Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (12 page)

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.

4

O
tley was furious to discover that Tennison had beaten him to it; her report on the identification of the murdered girl was already on Superintendent Kernan’s desk. He couldn’t think for the life of him how she had managed it.

It was out of order for Otley to come direct to the Chief Super but, knowing how the Sergeant felt, Kernan said nothing. He waited; Otley was still hovering.

“Something else, Bill?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Otley blurted out that the men felt that Tennison wasn’t sufficiently experienced. “It’s out of control, guv! The big interview room’s full of toms bein’ questioned for the third time, and not one’s seen hide nor hair of Della Mornay. The Incident Room’s full of blokes sitting around waiting for her . . .”

“Is this a consensus?”

“We all feel it, guv. She’s just not right, she’s not handling the men at all well. She’s smug, she doesn’t fit in, we all feel it. We’ve only got a few hours left, and the way she’s going we’ll have to let him go!”

Kernan pursed his lips and nodded a fraction. “It’s not entirely up to her, the situation’s under constant review. Leave it with me, Bill, OK?”

Arnold Upcher sorted through some documents, then pushed them across the desk to Chief Superintendent Kernan.

“I thought these might interest you. They’re cases from the last three years where the evidence depended solely on DNA tests. You can see for yourself, in every instance the judge threw the case out. I think my client and I have been most patient; if you have any further incriminating evidence then we’ll discuss it, but I am not prepared to let him stay here another night if you cannot substantiate your suspicion of murder. And that’s all you’re holding him on—suspicion. It’s not on; he has a solid alibi, he has been co-operative and totally honest with you. Come on, Superintendent! You’ve got the wrong man.”

Convinced that the Super was going to take Tennison off the case, Otley watched with a gleam of triumph in his eye as she entered the Incident Room, obviously harassed and sweating, with Burkin at her heels.

“Anything on Marlow’s car yet?” she demanded.

Ken Muddyman answered her from the far side of the room. “Not yet, ma’am, but we’ve got you a slot on the Shaw Taylor program!”

“That’s a good idea!” She heard Lillie sniggering behind her but ignored him.

“I was joking, ma’am!”

“I’m not! Laugh away, DI Muddyman, but time’s almost up and Marlow’s lawyer’s with the Super now. Get on to the Press Office . . .”

Muddyman couldn’t work out if she was kidding or not. Lillie interrupted them.

“Ma’am, Records sent this in, about Moyra Henson. She was picked up for soliciting fifteen years ago. I dunno if it’s of any interest, but she’s been on the dole for four years.”

“You never know. Stick it on the file.”

Otley chipped in, “We’ve got twenty-two statements from the toms, and there’s more of ’em upstairs. Nothing worthwhile yet. Plus her boyfriend and flatmates are waiting to be interviewed. What’s goin’ on, are we gonna charge him?”

It was coming at her too fast; Tennison floundered for a moment.

“I’d better see the girls first. Keep the Super off my back for a while. And I want to see everyone in here when I’m finished.” She looked around the room to see who was there. “Ken, you’d better organize a WPC for the girls . . .”

Otley perched on the edge of his desk, watching with delight while she tried to cope, and failed.

“There was something else . . .” Tennison continued. “Oh, the identification. Her name’s Karen Julia Howard.”

“We know,” said Otley.

“Oh . . . yes, of course you do. Right, I’m off.”

Following her, Ken Muddyman minced from the room, camping it up and blowing Otley a kiss as he went. The hoot of laughter could be heard all the way down the corridor.

The three girls’ vagueness about Karen was infuriating; Tennison terminated the session after half an hour. By that time she knew that Karen had often spent days, even weeks, at her boyfriend’s flat, but the couple had recently had a disagreement and had not seen much of each other since. When Karen had not returned for a couple of nights they presumed she had made it up with him.

On the other hand, Miffy conjectured, Michael obviously didn’t make contact because he thought Karen didn’t want to see him, but eventually he had called round. Discovering that no one had seen Karen, and she wasn’t with her parents or any other friends, Antonia had reported her missing.

The last time the girls had seen Karen she had driven off in her white Mini to Ladbroke Grove for a modeling job. It was a knitwear advert, she had told them. She had taken her large portfolio and her Filofax. Perhaps Karen’s agent would know the name of the firm.

The girls constantly looked at each other as if to confirm every detail. A couple of times they broke into tears; Tennison was patient with them but she kept pushing for the information she needed.

“Was there any mention of a new man in her life?”

They could think of no one. Miffy, her eyes red from crying, believed that Karen had loved Michael more than she pretended, but got fed up because he was a bit possessive.

“So they used to argue about it, did they?”

“Just sometimes. You know, she wanted to let her hair down a bit, but they had been going out together for years . . .”

“Did she drink a lot?”

“Oh, no! She didn’t drink at all, or smoke. She was a fitness freak, always dieting, and her room at the flat was a no-smoking zone.”

Tennison stubbed out her fifth cigarette of the session, not that she was counting. “What about drugs?”