Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (14 page)

Eastel handed her a long stick. “Take a look, see if you can make out her features, but keep off the sheeting if you can. They’re almost ready to lift her.”

Tennison craned forward and gently lifted the matted hair away from the girl’s face. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch as Tennison peered at the pitiful face of the victim. She crouched down, then knelt on the plastic sheeting for an even closer look. The stench of decomposed flesh made her nostrils burn, but she forced herself to study what she could see of the girl’s profile, trying to match it with the photographs of Della Mornay.

Eventually she let the hair fall back into place and accepted help to rise to her feet. She slithered as she tried to climb the bank and Eastel gave her a hand.

“I can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but I think you’re right. It looks like Della Mornay.”

The body was eased onto the plastic sheeting and lifted onto a stretcher, face downwards. The rain still pelted down as four men carried the stretcher up the bank and passed directly in front of Tennison. She stepped back to let them by, then asked them to wait a moment; she could see the rope that bound the corpse’s hands. She turned to Otley.

“Is it the same rope?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, but I think if she is our girl we should have her sent to our patch, get Felix Norman on it.”

Tennison nodded. Despite the mud she could see marks on the victim’s arms, deep weals that looked similar to those on Karen Howard.

“Yes, get Felix. I’ll go back to the station and wait for him to contact me, but I want him out here tonight.”

Otley nodded agreement. He watched as they carried the body away. “You should never have released Marlow. Any money on it, that bastard did this one as well.”

She bristled. “I had no option but to release him. If he’s guilty, I’ll get him back.”

“There’s no
if
, you know it, we all know it. Why d’you think my guv’nor was so desperate to book him? He
knew . . .”

“Like I said, Sergeant, when I’ve got the evidence we’ll make an arrest, and this time we’ll go by the book. This time there’ll be no cock-ups!”

“Yeah, you do that, love! Go by the book, and if he kills again you can say, “I hadda stick to the rules!” That bastard is guilty, and my guv’nor knew it!”

“If he knew so much why did he foul up the way he did? Don’t give me that bullshit! Right now it’s the last thing I need. And you tell me, if a male officer of my rank had taken over this team, would you call him ‘love’?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, slip of the tongue. But if you blacken my guv’nor’s name, you start raking up the dirt on him, then . . .”

“Then what?”

“If you were a man I’d punch that snotty look off your face, I’d do it and wouldn’t give a shit about the consequences. Right now I’m off duty . . .”

Tennison wanted to shriek, but she controlled the impulse to land a punch on Otley’s sharp nose. She snapped, “I don’t give a damn whether you are off or on duty, Sergeant Otley. If Shefford hadn’t been so damned eager to try and beat that bloody stupid Paxman’s record, then maybe he wouldn’t have fucked up!”

Otley looked at her with loathing. “There was never any such person as Paxman, ma’am, it was a joke. The guv’nor just made it up to gee the lads up a bit, there was no record. If you’d known him you would have sussed that out! Just as he sussed that George Marlow was our man. He even reckoned Marlow’d done a girl up north . . .”

Tennison turned quickly to face Otley. “What did you say?”

“The boss reckoned Marlow had done a girl up north, years ago. That’s why he wanted him nailed, wanted him banged up. And if he bent a few rules, so fuckin’ what? Because Marlow’s gonna kill again . . . and when he does, it’s down to you and your fuckin’ rules and your precious book.”

She clenched her fists to control her fury. “You’re telling me that Shefford believed Marlow had killed before? And said nothing? Is that what you’re saying?”

Otley backed off, shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not saying anything. I got a lift back with Eastel, I’m on my way . . .”

Tennison followed him. “If what you say is true, why isn’t it in the records? Or in Shefford’s memos? Why?”

“As I said, ma’am, it was just supposition. He died before he could take it any further, he died, ma’am, remember? That’s how come you’re here!”

“I want your report on my desk first thing in the morning. And Otley, I’ve told you before, if you don’t like working for me, then you can put in for a transfer.”

He stared at her and she was taken aback by the loathing in his small, dark eyes. “You mean like the rest of the lads? Fine, I’ll think about it. Good night.”

As he stomped off, Tennison became aware that their conversation had been overheard. She gave Eastel a cursory nod of thanks, then turned back to repeat her thanks to the officers still searching the area. She was very close to the edge of the bunker; she teetered and lost her footing, landed on her backside in the mud. There were sniggers. Two uniformed men jumped to assist her and she gave a grin. It was all she could do under the circumstances.

“Ah, well, they say mud’s good for the complexion!”

It was the wrong thing to say and she knew it as soon as it was out. No one laughed; they had all seen the body of the girl, stripped, tortured and covered in the filthy, slimy mud.

5

A
t 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.