Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (11 page)

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.