Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (17 page)

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!”

6

K
aren Howard’s coffin was completely smothered beneath wreaths of flowers, many of them from sympathetic people who had never even met her.

The funeral drew considerable media attention. Television news cameras followed the grieving parents and friends as they left the church. Tennison held back from the crowd and gestured for Jones and Otley to join her as Major Howard turned towards her.

He thanked them courteously for coming, and suggested that they might like to join the family at their home after the burial. Tennison thanked him for the invitation but declined. He seemed not to hear her, being more intent on sheltering his wife from the prying eyes of the reporters as he helped her into their car. Felicity Howard wore a wide-brimmed hat which only partially concealed a face etched with grief.

All Tennison could think of was how did a respectable girl like Karen end up in a sleazy tart’s hovel. There was no hint of her being addicted to drugs, the usual reason someone like Karen did a bit of ducking and diving.

She spoke quietly to the two officers. “I’ll have to make a move. You go to the graveside and then back to the station, OK?”

Jones nodded and gave her a quick grin. “Break a leg!”

She gave a short laugh and eased herself away from the mourners towards her parked car. Otley watched her departure with a smirk; a moment later he was approached by a newscaster seeking further news of the murder investigation. He replied that there was none, and that they would be informed as soon as anything developed.

The media had still not linked the Karen Howard case with the murder of Della Mornay. The report of the discovery of the body of a prostitute on Sunningdale golf course had merited only half a column in the nationals, and Tennison wanted it to stay that way. The press release had simply identified the victim and included a routine appeal for information.

The make-up department at the television center was a small room off the main studio floor. Tennison had spent a busy hour with the producer, discussing the questions she would be asked and running through the mock-up of Karen’s last known movements; now that she was sitting in Carmen rollers and protective gown, with no one to talk to, she had time to worry. She began to sweat; it was six-thirty and the program would go out live at eight-fifteen. Would she make a fool of herself? Would she stutter? The more she thought about it, the more nervous she became.

The PA to the floor manager came in to go over a few last-minute notes. He reminded her that she was to pause after the third question to allow for the footage of the funeral that had taken place that afternoon. Two officers from her team were already in the telephone control room, running through the hot-line procedure before relaxing for a while in the hospitality room. As the time drew closer, Tennison found herself longing to join them. Her mouth was dry and she kept clearing her throat, but she wouldn’t accept anything alcoholic. She clutched a glass of water and went over and over the questions and answers, knowing how important it was to get it right. She was very conscious of being the first female officer in her position ever to appear on the program, and she couldn’t foul it up.

Jane’s father was sitting right in the center of the sofa opposite the television, his hand on the remote control. Her mother was settling her grandchildren for the night, or trying to. They were dashing up and down the hall of the flat, screaming their heads off. She was getting a headache.

Jane’s sister, Pam, yelled at them to be quiet and go to bed, but they paid no attention to their mother. Their father, Tony, glared at her over the evening paper and she told him to go and see to them. Peter, sitting on the arm of the sofa, gave the harassed Tony a wink and opened a bottle of wine.

“Can I give you a refill, Mr. Tennison?”

“Thanks . . . Everyone should get in here, it’s going to start in a minute.”

Peter poured the wine. The birthday cake and champagne were all on hold for Jane’s arrival. Mrs. Tennison came rushing in with more plates of sandwiches.

“Peter, check he’s got the right channel for the video, she wants us to record it.”

Her husband looked daggers at her. “Just come in and sit down, she’ll be on in a minute.”

Peter looked at the video machine. “Are you on the right channel, Mr. Tennison?

The
Crime Night
theme started and everyone took their seats. Mr. Tennison, ignoring Peter’s question, turned up the volume on the TV and sat back. “Right, no talking . . .”

All of John Shefford’s team were gathered around the bar, off the main hall where the benefit dinner was to take place. The MC stood in the doorway, bellowing himself hoarse.

“Take your seats for dinner, gentlemen, please! Dinner is now being served, please take your seats for dinner . . .”

No one paid him the least attention, especially Sergeant Otley, who was leaning over the bar tugging at the sleeve of the harassed barman.

“Is the TV set up in the back? I want to see the start of the program.”

Dave Jones nudged him. “Come on, let’s go and eat. Someone’ll have taped it.”

Otley shrugged him away. “Go on in, we’re on the center table. I’ll be a few seconds, go on . . . Oi, Felix! you want a quick one before we go in?”

Felix Norman had appeared in the doorway, still in his overcoat. “I can’t find a bloody parking space!” he yelled.

The MC had got hold of a microphone and his voice boomed, “Please take your seats, gentlemen, dinner is now being served!” He was obviously under pressure from a row of aged waitresses who were giving him foul looks. “Please go in to dinner!”

At last there was a slow surge into the main hall where the tables had been set up around a central boxing ring. Norman downed his double malt and grinned at DI Muddyman.

“How’s our man? I hope he’s not been in here; he can’t box and drink. When I was the amateur middleweight champion of Oxford, did I tell you, I had ten bouts . . .”

Someone yelled, “How many years ago was that now, Felix?” Everyone had heard of his boxing prowess, sadly cut short by a hand injury, and no one paid any further attention in the crush as they all tried to get into the main hall at once. Superintendent Kernan was laughing at some joke, the tears rolling down his cheeks, and Otley whistled to him, pointing towards the hall.

“We’re on table six, Mike, right up against the ring!”

As the men sorted themselves out and filtered into the hall, Otley scuttled round the bar and headed for the back room, where there was a small portable TV set. A little unsteadily, Otley propped himself near the door, and was squashed against the wall as the barman came through with a crate of bottles.

Tennison was on screen. Otley squinted. “That’s her, she’s on! What’s she think she’s come as, Maggie Thatcher?”

He inched further into the room to get a better view. As he had organized the benefit night he had been propping up the bar since six-thirty, and the small screen made his eyes water. He could see six of Tennison, six of the bitch! And one was bad enough.

Tennison paused on cue for the footage of Karen’s funeral. She was in fact coping very well. She was now halfway through her discussion with Brian Hayes; she was clear, concise and very direct.

“We know Karen left the offices of the MacDonald Advertising Company soon after six-thirty on the evening of the thirteenth of January this year. She told the people she was working with that she was going home to her flat in Kensington. No one was seen to meet her. She turned left into Ladbroke Grove, towards the side street where she had parked her white Mini.”

The picture cut to Brian. “Karen Howard never returned to her flat. Were you in Ladbroke Grove that night, Saturday the thirteenth of January, at around six-thirty? Did you see Karen?”

Again the picture cut. The screen showed WPC Barbara Morgan, dressed in the dead girl’s clothes, walking away from the film company’s offices.

As Jane was no longer the center of attention, her mother got up from her seat to get a glass of wine. She was told to sit down again and not interrupt the program. She gave Peter a look and pointed to the video machine, whispering, “Is it on the right channel, Peter?”

Mr. Tennison pounded on the arm of the sofa. “Be quiet!”

“Jane’s not on, and I was just asking if you’d checked it’s on the right channel.”

“I
have
! Now be quiet!”

Mrs. Tennison sighed. The recreation of the dead girl’s movements meant nothing to her; she was a stranger.

Major and Mrs. Howard were sitting in front of their television set, holding hands tightly. The major had not wanted his wife to see the program, but she had quietly insisted. They had been told so little, they knew only the bare essentials about the death of their beloved daughter.

WPC Barbara Morgan was wearing a blond, shoulder-length wig and a jacket similar to the one worn by the real Karen on the night she had been murdered. The jacket had never been traced. The WPC also wore sheer black stockings, a leather mini-skirt and identical black ballet pumps. She actually carried Karen’s own portfolio containing her modeling pictures.

On screen, Barbara Morgan began acting out the last known movements of Karen Howard. Walking casually along Ladbroke Grove, she headed towards the Mini.

The major and his wife watched the last known movements of their daughter, the last hours of her life.

“She looks like her.” The major’s voice was very low and he gripped his wife’s hand more tightly.