Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (3 page)

With the clean shirt over his arm, Otley whistled on his way back to the station.

At eleven, Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison parked her Ford Fiesta and entered Southampton Row police station. It was a crisp, frosty day, and she was wrapped up well against the cold.

She was officially off-duty, but had come in to prepare some final papers for a session in court the next day.

None of the blood samples taken from the efficiency had yielded a clue to the identity of Della Mornay’s killer. Hers was a very common group and the only one found at the scene. But the DNA tests on the semen taken from her body were a different matter.

The new computerized DNA system was still at the experimental stage, but already the results of thousands of tests taken in the past two years had been entered on it. As a matter of routine, Willy Chang’s forensic team ran the result from Della Mornay against the existing records and were astonished to find a match; a visual check on the negatives, using a light-box, confirmed it. The man Della Mornay had had sex with shortly before her murder had been convicted of attempted rape and aggravated robbery in 1988.

Willy Chang was jubilant; here was the lever they needed to press the government into releasing funds for a national DNA profiling system. He picked up the phone.

The message caught Shefford on Lambeth Bridge, on his way home for lunch and only a stone’s throw from the Home Office labs. He hung up the handset, turned the car around immediately and punched Otley’s arm.

“You’re not gonna believe this, we got a friggin’ suspect! He’s got a rare blood group and it’s on the ruddy computer!”

For the past three months DCI Tennison had been working on a tedious fraud case involving a tobacconist who was being sued for non-payment of VAT. The man’s ferret of an accountant had more tricks up his sleeve than a conjuror, and a long series of medical certificates exempting him from court appearances. But tomorrow, at last, Judge George Philpott would complete his summing-up. Known as the legal equivalent of Cary Grant for his good looks and slow delivery, Philpott had already taken two days; Tennison hoped he would finish quickly for once so she would have time to check her desk before the end of the day.

Not that there would be anything of interest; in all her time on the special Area Major Incident Team, known as AMIT, there had been little but desk work. She had often wondered why she had bothered switching from the Flying Squad, where at least she had been busy. The set-up of five DCIs and their teams had appealed to her, and she had believed she would be able to use her skills to the full.

Sitting at her desk, Tennison heard a screech of brakes from the car park. She glanced out of the window in time to see Shefford racing into the building.

“What’s DCI Shefford doing in today, Maureen?” she asked her assistant, WPC Havers. “He’s supposed to be on leave.”

“I think he’s heading the investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Prostitute found dead in her room in Milner Road.”

“They got a suspect?” Tennison snapped.

“Not yet, but they’re getting all the Vice files on the victim’s pals.”

Tennison bristled. “How did Shefford get it? I was here until after ten last night!”

Maureen shrugged. “I dunno, guv, I think it was a middle-of-the-night job. Probably hauled him out of the afters session in the pub.”

“But he’s only just finished with that shooting in Kilburn—and there were the Iranian diplomats before that.”

Tennison clenched her fists and stormed out. Maureen winced at the banging of the door.

DCI Tennison paced up and down the corridor, trying to talk herself down. Eighteen months she’d been waiting for a decent case, dealing with more paperwork than in her entire time at the rape center in Reading, and now the boss had gone out of his way to give DCI Shefford the case that should have been hers. She’d known when she applied for the transfer that she would be in for a tough time; had she stayed where she was she’d have been promoted to a desk job by now.

But five years with the Flying Squad had toughened her up. She went back to her room and put a call through to the Chief’s office, determined to have it out with him, but he was in a meeting. She tried to work on her statements for the court hearing but her frustration wouldn’t let her concentrate.

At midday Tennison was again disturbed by the racing of engines from the car park. Shefford was off again, and in a hell of a hurry. She gave up trying to work and packed her things; it was nearly lunchtime anyway.

Tennison missed the “heat” as Shefford gathered his team together, his booming voice hurling insults as he fired orders at them. He was moving fast on the unbelievable stroke of luck that had given him his suspect on a plate.

George Arthur Marlow had been sentenced to three years for attempted rape and assault, but had served only eighteen months. He had still been protesting his innocence when he was led away from the dock.

The case had been a long-drawn-out affair as Marlow insisted he was innocent. At first he had denied even knowing the victim, referred to only as “Miss X,” but when faced with the evidence he told the police that he and “Miss X” had been drinking together in a wine bar. He stated that she had blatantly encouraged his advances, but when it came to the crunch she refused him.

Marlow’s blood tests at the time had shown him to have an exceptionally rare blood group; he belonged to a small percentage of AB secreters, of whom there is only one in 2,500 head of population. He had been one of the first to be entered on the new computer, and when a lab assistant ran his details through the system she hit the jackpot.

The warrant was ready. Shefford high on adrenaline, called his men together. Already he had dribbled coffee down his clean shirt, and he followed it now with cigarette ash. Otley brushed him down as he bellowed, “DCI Donald Paxman holds the record in the Met, lads, for bringing in a suspect and charging him within twenty-four hours. Gimme me raincoat . . . cigarettes, who’s got me cigarettes?”

He shrugged into his coat with the effortless ability of the permanently crumpled man, lighting a cigarette at the same time and switching it from hand to hand as his big fists thrust down the sleeves. “We smash that record, lads, and it’s drinks all round, so let’s go! Go, go!”

Jane Tennison let herself into her small service flat which she had shared for the last three months with her boyfriend, Peter Rawlins. Six feet tall, broad-chested, his sandy hair invariably flecked with paint, he was the first man she had lived with on a permanent basis.

Peter came out of the kitchen when he heard her key in the door and beamed at her. “OK, we’ve got Chicken Kiev with brown rice, how does that suit?”

“Suits me fine!”

She dumped her briefcase on the hall table and he gave her a hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. “Bad day?”

She nodded and walked into the bedroom, tossing her coat on the bed. He lolled in the doorway. “Want to talk about it?”

“When I’ve had a shower.”

They had spent a lot of time talking since they had met; Peter had been in the throes of divorce and Jane had provided a sympathetic ear. Marianne had left him for another man; it had hit him hard because it was not just any other man, but Peter’s best friend and partner in his building firm, And she had taken with her the little son he adored, Joey.

Jane and Peter’s relationship had begun casually enough; they had been teamed together in the squash club tournament and had since met on several occasions for the odd drink or cup of coffee after a game. Eventually he had asked her to see a film with him, and on that first real date she had listened to the details of his divorce. It was only after several films that he had even made an attempt to kiss her.

Jane had helped Peter to move into a temporary flat while his house was sold, and gradually their relationship had become closer. When he started looking for a permanent place to live she suggested he move in with her for a while. It wasn’t very romantic, but as the weeks passed she found herself growing more and more fond of him. He was easygoing, caring and thoughtful. When he told her he loved her and suggested they look for a bigger place together, she agreed. It was a pleasant surprise to her how much she wanted to be with him.

When she had showered, Jane sat at the table in her dressing gown and Peter presented his Chicken Kiev with a flourish. She was so grateful and happy that she had someone to share her life with that she forgot her problems for a moment.

As he opened a bottle of wine she cocked her head to one side and smiled. “You know, I’m getting so used to you, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. I guess what I’m trying to say in my roundabout way is—”

“Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass.

“Yeah, to you, to me, to us . . .”

Marlow seemed dazed by the arrival of the police. He stood in the narrow hallway of his flat, holding a cup of coffee, apparently unable to comprehend what they wanted.

“George Arthur Marlow, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder . . .” Otley had to repeat the caution, then remove the cup from Marlow’s hand himself to put the handcuffs on him.

Moyra Henson, Marlow’s girlfriend, appeared from the kitchen, followed by the smell of roasting lamb.

“What the hell’s going on here? Oi, where are you taking him? He hasn’t had his dinner . . .”

Ignoring her, they led Marlow out to the car as quickly as possible. In his bewilderment, he almost cracked his head on the roof of the patrol car as he was helped inside.

The uniformed officers went in to search the flat, while a WPC took Moyra into the kitchen and told her that Marlow had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of a prostitute. Moyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head, disbelieving.

“There’s been a terrible mistake, you can’t do this to him, it’s a mistake . . .” She broke away from the WPC and ran to the front door. She shrieked like a banshee when she realized the police were taking out clear plastic bags of clothing at a rate of knots. Marlow’s shoes, jackets, shirts, all listed and tagged, were shown to Moyra while she protested shrilly. But she didn’t attempt to stop the officers, and they remained for hours, searching and removing items. When they had finished, Moyra was taken to the police station for questioning.

She was no longer irate, but coldly angry. She hated the pigs, hated them. They had already put George inside for a crime she knew he hadn’t committed, and now she was sure they were about to frame him for murder. All the whodunnits she watched on video and the moral standpoints of
Dallas
and
EastEnders
had taught her her rights, and not to trust the bastards.

Jane lay curled in Peter’s arms, telling him about Shefford and his attitude to her; not quite openly antagonistic but near enough. It was pretty much the same with all the men, but Shefford was so macho that he took pleasure in sending her up, albeit behind her back.

It was still a new thing for her to have someone to listen to her problems. She had been in such a foul mood when she had arrived home, making love to him had taken all the tension away. It was good to have Peter, to feel loved and wanted. She told him how the Chief had given her the usual speech about waiting, but she had to make a decision soon. The longer she waited and accepted the cases no one else wanted, the more she knew she would be put upon. If Kernan didn’t give her a break she would quit. The men gave her no respect . . .

Peter laughed. “They don’t know you, do they?”

She grinned. “No, I suppose they don’t. I’ll get a break one day, and by Christ they’ll know what’s hit them then.”

He bit her ear. “Get them to play a game of squash with you, they’ll soon take notice of that determined little face. First time I played against you I thought: Holy shit, this one’s a maniac.”

She laughed her wonderful, deep, throaty laugh. When they made love it no longer mattered that her bosses had overlooked her; only Peter was important. She had said it to him that afternoon, and told him she loved him.

He cuddled her close. “I’m glad we’ve got each other, because things are not going too well for me. We may have to stave off looking for a bigger place, the company’s in bad shape and I’m having to spend capital until I get back on my feet.”

She murmured that it didn’t matter, the place was big enough. She asked him then how it had felt, knowing his wife was having an affair with his best friend, a subject she had always steered clear of.

He sighed, stared up at the ceiling. “Like my balls had been cut off. I couldn’t believe it at first, it must have been going on for years behind my back. Then I felt like a bloody fool, you know, that I hadn’t clocked it faster. He was always round the house, but we were partners and I just accepted that he was there to see me. And he was screwing my wife in my own bed!” He punched his palm, hard; it made a satisfying smack. He sighed again. “I wanted to beat him up, have it out that way, but there was no point. I just walked away from it all. She’s got half the money from the house and I bought him out of the company, that’s one of the reasons why cash is so tight at the moment. I should have just told him to fuck off, but I’m not like that and there’s Joey to consider. I reckoned that if I got nasty about the divorce she’d try to stop me seeing Joey. I love that kid, couldn’t bear not to see him.”

Jane stroked his cheek gently. “Any time you want him to stay he’s welcome, you know that, don’t you?”

He hugged her. “Yeah, I do, and I appreciate it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I know things’ll work out for you, just be patient.”

She smiled, without mentioning that it was exactly what her Chief’s attitude had been. But she had no intention of being patient. Peter didn’t really understand how important her work was to her, but he was to find out sooner than either of them anticipated.

George Marlow was quiet and co-operative. His fingerprints were taken and he was led to the cells. He stammered a little when he asked to phone his lawyer, seeming shaken, and gave the number. Although on the point of tears, he went out of his way to be helpful, but he still kept asking why he had been arrested.