Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (27 page)

“I had an option, did I?” Moyra interrupted.

Amson placed a thick file on the bare table in front of Tennison. She opened it and extracted a statement.

“You were brought into the station on the sixteenth of January this year, is that correct?”

“If you say so!”

“Is this the statement you made on that occasion?” Tennison laid it in front of her.

Moyra glared at it. “Yesss . . .”

“And is this your signature?”

“Of course it bloody is!”

“Thank you. I would like to draw your attention to the front page—here. It states that you are unemployed, is that correct?”

“It says so, doesn’t it?”

“So you are unemployed.”

“Yes, I’m on the bloody dole. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Tennison extracted another document from the file and put it in front of her. “We have this previous statement from you, dating back to nineteen seventy-five. You were charged with soliciting, and stated your profession as beautician.”

“Is there a law against it?”

“Did your training include a hairdressing course?”

Moyra was getting rattled. She answered abruptly, “No!”

“So you are not a hairdresser?”

“No, but I once had a Siamese cat.”

“So you are a freelance beautician?”

“Yeah, you know, manicures, hands, facials.” She peered at Tennison across the table. “You could do with a facial, smoking’s very bad for your skin.”

“Do you work as a beautician?”

“What do you want to know all this for? You think George is a transvestite now, do you?”

“George Marlow, your common-law husband, is still under suspicion of murder. I need the answers to my questions to help us eliminate him from our enquiries.”

“Pull the other one, you’re just interested in incriminating him.”

“I’d like you to tell me where you were on these dates: March the fifteenth, nineteen eighty-four . . .”

“No ruddy idea, darlin’. Ask me another.”

“The second of November nineteen eighty-five. Twenty-third of July, nineteen eighty-six. Ninth of April nineteen eighty-seven.”

“I dunno, I’d have to look in me diaries, not that I’ve got them that far back.” She bent down and started fiddling with her shoe.

“They were dates when your common-law husband was traveling in Warrington, Oldham, Burnley, Rochdale . . .”

Moyra looked up. “Oh, in that case I was with him. I always travel with him.”

“So on the dates that I have mentioned, you are pretty sure that you were with George, yes?”

“I travel with him, I stay with him.”

“Doing freelance work as a beautician?”

“Well, yeah. I do a bit.”

“In salons?”

“Yeah, no law against that.”

“There is if you’ve been claiming unemployment benefit and not declaring income, or paying tax on it. There’s a law against that.”

Moyra actually shrank back in her chair, though her answer was bold enough. “It’s nothing, just a bit of cash, you know, pin money.”

“How long do you think it would take for me to check out just how much you’ve been earning?”

“You bastards never give anyone a break.”

“I’ll give you a break, Moyra. No charges if—
if
—you give us a detailed list of the salons you’ve worked in, the names of your clients . . .”

As Tennison placed a pen and a sheet of paper in front of Moyra, Amson leaned over and whispered to her. With a nod to Havers, she followed him from the room.

“If this pins any of those cases on Marlow, she’s virtually making herself an accessory!”

“What are you suggesting?” Tennison snapped. “Get her lawyer in just when she’s co-operating?”

“You’re jumping the gun. What we need is a lever, something to push Marlow with. She’s his alibi, and so far she’s not backed down on that.”

Tennison banged the coffee machine with the flat of her hand. “Christ, you’re right! An’ we need a fucking lever to make this machine work . . .” She looked at her watch. “OK, leave it with me. I’ll have one more go.” She smiled. “But gently does it!”

Moyra was beginning to look tired. She leaned her head in her hand.

“I’ve listed the salons, but that doesn’t mean to say that I work there regular. Sometimes they don’t have any customers for me, and it’s mostly manicures.”

“What’s this Noo-Nail?” Tennison asked, looking over the paper.

“It’s American, paint-on nails; your own grow underneath.” She held out a hand for Tennison to inspect. “See, they look real, don’t they? But that part’s false.”

Havers, trying to look interested, stifled a yawn. Amson was half-asleep.

“Aah, I see!” Tennison nodded, then asked nonchalantly, “Did you do Miss Pauline Gilling’s nails?”

Without a flicker, Moyra replied, “Look, love, I do so many, I don’t know all their names.”

“Surely you’d remember Pauline Gilling? George was sent down for attacking her . . .” She pushed a photograph across the table.

Moyra refused to look at the photo and snapped, “No, no! An’ she lied, she came on to George! She’d been in the pub, she lied . . .”

“What about Della Mornay? Did you do her nails?” She put another photograph on the table.

“No!”

“Take a look, Moyra. Della Mornay.”

“I don’t know her!”

“No? You stated that George returned home on the night of the thirteenth of January this year at ten-thirty . . .”

Under pressure again, Moyra fought back. “Yes! Look, I know my rights, this isn’t on! I’ve been here for hours, I’ve answered your questions, now I want a lawyer.”

“George’s car, the brown Rover, where is it? We know he has a lock-up, Moyra, and we’ll find it, it’s just a question of time. I’ll need to talk to you again.” She stood up. “OK, you can go, thank you.”

“Is that it? I can go home?”

Tennison nodded and walked to the door, leaving Moyra nonplussed.

It was light before Moyra got home. George made her a cup of coffee and brought it to her in the lounge.

“Bastards are going to get me for fiddling the dole and tax evasion. They know I’ve been working.”

“They kept you all night just for that?”

“There were a few other things.”

“What? What did she want to know? Ask about me, did she?”

Moyra stood up and started unbuttoning her blouse. “What do you think?”

She walked out of the room and, after a moment’s hesitation, Marlow followed her to the bedroom. She tossed her blouse aside and unzipped her skirt, leaving it where it fell. He picked them up and folded them while she went into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the bath taps.

“What are you following me around for?”

“I just want to know what went on!”

She turned to him, snapping. “They wanted to know about the bloody florist! Kept asking me about her. I’ve stood by you, George, but so help me if I find you’ve been lying to me I’ll . . .”

She turned and walked out. “Put some Badedas in for me . . .”

He picked up the big yellow bottle and squirted some of the contents into the water, then stood in the doorway, watching her cream her face.

“I’ve never lied to you, Moyra, you know that.” He reached out to touch her but she slapped his hand away, finished wiping her face with a tissue.

“Where’s the car, George?”

“It was stolen, I don’t know where it is.”

She picked up her hairbrush. “It wasn’t here, George. You came home that night without it. I remember because your hair was wet, you said it was raining.” She turned to him while she brushed her hair, slowly. “Is it in the lock-up? They’re going to get you because of that bloody car . . . They can plant evidence, you know, and they’re out to get you.”

“What did they say?”

“The bath’ll run over.”

“What did they say?”

“Maybe they’ve already found it, I dunno. I’ve got my own problems. They’ll get me just for doing a few manicures.” She threw the brush down on the dressingtable and stormed into the bathroom. Marlow picked up the brush and began to run it through his hair.

Peter looked around the efficiency. It was clean and close to the building yard. The best thing was the rent, a hundred a week. He had paid the landlady up front for a month. Dumping his suitcase without bothering to unpack, he went straight out again, arriving outside Marianne’s just after breakfast. He watched from a distance until Marianne’s husband had taken Joey to school, then rang the bell.

Marianne offered her cheek, which he kissed, and coffee, which he accepted. She tidied the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and sat opposite him at the kitchen table.

“I’ve moved, so if you need me, here’s my new address,” he told her.

“Oh, so it didn’t work out with the policewoman?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Really? Because I won’t be able to have Joey to stay? Well, wrong, because he can stay with me for as long as need be.”

Marianne unfolded the small note of his address and got up to pin it on the notice-board. He sipped his lukewarm coffee and asked, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Do you want toast?”

“No. I want to know if this new baby’s mine. Is it?”

“What?”

“Come on, don’t mess me around. I got the sort of nudge, nudge when you came round, so tell me the truth. Is it mine?”

“Well, of course not, don’t be ridiculous!”

“That afternoon, it could have been mine, couldn’t it?”

“No, I’m too far gone. I must have been pregnant, or just . . . Look, Pete, that was a stupid mistake, and I don’t know why I let it happen. I’m sorry if by going to bed with you that one time I let you think . . .”

“Wait, wait! I don’t think anything, I just wanted to know for sure, and now I do, I’ll go.”

She caught his arm. “I’m sorry, Pete, I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I’m truly sorry. But it was just something that happened.”

“Just something?”

Peter walked to the front door. He felt helpless, inadequate, there was so much more to say but he didn’t know how to begin. The sweet smell of her in her dressing-gown, her softness, got in the way of his anger. It always had.

His hand was on the door, about to open it, when he turned back. “I want Joey, every other weekend. I’ll start paying maintenance as soon as my business is on its feet.”

Marianne nodded, but before she could say anything he had the door open. “Goodbye, then,” she said at last.

Peter didn’t reply. All the way down the neat gravel path, across the street to his truck, he couldn’t even think straight. How had it happened? One day, a wife he adored, a son he doted on, a secure business, a house—albeit with a mortgage . . . He had had so much, and now it was gone. Marianne had a bigger house, a new husband, another baby on the way, and all Peter had was a rented efficiency and a suitcase. Even his business was in bad shape. In fact, no matter how he viewed his life, he was on a downward spiral. He just couldn’t understand how it had happened that his best friend, a man he had been at school with, trusted and liked, had taken everything from him.

As he drove off, Marianne watched from an upstairs window. She felt wretched, part morning sickness and part guilt. She was genuinely sorry for him, sorry for leaving him, sorry for everything that had happened. He was such a kind, gentle man. She had never set out to fall in love with someone else, it was just one of those things. It upset her that he had believed the new baby was his, but she hadn’t lied.

She patted the curtains back into place and ran herself a bath. While she waited she started making out a list of groceries and Peter was forgotten.

Peter unpacked his belongings and went to a café for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. He arrived at work much later than usual and one of his chippies asked if everything was OK.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“How’s the Inspector?”

“That’s all in the past.”

“Can’t say I blame you. That one looked as if she’d nick you if you laid a finger on her!”

Peter laughed loudly, and the chippie pushed the day’s mail across the untidy desk. “Looks like a lot of bills to me, guv’nor. Be out back if you need me.”

Peter had hardly given Jane a thought since he left. She had been important to him for the time he had been with her, but he knew he wouldn’t see her again. There really wasn’t any point. If the truth was on the line, there was a side to her that he hated, that masculine, pushy side. She had never been his kind of woman, and he doubted if any man could cope with a woman who loved her career more than anything else. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to all the ramifications of who had done what, how and to whom, and what she was going to do about it. He wouldn’t have to hear about her “toms,” her “lads,” or that bloody George Marlow. The next girl would be young, pretty and without prospects, and he’d make sure she could cook, didn’t mind ironing shirts and liked kids.

“Boss! Karen’s photographs have arrived.”

Tennison turned from the washbasin where she was brushing her hair. “Be right with you.”

“Everybody’s waiting in the Incident Room, and . . . the Super’s in there.”

Tennison was suddenly not so cheerful. “Shit! OK, I’ll be there.”

A few moments later she found Superintendent Kernan standing in the middle of the Incident Room among a general hubbub. The moment she entered the room, silence fell.

“Sorry, guv, you wanted to see me?” She felt a flush creeping up her face.

“Just a few moments.” He gestured to the door, then said to Amson, “Carry on.”

Tennison waited for him at the door and followed him out, hearing Terry Amson saying, “Right, I want everybody to have a look at these new photographs of Karen Howard . . .” She closed the door behind her and faced Kernan.

“This was on my desk when I came in.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “They backed you one hundred per cent, refused to have Hicock take over. Did you know about it?”

Every single man had signed the petition. Tennison’s eyes brimmed with tears. “No . . . No, I didn’t.”

“Things have taken a big turn, eh? You’re lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, sir. We’ve worked our butts off.”

“Let me have all the new information as soon as possible, and”—he smiled—“good luck!”