Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (24 page)

“Fraternize! Christ!”

Kernan thumped his desk, really pissed off. He pointed to Otley.

“Come on now, did Shefford think there was a connection between the first murder and the one in, er . . . Oldham?”

“I dunno, but I wanted to check it out. There was no ulterior motive.”

“So you know John Shefford had worked in Oldham? Knew he’d been on this—” Kernan thumbed through the file “—this Jeannie Sharpe case?”

Otley was falling apart. He shook his head. “No! I didn’t know anything, but when I read the report and saw John’s name down . . . Look, I know you knew, we all knew, he was a bit of a lad, so I just reckoned maybe I should check it out. That’s all there was to it, nothin’ more. If, as ma’am says, he was having a relationship with this tart, I knew nothin’ about it.”

Tennison couldn’t keep quiet. “Just as you knew nothing about his relationship with Della Mornay? Bullshit! You knew, and you’ve been covering up for him . . .”

Kernan gave her the eye to shut up and keep it shut. “Did you get anything from your trip to Southport, Bill?”

Otley shook his head. “We’re still checking, but no.”

Kernan nodded, then gave him a hard look. “Well, keep at it. You can go.”

Otley hesitated. It was obvious that Kernan wanted him out of the office and wanted Tennison to stay. With an embarrassed cough, he turned to her.

“Maybe we got off to a bad start,” he said quietly. “Should have taken a few weeks off after John . . .”

She gave him a rueful nod. “I’ll be in the Incident Room,” he said, and opened the door.

They waited until he had gone, then Kernan turned to Tennison and asked, “What do you want to do?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I worked with a good bloke, in Hornchurch. Detective Sergeant Amson.”

Finally Kernan nodded. “That’s the deal, is it?”

“He’s available, could be here in an hour or so. I’m going to drive up to Rochdale to see the woman Marlow attacked there. It would be a good opportunity to fill him in on the investigation.”

Kernan nodded again. Knowing she had won, Tennison went on, “Marlow served eighteen months. All the cases were either before or after he was in jail. I want the surveillance put back on him.”

“OK. I’ll do my best to hold Hicock off.”

“Thank you, sir. Detective Sergeant Amson.”

“I got it the first time.”

At ten Tennison was in the car park, getting some things from her boot, when Otley came up beside her.

“I reckon we got off on the wrong foot. I was just going back to the pub, wondered if you wanted a drink?”

“Has the Super not spoken to you?”

“No, I went out and put a couple under my belt. I didn’t know about John’s spot of trouble in Oldham . . .”

Tennison said quietly, “Yes, you did. You’re off the case, Bill. I’m sorry, you’ve already been replaced.”

Otley seemed to shrink before her eyes. He turned to go and she said to his back, “I want the names of every officer on my team who’s taking sexual favors from prostitutes.”

He faced her again, but he had no anger left in him. She gave him a small nod and walked towards a car that had just drawn in to the car park. It was driven by the burly new sergeant, Terry Amson. He got out and opened the passenger door for her.

“I owe you a big one. My arse was dropping off in Hornchurch, I was sitting on it so much. How are you dong?

She beamed and punched his arm as she climbed in. “I think I’m doing OK.”

As he returned to the driving seat he gave Otley a small wave of acknowledgment. It wasn’t returned. Otley’s dejected figure was still standing there when they drove away.

9

T
erry Amson drove fast and well up the motorway while Tennison put him in the picture on the murders.

“So we have three girls, Della Mornay, Karen Howard and Jeannie Sharpe, who were all strung up, with these clamp marks on their arms. The first two are different, but it’s quite a coincidence.”

“Maybe he just perfected his technique! Have you tried talking to any of the guys he was banged up with? He’s talkative, isn’t he?”

“You could dig around while I’m with Miss Gilling, see if you can set something up for when we get back. And have a look at Marlow’s statements, you never know what a fresh eye will come up with.”

The little terraced cottage that Pauline Gilling shared with her father had a neat, well-cared-for garden. The inside was daintily decorated with Laura Ashley paper and a large collection of little glass animals, giving it a fragile feel which was echoed in Miss Gilling herself.

In her late thirties, she appeared older, with a pleasant but worried face. It took a while for her to unlock the front door, which was festooned with chains and bolts.

She sat on the edge of her chair and recounted the events of that day in a soft voice. It was as though she had learned it by heart; her eyes glazed slightly and she focused somewhere beyond the wall.

“It was the seventh of November, nineteen eighty-eight. At four thirty in the afternoon . . .”

Tennison prepared herself to work this lady over. Without taking her eyes from Gilling, she settled herself on the sofa and took out a cigarette, nodding encouragingly.

“I was working in a florist’s, and it was half-day closing. I don’t work there anymore.” She was wringing her hands unconsciously. “The shop is called Delphinia’s, and the owner’s name is Florence Herriot. November the seventh is her birthday. She asked if I would go to the pub with her at lunchtime, for a sherry. I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s, so I did not arrive until . . .” She gave a strangled little cough, as if her throat was too tight, and continued, “I arrived at two thirty-five. I had a glass of sherry and stayed for approximately half an hour. I always come home to get father’s lunch, but on early closing day I have my hair set, so I leave a tray for him.”

There was that strange little cough again. She was really tense now; her hands continually smoothed her skirt over her knees, which were pressed tightly together. Tennison said nothing, just waited for her to go on.

Her body went totally rigid and she had to force herself to speak. “I—I went up the path, I had my key out. I’d opened the door a few inches when . . . he called my name. ‘Pauline! Hallo, Pauline!’ I turned round, but I didn’t recognize him. He was smiling, and . . . he walked up the path towards me, and he said, ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea, Pauline?’ ” She froze, like a rabbit caught in car headlights.

Her mouth was open, but she made no sound. Deliberately, Tennison coughed, and she shook her head as if awakening, then started gabbling. “I said I was sorry, I thought there was some mistake, I didn’t know him. He came very close, pushed me into the hallway, got me by the throat, kept pushing me backwards . . . I was so terrified I couldn’t scream, I was afraid for my father. I tried to defend myself with my handbag, but he grabbed it and hit me with it. The clasp cut my cheek open and broke my front teeth . . .”

After a decent interval, Tennison prompted gently, “And then your father came in?”

“Yes. He was upstairs, I was lying on the floor, and he kept kicking me, then Daddy called out and he ran away. My father is blind, he couldn’t see him, couldn’t be called to identify him . . .” She was going to cry.

“But you were able to pick George Marlow out of the line-up?”

Gilling swallowed, held back her tears. “Oh, yes. He was clever, though; he had a beard when he attacked me, but he shaved it off before the identity parade. I still recognized him. It was his eyes, I will never forget his eyes . . . I know, if it hadn’t been for my father, George Marlow would have killed me.”

Tennison crossed the room and squatted beside Gilling’s chair. “Thank you, you did very well, and I’m sorry to have made you go through it all again.”

Gilling shrank from her, fearing to be touched, and stood up. Her nervousness was beginning to grate on Tennison.

“I go through it all the time, every time the doorbell rings, every strange sound at night . . . I see his face, keep expecting him to come back, to finish . . . I had to leave my job, I can’t sleep. He should have been put away for years, but they let him go after eighteen months. I live in terror of him coming back, because he said he would, he said he’d come back!”

Tennison climbed into the patrol car and breathed a sigh of relief. Beside her, Amson was immersed in a file.

“Marlow had a beard at the time of the rape, shaved it off for the line-up! That matches with what the toms said in Oldham, they thought the guy had a beard.”

He looked up. “D’you think there’s any truth in the story that she gave Marlow the come-on? She’s, what, thirty-eight now, and a spinster . . .”

Tennison bridled. “So am I, it doesn’t mean I want myself raped, and my front teeth kicked in!”

“Take it easy, it’s just that from the description she’s a bit of a dog. Marlow, on the other hand, is a goodlooking bloke, like myself.”

She replied with a laugh. “Be very careful, Sergeant, or you’ll be back rotting in Hornchurch!”

Two men were painting the row of garages on Marlow’s council estate. They were making quite a good job of it, considering neither of them had done much in that line before. A few yards away George Marlow was standing, hands in pockets, watching them.

One of the men went to his nearby van for a new tin of paint. He opened it and stirred it with a screwdriver, then wiped the blade on his already paint-covered overalls.

“Excuse me, are you going to be painting the whole block, or just the garages?” Marlow asked.

“Just this lot, far as we know, mate,” DC Lillie replied.

“They aren’t for residents, you know. Council rents them out to anyone who can afford them. The tenants have to park in the bay over there, known as Radio One . . .” He flashed a grin at Lillie. “Means you had one when you parked it!”

He waited for a response, which didn’t come, so he went on, “I had one, but it was nicked.”

“What, a radio?”

“My car. Rover Mark III, three-liter automatic. More’n twenty years old, collector’s item, you know.” He stared down into the tin of paint, then up at the garages.

Rosper joined in. “You leave it out? Bodywork must ’ave rusted up?”

Marlow touched the paint on the nearest garage door, then peered closer. “Had a bit of filler here and there. Suppose some kids nicked it for a joyride, be stripped down by now. Had all my emblems and badges on the front, RAC and AA, owner’s club . . . all on a chrome bar at the front.” He examined the paint again. “I’m in the paint business, typical of the council . . .” He put a hand out towards Rosper. “Can I just borrow your brush? Like to see how this goes on . . .”

He dipped the brush in the paint and applied a stroke as Rosper and Lillie exchanged glances behind his back. Totally unaware, he said, “You work out, do you?” He glanced round at Rosper. “You look as if you do. What gym do you use?”

He chatted on, painting the door, while they stood and watched.

Late in the afternoon, Tennison and Amson arrived at Brixton Prison to interview convict 56774, Reginald McKinney. While they waited for him to be brought to them, Amson explained that McKinney had shared a cell with Marlow in Durham and had been picked up again a few weeks ago for breaking and entering.

The warder who brought McKinney told them there was a call from the station for them. Tennison asked Amson to take it, then offered the tall, skeletal prisoner a seat.

He was suffering from a migraine, and had come from the hospital ward. One of his eyes watered and his face was twisted in pain. “We’ll try and keep this short, Reg. Now, you shared a cell with George Marlow in Durham, that right?”

“That is correct.”

His eyes were crossing, it was like putting questions to a demented squirrel. “You told your probation officer that you had met Marlow after your release.”

“That is correct.”

“And you were living in a halfway hostel in Camberwell then, yes? So where did you meet?”

McKinney looked up as Amson returned. He kept his back to McKinney and leaned over to whisper to Tennison.

“There’s a buzz on, looks like another one in Warrington. They’ll get back to me when they’ve finished checking.”

Feeling a bit perkier, Tennison turned back to Reg. He said, “I’ve forgotten what you asked me . . . I’ve got a migraine.”

“Where did you and Marlow meet?”

“Oh, yeah . . . Kilburn. We went for a curry, then he drove me back to my place. Bit of a schlepp, an’ I offered to get the tube, but he said it was OK. He wanted to do some work on his motor, in his lock-up.”

Tennison was careful not to show the excitement she was feeling. “Lock-up—you mean a garage?”

“I dunno . . .” He stopped a moment and rubbed his head, in obvious agony. “The car was, like, an obsession with ’im.”

“He never mentioned where this lock-up was?”

“No . . . I got a terrible headache.”

A prison warder put his head round the door. “Urgent call for DCI Tennison.”

Tennison took the call. The team were doing a good job; the Warrington murder had checked out, plus another one, in Southport. Both victims had identical marks on their arms.

George Marlow hung around the garages chatting and joking with Rosper and Lillie until dark. They got on well together, and had done a fair bit of painting, but the two DCs were beginning to wonder when he was going to go home—they couldn’t paint all night. The floodlights had come on around the estate and were just enough to work by, but it wasn’t easy.

“Bit late to be painting, isn’t it?” Marlow enquired.

“We’re on bonus, mate,” Rosper told him. “Never know what’s gonna happen with all this council privatization, so we gotta make the cash while we can.”

Marlow sympathized with them, then launched into a story about a bet he’d had with someone at the gym where he worked out when they heard sirens coming close.

All three turned to watch the cars drive onto the estate. In the first one were DI Muddyman with DC Jones, behind them Tennison and Amson. They had barely come to a halt when Tennison leaped out and ran to catch up with Muddyman.