Prime Suspect

5

At ten o’clock Peter put a pizza in the oven as it didn’t look as though Jane would be home. While he was eating it she phoned to tell him not to wait up as she had to go over to the morgue. She sounded tired and depressed.

“Things bad, are they, love?”

“Yeah, you could say that. We found another girl tonight. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

He knew she must be exhausted, she couldn’t have slept for more than about thirty-six hours, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly irritated as he put the phone down. He was having a tough time at work himself; things were going from bad to worse and he needed someone to sound off at. He had tendered for a major building project that would have put him back on his feet financially; had gone in as low as possible, but had been pipped at the post.

He sat down to finish his pizza, which he’d overcooked and was hard as a rock, but he ate it anyway. Then he ploughed through his accounts, getting more depressed by the minute.

He was on the edge of bankruptcy and there seemed no way out. His share of the proceeds from the house had virtually been swallowed up by maintenance payments and business debts. He slammed the books shut and opened a bottle of Scotch.

A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was his ex-wife, asking if Peter could have their son to stay for the weekend now that he was settled. The thought cheered him up; Marianne had never been keen to allow Joey to stay overnight. His few Saturdays with the boy had left him feeling low.

“If he could maybe stay next weekend? Would that be convenient?”

“Yeah, sure! I mean, I’ll have to sort it out with Jane, she’s very busy at the moment, but I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

“How’s it going with the new woman in your life, then?”

“Going fine, Marianne.”

“Good. Oh… Nearer the time for the baby, early days yet, but later on perhaps Joey could stay longer. It’d help me out, and it’s good for Joey to get to know you.”

“Marianne…”

“Yeah?”

“Marianne… Look, were you trying to tell me something the other day?”

“When?”

“Come off it! When you told me you were pregnant…”

“Oh, that! No… why, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he replied shortly, “OK, talk to you soon.” He wanted her off the phone, he wanted to think…

“All right, then, bye!”

He put the phone down, absently. He didn’t like her saying that he should get to know his own son, but it was more than that. He was trying hard to remember the date, the time he had gone to the house to pick up some of his things. Yes, it must have been about the time he had moved into Jane’s…

Then it all came back to him; Steve not being there, Marianne a little tipsy… He knew it was madness, but when she wrapped herself round him the way she used to, teasing him, there had been no stopping… It could be. He knew her so well, that look… Or was she just trying to wind him up for some obscure reason? Was she jealous of Jane, angry that he was getting himself together? Could she be that small-minded? He tried to dismiss it, but the thought kept returning.

There were always so many things he should have said, things that should have been said months ago, but he never had. He never mentioned her new husband, who had once been his friend; the pain and humiliation of that betrayal were still too fresh. He found himself wishing that Jane would come home, and wondered how to tell her that his son might be coming to stay, not just for the odd weekend, but perhaps for weeks at a time.

In the Incident Room, Tennison was munching on a sandwich as her tired eyes searched the notice-board. The tickets for Shefford’s benefit night was selling well. Her eyes came to rest on Karen Howard’s face.

She heard a door bang and jumped, then got up to see if Otley had come back after his drink with Eastel. It might be a good time to attempt to iron out the ill feeling between them and to question him further about the other murder, the one “up north.” She went through to the room Otley shared with the two DIs, but there was only the night cleaner emptying the wastepaper baskets.

The only thing on Otley’s desk was a framed photograph of a rather austere-looking woman standing by a cherry tree, a white Yorkshire terrier at her feet. Tennison wondered if Otley had, as he said, put in for a transfer. She wiped the remains of her sandwich from her fingers and opened the top drawer.

There were a few photos of Shefford and his family, which made her feel guilty for snooping, but she continued. In the third drawer was a familiar file; Della Mornay’s Vice record… She knew her copy was on her desk; the cover was almost identical, but a bit more dog-eared and perhaps a shade darker.

As she pulled it out a paper-clip caught onto the sheet beneath it. She took the whole lot out and detached the clip; underneath was a small red 1989 diary with thin cardboard covers. It had been doodled on and covered with cartoon faces, but the remarkable thing about it was the name, ornately decorated in felt-tip pen: Della. She knew there was no record of a diary having been found at Della’s efficiency.

Tennison carried her finds back to her own office and flipped through the little book, slowly. It contained misspelled notes, appointments for hospital checkups, lists of cash against rent and expenditure. One entry read “New dress, new shoes, streaks.” There were a number of pages missing throughout the year; they had been roughly torn out, in some cases leaving chunks of paper behind.

Was there also a diary for 1990? Tennison went back and searched Otley’s desk again, but found nothing apart from a near-empty whisky bottle.

She left everything as she had found it, apart from the file and diary, collected her copy of the file from her desk and returned to the Incident Room. She laid the files side by side on the desk and began to compare them, fighting to keep her eyes focusing.

The box room felt airless. Tennison tossed and turned, got up to open the window. She had decided to sleep there so as not to wake Peter.

She lay down again, but kept seeing Della Mornay’s face and hearing Otley’s voice as he told her that Shefford had believed there was another murder… Going over and over her conversation with Sergeant Otley she dozed off at last.

At five-thirty in the morning Peter shot out of bed. He could smell burning.

He rushed into the kitchen and checked that everything was off, then followed his nose along the hallway. On the radiator near the door was Jane’s raincoat; the back was singed, leaving a large dark brown stain.

He looked into the spare room. The window was wide open and Jane lay sprawled face down, arms spread wide. He felt as if he was intruding and he gently closed the door, afraid to wake her.

At six-thirty Peter brewed coffee. He was due on the building site by seven. He carried a cup into the spare room.

“Jane… Jane!”

“What… What? What?”

“Hey, it’s OK, it’s me. Brought you some coffee. There’s more in the pot, but I’ve got to go.”

“Oh, shit, what time is it?”

“Just after six-thirty.”

“Oh, God, I’ve got to get cracking. I’ve got to… I’ve got…”

She flopped back on the pillow. “I am knackered, completely and utterly knackered…”

“So’s your raincoat. You left it on the radiator in the hall and it’s singed. I’ll have to look at the heating when I get home tonight, shouldn’t get that hot.”

“Oh, I turned it up, my coat was sopping wet.”

“Well, it’s dry now… What time will you be home tonight?”

“Oh God, don’t ask me.”

“Well, I am. I’ve hardly seen you for three days. I was thinking you might like to have dinner somewhere.”

It was the last thing she could think of. Still half-asleep, she gulped her coffee and flopped back on the bed.

“Do you think it would be OK if Joey came over, stayed the weekend? Marianne phoned last night…”

“Yeah, sure. You don’t have to ask me, and I promise I’ll try and get back by, say, eight? Is that OK?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Tell you what, call me when you’re awake, then if you know for sure you’ll be free I’ll book a table at Bianco’s, OK?”

“Sounds good to me…”

Tennison was showered and dressed, her hair washed but not dried, and on her way to the station by seven-thirty. She thought her raincoat smelt a bit off, but hadn’t noticed the dark stain on the back…

For once the Incident Room was empty, so Tennison spent some time in her own office, checking the work rota for the day. Then she skimmed through the surveillance report on Marlow. Each shift consisted of four men; two occupied an empty flat opposite Marlow’s and the other two a plain car.

The team reported little movement; after work Marlow had visited a video club and then gone straight home, remaining there with Moyra for the rest of the evening. There were one or two photographs of him leaving the flat; Tennison stared at his handsome face and noted again how well dressed he was. There was still no trace of his car, the brown Rover.

It was eight-thirty; the men would start to arrive soon. She fetched herself another mug of coffee and lit her fifth cigarette of the day. At eight forty-five she gave up waiting and set off for the mortuary.

She was just getting into her car when she saw Jones arrive on his moped. She yelled across the car park, “About time, too, Jones! Come on, we’re going to the mortuary!”

Mumbling about having had no breakfast, Jones climbed into her car, still wearing his crash helmet.

Felix Norman turned the sheet back carefully. “She took one hell of a beating, poor little soul. Died about six weeks ago, so we won’t get any results on vaginal swabs. Lots of blood, I’ve sent samples over to the forensic girls. She’s got similar wounds to your first victim, made by a long, thin, rounded instrument with a razor-sharp point. All the wounds are clean, and hellish deep. Could be a screwdriver, but it’s longer than the weapon used on the other victim.”

Tennison was wearing a mask, but the stench of the body combined with the disinfectant fumes made her sick to her stomach. “Any hope of getting anything from beneath her nails? You said she put up a struggle?”

“Well, she did that all right, but she had false nails. A couple have snapped clean off, and three are missing altogether. She had deep scratches on her hands, similar to the other one-her hands were scrubbed.”

Tennison nodded. “And what about the marks on her upper arms, are they the same?”

Norman nodded but, as always until he had made out his report, he would not commit himself. “They’re similar. I’ve not compared them as yet, so don’t quote me. Maybe he strung her up to clean her, I won’t know until I’ve made more tests. He seems to have gone to great lengths to remove any traces of himself.”

He drew the sheet back from the corpse’s face, revealing the side Tennison had not seen before. She had to turn away.

“Cheek smashed, jaw dislocated…”

“Can you give me any indication of his size? I mean, is he a big man, or…”

“I’d say he was medium height, five ten, maybe a little more, but he’s very strong. These lower wounds were inflicted with one direct lunge, those to the breasts and shoulders are on an upward slant, which again indicate that she was strung up…”

Tennison swallowed, trying to remove the taste of bile from her mouth. “Off the record, then, and I won’t quote you, you think we’re looking for the same man?”

Norman chortled. “Off the record, and I mean that because I’ve worked my butt off to give you this much, until bloody two o’clock this morning… Yeah, I think it might be the same man. But until I’ve had more time, you mustn’t jump the gun. It was a different weapon, longer, but the same shape.”

Tennison patted his arm, then turned to the row of seats by the doors. DC Jones was sitting there, looking very pale. As she watched, he put his head between his knees. Norman suddenly snapped his fingers and dug a hand into his back pocket.

He brought out a screwed-up bundle of notes. “Eh, Daffy, I’ve got to give you some money, boyo!”

Jones looked up. “Don’t mind if you do,” he managed to reply.

“For the benefit night, man. What was it, a pony?”

Jones looked completely blank.

“Sorry, forgot you’re an ignorant Welsh git! Twenty-five quid, was it?”

Jones nodded, still confused and sick. Norman handed him the cash with a flourish.

Tennison said cheerfully, “OK, if you’re feeling better, DC Jones, you can drive me back to the station!”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry about this, but I was up half the night. The wife cooked a curry, must have turned my stomach. Sorry!”

She smiled and winked at Norman as she removed her mask. “You’ll call me with anything I can quote? And… thanks for coming out to Sunningdale. Bye!”

Jones followed Tennison through the main doors into the station, on his way to Forensic, and noticed the stain on her raincoat. It was in a most unfortunate position, as if she’d sat in something nasty. Embarrassed, he would have let it go, but WPC Havers, coming out of the ladies’, spotted it.

“Oh, boss, just a minute…”

“Whatever you’ve got, it’ll have to wait.”

Havers blushed. “It’s your coat, you’ve got a terrible stain on the back!”

Tennison pulled her coat round to look. “Oh, bugger, it singed! I got soaked last night and left it on the radiator. Can you take it and sponge it down, see if you can do anything with it? It’s a Jaeger, really expensive…”

While Havers inspected the coat, Tennison looked at Jones. “It’s in a pretty unfortunate position, wouldn’t you say, Jonesey? What did you think it was, menstrual cycle? Or curry tummy?”

He flushed and replied, “I didn’t notice it, ma’am.”

Tennison snorted. “Oh, yeah, pull the other one! Thanks, Maureen.”

At nine o’clock George Marlow, looking extremely smart, left his flat and made his way to the paint factory he worked for. His shadows kept watch on both entrances to the building.

The main part of the factory with the massive vats for mixing the colors was as big as an aircraft hangar. The narrow lanes between the vats stretched from one end of the building to the other. The offices were ranged along the far side and all the windows looked out over the factory floor.

There were some outrageous stories spread among the workers about some director or other who had been caught giving his secretary a seeing-to on the desk. The embarrassed man discovered, too late, that he had neglected to draw the blinds. The entire factory had viewed the deflowering of the poor woman, Norma Millbank, who was so mortified that everyone had seen her thrashing on the desk-top that she quit her job on the spot. Since then the workers had lived in hope, but the blinds were usually kept lowered. But the offices were known from then on as the “Fish Tank.”

The office George Marlow used when he was in London was at the far end. He shared it with three other salesmen, one of them a fresh-faced boy called Nicky, who had only been with the firm for sixteen months. A huge chart nearly covered one wall, and the men vied with each other to plot their progress in brilliant colors, like bolts of lightning. The bulletins were a great encouragement and stirred up the competition, not just among the four men in Marlow’s office but all the salesmen. Every month there was a bonus for the highest sales, and George Marlow won it as often as not. He was known as the champion.

Marlow prided himself on being number one, and yet he was a very generous man with his contacts. He had trained and helped young Nicky Lennon, giving him introductions and special hints. Nicky was working on his accounts when the word went round that George Marlow had been picked up and charged with murder, and that he was on the factory floor right now!

They all knew that he had been in prison for rape, and that his job had been held open for him. When he had returned to work he had thrown a big champagne party, inviting all of them to ask anything they wanted, to discuss it and get it out in the open. He talked of his trial, the prison, and still he claimed he was innocent.

It had taken him a few months and some obvious ill-feeling and embarrassment before he was again the champion, accepted and fighting to regain the best-salesman sash. Never mind the bonus, it was the sash he wanted, and he won it fair and square the year he returned. He also won the respect of his colleagues, and because he was such a good worker and always ready to give assistance to the others, no one ever mentioned his spot of trouble.

Marlow was a known collector of jokes, he could outjoke the professionals and keep on going. He was the man who knew everyone by name, their wives and their sisters, their troubles. There was always a special joke, and one their mothers could be allowed to hear. The secretaries flirted with him, a few had even dated him, he was so attractive, but Moyra was a strong woman who made it known that he was her man.

The men loved Moyra, because she was as good as Marlow with the wisecracks, and they socialized quite a lot, although Marlow’s frequent trips north meant that they had few close friends as a couple. There were occasional dinners and parties at the factory.

When Marlow crossed the factory floor, the cat-calls and shouts that usually filled the cavernous building were ominously missing. Secretaries appeared around the sides of the vats, then vanished. Marlow could see police everywhere he looked, talking to the paint mixers, the sales personnel, the accountants… He couldn’t find a joke inside him even if he tried.

He kept his head down and hurried towards the Fish Tank. He was pink with embarrassment, hearing the whispers following his progress, and he was glad to make it to his office, especially when he found it empty. He peered through the blinds, wondering why they were doing this to him. Echoing footsteps hurried past his window, the distant giggles made him sweat. Was he dreaming it, or were they all watching him, whispering about him?

It was no figment of his imagination. As the morning wore on it grew worse, and no one came to his office. The worst moment was when he spotted young Nicky, who stared at him with unabashed distaste, so obvious that Marlow thought he was joking. When he approached the boy he turned his back and walked away. Not one person spoke to him or looked him in the face.

He sat in his office and typed out his own resignation, as the group’s secretary insisted she was too busy. He licked the envelope and stuck the flap down, then went to see the manager. But Edward Harvey was in a meeting with all the salesmen. Marlow could see them through the window; as he walked in they fell silent. He went straight to Mr. Harvey and handed him the envelope.

“It’s just a conference about the new paint for European distribution, George, not your territory, but you can stay if you want.”

At least when Harvey spoke to him he looked him in the eye, even though he was lying. When Marlow walked out they started to talk again, a low hubbub at first, but it grew louder. The blinds were lifted a crack and they watched him, the champion fallen from grace. This time he had fallen too far to be picked up.

Marlow hurried among the paint vats, then turned towards the offices. He shouted, and his voice echoed around the factory floor.

“I didn’t do it, you bastards!”

DC Rosper and WPC Southwood followed Marlow as he hurried from the factory. Southwood suddenly nudged her partner as she saw DI Muddyman waving to them from the main entrance.

“He’s just quit his job,” Muddyman said as he came close. “I was just interviewing that little cracker from their accounts department, and he handed in his notice. Instructions are to keep on him, OK?”

Rosper turned this way and that. Marlow was nowhere to be seen. “Where the hell is he?”

Southwood pointed. Way up ahead, Marlow was just crossing the main road, heading for the tube station. Rosper and Southwood took off at a run.

When Jones returned from booking Della’s clothing into Forensic, Otley took him aside. “Look, my old son, she’s tryin’ to rake up the dirt on our old guv’nor, so stick with her. You’re young an’ a good-looking lad; try an’ get into her good books. Anything you find out about the old slag, report back into my shell-likes.” He tapped his ear, and continued, “We’re lookin’ for anything to needle her, know what I mean? We want her off this case…” He clocked Tennison heading towards them and shut up.

Tennison was talking fast. “She was naked, hands tied behind her back, dead approximately six weeks. Like Karen, she wasn’t killed where she was found. You’ll get all the info as soon as I do. The rope’s not the same type, but the knot is! We’re going to have to talk to all those toms all over again!”

The Incident Room door opened and Otley waltzed in, closely followed by the Super. All twelve people in the room turned their heads to look.

Kernan gestured to Tennison to continue, then found a chair at the back of the room.

“Right, what you got, Muddyman?” she asked.

“Marlow’s made several visits to Chester Paints, the last one this morning while I was here. He’s just quit his job.”

“What was he doing in the first week of December? Was he in the London area?”

“Yes, it’s a pretty slack period in the paint trade, he didn’t go on the road again until…” He flicked through his notes, but Tennison was off on another track.

“So we’ve established that Marlow was in London for both murders. Is there anything on his car yet? No? What about his neighbors?”

“My lads have questioned most of the ones in the block. He seems to be pretty well-liked, uses the local pub regularly. Several people remembered the car, but couldn’t say when they last saw it.”

“You’d better turn your attention to Sunningdale. I want the biggest team you can muster, do all the houses bordering the golf course. Someone must have seen him, or at least the car. It’s a collector’s item, and an unusual color, so go out there and ask them.”

The meeting broke up. As the room emptied, Otley said to Tennison, “Did you arrange for the release of Karen’s body? The morgue said they were finished, everyone else has finished with her, Pathology and Forensic. It was all waiting on you, and her parents have asked God knows how many times…”

“I’m sorry, yes, I’ve finished with her. Will you arrange it?”

Otley pursed his lips. “Not my job, but if that’s what you want…” Kernan came up behind Tennison. “I’ll see you in your office, OK?” Tennison didn’t have time to reply. Otley and Kernan walked off together and she gazed after them. She was going to look for one of those gigantic wooden spoons, and present it to Otley.

George Marlow inserted his key in the front door and pushed. The door opened about two inches and stopped dead; the chain was on.

He rang the bell and waited; nothing happened. “Moyra? Moyra! Let me in!” he called. He had to ring and shout again before the door eventually swung open.

As Marlow walked into the hall, Moyra stuck her head out of the door and looked around, saying loudly, “That old cow next door is going to do herself a mischief one of these days, glued to that bloody door all day!”

Suddenly she looked across at the block of flats opposite, stared for a moment. Then she unbuttoned her blouse, crossed the walkway and opened it wide.

In the surveillance flat DI Haskons, bored rigid, had been chatting on the radio with the two officers in the unmarked car. He sat bolt upright.

“Well, chaps, I think she’s spotted us-I don’t suppose anyone got a shot of her titties?”

Tennison found the Super sitting at her desk. Otley was with him. She asked Kernan about the press release.

“So we’re not mentioning the weals on the arms this time either?”

“No, I kept it to a minimum.” He flicked a glance at Otley. “Your decision to release Marlow could backfire…”

Tennison was furious, but she kept her temper. “My decision? You backed me up, have you changed your mind?”

Kernan ran his fingers through his hair and said to Otley, “You want to give us a minute?”

“No, I want him to stay… sir.”

“OK… The consensus seems to be that this case is getting a little heavy for you to handle.”

Tennison couldn’t hold back. “Bullshit! I can-”

“Just let me finish, will you?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I want to ask the sergeant a question.” She turned to face Otley. “How well did Detective Chief Inspector Shefford know Della Mornay?”

Otley replied with a shrug, “He knew her, nobody ever denied that. She was an informer…”

“So you agree he knew her well?”

Otley flashed a puzzled look at Kernan and shook his head.

Tennison banged on, “Why did DCI Shefford wrongly identify the first victim?”

“Because they bloody looked alike,” snapped Otley. “Her face was beaten to a pulp!”

“You knew her too, didn’t you? Then why wasn’t it realized until after I took over the case that the body identified as Mornay was, in fact, Karen Howard?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Kernan demanded impatiently.”

Tennison opened a drawer and slapped two files on the desk. She stood directly in front of Kernan.

“When I took over the case, I requested Della Mornay’s file from Vice. I was told that the delay in sending it was due to the computer changeover, leading me to believe that DCI Shefford had not had access to the records. I was mistaken.” She slapped the file. “He did have it, but it was not recorded in the case file.”

“This is a bloody waste of time!” Otley protested, uneasily.

“Is it? Here’s the one I received from Vice. And here’s the one Shefford received. Two supposedly identical files, but in mine there was no mention of Della Mornay being used as an informer, no record of the fact that DCI Shefford was her arresting officer when he was attached to Vice.”

Otley pointed to the files. “I don’t know anything about that, but I do know that you’ve got some personal grudge against a man that was admired-” Tennison cut him short.

“Shefford was so damned eager, even desperate, to make an arrest, judging by this…” She stopped, realizing her voice had climbed almost to a shriek. She went on more calmly, “I still want to know, if both you and Shefford knew Della Mornay personally, how the body was wrongly identified.”

Otley stared at her with loathing, tried to face her down. But she had him backed into a corner; his eyes flicked from side to side as he said, “Why don’t you leave it alone! The man is dead!”

Tennison pointed to two photographs on the wall. “So are they! Karen Howard and Della Mornay! So explain this, Sergeant…”

Opening her desk drawer again she produced Della Mornay’s diary. “It was in your desk along with the original Vice file.”

Otley had no reply to make. Kernan thumped the desk. “What the hell is going on?”

“This, sir, is Della Mornay’s diary, not tagged, not logged in. There are pages missing, obviously torn out.” She turned to Otley and asked icily, “Do you know what happened to those pages?”

“I can explain about the diary. I gave it to John… er, DCI Shefford. I presumed he would have…” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I found it when I was clearing out his desk. He must have removed the pages.”

Through gritted teeth, Kernan whispered, “Jesus Christ!” He looked at Tennison. “You realize what this means? You are accusing a senior officer of doctoring evidence.”

“Marlow made two statements. In the second one he stated that he picked up Della Mornay. He has to have got her name from Shefford. Yes, I know what I’m saying. If I discover any further irregularities…”

“Any so-called irregularities, Chief Inspector, you bring straight to me. I will decide if the matter is to be taken further.”

“Until I have verification that both women were murdered by the same man, I’d like to keep the discovery of Mornay’s body under wraps.”

“Marlow still your main suspect?”

“Yes, sir. I want him kept under pressure, round-the-clock surveillance. I know it’s expensive, but if he’s killed twice…”

Kernan nodded, and she continued, “I’d also like to handle the press releases myself from now on, sir-reporting to you, of course.”

She had won, and she knew it. She walked out and left them there, closing the door quietly behind her.

There was a moment’s silence. Otley just stood there, still looking at the floor, waiting for the explosion.

“You bloody idiot! She’s effing wiped the floor with the lot of you! You were lucky this time, she let you off the hook, not me!”

Otley dug into his pocket and brought out his wallet. “It was just the days John went to see her, nothing to do with the case.”

His face set, Kernan held out his hand. Otley laid a few crumpled pieces of paper on his palm.

“He was fond of her…” When he looked up, Kernan was gone. He turned to face the photograph of Della on the wall. “He was very fond of her.”

George Marlow was looking at the TV guide in his Evening Standard. He paid no attention to the large photograph of Karen Howard on the front page.

“You’re home early,” Moyra commented from the doorway.

“Did you get a video?” he asked.

“Yeah… The cops’ve been here again, they took the rest of your shoes. I said they’d better bring them quick or you’d be selling paint in your stocking feet.”

“No I won’t,” he answered, “I quit today before they could sack me.”

Moyra walked to the window, the tears pricking her eyes. She moved the curtain slightly to look across at the dark windows of the surveillance flat.

“Bastards! You’d think we were the spies, the way they carry on. I’m keeping the chain on the door all the time now. They’ve had all our keys, and I don’t trust them. They could have had them copied…”

He looked up. He couldn’t say anything to comfort her, and she was trying hard not to cry as she said, “It’s getting me down, George, like we’re prisoners…”

“I’m sorry…” He put his hand out for her, but she held back, folding her arms.

“Moyra, don’t you turn against me. No one said a single word to me in the factory, except Edward Harvey, and even he didn’t want to look me in the eye… I love you, Moyra, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“I have to take it too, George. With you not earning, what are we going to do?”

He stood there looking forlorn and his voice cracked as he said, “I won’t let them beat me, I’ll find another job…” He shook his fists in the air in frustration and yelled, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it! So help me God, I didn’t do it…”

The telephone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared at it as it continued to shrill.

Moyra sighed. “I’ll get it. If it’s another of those filthy bloody perverts… And those kids next door…”

She picked up the phone but said nothing for a second or two, then, “Oh, hallo, Doris… Yes, just a minute.”

She turned to George. “It’s your mum, it’s a payphone.”

He shook his head, unable to face speaking to her.

“You’ll have to talk to her, come on, love.”

He pulled himself up and took the receiver. Moyra was astonished that he could sound so bright.

“Hallo, Mum! I’m fine, yeah. How’s your hip? It is?” He whispered to Moyra, “She’s only using one stick now!”

He listened awhile, then answered, “Thanks, Mum, I wish the cops felt the same way. You know what they’re like… I’m sorry, they’re talking to everyone I know.”

Moyra watched him closely until he put the phone down and stood there, dejected.

“You never even mentioned you’ve no job, you should have told her.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“It will be when you can’t pay for her ‘residential home.’ ” Moyra couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“I’ll manage, man with my experience can always get work. Things’ll be OK, I’ll go and see her. Will you get me the perfume she likes?”

Moyra wanted to weep; his whole life was turned upside-down, and hers, and he was asking her to buy perfume.

“She must have a drawerful.”

“I like to take her something, you know that. I’m all she’s got.”

“You’re all I’ve got too, George!”

He gave her a sweet, gentle smile, showing his perfect teeth, his slanting, wonderful eyes. She loved him to bursting sometimes.

“I’ll get us a cup of tea.” She didn’t mean to sound abrupt, it just came out that way.

When Jane arrived home that night, later than she had promised, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath and to crash out.

As she walked into the bedroom, Peter took one look at her face. “I suppose you don’t want to go out to eat? Want me to get a takeaway?”

“Oh, yeah, but first I want a shower.”

“I booked a court, didn’t the message get to you?”

She looked at him and realized that he had been playing squash. “I’m sorry, love, I’ve been in and out of the station. I meant to call, but I kept getting waylaid.”

“You gonna be waylaid over this dinner?”

“What? The takeaway?”

“No, I told you, I asked you for a date when I could invite Frank King and his wife, and Tom and Sheila, to dinner. I told you.”

“I know, and I haven’t forgotten. I’ve even arranged for Pam to come over tomorrow to help me sort out the menu!”

“Well, there’s no need to go mad!”

“With my culinary expertise, darlin’, I doubt it, but I’ll have a go.”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her, looking into her eyes. “It’s important to me. I lost out on a contract; if I pull off this deal with Frank King we’ll set up a partnership. He’s got a big yard, employs fifty guys, and then Tom supplies the paint. We cut cost all round. I don’t know if they want me with them, but it’d be a big plus for me, so the dinner’s important.”

“I know, it’s no problem, but my hunger is! Lemme have a shower, you get the nosh.”

The hot water felt good. Wrapped in a big toweling dressing gown, Jane switched on the television and lay on the bed to watch it. She could have gone to sleep there and then, but Peter arrived with the Chinese takeaway. She could hear him banging around in the kitchen but didn’t have the energy to get up and help him.

The telephone rang and Peter appeared at the door. “If that’s for you to go out, I quit! I quit!”

It was Jane’s mother on the line to remind her of her father’s birthday and to invite her to a small party. Jane covered the mouthpiece and called Peter, “Pete! Pete, it’s Mum! Are you free next Monday? It’s Dad’s seventy-fifth and she’s having a little do! Pete?”

Peter brought the tray with the cartons of food and a bottle of wine. “Sounds OK,” he said.

Jane listened to her mother carrying on about her sister Pam’s pregnancy and pulled a face. “Pam’s got water retention!”

Already tucking in to the food, Peter gestured that it would get cold.

“Mum, I’ll have to go, we’re just having dinner. Yes! I’ll be there, and Peter… OK… Give Pop my love!” She put the phone down, “Dear God, don’t let me forget Dad’s birthday card, remind me to send it off.”

It was almost ten. They settled back to watch TV as they ate, but Jane had no sooner lifted the fork to her mouth than the phone rang again. She pushed the tray away.

“I’ll get it.”

Peter continued eating. He could hear excitement in Jane’s voice, then her laughter. At least it sounded like good news. She came back into the bedroom, beaming.

“Guess what, I’m going to be on TV!”

“What? I thought Opportunity Knocks was defunct?”

“Ho, ho! No, I’m going on Crime Night, the police program, and I will be the first female murder officer they’ve ever had on!”

“Oh, great! Finish your dinner, the crab and noodle’s good.”

Jane twirled around, suddenly no longer tired. “I pulled every string I could muster. Mind you, the Chief’s got to give the go-ahead, but he can’t refuse. I mean, to date we’ve got bugger all, but I know this’ll bring us something, I just know it. I’m gonna get that bastard…

“When is it?”

“The twenty-second, they need a while to organize the mock-up film, and I’ve got to put together all the evidence we can use… Oh, shit! It’s Dad’s birthday!”

“Well, maybe they can have it another day?”

“Don’t be stupid, the program goes out at the same time every week…”

Peter threw his fork down. “I didn’t mean the bloody TV program, I meant your Mum could change the party night!”

“Oh, sorry. It’ll be OK, I’ll just have to make a late entrance.”

“I’m not that dumb. Do you want to finish your dinner or not?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Fine, then I’ll clear away.”

He snatched up the tray. As he passed her she put out a hand. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m not hungry.”

“That’s OK, suit yourself, you usually do!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s Saturday night, Jane. I thought that just for one night, just one, you wouldn’t be on the bloody phone!”

She sighed and flopped back on the bed. She was so hyped up about the TV program that she hadn’t given Peter a thought. But by the time he came back into the room she was sitting cross-legged, with that tomboyish grin he liked so much. For a moment he thought it was for him, but then she clapped her hands.

“I am going to nail him, Pete, I know it!”

“I’m going to the pub, see you later.”

When Peter got home she was asleep. He stumbled around the bedroom in the dark, cursing as he stubbed his toe. Past caring if he woke her up, he threw himself into bed and thumped his pillow.

Half-asleep, she rolled towards him and muttered, “I’m sorry, Pete, but I get so tired…”

He looked at her shadowy face, then drew her into his arms. “You’re gonna have to start making time for us, Jane, you hear me?”

“Mmmm, yeah, I know… and I will.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes. I love you, Pete.”

She was asleep again, her head resting on his shoulder. He eased her gently back to her side of the bed and then turned over. He was more than worried about his business, and he needed the deal with Frank King to come off. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep afloat for much longer, he’d be bankrupt.

Moyra eased the bedroom curtain aside. She could see the small red dot of a police officer’s cigarette. There were two of them; bored with sitting in the car they were taking a breather, walking around the estate. She let the curtain fall back into place.

“There’s two of them still prowling around outside, George!”

Marlow lay face down on the bed, his naked body draped in a sheet that just covered his buttocks. He was lean, taut, muscular.

He banged his pillow. “Just ignore them.”

“It’s tough, they’re outside day and night, and I know there’s another two in the flat opposite us. I’ve seen them, I know they’re cops, and they’ve got a camera.”

“You’d think they’d have better things to do with ratepayers’ money.”

“Yeah, but it makes my skin crawl. And her from next door is in and out, talking to everyone! I feel everybody looking at me when I go out. Bastards, this is harrassment! I’d like to get them, the bastards. Why?”

“They’ve got nothing better to do. It’s the way they work, look at the way they treated me over that other business. They stitched me up over that! I just hope to God they find some other sucker and lay off us.”

“You hope! Jesus Christ, am I going nuts?”

“Then come here… Take your dressing gown off and come to bed.”

Moyra slipped off her Marks and Sparks satin robe. It was sexy, like the old film stars used to wear. Beneath it was a matching nightdress with thin ribbon straps.

“You look good, Moyra. That color suits you, and it looks expensive.”

“Yeah, well, it was cheap, like me!”

“Don’t say that! Come here…”

She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She wanted to cry, she wanted to bang on the window and scream at the pigs. “I don’t feel like it, George.”

“Then just lie with me, let me hold you.”

He took her gently in his arms and rested his head on her breast. She stroked his hair.

“Why, George, why did you pick that bloody girl up?”

“Because… because she was there, Moyra, and if you think I wouldn’t give anything to turn the clock back… I wish to God I’d never picked her up.”

“But you did.”

He propped himself on his elbow and traced her cheek with his fingers. “I know I did, and I know I have to make it up to you, but if I swore to you now I’d never have another woman you wouldn’t believe me. I’ve always told you, I’ve never lied to you, Moyra, never! I don’t cheat on you like some guys would. I don’t screw your friends.”

“What friends? I don’t see anyone, especially not now. They can’t get away from me fast enough.”

“I’m sorry…”

“I know, love…”

“I love you, Moyra, and if you ever left me, and I know you have every right, but if you were to finish with me…”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going anyplace.”

She turned to him then, and he kissed her, a sweet, loving kiss. His beautiful eyes were so close that she could feel the long lashes on her cheeks. He covered her face with childish kisses, her lips, her eyes… She tried not to cry, but her body trembled.

“Oh, no, please don’t cry, Moyra! Please don’t cry!”

“I love you, George, I love you, but sometimes I just can’t cope, and I don’t want to lose you… You’ll have to promise me, no more girls, please… please!”

He rolled onto his back and stretched his arms above his head. “OK.”

“Promise me?”

He smiled and turned to her, cupping his head in his hand. “I promise, Moyra Henson! And after the trouble I’m in, do you really think I would? I’ll tell you something, I don’t think I could, and I’m not joking. It’s made me impotent, I can’t do a thing!”

She pushed his chest and giggled. “Wanna bet?”

He caught her to him then, hugging her tight, with his wonderful, gurgling laugh. “Oh, my darling, I am a lucky man!”