Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (10 page)

“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.