Prime Suspect

3

Otley was the last to arrive in the Incident Room. He apologized to the Super and received a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

The room was filled with palpable depression; there was a heaviness to every man. Some of them couldn’t meet Otley’s eyes but stood with heads bent. Only yesterday they had been laughing and joking with their big, burly boss. Shefford had been loved by them all and they took his death hard.

Kernan cleared his throat. “OK, I’ve gone over all the reports on the Marlow case and it looks in good shape. I think, when I’ve had time to assess it all, we can go ahead and charge him. But until that decision is made, and I know time is against us, I am bringing in another DCI to take over. You all know Detective Chief Inspector Tennison…”

A roar of shock and protest drowned his next words, and he put up a hand for silence. “Now come on, take it easy, just hear me out. As it stands, I reckon we’ll have to try for a three-day lay-down, so I want all of you to give Inspector Tennison every assistance possible. Let her familiarize herself with the case, and then we can charge Marlow…”

Otley stepped forward. “I’m sorry, sir, but it isn’t on. Bring in someone from outside, we don’t want her. We’ve been working as a team for five years, bring in someone we know.”

Kernan’s face tightened. “Right now she is all I have available, and she is taking over the case at her own request.”

“She moved bloody fast, didn’t she, sir?” Otley’s face twisted with anger and frustration, his hands clenched at his sides.

DI Haskons raised an eyebrow at Otley to warn him to keep quiet. “I think, sir, we all feel the same way. As you said, time is against us.”

“She’s on the case as from now,” Kernan said firmly, unwilling to show his own misgivings. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this further. She will access the charges; just give her all the help you can, and any problems report back to me. Thank you…” He got out fast to avoid further argument, but he heard the uproar as he closed the door, heard Otley calling Tennison a two-faced bitch, a cow who couldn’t wait to step into a dead man’s shoes. Kernan paused outside the room, silently agreeing with him. But the investigation was at such an advanced stage, they wouldn’t be stuck with Tennison for long.

The Commander’s voice was gruff as he briefly outlined the procedure for Tennison to familiarize herself with the Marlow case and to do everything necessary to ensure that he was charged. He told her abruptly to take it easy with Shefford’s team, who had been working together for so long that they would not welcome an outsider. He didn’t actually say, “especially a woman,” but he hinted as much. “The Superintendent will give you every assistance, so don’t be afraid to use him. And… good luck!”

“It would help if he could handle the application for the three-day lay-down,” Tennison replied, and the Commander agreed.

They shook hands and Tennison said she would do everything within her power to bring the case successfully to court. It was not until she was back in her own office that she congratulated herself, grinning like the Cheshire Cat because, at last, she had done it. She, DCI Tennison, was heading a murder case.

Late that afternoon, still stunned by his guv’nor’s death, Bill Otley was clearing Shefford’s desk. He collected the family photographs and mementos together and packed them carefully into Shefford’s tattered briefcase. Finally he picked up a photo of Tom, his little godson, and looked at it for a long moment before laying it carefully on top of the others.

He snapped the locks on the case, hardly able to believe that John wasn’t going to walk in, roaring with laughter, and tell them it was all a joke. His grief consumed him, swamping him in a bitterness he directed towards DCI Tennison, as if she were in some way responsible. He had to blame someone for the hurting, for the loss. He hugged the briefcase to his chest, knowing he now had to face Sheila and the children, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Maybe it would be best if he left it till the weekend, and in the meantime he’d keep John’s briefcase at the flat along with his shirts and socks…

He was still sitting at his desk, holding the case, when DI Burkin looked in.

“She’s checking over the evidence, you want to see her?”

Otley shook his head. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as that slit-arsed bitch!”

Tennison was ploughing methodically through all the evidence on the Marlow case. The ashtray was piled high and a constant stream of coffee was supplied by WPC Havers. She was just bringing a fresh beaker and a file.

“Deirdre, alias Della, Mornay’s Vice record, ma’am. The reason they gave for not sending it before was that King’s Cross Vice Squad’s computer records are not compatible with Scotland Yard’s, or some such excuse.”

Flicking through the file, Tennison took out a photograph of Della Mornay and laid it beside the photos of the corpse. She frowned.

“Maureen, get hold of Felix Norman for me and find out how long he’ll be there. Then order me a car and tell DC Jones he’s driving me. I want to see the body tonight, but I need to interview the landlady first. And ask for another set of dabs from the victim, get them compared with the ones on Della Mornay’s file.”

Leaving Havers scribbling furiously, she walked out.

All the items from Della Mornay’s room that Forensic had finished with had been piled onto a long trestle table. It was a jumble of bags of clothes, bedding and shoes. There was also a handbag, which Tennison examined carefully. She made a note of some ticket stubs, replaced them, then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and turned to the clothing taken from the victim’s body. The bloodstains were caked hard and black. She checked sleeves, hems, seams and labels.

Engrossed in what she was doing, she hardly noticed WPC Havers enter.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, DC Jones is waiting in the car.”

Tennison turned her attention to the filthy bedclothes. The smell alone was distasteful, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Dirty little tart… Tell Jones I’ll be with him in a few minutes. And tell all of Shefford’s team that I want them in the Incident Room at nine sharp tomorrow morning-all of them, Maureen, understand?”

DC Jones sat in the driving seat of the plain police car. He had left the rear door open for DCI Tennison, but she climbed in beside him.

“Right, Milner Road first. What’s your first name?”

“David, ma’am.”

“OK, Dave, put your foot down. I’ve got a hell of a schedule.”

Della’s room was still roped off. Tennison looked around and noted the fine dusting left by the Scenes of Crime people, then used the end of her pencil to open the one wardrobe door that still clung to its hinges. She checked the few remaining items of clothing, then sat on the edge of the bed, opened her briefcase and thumbed through a file.

DC Jones watched as she closed the case and turned to him. “Will you bring me two pairs of shoes…”

She spent a considerable time looking over the dressing table, checking the make-up, opening the small drawers. By the time she seemed satisfied, Jones’ stomach was complaining loudly. He suggested it was time to eat. Tennison paused on her way downstairs and looked back at him.

“I’m OK, but if you can’t hold out, go and get yourself something while I interview the landlady.”

When Jones got back to the house he found Tennison sitting in the dirty, cluttered kitchen in the basement, listening to Mrs. Salbanna moaning.

“The rents are my living, how long will you need the room for? I could let it right now, you know!”

Tennison replied calmly, “Mrs. Salbanna, I am investigating a murder. As soon as I am satisfied that we no longer need the efficiency, I will let you know. If you wish you can put in a claim for loss of earnings, I’ll have the forms sent to you. Now, will you just repeat to me exactly what happened the night you found Della Mornay? You identified her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve told you twice, yes.”

“How well did you know her?”

“How well? You’re jokin’,” I didn’t know her. I let a room to her, that’s all.”

“How often did you see her?”

“As often as I could, to get the rent off her. God forgive me for talking ill of the dead, but that little bitch owed me months in rent. She was always late, and it gets so if you throw her out on the street you’ll never get the money back, right? She kept on promising and promising…”

“So you saw her recently?”

“No, because she was in and out like a snake. I hadn’t seen her for… at least a month, maybe longer.”

“But you are absolutely sure that it was Della Mornay’s body?”

“Who else would it be? I told you all this, I told that big bloke too.”

“And that night you didn’t hear anything unusual, or see anyone that didn’t live here?”

“No, I didn’t come home till after eight myself. Then, because I’d had such a time with my daughter-she’s had a new baby, and she’s already got two, so I’ve been looking after them… Well, by the time I got home I was so exhausted, I went straight to bed. Then I was woken up by the front door banging. I put notices up, but no one pays attention. It started banging, so I got up…”

“You didn’t see anyone go out? Could someone have just left?”

“I don’t know… See, it’s got a bit of rubber tire tacked on it to try and stop the noise, so if they didn’t want to be heard… But it was just blowing around in the wind, it was a windy night… I told the other man all this.”

Tennison closed her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Salbanna.”

Tennison stopped off at Forensic on her way to view the body, and sat in silence while Willy Chang explained the complex details of the DNA test that had resulted in George Marlow being picked up on suspicion of murder. She looked at the slides.

“There was a big rape and murder case up in Leicester. They did a mass screening, every man in the entire village, and they got him. The semen tests took weeks to match, but in the case of such a rare blood group it’s much easier to define. He’s an AB secreter and belongs to group two in the PGM tests, so it narrows the field dramatically. We’ve been doing test runs on a new computerized cross-matching system, just using the rarer blood groups, for experimental purposes. Your man was tested in 1988, and was actually on record.”

“So you got a match from the computer, out of the blue?”

“Yes. When we got the read-out it was mayhem in here, it was such a freak piece of luck.”

“So the computer is infallible, is it?”

“Not exactly, it’ll give you the closest match it can find. We have to confirm the results with our own visual tests on the light-box. Want to see it?”

Tennison was shown two sets of negatives that looked like supermarket bar codes, with certain lines darker than others. The black bands on each matched perfectly. She made some notes, then asked to use a telephone.

She placed a call to her old base at the rape center in Reading and requested the records of all suspected rapists charged as a result of DNA testing. She wanted to see how the judges had reacted, if they had allowed the DNA results to be the mainstay of the evidence.

Felix Norman slammed the phone down as a corpse, covered by a green sheet, was wheeled into the lab. Five students, all masked, gowned and shod in white wellington boots, trailed in after the trolley.

He gestured for them to gather round, then lifted the sheet. “Well, you’re in luck, this is a nice fresh ’un. I’m gonna have to leave you for a few minutes, but you can start opening it up without me.”

He picked up a clipboard and strode out to where Tennison and Jones were waiting. Greeting them with nothing approaching civility, he led them to the mortuary. At the far end of the rows of drawers he stopped and pulled on a lever, releasing the hinge, and slid out the tray with “D. Mornay” chalked on it.

Before removing the sheet from the body, Norman reeled off a list of injuries from the clipboard, including the number and depth of the stab wounds.

“I hear you had a lucky break with the forensic results. Your suspect has a very rare blood group?”

Tennison nodded, waiting for him to draw the sheet back. He did so slowly, looking at DC Jones’ pale face.

The body had been cleaned, the blond hair combed back from her face. The dark bruises remained and the gashes on the head were deep and clear. Tennison frowned, leaning forward.

“Pull her out further, will you?”

Norman drew the drawer out to its fullest extent. Tennison walked around, peering at the dead girl’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“Shefford identified her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, and her landlady, Mrs. Corinna Salbanna.”

Tennison made a note on her pad, walked back again, then leaned in even closer. She stared for a long time before she asked to see the wounds on the torso. Norman pointed out the incisions, then indicated the deep weals on the tops of the arms.

“These seem to indicate that she was strung up. We’ll do some tests with weights… And here, on her wrists, you can see the marks of the ropes, tied so tightly they left imprints, the mark of her watch strap too, see…”

“Where’s the cut? Small cut on her hand?”

“Here.” He showed Tennison the corpse’s right wrist. “Small, but quite deep. Would have bled a fair bit.” He continued reading from his notes. “Extensive bruising all over the front of the body, plus a good deal around the genital and anal areas, but nothing on the back or buttocks.”

Tennison nodded and again peered closely at the victim’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“I asked for another set of prints, will you make sure they’re on the way, and the set from Della Mornay’s file.”

Jones shifted his weight and muttered that he’d check it out. “We already have a set, ma’am.”

Tennison snapped back, “I need another set, and fast.”

Norman looked at his watch. “My students are waiting, Inspector.”

Tennison was frowning. She turned again to Jones. “Go and check on those prints now, Jones.” Then she addressed Felix Norman. “I’ve got a few more questions I can ask while you work, OK?”

Norman sighed, covered the corpse and closed the drawer while Tennison added to the notes she had made during her inspection, then he led her into the dissection room.

For the next few minutes, Tennison watched as Norman, with apparent relish, helped a student remove the specimen’s heart.

“That’s it, ease it out…”

Jones returned and stood at Tennison’s side. “Prints are organized, ma’am.”

She ignored him and continued scribbling in her notebook. Jones watched Norman and his students as they worked on. Blood dripped into buckets set at each end of the trolley, and the stains on their gowns and rubber gloves made them appear ghoulish. On one lens of Norman’s half-moon spectacles there was a clear fingerprint in blood. DC Jones’ stomach turned over.

Tennison seemed intent on her notes. She did not so much as glance at Jones, who hadn’t spoken for some time.

“How soon can you do the weight tests? I need to know exactly how she was strung up.”

“My dear lady,” Felix replied, “we’ll do them as quickly as we can, and you’ll be the first to hear, though I’d have thought you had enough on your suspect to bang him up for life.”

He turned to the student and gave a helping hand as he opened the heart.

“Look at this, Inspector. This poor bugger’s veins were so clogged up it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. Classic English breakfast causes this; bacon, fat… You like a cooked breakfast, Inspector?”

Tennison glanced around the room; Jones had disappeared. She smiled to herself.

The students clustered around Norman and took notes as he went on, “Liver very dodgy, see just by the size… I hear through the grapevine that those wankers over at the labs can’t even find the winder from the victim’s watch. They’ve got fifteen square yards of carpet, combing it inch by inch. Right, now let’s have a look at his testicles… Hmmm, well-endowed gent.”

Tennison knew she had as much as she was going to get. “Thank you for your time, Professor Norman. As soon as you can on the-”

“You’ll have my report, Inspector, but you should give us the time to do our job properly. And next time, gown-up, you know the rules.”

He turned to pierce her with his gimlet eye, as though she were one of his students, but she was gone.

When the Western finished at midnight, Peter switched the television off, poured a fresh cup of black coffee and carried it to the dining area. As he set it down by Jane’s elbow she looked up, her eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.

“Thanks, love. I just have to wade through this mound, then I’ll come to bed…”

“Maybe you’d be better off having a sleep now and getting up early?”

“You must be joking, I’ll have to get up at five as it is, to plough through that lot on the chair.”

Peter planted a kiss on the top of her head, went back to the bedroom and settled down to sleep. In the end, Jane didn’t come to bed at all.

As Tennison entered the Incident Room at nine the next morning, the men fell silent. They watched her as she walked to the table and sat in the chair their guv’nor had occupied the day before. She could feel their hatred; it prickled her skin. She had not expected such open animosity and it threw her slightly.

She kept her eyes down, concentrating on her notepad, then took out her gold pen and carefully unscrewed the cap. She raised her head.

“By now you are all aware that I am taking over from DCI Shefford, and I would like to take this opportunity to say how saddened and deeply shocked I am by this tragedy. John Shefford was a well-liked and highly respected officer.” She met the gaze of each man in turn as she spoke; several of them couldn’t hold her eyes, one or two others, notably Otley, glared back, challenging her silently.

“I am not attempting to step into his shoes; I am the only available DCI and as such I shall appreciate all the co-operation and assistance you can give to enable me to grasp all the details of the investigation and bring it to a successful conclusion. WPC Havers will be assisting me, and she will give you details of everything I need. I will work around the clock… You wanted to say something, Sergeant Otley?”

Otley was standing, rigid with anger, tight-lipped. “Yes, ma’am, I know you asked for this case specifically…”

She lit a cigarette and gazed at him, coldly. “If you don’t like it, put in for a transfer, through the usual channels. That goes for the rest of you; anyone who wishes to move can put in a formal request. Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” A murmur of resentment went around the room, but she ignored it. “I’m asking for some more manpower. We’ve got more officers joining the team today, including Maureen Havers and four WPCs to assist with the paperwork.”

She picked up some items from the desk and began pinning them on the big notice-board. There were two photographs and two sets of fingerprints, highlighted with red and green arrows. She pointed at them as she spoke.

“Now, here’s the really bad news. The photo on the right is Deirdre “Della” Mornay; on the left is the murder victim. Here are the prints taken from the corpse, and these are the ones from Della Mornay’s Vice file. There are nothing like the sixteen points of similarity needed for a match. The victim’s clothes are all from expensive designers such as Giorgio Armani, not Della’s line at all. Della’s shoes are all English size five; our victim took six and a half, from Bond Street.”

She looked around as they took in the implications of what she was saying. Otley was stunned; he was aware of just how well Shefford had been acquainted with Della.

Tennison went on, “We have obviously wrongly identified the victim, which makes our suspect’s statement, in which he names the girl he picked up as Della Mornay, inadmissible. If we went to court with this, the case would be thrown out. Someone’s been bloody careless. The officer who interrogated Marlow-”

Recovering quickly, Otley went on the attack, interrupting her. “You know it was John Shefford! Are you tryin’ to destroy him before he’s even buried?”

She stared him into silence. “What I want to know is how come Marlow named the victim as Della when the warrant gave her proper name of Deirdre? I’m told you did not state her name at the time, you just arrested him on suspicion of murder. In the tapes of his first interrogation by Shefford, Marlow insists not just once but three times that he did not know the victim, but at the end of the second interview he refers to the victim as Della Mornay. In his written statement, made that night, he again denied knowing her. In his third statement he is calling the victim by name! This would be thrown out of court, especially as Marlow’s lawyer was in the room and witnessed his denials. The cock-up is therefore down to us. DCI Shefford made a gross error in wrongly identifying our victim, just as he did in giving the name to George Marlow.”

Otley frowned but kept quiet as she continued, “I want new statements all around, and we’ll get it right this time! So get them all in again and find out where Della Mornay is now, and get the victim’s clothes and shoes checked out. Our priorities are to find the real Della Mornay and to get an ID on the body.”

She paused, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. She was wiping the floor with them, and they knew it, hated it. No one said a word as she took a sip of water, then went on.

“So we move like hell. We haven’t a snowflake’s chance of getting the three-day lay-down, so if we don’t come up with something today, Marlow will have to be released.”

She waited, hands on hips, for the howl of protest to die down. “I’m afraid it’s a fact of life! OK, anyone have any queries? No? What about Marlow’s car, the brown Rover? Anything on that yet? I want it found. Right, that’s it for now.”

The room was eerily silent as she passed them on the way out, but the moment the door closed behind her there was an explosion of catcalls and abuse.

Otley thumped the table she had recently vacated. “Fucking tart! She was after this before he was out of the bloody station! She was in with the Super almost before he was dead, the bitch! I’ll give her queries, the hard-faced tart!”

“What about Marlow’s car, Bill?”

Otley turned on Burkin. “You heard her, cow wants it traced, so we trace it! Christ, how much evidence does she bleeding want, for God’s sake? We got him, he did it! An’ she’s runnin’ around familiarizin’ herself, the stupid cunt!”

In the corridor outside the Incident Room, Tennison leant against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply to calm herself. It had been a tremendous effort to keep her cool in front of the men.

Once she was in control again, she headed for the lift to the Super’s office.

The men dispersed to their appointed tasks in dribs and drabs. DC Lillie said quietly to his partner, Rosper, “If the car was nicked, we ain’t gonna find it. It’s been stripped down by now.”

Rosper’s pug-nosed face broke into a grin. “Eh, you ever see that advert wiv the monkeys? Bleedin’ funny…”

Otley and Jones were left alone in the room. “What do you think, Skipper?” Jones asked.

“That tart’s gunning for John. Well, let her try it; she bad-mouths him and I’ll see her knickers are screwed…”

The phone interrupted him. He grabbed it. “No, she’s not here. Yeah? Yeah! Right, I’ll send someone over. Thanks!”

He hung up and gave his first smile of the morning. “That was Forensic. The spot of blood we got off Marlow’s shirt cuff, the one they’ve been growing, matches the victim’s! We got the bastard now…”

“This is a right bloody mess,” said Superintendent Kernan.

Tennison ran her fingers through her hair and Kernan continued, “For God’s sake don’t let the press get wind of it. Can you handle it? DCI Hicock, from Notting Hill, is available now.”

“I can handle it,” Tennison snapped. No way would she relinquish the case to Wild Bill, even if she had to hang on to it by her teeth. “I need more men, preferably from outside. If we have to let Marlow go, we’ll need someone with surveillance expertise.”

“I’ll see what we can do. Are you going to see him now?”

“I want a little chat with Marlow, off the record… OK?”

“Watch yourself, Upcher’s a tough bastard.”

Tennison shrugged. “But I bet he’s not down in the cells now, is he?”

Kernan shook his head. “Seems to me that Marlow wouldn’t have hired Upcher unless he was guilty. His type cost.”

“We still can’t prove he was ever in the efficiency. It’s strange that there’s nothing, not a single shred of evidence…”

“Forensic’s still working on it?”

“Yes,” she said, standing up. “They are, at their own pace.”

As soon as she left, Kernan picked up the phone. “Put me through to the Commander.”

Before seeing Marlow, Tennison listened again to a short stretch of tape from his interview with Shefford. Then she was ready to face the suspect for the first time.

Marlow had been left to kick his heels in an interview room for some time, sitting in silence, watched by a uniformed PC. DI Burkin was sitting in the corridor outside, reading the paper. He was a well-built man, a prized member of the police boxing team, and his slightly battered face showed traces of his career. He rose to his feet when DCI Tennison approached.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s Frank, isn’t it?”

Burkin nodded and jerked his thumb towards the interview room. “He’s got coffee, and he doesn’t smoke.”

Tennison was taken aback by Marlow’s handsome looks; the photographs in his file had given her completely the wrong impression. He resembled an old-time movie star, not exactly Valentino, more Robert Taylor. His blue-black hair was combed back from his face, high cheekbones accentuated his jawline. His amber eyes and long, dark lashes beneath thickly arched brows would be the envy of any woman.

He glanced at the uniformed officer for permission to stand, then rose to his feet. His clothes were well-cut, rather formal; a blue and white striped shirt with a white collar highlighted his dark good looks. His suit jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair.

“Please stay seated, Mr. Marlow. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, this is Detective Inspector Frank Burkin. I suppose you have been told that the DCI in charge of this investigation-”

Marlow interrupted her in a low, husky voice with a slight northern twang. “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry, he was a nice man.” He glanced at Burkin, then back to Tennison, placed his hands together on the table and half-smiled; a dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Tennison returned his smile involuntarily. “You have been very co-operative, Mr. Marlow, and I’m sorry to have to question you all over again. But you must understand that in taking over the case I need to know everything…”

“Yes, I understand.”

Tennison was furious with herself because her hand was shaking as she placed Marlow’s statement and her notebook on the table. “Would you just tell me, in your own words, exactly what occurred on the night of Saturday the thirteenth of January?”

Marlow began quietly, explaining that he had drawn some money from a cash dispenser in Ladbroke Grove. He was about to return home when he saw her standing outside the tube station, obviously touting for business.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who was standing?”

“Della Mornay!”

“Oh, you knew her, did you?”

“No, I didn’t know her name, never saw her before. He told me, said it was a tart by the name of Della… He told me.”

“Who, exactly, told you the girl’s name?”

“Inspector Shefford.”

“OK, George, go on. Tell me what happened next.”

“I got into my car and drove past her, slowly. She came to the window, asked me if I was looking for someone. All I said was maybe, it depended how much. She said it was twenty-five pounds for full sex. If I wanted…”

Looking up, Tennison caught his strange, beautiful eyes. He looked away, embarrassed.

“Go on, Mr. Marlow. Twenty-five pounds for full sex…”

He cleared his throat and continued, “Masturbation fifteen. I agreed to pay the twenty-five, and she directed me to some waste ground beside the… the Westway, I think it is. We got into the back seat. We…” he coughed. “We did it, then she asked me to drop her back to the Tube. Then, as she climbed over the seats into the front she caught her hand, her left hand, on my radio. It’s got a sort of sharp edge, and it was only a little nick, but I wrapped my handkerchief around it…”

“Er, sorry, George, you just said, ‘She cut her hand on my radio’?”

“Yes.”

“Which hand?”

He frowned and raised his hands, looking from one to the other. “Her right hand, yeah… It was her right hand, because my radio’s between the seats. It’s got a sharp edge.”

He indicated the spot on his own wrist-exactly where the small cut was on the wrist of the corpse. “You can take the radio out, it’s portable. They’re always being nicked out of cars, round where I live.”

He paused for a second and sighed. “You found my car yet?”

Tennsion shook her head. “Go on. She cut herself?”

“Yeah. I gave her my handkerchief, wrapped it round her wrist. It’s got my initial on it, G… Then I paid her, drove her back to Ladbroke Grove station. When I dropped her off, the last I saw of her she was picking up another punter. It was a red car, I’m not sure which make, could have been a Scirocco. I didn’t kill her, I swear before God that was the last I saw of her. Then I drove home, got back about half past ten, maybe nearer eleven…”

Tennison had been reading his statement as he talked. It was not word for word, but slightly abbreviated, as if he was getting used to repeating only the pertinent facts. “You saw a red car stop. Was it facing towards you or in the opposite direction?”

“Oh, it was coming towards me. I was going down Ladbroke Grove towards Notting Hill Gate.”

“So you would have dropped her on the pavement opposite the car? Or did you swerve across the road and deposit her on the other side?”

“Oh, I crossed the road. Then when she got out I drove straight down to the Bayswater Road.”

“You live on the Maida Vale/Kilburn border, wouldn’t you have gone the other way? It’s a quicker route, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. I never thought about it, really. I went straight along to Marble Arch, into Edgware Road and straight to Kilburn to get a video.”

“Have you picked up girls in that area before?”

Marlow shook his head and looked down at his hands. “No, and I wish to God I hadn’t picked this one up either, but…”

“But?”

He looked up, and again she was caught by the strange color of his eyes. “She was very attractive, and I thought, why not…”

“George, had you picked this particular girl up before?”

“No, and I must have been crazy, after what happened up north. But I paid for that. I was drunk, and I swear to you she came on to me, I swear I was innocent… I served eighteen months, and when they released me I swore I wouldn’t mess around with other women.”

“Mess around? It was a little more than that two years ago, wasn’t it? You were also charged with aggravated burglary.”

“Like I said, I was drunk. I just snatched her handbag… It was a stupid thing to do, and I lived to regret it.”

“So you never knew this girl you picked up?”

There was a tap on the door and Sergeant Otley peered through the window. Irritated, Tennison went out to talk to him.

“The lab came through, that speck of blood on his jacket, it’s the victim’s. Thought you’d like to know. Oh, and the Super wants to see you.”

“That’s it? Nothing else? They can’t place him in the efficiency?”

Otley shook his head. Tennison said, very softly, “Not enough…”

She turned and went back into the room, leaving Otley cursing to himself.

“How much more does she need, for Chrissake…”

Tennison spent another three-quarters of an hour with Marlow. At the end of that time she stacked her files and notebooks and thanked him for his co-operation. Seemingly intent on putting her things away, she asked, as if it was an afterthought, “You drove home, Mr. Marlow? Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a garage? Did you put the car in a garage?”

“No, I left it outside my flat. There’s a parking bay, under cover, for residents. They say they can’t find it, has it been stolen, do you think? Only, I should get on to my insurance broker if it’s true.”

Without replying, Tennison turned to walk out. He stopped her.

“Excuse me, am I allowed to leave yet?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Marlow, you are not.”

Tennison was exhausted, but she hadn’t finished yet by a long chalk.

Burkin had been falling asleep. He snapped to attention when Tennison knocked to be let out.

“Marlow can go back to his cell. Then I need a search warrant for his flat. We’ll go together,” she told him.

“Right, ma’am… I’ll get the warrant.”

“Meet me in the Incident Room ASAP.” Tennison went down the corridor almost at a run.

For once the Incident Room was fairly quiet. Otley was sitting staring into space when Burkin joined him.

“She interviewed Marlow, then she went to see the Super.”

Otley smirked. “An’ she’ll be interviewing all afternoon, I got girls comin’ in from all over town. Keep her out of our hair!”

He fell silent as Tennison walked in with a big sandy-haired man and introduced him as DI Tony Muddyman, “Tony will be with us as from tomorrow. I’ve given him the gist of the case, but you’ll have to help fill in the details.”

Otley had met him before and wasn’t too sure about him, but several of the others greeted him like a long-lost cousin.

“Anything on Marlow’s car?” Tennison asked Otley.

“No, not yet. There’s a roomful of girls waiting for you.”

“What?”

“All known associates of Della Mornay. You asked for them to be reinterviewed and they’re comin’ in by the carload. There were seventeen at the last count…”

“I haven’t got time to interview them! Why don’t you take their statements and leave them on my desk?”

To cover his fury, Otley crossed the room to the notice-board and pinned up a large poster. It advertised a benefit night for DCI Shefford’s family.

“Is this the list of girls reported missing?” Tennison had picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

“Yeah, it’s got “Missing Persons Report” on the top, hasn’t it?”

“Cut it out, Sergeant.”

“One in Cornwall Gardens, another in Brighton, one in Surrey looks promising…”

“Fine, I’ll take them, shall I?”

“Why not, I’ve got seventeen slags to interview.”

“Should have staggered them!” Tennison retorted. She beckoned Jones to her side. “Can you check if there’s a handkerchief among Marlow’s things? He said he bandaged the victim’s hand with it, initial G on the corner.”

She reached for the phone as it rang. “Tennison…” Peter was calling her; she gave a quick look around the room. Only Jones was close by, thumbing through the log book and shaking his head.

“OK, put him through.”

She turned to face the wall while she spoke, unaware that Otley was mimicking her behind her back, to the amusement of the men.

“I’m sorry, I can’t really talk now, is it important?”

Burkin was waiting for her at the door. Otley stolled over to him.

“What’s goin’ on, are we chargin’ Marlow?”

“You’re joking…” Over Otley’s head, Burkin called, “Ma’am, we’ve got the search warrant!”

“What’s this for?” asked Otley.

“Marlow’s flat, now we’re looking for a handkerchief!” replied Burkin contemptuously.

With a promise to call Peter later, Tennison put the phone down and joined Burkin. As they left, Otley was at it again.

“Yeah, a bloody handkerchief, for that snot-nosed cow! Doesn’t she know we’ve only got ten hours before that bastard has to be released?”

As Tennison and Burkin mounted the steps towards flat 22, the curtains of number 21 twitched.

Burkin knocked on the door. They waited a considerable time before they heard a lock turn and the door was flung wide open.

Moyra Henson glared at them, then looked to Tennison, who was sizing her up fast. It was the first time she’d seen Marlow’s common-law wife. She knew Moyra was thirty-eight years old, but she looked older. Her face had a coarse toughness, yet she was exceptionally well made-up. Her hair looked as if she’d just walked out of the salon, and her heavy perfume, “Giorgio,” was strong enough to knock a man over at ten yards.

“Yes?” Henson snapped rudely.

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison…”

“So what?”

Tennison was noting the good jewelery Moyra was wearing: expensive gold bangles, lots of rings… Her nails were long and red. She replied, “I have a warrant to search these premises. You are Miss Moyra Henson?”

“Yeah. Lemme see it. Your lot shell out these warrants like Smarties, invasion of privacy…”

She skimmed through the warrant. Tennison clocked her skirt, the high heels and fluffy angora sweater with the tiger motif. Miss Henson might come on as a sophisticated woman, but she was a poorer, taller version of Joan Collins, whom she obviously admired judging by the shoulder pads beneath the sweater.

“I would like to ask you a few questions while Detective Inspector Burkin takes a look around.”

Moyra stepped back, looking past Tennison to the broad-shouldered Burkin. “I dunno why he doesn’t move in, he spends enough time here.”

Tennison was growing impatient. “Could we please come in?”

Moyra turned with a shrug and walked along the narrow hall. “I don’t have much option, do I? Shut the door after you.”

The flat was well decorated and exceptionally clean and tidy. The cosy sitting room contained a three-piece suite which matched the curtains and a fitted carpet.

Tennison looked around. “This is very nice!”

“What d’you expect, a dump? George works hard, be earns good money. Found his car yet, have you? It’s down to you lot, you know. This estate stinks, somebody must have seen him being taken away and nicked it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information on that. Really, I’m just here to have a chat with you. You see, I’m taking over the investigation. The previous Inspector died, tragically.”

“Good! Less of you bastards the better. Oi, what’s he up to? Hey, sonny! You can put that laundry back, that’s my dirty knickers! Are you some perverted crotch sniffer?”

“How do you feel about your boyfriend picking up prostitutes?”

“Wonderful, it gives me a friggin’ night off!”

“I admire you for standing by him while he was in jail.”

“That bitch asked for it! She was coming on to him, and he’d had too much to drink…”

“Was he drunk when he came home on Saturday night?”

“No he was not!”

“And he arrived home at what time?”

“Half past ten. We watched a video, then we went to bed.”

Tennison took a photograph from her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table, facing Moyra. “This is the girl he admitted to picking up, admitted having sex with in his car. Now look at her.”

“What am I supposed to do, have hysterics? I feel sorry for the girl, but he only fucked her! Half the bloody government’s been caught messing around at some time or other, but their wives have stuck by them. Well, I’m doing the same. Now, if you’ve finished wrecking my flat, why don’t you get out of here?”

“I haven’t finished, Moyra. Just one more question; did you know Della Mornay?”

“No, never heard of her.

“Never?”

“No.”

“And George didn’t know her, you’re sure of that?”

Moyra folded her arms. “I have never heard of her.”

Tennison put her notebook into her briefcase. “Thank you for your time, Miss Henson.”

While she waited for Burkin to finish, Tennison had a good look around the flat. There were no handkerchiefs with the initial “G” on the corner, either in the bedroom drawers or the laundry basket. Enquiries at the laundry Moyra had told them she used came to nothing.

The flat was very much Moyra’s and only her things were in evidence; pots of make-up, knickknacks, magazines. Just one small corner of the dressing table held a neat, old-fashioned set of bone-handled brushes with George’s initials in silver. Moyra, who followed them from room to room, told them they had belonged to his father.

Tennison was struck by the neatness of Marlow’s clothes in the wardrobe. They took up only a quarter of the space, the rest of which was crammed with Moyra’s things. His suits were all expensive, in tweeds and grays, nothing bright, and the shirts were of good quality.

The small bookcase in the lounge contained paperbacks, mostly by Jackie Collins, Joan Collins and Barbara Taylor Bradford. It was as if Marlow didn’t really live there. Tennison looked again; there were a few thrillers that were more likely to be his, such as James Elroy and Thomas Harris, plus a hardback edition of Bonfire of the Vanities that she guessed belonged to him.

Finding nothing of interest, Tennison and Burkin left to start checking on the missing girls. They headed for Cornwall Gardens to question a Mrs. Florence Williams.

Sergeant Otley had a feeling this was a good one, which was why he and Jones were there instead of Tennison. The report had only been in a few hours, but the description matched their victim.

The basement area of the flat in Queen’s Gate, Kensington, looked as if a cat-fight had taken place in the dustbins, spewing rubbish among the broken furniture and bicycles that cluttered the approach to the door.

Otley peered through the filthy window. “Are you sure this is the right address, Daffy?”

“Yeah. Knock on the door, then.”

“Christ, place looks like a dossers’ pad, you seen in here?”

Jones shaded his eyes and squinted through the iron grille over the sash window. “I thought this was a high-class area,” he muttered.

“It is,” snapped Otley. “And shut your mouth, someone’s coming.”

The door was opened by a tall, exceptionally pretty girl with blond hair hanging in a silky sheet to her waist. She was wearing pink suede boots, a tiny leather miniskirt and a skimpy vest.

“Yes?”

“I am Detective Sergeant Otley, this is Detective Constable Jones. You made a missing persons report?”

“Oh, yeah, you’d better come in. It might all be a dreadful mistake, you never really know with Karen, it’s just odd that Michael hasn’t seen her either…”

Otley and Jones exchanged glances as they followed the leggy creature into the dark, shambolic hallway.

“Trudi! Miffy! There are two policemen…”

The blond turned to them and pointed to an open door. “If you want to go in there, I’ll get them. They’re in the bathroom.”

The room contained a large, unmade double bed with two cats fast asleep in the middle of the grubby sheets. The furniture was a mix of good antiques and fifties junk, but the room was as much a mess as the rest of the flat. On the fireplace wall a large, moth-eaten stag’s head hung at a precarious angle, with door-knockers hanging from its antlers.

“Do you want coffee or tea?” The blond hovered in the doorway.

“Cup of tea would be nice, thank you.”

“Indian, China or herbal?”

“Oh, just your straight, ordinary tea, love, thanks.”

Jones perched on a wicker chair until he noticed one of the legs was broken and it was propped on a stack of books. He moved a heap of clothes from a winged armchair and sat down.

Otley whispered, “What a bloody dump! Place looks as if it’s not been cleaned in years.

Jones flipped open his notebook. “The girl that came in to the station is Lady Antonia Sellingham… So if Trudi’s in the bathroom with Miffi, unless that’s another cat, the blond’s a titled aristo. Typical, isn’t it?”

Cornwall Gardens was a total waste of time. Edie Williams, reported missing by her mother, Florence, was a thirty-five-year-old mental deficient with a passion for watching trains at Euston Station. She had returned home that morning.

Otley sipped from the cracked mug of terrible-tasting tea, prompting the three girls to remember exactly when they had last seen their flatmate, Karen. It was quite normal for her to spend several days at a time with her boyfriend, Michael Hardy, but he had been away, skiing. Antonia at last decided she had not seen Karen since Friday-no, Saturday.

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Oh, yes, lots. There’s her modeling portfolio, would you like to see that?”

Miffy, a short, plump girl with a wonderful, chortling laugh, bounced out of the room. Lady Antonia asked if the police were worried that something had happened to Karen. Otley didn’t reply but made a note of Karen’s boyfriend’s name and phone number. He glanced at Jones, whose eyes constantly wandered back to Antonia’s legs.

The doorbell rang and Antonia strolled out, pausing to ask if anyone would care for more tea. None of them showed fear for Karen; they did not really believe that anything could have happened to her, it was just a bit odd that no one had seen her around.

Miffy returned and shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t find it, but we have got some photos of when we were in St. Moritz, they’d be the most recent. I’ll see if I can find them.”

She went off again in search of them as the leggy Antonia returned with a large cardboard box. “It’s my new pet, a chinchilla. Would you like to see it? It’s just adorable…”

Before Jones could take up the opportunity to get closer to Antonia, Miffy came back with a large, expensive-looking album. She flipped through the pages, then stopped.

“Oh, here’s a goodie, this is Karen.”

Otley took the book, stared at the photograph, then silently passed it to Jones. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant; the girls picked up on the glance between the two officers. Suddenly they were afraid.

“Is something wrong? Has something happened?”

Otley sighed and passed Jones his notebook, in which he had jotted down Michael Hardy’s details. “Could DC Jones use your telephone? And I suggest you get your coats, ladies. We’ll need you to accompany us to the station.”

The girls left the room. Jones hovered. “Er… Who do I call, Skipper?”

Otley gave him an impatient stare. “You call the boyfriend, and we pick him up on our way back to the station.”

“Oh, right! His number’s in the book, is it?”

“In the book in your friggin’ hand, you fruit!”

The house in Brighton was a late Victorian building with a fish and chip shop on the ground floor. Elaine Shawcross, daughter of the proprietors of the shop, had been missing for ten weeks. Her parents were upstairs in their flat; while Tennison went to see them, Burkin ordered fish and chips for them both.

As he carried them back to the car he was surprised to see Tennison leaving the house. She climbed into the car and slammed the door.

“I’ve salted and peppered them, ma’am, did you want vinegar?”

“Yeah, I’d like to smother that Otley’s head in it, might make his hair grow. Either Detective Sergeant Otley needs his friggin’ head seeing to, or he’s deliberately sending me on a wild-goose chase. Give us me chips, then!” She crammed chips in her mouth and continued, “He’s pissed off with me because he’s back at the station interviewing hundreds of toms! Ha, ha, ha!”

As they drove back towards London, Tennison stared out of the window. “That snide bugger Otley did it on purpose! Sending us all the way down here, he’s just stirring it at every opportunity.”

Burkin did not respond, and she gave him a sidelong look. “So, Frank, what do you think of Marlow?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“I said, what do you think of the prime suspect? George Marlow?”

Burkin shrugged. He stopped the car at a red light and she could almost see the brain cells working as he chewed his lips.

“Well, spit it out! You do have some personal thought on the matter, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, tell me…”

“Well, I think he did it. There’s something about him, I don’t know what, maybe just intuition. But I think he’s our man.”

She lit a cigarette and Burkin opened his window. She felt the cold blast of wind, inhaled deeply and wound her own window down. Burkin promptly closed the one on his side.

Tennison gave him a sidelong look. “Draft too much for you, is it?”

“No, ma’am, just thought it might be too much for you!”

She stared out of the window, talking more to herself than to him.

“You know, being a woman in my position is tough going. I mean, I have intuition, but it’s probably very different from yours. As a man, you feel that Marlow did it. Are you saying that your intuition tells you that Marlow is a perverted sexual maniac? Because this girl was tortured, strung up, beaten and raped… And you just feel it’s George Marlow?”

“It’s more than that, ma’am. I mean, he had sex with her.”

“So? That doesn’t make him the killer. You’ve got to find the gaps, the hidden areas. His common-law wife is his alibi; she stood by him before, when he was convicted of a serious sex assault. He snatched the woman’s handbag, knocked her about a bit, then he freely allowed them to take samples for DNA testing to see if they could find anything else against him. They didn’t, so it was his first offense. His girlfriend must have gone through hell over that. No matter how hard-faced she seems, she’s still a woman! She was betrayed by him, but they both used the excuse of drink. He had been drinking, and a lot of men do things when drunk that they’d never consider doing when sober, right? But our killer is a cold-blooded, calculating man. He scrubs his victim’s hands…”

“Well, I agree with what you’re sayin’, ma’am, but there is something about him…”

“You can’t bloody charge a man because there’s something about him! You can only do that with evidence, proof, and we have not got enough proof to hold George Marlow.”

The radio crackled and Tennison went to answer it, saying, “Maybe this will be it, fingers crossed!”

Control patched through a call from Forensic. It was Willy Chang, though Tennison could hardly tell. His voice was breaking up over the air.

“Inspector? We’ve crackle the carpet, every inch of crackle, crackle… have nothing. There’s not one shred of evidence to prove your man was ever there. We’ll keep at it, but I’m not hopeful.”

Tennison leaned back in her seat. “Well, that confirms it. As I was saying, we have nothing, not a hair, a fragment of material, to put Marlow in that efficiency. She was covered in blood, but we’ve got not so much as a pinhead on a pair of his shoes… How did he get her in there and walk away without so much as a single stain?”

“But there was one, ma’am, on his sleeve.”

“Ah, yes, but he has a plausible explanation for that. The only thing that might possibly finger him is his car. If he killed her in his car he has to have left something… And by the by, Burkin, would you stop calling me ‘ma’am’, makes me feel like a ruddy queen. I like ‘boss’ or ‘guv’nor,’ take your pick. Kingston Hill coming up on the right…”

Otley led the three bewildered girls and the handsome, tanned young man to the canteen, pushing the door open to allow them to pass in front of him. Michael Hardy paused politely, and Otley waved him on, taking a good look at the boy’s high-heeled cowboy boots and heavily studded biker’s jacket. But it was the ponytail that got him; his eyes gleamed.

“Take the ladies to a table, sir, at the far end out of everybody’s way, and I’ll arrange some refreshments.” He watched, shaking his head, as the four of them seated themselves, then turned to the counter.

The two canteen workers were about to haul the shutter down, but he scuttled over. “Hang about, Rose! I want four coffees for this lot, on the house. I’ll get you a docket later.”

The other woman walked off in a huff, not even attempting to serve him. The charming Rose muttered to herself as she turned to the steaming urn and drew four cups of pale brown liquid, banged them on the counter. Otley loaded them onto a tray. “Thanks, darlin’!”

He plonked the tray on the table, slopping the contents of the cups, and told them they would have to wait for Inspector Tennison to return. Then with a brief apology he wandered off.

He passed Maureen Havers, who had stopped to chat to DC Lillie.

“Have you heard, they’re bringing in Hicock to replace her?”

Otley’s ears flapped. “What was that? Hicock?”

“Yeah, I got it from the Super’s secretary.”

Otley nearly danced for joy. “Great! Now we need a get-together, get a report done…”

DI Muddyman joined them. “What am I missing?”

“Word’s out that they’re bringing in Hicock, Tennison’s gonna get the big E…” Otley beamed. “We better give them a little assistance, I’ll get a vote of no confidence going. That’ll teach the pushy bitch.”

He was almost rubbing his hands in glee as he headed out of the canteen. DC Lillie was more interested in the group of girls in the corner. He nudged Jones.

“Eh, I thought all the toms were downstairs? I wouldn’t mind interviewing that lot. Who’s the puff with the ponytail?”

Jones prodded Lillie in the chest. “They’re the victim’s flatmates, you prat!”

“What, you got an ID on her?”

“Not official, we gotta wait for the Queen Mother! Skipper’s sortin’ it out, sent her off to Brighton.”

The men laughed amongst themselves, while Karen’s four friends waited and waited for someone to tell them why they had been brought in, tell them anything at all. Officers came and went, but no one approached them. Michael was growing impatient, but he realized the long wait meant something terrible had happened. No one answered his questions, no one would tell him if Karen had been found.

“Was it Coombe Lane, ma’am?”

“Yep, should be off to the left… Yes, this is it. Oh, yeah, very posh.”

Tennison licked her fingers, then sniffed them. They smelt of fish and chips. She took a perfume atomizer from her bag and sprayed herself quickly.

They cruised slowly along Coombe Lane and stopped at a barred gate with a sign, “The Grange.” Tennison hopped out to open it. The tires crunched on the gravel drive and they both looked around, impressed.

The Tudor-style house, all beams and trailing ivy, stood well back from the road. There was a golf course behind.

“Obviously loaded, and no doubt Otley has sent us on another wild-goose chase,” commented Tennison. “OK, we both go in-and straighten your tie, Burkin!”

Large stone eagles and huge urns of flowers and ivy flanked the heavy oak door. There was an old-fashioned bell-push and, next to it, a modern plastic bell.

The deep bellow of a large dog was the first response to Tennison’s ring. She stepped back and waited, hearing footsteps on a stone-flagged floor. Then the door was opened wide.

“Major Howard? I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison and this is Detective Inspector Burkin. Do you think we could ask you a few questions?”

With a slight frown he replied, “Yes, of course. Do come in.”

They followed the major through the echoing hall into a vast drawing room with french windows overlooking a rolling, immaculate lawn. There were oil paintings and ornate statues in abundance, elegant sofas and chairs covered in rose silks. Even Tennison could tell that the thick, sculptured Chinese carpet was worth several years’ salary. The whole place smelt of money.

A little over-awed, Tennison watched the major closely as he apologized for his shirt-sleeves and put his jacket on over his dark green cords and checked shirt. Tall and well-built, he had obviously been a very handsome man in his youth. Now, with iron-gray hair and a back straight as a die, he still exuded the sort of easy charm that comes with total confidence.

He turned to DI Burkin. “Sit down, Inspector. Now, what can I do for you? Is there something wrong?”

Tennison stepped forward. “Thank you, sir, I’ll stand. I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison. I hope we will not take up too much of your time, but we are enquiring about your daughter. She has been reported missing?”

The major looked surprised. “By whom?”

Tennison was annoyed at herself for having to check her notebook. “A young man by the name of Michael Hardy. He gave this address.”

The major frowned. “Well, I hope this isn’t some practical joke, that’s her boyfriend. My daughter Karen doesn’t actually live with us, she shares a flat with some girls in Kensington. I’d better call my wife, see if she can get to the bottom of this. Reported missing? Are you sure? I haven’t heard the first thing about it. To be honest, I thought it was about Karen’s car. She got a new Mini for her birthday and her parking tickets are always being sent here. We’ve had some fair old arguments about that. But please, I won’t be a moment, excuse me.”

As soon as he was out of the room, Tennison walked across to the grand piano on which stood a number of family photographs. One, in a particularly large frame, showed a girl holding the reins of a pony and smiling into camera. She would be about ten years old. The next photograph was of a family Christmas, with everyone in paper hats roaring with laughter. Tennison’s heart started thumping and she moved along to the photo that had caught her eye.

The beautiful, sweet young face, the wondrous hair… She was the epitome of youth and health, a smiling, vibrant, free-spirited girl. Tennison turned slowly towards Burkin.

“We’ve found her…”

Mrs. Felicity Howard handed Tennison two large, professional photographs of her daughter, taken in the past year. They confirmed Tennison’s suspicion. The major, knowing without being told that something was dreadfully wrong, moved to his wife’s side and held her gently.

Quietly, Tennison said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I believe your daughter may be dead. It will be necessary for one of you to come with us to identify the body.”

The major sat without speaking throughout the journey. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. Tennison did not attempt to make conversation; when she had radioed in to say that she was bringing Major Howard to identify the victim, she lapsed into silence.

Otley, Jones and Muddyman spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing prostitutes and call girls for the second time. They were all unhelpful, uncooperative, and one or two even had the cheek to complain about loss of earnings.

None seemed able to recall when they had last seen Della Mornay. It seemed that she was reasonably well-liked, but no one admitted to mixing with her when not on the streets.

The story was the same from the pimps and the patrons of the clubs and cafés frequented by Della Mornay. By late afternoon there was no evidence of any recent sighting of Della; it appeared that no one had seen her for weeks. At last, one very young girl volunteered the information that a friend of Della’s, known only as Ginger, had contracted Aids and returned to Manchester. Perhaps Della had gone to visit her.

A few girls hinted that Della had the odd S & M client, but when asked for names their faces went blank; the reaction was the same when Otley enquired if anyone else had ever been picked up by any of Della’s special clients. No one was interested.

Otley was gasping for a cup of tea, or something stronger, but the canteen was closed. He jerked a thumb at Muddyman and winked. Muddyman followed him out.

“Let’s take a little break. We can use the office, she won’t be back yet.”

Two of the tarts he had interviewed passed him on their way out. They waved; he gave them the finger.

“You know,” he said viciously, “when you start talkin’ to them all it makes my skin creep. They’re like an alien species, opening their legs for any bastard that’ll pay up. I’d like to get a water cannon, wash the lot of them off the streets.”

Muddyman shrugged. “Well, if the johns weren’t there, they wouldn’t be on the streets in the first place. Hose them and you’ve gotta hose the guys doin’ the kerb-crawling after their skinny, dirty little cunts.”

Otley opened the office door carefully and looked around it; it was empty. He closed the door softly behind them.

Tucked at the back of one of his desk drawers was a half-bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to Muddyman.

“Fuckin’ toms, I tell you, we had this Marlow done up, we’d have sent him down if it wasn’t for that bitch Tennison. Now we got to crawl through the gutters, makes me puke.”

“Maybe the one we found wasn’t a tom?”

“Bullshit! She was in Mornay’s flat, why else was she there, you tell me that? Don’t give me any crap because she was wearing designer knickers, I’ve had girls come in dripping with mink, wearing high-class gear, but they’re all the same, open the legs, drop in yer money!”

Muddyman thought it best to keep quiet as Otley was really sounding off. His face was twisted with anger and pent-up frustration.

“My wife, the most decent woman you could ever wish to meet, never done a bad thing in all her life, died of cancer, screamin’ in agony. She was goodness itself, and she was a bag of bones. These slags, tartin’ around, passing on filthy diseases… Why my wife? That’s what I ask myself over and over, why does a decent woman die like that and they get away with it?”

Wisely, Muddyman decided there was no answer to that. Instead, he enquired for the third time what they were going to do about the three girls and Michael Hardy.

“What d’you think, we keep them here until ma’am comes back. I get their statements, I can’t whip ’em over to the morgue, she’s got a family… We wait, but it’ll be worth it, because it’s all going down on my report sheet!”

“The canteen’s closed, Skipper, they’re in one of the interview rooms-not the one with the tarts. They’ve been here for hours, an’ I think Lillie’s taken a fancy to the tall blond one!”

Muddyman was referring to the youngest member of the team, DC Lillie, nicknamed Flower. He took the brunt of their wisecracks when Jones wasn’t around.

Otley sucked in his breath and prodded Muddyman’s chest. “I’m doin’ the report, an’ I know how long they’ve been here, OK? When the canteen reopens we’ll wheel ’em back up, an’ you tell Lillie no chattin’ up the blond Puss in Boots, savvy?”

Muddyman bristled. Sometimes Otley got right under his skin, seeming to forget who was the senior officer. But he replied, “I savvy, Sarge!”

In the mortuary, the wait for the body to be brought out seemed interminable, yet it was no more than a few minutes. The major stood in the small waiting room, tense and unspeaking.

After putting out a DO NOT DISTURB sign, Felix Norman opened the door of the waiting room and gestured to Tennison that everything was ready. He held the door open as Tennison led the major out, followed by Burkin. They formed a small group around the open drawer where Karen lay covered with a green sheet. Tennison looked at the major.

“Are you ready?”

He nodded. His hands were clenched at his sides as the sheet was drawn back.

“Major Howard, is this your daughter, Karen Julia Howard?”

He stared as if transfixed, unable to raise his eyes. He did not attempt to touch the body. Tennison waited.

After a long, terrible pause, the major wrenched his eyes from the body.

“Yes, this is my daughter,” he whispered.

His work forgotten, Otley was still holding forth to Muddyman. The only way to get rid of Tennison, who he instinctively associated with the tarts, was a vote of no confidence. He had spread the word to any who would listen, and was sure the team would back him. Suddenly, he remembered that he had intended to see the Super to tell him they thought the victim had been identified.

Tennison had many questions she needed to ask the major, but before she could phrase the first one, he said bluntly, without looking at her, “How did my daughter die? I want to know the facts. I want to know how long she has been dead, and why I have not been contacted before this. I want to know when I can have my daughter’s body, to give her a decent funeral… And I want to know who is in charge of this investigation…”

Tennison interrupted. “I am in charge of the investigation, sir.”

He stared at her, then looked at Burkin. “I am a personal friend of Commander Trayner’s, I must insist on speaking to him. I do not… I will not have a woman on this case, is that clear? I want to speak to the Commander…”

Tennison sighed. “I am in charge of this investigation, sir. If there is anything you wish to discuss with me, please feel free to do so. I assure you we will release your daughter’s body as soon as it is feasible. The only problem is if you want to have her cremated…”

“Cremated? Good God, no, a Christian burial is what I want for my daughter…”

“Then the delay should be minimal, Major. I’ll see to it personally,” Tennison promised. “I think perhaps the questions I need to ask you can wait until you have had a chance to recover. I will arrange for a car to take you home…”

“I want to speak to Commander Trayner. If I didn’t make myself clear in the first place, woman, then let me repeat to you, I refuse… I will not have… I will not have a female in charge of this case.”

Tennison was about to reply when Burkin caught her eye. He gripped her elbow and whispered, “Leave the room, let him cry, leave him…”

She allowed herself to be steered from the room. She stood in the corridor, angry at first, then looked through the small glass panel in the door. She could see the major; he slammed his fist into the top of the bare table.

“I have many friends, I know many people who could take over this investigation…” Then he disintegrated like a helpless child, his body sagged and he held out his arms, in desperate need of comfort from anyone, a stranger, even the Detective Inspector…

Gently, Burkin held the heartbroken man as he sobbed his daughter’s name over and over.

Tennison felt inadequate and ashamed of herself for being so eager to question the major. In his grief and rage he had turned to the young Inspector, not to her. For a long time he wept in Burkin’s arms.

Listening to him, Tennison was flooded with sympathy.

Eventually the door opened and Burkin emerged.

“He’s ready to go home now. I’m sorry, ma’am, if I was rude, but I could see the old boy was…”

“You were quite right, Frank. Don’t worry about it.”

He started back into the room, then paused and turned. “Oh, Sergeant Otley wants you at HQ.”

“Did he just call you?”

Burkin evaded her gaze. “Came in while we were in Brighton. Karen’s boyfriend and flatmates have been brought in for questioning. Sorry…”

“I see! In future, pass on any information immediately, no matter the circumstances. I’ll go there now, you see to the major. Was there anything else?”

Burkin shook his head. She watched him closely as she said, “Otley stirring it up, is he? Next thing, he’ll be going for a vote of no confidence.”

His sudden flush was enough to tell her she’d hit the nail on the head.

Burkin had been greatly moved when the major, with a tremendous effort, had pulled himself together and said he was ready to go home, ready to tell his wife, and that he would be available the next morning to answer any questions. He had even asked Burkin to apologize to Inspector Tennison on his behalf for his rudeness.

As Burkin helped him out to the car the major’s back was ramrod straight. He shook the younger man’s hand and was gone to break the news to his wife.