchen to stick his fingers in the blobs of chocolate and lick them.

As the door closed behind Marianne, Jane cocked her head to one side. “So I wasn’t what she expected, huh? Next time I’ll borrow a WPC’s hat!”

There was a crash from the kitchen as the entire chocolate cake, box and all, fell to the floor. Joey looked crestfallen, expecting to be punished, but Jane just looked at the mess on the floor and handed Joey a spoon.

“OK, let’s have tea!”

It was eleven thirty when Shefford completed his interrogation of George Marlow. He discussed the results briefly with Arnold Upcher; he was sure he had enough evidence to charge Marlow. Upcher, tired himself, pursed his lips and gave a small shrug.

“Then if you feel you have the evidence, Inspector, there is little I can do. But he’s been here since early afternoon, that means you’ve got twenty-four hours. You will, of course, inform me if you go for extra time?”

Shefford was confident that he could charge Marlow without having to present all his evidence to a magistrate and beg for the statutory three days’ delay to consolidate his case, or “three-day lay-down”, as it was known. Exhausted though he was, and a little punchy, he was still going strong. His main concern was to get the statements transcribed from the tapes.

Upcher, needing time to review Marlow’s situation, had said little as he took his leave of Shefford. He knew intuitively that something was wrong, but until he had time to digest the case he wouldn’t even contemplate discussing it.

None of it made sense; Marlow was a handsome, attractive male, a man with a good, steady relationship at home. He was popular, he had a job that he thoroughly enjoyed and which brought him good money and his employers had even held it open for him when he was convicted of attempted rape. Upcher had succeeded in getting the burglary charge dropped, and in Marlow’s defense at the trial he had played heavily upon the confusion about which party had made the initial approach, whether both of them had been drunk-they had been seen in the same bar, and Marlow’s claim that she had led him on and subsequently refused him had rung true. In Upcher’s opinion the victim was a very disturbed woman whose evidence was unreliable, and he had been shattered by the verdict. Not just from a professional point of view; his relationship with Marlow was good, he actually liked the man and believed him to be innocent.

Marlow had taken it well, although Upcher was surprised that he had requested his representation for this, a much more serious charge. He had borne Upcher no grudge about losing the case, and had even admitted that, drunk or sober, he should not have forced himself on the woman, even though he had truly believed it was what she wanted. He had said, with a rueful smile, “I’ll never drink more than my limit again, so I suppose some good’ll come out of it. I didn’t hurt her though, Arnold, she made that up, the cops got it wrong.”

Was Marlow a rapist and a murderer? Upcher thought not, and could not believe he had misjudged the man to such an extent. The question occupied his thoughts all the way back to his Queen’s Gate flat.

The Arnold Upchers of this world are expensive, and anyone seeing the tall, angular man in the hand-tailored suit parking his dark green Jaguar in the residents’ bay could have been forgiven for mistaking him for the famous conductor who had once lived in the elegant service block a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. With the remote control he locked his car and set the alarm, allowing the chill night air to clear his head. By the time he reached his door, Upcher was convinced that the police had got it wrong again. Marlow was innocent, and he would prove it.

Jane crawled to bed at midnight. She had exhausted her stock of stories before Joey finally fell asleep, from the three little pigs to a strange mixture of Batman confronting the Ninja Turtles.

Peter was sitting up waiting for her. He flipped the bedclothes back and patted the mattress. “Come in, my beauty! And tell me a story…”

She snuggled into bed and gave him a blow-by-blow description of the goings-on at the police station.

“They were like kids playing at cops and robbers! I don’t know what they were up to, but they stopped me working. They’ve got a nice juicy murder that should have been my case, and you know what I’ve got instead? A dyspeptic accountant who’s had his bloody case adjourned four times in a row! Last time I had to wait at court all morning like a prat until he sent in some fictitious doctor’s note, and then I was told to go away. Next thing, the little sod’ll up and leave the country-I would, in his position. He owes ten years’ income tax and VAT. I’ve got to know the little pest so well over the past three months that I can tell you what he’ll be eating for breakfast, and even when I suggested that another adjournment would be… Am I boring you?”

Peter smiled. He had only been half-listening.

She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I could manage another sentence, I’m so tired… Oh, God, am I tired!”

Peter switched the bedside light off and reached for her, wanting to draw her close, but she muttered, “I’m afraid I’m too knackered… anyway, haven’t you had enough for one day? Book me in for tomorrow night, OK?” She was fast asleep as she finished speaking.

Peter lay awake for about ten minutes, then put the light back on to read his book. Jane started to snore and he gently eased her onto her side. She gave a little grunt and then a pathetic, “Sorry… I’m sorry…”

John Shefford was dog-tired by the time he arrived home, but his brain was ticking like a bomb. The events of the day kept repeating themselves like a newsreel in his head and he had to drink half a bottle of Scotch before he felt the dark clouds gathering to cushion him to sleep.

It seemed only a moment before the alarm woke him. His head throbbed and he took four aspirin before he could get out of bed, crunching them between his teeth and hoping that they’d reach the parts that screamed for numbness.

Sheila had his breakfast ready. As she dished it up she reminded him of his promise about the clown for Tom’s party. She had wrapped the presents and heaped them on the breakfast table, where Tom had found them at the crack of dawn, and he was beside himself, in a fever of excitement. They had both been touched by the lads’ whip-round for Tom, which they had presented in cash in a large Metropolitan Police envelope to be put into his Post Office savings account.

By seven, Shefford was none too happy. He tried to show enthusiasm, but he was getting ratty trying to eat his breakfast with one hand and fend off his son’s new boxing gloves with the other. His nagging headache wouldn’t shift, and he had another three aspirin with his coffee. Sheila was still going on about the clown, and he gave his solemn oath that not only would there be a clown but that he would perform magic acts that would silence even Tom.

The little lad had started boxing his sister, and her screams cut through Shefford’s head like a knife. Sheila removed his half-eaten scrambled eggs.

“I’m not expecting you to be here, that’s why the clown’s important. God forbid I should ask you to do anything so normal as to be home at half past five with Tom’s godfather for his party, it’d be an act of madness on my part…”

“Look, sweetheart, maybe I will make it, if things go well. We had a hell of a breakthrough yesterday; we’ve got a suspect and I think we can charge him. If we can do it this afternoon I can get home, and Bill’s promised to dress up, how’s that?”

Sheila screwed up her face and snorted. “Haw, haw, promises, promises! And would you take those gloves off him, and tell him they can only be worn under supervision. I never wanted him to have them in the first place…”

Shefford crooked his finger at Tom, who shadow-boxed up to him, ducking and diving as his father had taught him.

“OK, Tom, off with the gloves. The rule’s been laid down by the boss, you only use them when I’m around, OK? So give me a quick jab-jab, and a left hook before I go.”

Tom was fast and managed to clip his father on the nose. Sheila laughed, but Shefford’s eyes watered and he grabbed the gloves, pulling them off as the telephone began to ring.

“Daddy, it’s for you!”

Shefford listened to Felix Norman with difficulty while his daughter wound the phone cord around her neck and Tom raced up and down the hall with his rugger ball, weaving around the defense-his father-and scoring a try in the kitchen doorway.

It was Norman’s habit to get to the lab at seven each morning to escape the rush hour, though rumor had it that he was more concerned about avoiding his wife, as he was invariably found there late each night.

“What in God’s name’s going on there?” he yelled.

Shefford glared at his son and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. This gesture was famous in the household and was always obeyed. His daughter jabbed her lethally sharp elbow in his balls as she untangled herself from the curly cord and he grimaced, giving her a good whack on the back of the head, which had no effect at all. She hurtled after her brother, whooping at the top of her voice.

“OK, sorry about that, Felix old mate, but it’s Tom’s birthday. No, he got the ball last year, this year it’s boxing gloves…” He reached automatically for his cigarettes.

“Noisy little sod’s a real chip off the old block… Well, wish him happy birthday from me. How’s your suspect measure up, by the way? Is he right-handed?”

Shefford sucked on his cigarette. “Yep… How’s this for size; he’s five feet ten and a half, well-built, looks like he works out.”

On the other end of the line, Felix puffed at his cigar. When the two men were together in one room they created such a dense fog that they were known as the Danger Zone. “I’d say, John boy, you’re a lucky sod. By the way, I was talking to Willy last night. Did he mention to you that he reckons there’s not enough blood in that room?”

“You mean she wasn’t killed there?”

“It’s his department, but I’d say he’s probably right.”

The press release that morning said little, just that a known prostitute had been murdered. Della had no family and no one volunteered any information about her movements. It was the same story all round; none of Della’s friends and associates the police had contacted so far had seen her for weeks. Of ten residents of the house who had given statements, not one could say when they last saw her. Mrs. Salbanna had been staying at her daughter’s to help with the children while her newest grandchild made an appearance, and had not been home much for several weeks. Anyway, Della had been avoiding her for months because of the rent she owed. It was as if she had never existed, and, sadly, no one seemed to care.

By eight-thirty Shefford was at his desk, going over the typed-up statements from the previous day. He also had the full details he’d requested on Marlow’s previous conviction. As he sifted through the information an alarm bell rang in his head, the same as on the previous day. Something was trying to breakthrough…

Sergeant Otley brought coffee and doughnuts on a tray.

“Otters, there’s something niggling me about this guy. Can you check something out for me, but tiptoe it? A girl was murdered in Oldham when I was there; get me the information on her, but keep schtum.”

Otley licked sugar off his top lip and replied, “Yeah, what you think, he maybe did others?”

Shefford nodded. “Yeah. Watch out for me on this, I knew the one in Oldham too, know what I mean?”

Otley sucked jam and sugar off his fingers and carried his beaker of coffee to his own desk. He inched a drawer open and brought out Della Mornay’s diary.

“What do you want done with this?” he asked.

Shefford bit into his second sugar-coated bun. “Hang on to it, old son, I’ll check it out later. I’m goin’ down to the cells, then upstairs, give the boss everythin’ we’ve got. I reckon he’ll give us the go-ahead to charge the bastard. If we finish it, you gotta hire a fuckin’ clown’s outfit!”

Laughing, Otley replaced the diary in his desk drawer. He called out as Shefford left, “Eh, Big John, there’s two hundred quid riding on us from DCI Tibbs’ bunch, says we can’t beat Paxman’s record!” Otley could hear Shefford’s big, bellowing laugh all the way down the corridor.

Shefford was still laughing while he waited for the cell door to be opened. He wanted to have a look at Marlow; he always did this just before he charged a suspect. There was something in a murderer’s eyes, he had never been wrong yet.

Freshly shaved and showered, the prisoner looked somehow different this morning. Shefford was slightly taken aback; there was an eagerness to Marlow, a light in his eyes when he saw who it was at the door.

“Can I go?” Marlow asked.

Without speaking, Shefford shook his head slowly.

Jane Tennison parked her car with difficulty. DCI Shefford’s dented and filthy Granada was angled across his space and hers and she had a tight squeeze to get out of the driving seat. Her pleated tartan skirt brushed against the Granada and she dusted it off in disgust, hoping that this would be the last time she would have to wear her court outfit for a while, unless the nasty little accountant engineered yet another stay of execution.

In the female locker room, she hung her smart black blazer with the brass buttons in her locker, straightened her high-necked Victorian-style blouse, ran a comb through her short fair hair and slicked some gloss on her lips, all in a matter of moments. She rinsed her hands at the row of washbasins and thumped the soap dispenser, which was empty as usual. Her irritation deepened when she caught sight of Maureen Havers, wasting time tittering with someone at the open lockerroom door and fiddling with the Alice band she often wore to keep her thick red hair off her pretty face. As she talked she whisked it off, shook her hair and replaced it, still giggling, then shut the door.

Havers started to sing as she opened her locker, then stopped short.

“Mornin’, guv, didn’t realize you were here.”

Tennison dried her hands and stepped back from the mirror. “D’you think this skirt could do with being shorter?” she asked.

Havers peered around her locker door. “Looks OK to me. That shirt suits you.”

“I’m in court this morning, remember?”

“Ahhh, it’s Cary Grant Philpott, is it? In that case you’d better take the skirt up about a foot, keep him awake!”

A short time later, Havers breezed into the office with the pile of photocopying Tennison had asked her to do.

“We’ll have to wait, the machine’s in use.”

Tennison exploded. “Tell whoever’s on the bloody thing to get off it, I must have the stuff before I go to court!”

Havers beamed good-naturally. She was used to Tennison’s outbursts and knew better than to answer back. She had once, and regretted it; Tennison had a very sharp tongue. A perfectionist herself, Tennison expected the same diligence and professionalism from everyone else. Her pinched, angry look warned Havers that she was brewing a real explosion.

“I’ll nip down and see if it’s free, boss, OK?”

“Like now, Maureen, would be a good idea!”

Havers couldn’t resist a little dig. “OK, boss, but DCI Shefford’s team have sort of got priority. They arrested someone yesterday for the Della Mornay murder, so the Paxman record’s being challenged again. DCT Shefford’s lads have started the countdown.”

Tennison frowned. The name of the victim, Della Mornay, rang a bell, but before she could ask any questions Havers had ducked out of the door. She chewed her lips, drummed her fingers on the desk. “Come on, why do I know that name…?” She remembered, then; in the Flying Squad two years ago she had brought Della Mornay in for questioning, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what the case was. Something to do with a pimp who had beaten up one of his girls… Della was a tough little bitch, blond and rather pretty. She had refused to give evidence against the man. The fact that she had once interviewed the victim made Tennison all the more angry that she had not been given a chance to handle the case. Mike Kernan, the Superintendent, was going to hear about this.

Tennison closed her office door and turned just as Sergeant Otley bumped into her.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am.”

“I hear you’ve got a suspect, that right?” She meant to sound just interested, but she could not disguise the sarcasm.

“Yep, brought him in yesterday lunchtime. Word’s out that the ink won’t be dry on the warrant before the boss charges him. The DNA result was bloody marvelous.”

“Yeah, and such good timing! I heard there wasn’t much else happening.”

Otley shrugged. This was the one he didn’t like, the know-all who had been prowling around for the past eighteen months. He had studiously avoided any contact with her, just in case he was roped in to work with her.

“I wouldn’t say that, ma’am. The team’s pretty tough, John Shefford drives us hard.”

She turned, without agreeing, and he watched her push through the swing doors in her neat jacket and skirt. As the doors slammed behind her, he gave her the finger.

Kernan toyed uneasily with a felt-tipped pen as he listened to Tennison’s complaint. He had never liked her, had been against her joining AMIT from the word go, but she had been more or less forced on him. She had more experience than at least one of the other DCIs, who was already on his second case. He cleared his throat and replaced the cap carefully on the pen.

“You want a transfer, is that what this is about?”

“No, I want to be given a chance. I was available for the Mornay case, but DCI Shefford was called in from leave to take it over. I want to know why I have had not so much as a sniff of anything since I’ve been here.”

Kernan opened his desk diary and noted that he had a lunch appointment before replying, “It was my decision. Shefford knows the area and he once arrested the victim on a prostitution charge. She was also one of his informers…”

“I knew the victim too, sir. I’ve been checking my old records and I brought her in for questioning two years ago…”

“I’m sorry, I was unaware of that…”

“Are you saying I would have got the investigation if you had been aware of it, sir?”

“Look, I’ll be honest. Shefford’s one of my best men…”

“I know that, sir, but he’s just finished that big case and he had been given two days’ leave. It was a long and difficult case, he needed to rest. I could easily have attended the court session today and handled the investigation, but I was overlooked. All I want to know is, why, and is this going to continue?”

Kernan looked at his watch. “As you said, you had to be in court. According to the roster you were not available, but when you are you will have your chance, along with the other four officers…”

“DCI McLear is on a murder case right now, sir. He has nowhere near my experience, he came here six months after me. I notice his desk isn’t loaded with petty fraud and tax evasion cases. I have had nothing else since I arrived.”

“Look, Jane, if you want a transfer then put in for it through the right channels.”

She was spitting mad, but managed to control herself. “I don’t want a transfer, I want to do the work I have been trained for, and I want you to give me your word that I will not be overlooked again.”

Kernan gave her the same speech he had spouted at her the last time she had complained, and she sighed. She had the distinct feeling that he couldn’t wait to get her out of the office. She looked down at her shoes and seethed as he continued, “It takes time, Jane. If you are not prepared to wait, then perhaps you should consider asking to be transferred. As I have said to you before, we all appreciate your record, and your obvious abilities…”

“But you are not prepared to let me put them into practice, right?”

“Wrong. Just bide your time, don’t rush things.”

“Rush, sir? I’ve been here eighteen months.”

“I’ve said all I intend saying at this point. I am sorry you feel the way you do, but until a case comes up that I feel is right for you, then…”

“Then I carry on as before, is that what you were going to say, Mike? Oh, come on, don’t fob me off again. You gave me the same speech last time. You know I’ve been treated unfairly; all I’m asking for is a chance to show you, show everyone here, what I’m capable of.”

“You’ll get it, I give you my word.” Kernan looked pointedly at his watch. “Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get on. Just be patient, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive, and your turn will come.”

She walked to the door, depressed that she had failed yet again to convince him.

“Thank you for your time!”

As the door closed behind Tennison, Kernan leaned back in his chair. A few more months and she would leave of her own accord. He had never liked working with women and knew that his men felt the same way. All the same, he knew she was right. She was a highly qualified officer, it was just something about her, about all the high-ranking women he had come across. Maybe it was simply the fact that she was a woman.

Tennison had missed breakfast in the rush to get Joey ready, but her anger seemed to have sharpened her appetite. She decided to have a bite to eat in the canteen.

She ate alone, eavesdropping on the rowdy conversation from the next table. DI Burkin was cracking a joke about somebody being trapped on a mountain when the “bing-bong” went. He and DI Haskons were wanted in Administration. They stood up, laughing. Young DC Dave Jones, newly transferred from Cardiff, turned from the counter with his loaded tray to see the two DIs heading towards the exit.

“You want me along?”

Burkin pointed a finger and Jones’s eager face fell. “You always interrupt my jokes, Daffy. Give yourself fifteen, then get down to the Incident Room.”

Tennison watched in amazement as Jones tackled the vast amount of food he had piled on his tray: sausages, eggs, chips, baked beans, a heap of toast and two puddings with custard.

“Brunch, is it?” she asked, pleasantly.

“No, ma’am, I missed my breakfast because I had to go over to the labs for the guv’nor.” He stuffed a huge forkful of food into his mouth.

“You’re on Shefford’s team, then?”

Unable to speak, Jones nodded vigorously.

“I hear he’s going to charge the suspect this morning, is that right?”

Jones wiped his mouth on a paper serviette. “Yes, ma’am, he and Sergeant Otley are with the Super now. It looks good, the Sarge said.”

Tennison sipped her coffee. “Have they found the car? I hear your suspect says his car’s been stolen?”

Jones had timed his eating badly; again, he could only nod. He was relieved when the “bing-bong” went; this time it was for Tennison.

She drained her coffee cup and picked up her bag of groceries. Passing Jones, she smiled. “See you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Several officers, some of them uniformed, acknowledged her as she made her way to the door. There was an air of embarrassment; no one seemed to like her, but her rank of DCI demanded respect.

Jones waited until she had left before he burped loudly, which was received with a smatter of applause, then he continued eating at a frightening rate. He didn’t want to miss the big moment. The Sarge had told him it was a dead cert that they’d charge Marlow, and Paxman’s record would be smashed.

It was Maureen Havers who had put out the call for Tennison, to tell her that the photocopier was now out of order, so she was still unable to do the stuff Tennison needed for court. She asked if she should take it to another station or wait until their own machine was repaired.

Tennison dropped her bag on the desk. “I don’t believe this place, can’t they get a bloody mechanic to fix it? What the hell’s wrong with it, anyway?”

“Someone used the wrong type of paper and it’s all jammed inside. We’re trying to find the guilty party, ma’am, but it’s really fouled up this time.”

Tennison rolled up her shirt-sleeves. “Right, I’ll fix it myself, at least it’ll keep me occupied for a while. We’ll take all the copying, and that stuff on my desk is for the shredder, let’s do something useful…”

With their arms full of paper, they passed the open door of the Incident Room. The men were standing around in groups, with DI Burkin in the center telling another of his shaggy dog stories.

“I hear they’re charging the suspect. You heard anything, Maureen?”

Havers had to jog to keep up with her. “Yes, ma’am, they’ll break the record. There’s a booze-up in the pub, whole station’ll be there. Kitty’s over a hundred and fifty quid already.”

Tennison squatted to peer inside the photocopier. “Fucking thing’s jammed all right, look at the mess! How do you open it up?”

Havers knelt beside her to read the instructions on the side of the machine. “It says here, lift lever A, release spring…”

Tennison pushed her aside. “I’ll do it, get out of my light… Now then, pull what where?”

She yanked the lever and the machine split itself in two. “Oh, shit, now what?”

“How about waiting for the mechanic, ma’am?”

Tennison froze her with a look. “I’ve started, so I’ll continue…”

For what seemed an age, the only sounds in the office were the ticking of the clock and the flick as Kernan turned the pages of Marlow’s file.

“Christ, what a stroke of luck, John, bloody marvelous. What about the blood on the jacket?” He looked from Shefford to Otley, approvingly.

Shefford grimaced. He had a weird tingling in his left arm, all the way to his fingertips. He flexed his hand, rubbed the wrist.

“Willy’s working his butt off. Should… should come through any time now…” The pain was shooting down his arm now, and his chest felt as if it was being crushed… “It was the size of a pinprick, they’re waiting for it to expand at the labs, then we can check… Oh, Jesus…”

The pain was so bad it made Shefford fight for air. Kernan looked up, concerned. “Are you OK, John?”

“I dunno,” Shefford gasped, “I’ve got… like a cramp in my arm…”

He went rigid as a new spasm of pain hit him. He snorted, and Kernan saw blood oozing from his nose. There was a terrible look of fear in his eyes.

The pain seemed to be blowing him apart, like the bomb he had felt ticking inside his head. It was blowing up, he was blowing up! Rubbing his arm frantically, he snorted again and the blood poured down his chin. Then he pitched forward, cracking his head on the edge of Kernan’s desk.

The Super was already picking up the phone, shouting for a doctor, an ambulance, as Otley grabbed Shefford and tried to ease him back into his chair. But the man was so big that Otley staggered under his weight.

Shefford’s body suddenly relaxed and his head lolled on Otley’s shoulder. Otley cradled him in his arms, shouting hysterically for an ambulance… Kernan ran round the desk to help him lower Shefford to the floor. They loosened his tie, opened his shirt, and all the while Otley was saying over and over, “S’all right, John, everything’s OK, just stay calm… Don’t move, guv, it’s all being taken care of, ambulance is on its way…”

The photocopier throbbed into life and shot out three crumpled sheets of sooty paper. Tennison gave a satisfied sigh and stood up, brushing at the black specks on her hands.

“Right, Maureen, try it with a sheet we want to shred, just in case it eats it.”

It seemed that a herd of elephants suddenly charged down the corridor outside. Tennison opened the door and stepped back to avoid being trampled as the stretcher-bearers raced along. They passed too swiftly for Tennison to see who their patient was under the oxygen mask.

The corridor suddenly filled with people, propping doors open, running to follow the stretcher. Word went round like wildfire; John Shefford had collapsed.

Tennison hurried into her office to watch the ambulance in the street below, but found the window space already occupied by two WPCs. She slammed the door.

“Get away from the window, come on, move it!”

WPC Hull whipped round. “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s DCI Shefford…”

“Well, peering out of the window isn’t going to help him! Come on, move over, lemme have a squint!”

Tennison could see the ambulance with its doors open, the stretcher being loaded. She turned back to the room.

“OK, back to work. The copier’s been repaired, and we may not have a lot of work to do but we might as well clear the desk. You never know, I might be needed!”

She meant it as a joke, and it was taken as one, because they didn’t know then that Shefford would never regain consciousness. He was dead on arrival at hospital.

When the panic had died down, Tennison sat alone in her office and pondered… She was sorry Shefford was ill, of course she was, but someone had to take over the investigation. This time Kernan had to give her the job; everyone else on the rota was busy.

Deeply shocked, Otley shut himself in the gents’ toilets and wept. He couldn’t face anyone, and was unable to carry the news back to the men waiting in the Incident Room. He had lost the best friend he had ever had, his only real friend.

When he was able to face the men he found them sitting in stunned silence. He tried to tell them more, but all he could say was, “It’s Tom’s birthday today, it’s his son’s birthday… I bought him a magic set, and…” He wandered over to his desk. There at the side was the big package, the train set he had taken so long to choose. He stood staring down at it. The men, deeply shocked, didn’t know what to say.

Otley’s voice was barely audible. “We were going to set it up, surprise Tom. It’s from Hamley’s…”

DI Burkin, head and shoulders taller than his skipper, slipped an arm around him. The big officer’s tears were streaming down his face, but Otley had no more tears. He clenched his fists, shrugged Burkin away.

“Right, let’s nail this bastard Marlow! We do it for our guv’nor, we break the fucking record, agreed?”

It was down to Superintendent Kernan to visit Sheila Shefford. Otley had agreed to accompany him, but Kernan didn’t know if it was such a good idea, the man was so distressed. In the end he decided to take DI Burkin along. No matter which way you looked at it, it was tragic.

Anticipating a harrowing time with Sheila and her family, Kernan’s mood was not receptive. When Jane Tennison asked for a few minutes with him his first reaction was to refuse, but she had insisted it was important.

When he realized what she wanted he stared at her in disbelief. He was still in shock himself and he turned on her, ordering her out of his office. But she stood her ground, fists clenched.

“Look, please, I’m sorry if I appear heartless, but all I am doing is offering to finish the investigation. John was ready to charge the suspect and someone has to take over, he’s not going to be well enough. We can’t hold Marlow much longer, we’ll have to apply for a three-day lay-down, but either way someone has to take…”

Kernan gripped her tightly by the elbow. “The man’s not even cold! For God’s sake, I can’t make any decisions now. When I do, you will be the first to hear. Now get out of my office…”

“Cold?” She stared at him. “He’s dead? But he can’t be…”

“I didn’t realize you hadn’t been told. John was dead when he reached the hospital. Now will you get out?”

Appalled, she shook her head as if to clear it, drew a deep breath, then plunged on, “But you will have to make a decision, sir, and I am offering to step in right now. I can familiarize myself with the case tonight, and if charges…”

“I said I would consider your offer, Jane.”

“No, sir, you said you couldn’t make any decisions right now. I think, however, a decision has to be made, and fast. You can’t back out of this one, you know I am here. I am available and I am qualified. Someone’s got to prove that bloody survey’s a load of bullshit. You pass me over on this one and I warn you…”

Kernan’s face twisted with barely controlled anger. “You don’t warn me, Chief Inspector, is that clear? Now you and your feminist jargon can get out of my bloody office before I physically throw you out. A friend, a close friend, and associate of mine died in this room this afternoon, and I am just on my way to tell his wife and children. Now is not the time…”

“When is the time, sir? Because we don’t have any to spare-if Marlow’s not charged very soon he will have to be released. I am deeply sorry for what happened to John, please don’t insult me by thinking otherwise, but at the same time someone has to-”

“Please leave now. Don’t tell me my job. I will not be forced into making a decision I will regret at a later date. Please leave my office.”

Maureen Havers hiccuped through her tears and Tennison put an arm around her shoulders.

“Do you want to go home, Maureen love? You can if you like, there’s not much to do.”

Havers wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but he was always so full of life, and only today I heard him laughing, you know that big laugh of his… He said… he said he’d beaten Paxman’s record!”

Leaving it that Havers could go home if she felt like it, Tennison left for court.

Superintendent Kernan called a two o’clock meeting with Commander Geoff Trayner to discuss the situation, particularly Tennison’s request to take over the Marlow case. Neither man liked the idea, even though the file on the desk proved she was fully qualified and her exboss in the Flying Squad had given her a glowing recommendation.

Tennison had been with the Flying Squad for five years, and had taken a lot of flak from the men. Unlike two of her female colleagues in a similar position she had stayed her course. Her report noted that she had been offered a position training female officers because of her previous experience working with rape victims and her instigation of many changes which had been adopted by rape centers all over the country. She had turned the offer down, not wishing to go back into uniform, and had subsequently been transferred to AMIT. She was, as they were well aware, the only female DCI attached to a murder squad; with someone of her record it would be very difficult to bring someone in from outside to take over.

Kernan drummed his fingers on the desk. “The men won’t like it, you know that, but as far as I can see we don’t really have a choice. There’s no one free on AMIT except her. I’ve checked locally, and of the usuals I know Finley’s in Huddersfield, Smith and Kelvin are still tied up on that shooting last week in Shepherd’s Bush… And she’s got a mouth on her, I don’t want her creating a stink. She as good as threatened to resign if she was overlooked again.”

“She’s one of these bloody feminists, I don’t want any flak from that angle. We’ll give her a trial run, see what happens, but if she puts a foot out of line we’ll have her transferred and get her out of our hair. Agreed?”

Kernan nodded and slapped Tennison’s file closed. “I’ll get her in to see you, and I’ll break it to the men.” He pressed a button on his intercom and requested Tennison’s immediate presence.

“DCI Tennison’s in court today, sir,” his secretary replied.

“Hell, I’d forgotten… Let everyone know I want her the moment she comes in.”

Jane Tennison was lucky for once. The jury was out by two-fifteen and she was away. Still upset by John Shefford’s death, she drove straight to the building site where Peter was working.

Peter was in his hut, talking to one of his workmen. Jane held herself rigid and waited until the man was gone, then rushed to Peter and sobbed her heart out.

It was a while before she was calm enough to make much sense, but he eventually pieced the events of the day together. He put his arms around her; it felt so good to have him to come to that she started crying all over again.

“You know, from everything you’ve said, this Shefford was well-liked, it must be a shock to everyone. Perhaps you should have given it a few days.”

He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned away. “You don’t understand,” she snapped, “Marlow will be released tomorrow unless we charge him. If they want extra time they have to have someone to take it before the magistrate, someone who knows what’s going on. If the magistrate doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to hold him, he’ll refuse the three-day lay-down.”

Peter didn’t really care if they released Yogi Bear, but he made all the right noises. At last she blew her nose and stood up, hands on hips.

“If those bastards choose someone else to take over, you know what I’ll do? I’ll quit, I mean it! I’ll throw in the towel, because if I don’t get the case-I mean, with Shefford dead it leaves only four on the AMIT team, and I know the other three are working, so they’d have to bring in someone from outside. And if they do, I quit. Then I’ll take them to a fucking tribunal and show them all up for the fucking chauvinist pigs they are! Bastard chauvinists, terrified of giving a woman a break because she might just prove better than any of them! I hate the fuckers…”

Tentatively, Peter suggested that they go home early, have a relaxing evening, but she shot back at him, “No way, because if they should call me and I’m not hanging by that phone, then the buggers have an excuse.”

“Use your bleeper.”

She grinned at him, and suddenly she looked like a tousle-headed tomboy, “You’re not going to believe this, but I was so pissed off I left it at the station.” Then she tilted her head back and roared with laughter. It was a wonderful laugh, and it made him forget the way she had snapped at him.

That was the first time he became aware of the two separate sides of Jane Tennison; the one he knew at home, the other a DCI. Today he’d caught a glimpse of the policewoman, and he didn’t particularly like her.

The moment Tennison reached her office the telephone rang. She pounced on it like a hawk. She replaced the receiver a moment later and gave it a satisfied pat. She took a small mirror from her desk drawer and checked her appearance. She suddenly realized that Maureen Havers was sitting quietly in the corner.

“Wish me luck!” she said, and gave Havers a wink as she opened the door.

Havers sat at her neatly organized desk and stared at the closed door. She’d seen Tennison’s satisfaction and knew something was going down. Wish me luck? She put two and two together and knew that Tennison was going after John Shefford’s job. She was disgusted at Tennison’s lack of sensitivity; she seemed almost elated.

Havers picked up the phone and dialed her girlfriend in Records. “Guess what, I think my boss is going after Shefford’s job… Yeah, that’s what I thought, real pushy bitch.”