Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (30 page)

“The carpet’s been scrubbed, smells of cleaning fluid, and it’s damp. What’s this? Looks like a tiny gold screw.” He dropped it into the bag his assistant held open for him and something else caught his attention. “Was your girl blond?” he called over to Burkin and Jones as he carefully stashed a single blond hair into a bag.

Burkin was examining a jacket, peering at it through the plastic bag. “I got one of these jackets from his flat, he must have two sets of clothes . . . See his shoes, did you take his shoes from the flat?”

DC Jones wasn’t ready for it, couldn’t understand how it happened, but one moment he was doing his job, sorting through the gear, and the next he burst into tears. He stood there, unable to control his sobs, almost in surprise.

Burkin put an arm around his shoulder. “Go an’ grab a coffee, a few of the others might feel like one, OK?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I dunno what made me get like this . . .”

Peering into the cabinet again, Burkin replied, “We all go through it, Dave. I think it’s just natural, a release . . . Mine’s black, no sugar.”

Jones threaded his way across the duckboards, mindful of the plastic sheeting. He had to turn back because he couldn’t remember if it was four black and six white or the other way round.

The silent shadows of the men loomed on the walls where hideous splashes of blood, and worse, had dried. The greenish glow of the fluorescent lights and the brightness of the arc-lights did nothing to lift the dank darkness, the stench, the horror. This was where that sweet girl was brought; he could only imagine her terror, only imagine it.

DI Burkin had pulled out a thick black wardrobe bag, the kind used by the uppercrust type of dry cleaners. It was strong, would have fitted a full-length evening gown, and it had a zip from one end to the other. It was slightly open at one end and he could see a tangle of blond hair jammed in the teeth. They knew Marlow was strong—this had to be how he had carried his victims undetected, zipped up in the wardrobe bag, hung over his arm . . .

It was not for Burkin to find out, that was down to Forensic, but be wondered. He placed it into a see-through evidence bag, tagged it, then bent to check over Marlow’s shoes. They were all neatly wrapped in clingfilm, ready to slip on and walk out, or walk into Della Mornay’s efficiency. No wonder they had been unable to find a single item, a single fiber, in her room.

The tape recorder emitted a high-pitched bleep, and Tennison started talking.

“This is a recorded interview. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison. Also present are Detective Sergeant Terence Amson and Mr. Arnold Upcher. We are situated in room 5-C at Southampton Row Metropolitan Police Station. The date is Thursday the first of February, nineteen ninety. The time is four forty-five pm.”

Tennison nodded to Marlow. “Would you please state your full name, address and date of birth?”

He leaned forward and directed his voice towards the built-in microphone. “George Arthur Marlow, twenty-one High Grove Estate, Maida Vale. Born in Warrington, eleventh September, nineteen fifty-one.”

“Do you understand why you have been arrested?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I guess so.”

“It is my duty formally to caution you, and warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. You have been arrested on suspicion of the murders of Karen Howard and Deirdre Mornay. Do you understand?”

“I am not guilty.” Marlow turned and looked at Upcher.

“Would you please describe to me the meeting that took place between yourself and Karen Howard on the night of January the thirteenth, nineteen ninety.”

“I didn’t know her name, I was told her name later,” Marlow began. “She approached me. I asked how much she wanted. I drove her to some waste ground and had sex with her. I paid her for sex. I didn’t know her, I had never seen or met her before. Then after I dropped her off at the tube station . . .”

“What about the cut on her hand? In a previous statement you said that she, Karen, cut her hand on the car radio which was between the seats.” Tennison held up the statement for Upcher to see.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“The statement was taken on the fifteenth of January, nineteen-ninety. We have since discovered that there is no radio between the front seats of your car.”

He didn’t seem to register what she had said. He began. “I was at home at ten thirty . . .”

“So, you arrived home at ten thirty that night. Could you tell us what time you next left the flat?”

“I didn’t, I watched television with my wife.”

“You are referring to your common-law wife, Miss Moyra Henson, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Henson made a statement at three forty-five this afternoon. She states that you actually left the flat again at fifteen minutes to eleven. She cannot recall exactly when you returned, but you returned without your car. She says that your car was not stolen from outside your block of flats.”

“She’s wrong! My car was nicked, I never went out again.”

“You have denied having any previous contact with Karen Howard.”

“Yeah, never met her before the night she picked me up . . .”

“Miss Henson has, on occasion, worked at a booth in Covent Garden. She has admitted that she met Karen, and that she gave her a nail treatment. You were there at the time and you spoke to Karen. Is that true?”

“No.” Marlow shook his head.

“You have also denied knowing the other victim, Deirdre Mornay, also known as Della. Miss Henson agrees, however, that contrary to her first statement, in which she too denied knowing Miss Mornay, she was in fact lying. I suggest that you are also lying and that you did know Della Mornay.”

Marlow sat back in his chair, folded his arms. “I don’t believe you play these games. Moyra is scared to death that you are going to arrest her for tax evasion and claiming unemployment benefit. She’s terrified of the police since she was picked up on a false charge of prostitution. Well, you don’t scare me, I’m innocent.” He spoke to Upcher. “I don’t have to answer any more questions, do I?”

The team were kicking their heels in the Incident Room. Jones asked generally, “How’s the guv’nor? She must be knackered.”

Burkin shook his head. “Taking a long time. After what we found in the lock-up, I don’t think he’d admit to knowing his own mother right now.”

Slumped in chairs, perched on desks, propped against walls, they waited.

Marlow was looking tired. “How many more times do I have to tell you?”

Tennison pressed on. “This morning?” she prompted.

“I told you, I got an anonymous call, I dunno who it was. He says to me that he knows where my car is, he’s seen it on the TV program, right? It’s been reported stolen, right?”

“What time was the call?”

“Oh, about ten . . . Anyway, he says he knows where the car is, at King’s Cross.”

“He told you that your car was in a lock-up at King’s Cross, yes? Did he give you the keys?” Marlow shrugged, and she went on, “Mr. Marlow, you were seen unlocking the door.”

He answered angrily, “Because he said I could get them from a Greek guy in a coffee bar. So I picked up the keys, but I didn’t find my car because just as I opened the door the police jumped on me! I don’t know why I have to keep repeating myself,” he said to Upcher. “I’ve told them all this a dozen times . . .”

Tennison showed no sign of fatigue or impatience as she asked, “What was the Greek man’s name?”

“I dunno, the tip-off just gave me the address of the café.” He sighed.

Arnold Upcher shifted his position, checked his watch and glanced at Tennison. He was getting fed up. He looked around; Amson had sat down in the corner.

“Stavros Hulanikis has sub-let the lock-up to a man he knows as John Smith for eight years. After you collected the keys from him this morning, an officer, Detective Inspector Burkin, took a statement from him. Your Greek friend also does certain items of dry-cleaning and laundry for you, doesn’t he?”

Marlow shook his head in disbelief, not bothering to answer. Tennison continued, “Come on, George, how did you get Karen into the efficiency? Where are Della’s keys? You know the place was empty, didn’t you? You knew, because Della Mornay was already dead.”

Marlow leaned towards her. “You are trying to put words into my mouth,” he said emphatically. “Well, that’s it, I’m not saying another thing.” He appealed to Upcher: “Tell her that’s enough! I agreed to this interview, I’ve done nothing but assist them from the word go! I want to go home.”

Upcher replied quietly, “That won’t be possible, George,” then turned to Tennison. “It’s almost ten.”

Marlow was getting really uptight. He shouted, “I wanna go to the toilet, I wanna have a piss, all right? I have to call my mother, I don’t want her reading in the papers that you arrested me again! I want to be the one to tell her—”

“I agree to a fifteen-minute break,” Tennison told Upcher. To Marlow she said, “You will not be allowed to see Miss Henson, or make any phone calls until this interview is terminated. I will arrange for Miss Henson to phone your mother . . .”

Marlow pushed his chair back as if to stand up. Amson moved towards him.

“No! They don’t get on. I don’t want Moyra calling my mother.” He sighed with irritation and stood up with his hands on his hips, facing Tennison. “This is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, all right, I did it.”

Upcher jumped to his feet. Tennison just sat and stared at Marlow, then managed to pull her wits together.

“Could you repeat that? You are still under caution.”

Marlow closed his eyes. She could see his long lashes, every line of his handsome face. He licked his top lip, then he opened his eyes. The color seemed even more startling, the pupils were like pin-points. As if watching in slow motion, Tennison felt every tiny movement recorded in her mind.

He tilted his head to the right, then to the left, and smiled. No one in the room moved; they all focused on Marlow, on his strange, eerie smile.

“I said I did it.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Everyone in the room except George Marlow held their breath, ready to explode, but he seemed totally relaxed. Eventually Tennison breathed out and said, “Please sit down, George.”

He slumped into his seat. She watched him closely as she asked, “What exactly did you do?”

He checked them off on his fingers. “Karen, Della, Angela, Sharon, Ellen and . . .” He screwed up his eyes, trying to remember, then snapped his fingers. “That’s right, Jeannie . . .”

Only Tennison’s eyes reflected the impact of his words. George Arthur Marlow had just casually admitted to killing all six victims.

12

W
hen George Marlow had been led back to his cell, DCI Tennison lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The welter of emotions inside her was under rigid control, and she showed none of it to the others in the room.

She had just caught the man she had devoted every ounce of her energy to catching, a man who had caused her the loss of the only lover she had ever really cared about, had deprived her of sleep for days on end, had nearly lost her job and her self-respect. She sat quietly and smoked her cigarette down to the filter, then stubbed it out.

DC Jones, his face flushed, raced into the bar of the local pub. Pushing the other regulars aside, he stopped in the middle of the floor, raised his hands in triumph and yelled, “He’s bloody admitted it! All six of them, he’s admitted doing the lot!”

The team rose to their feet as a man, although one of them was Maureen Havers. The cheer went up; Jones grabbed Havers and danced her around the floor as everyone congratulated everyone else.

A group of DIs from another team looked on the feverish celebration with interest. When Havers finally sat down again, one of them came over to her, carrying his pint.

“What gives?”

Beaming, Havers replied, “Our guv’nor’s just got a suspect to admit to six charges of murder! Biggest case this station’s ever had . . .”

DI Caldicott returned to his own table and spoke to his mates. The racket in the bar was so great that no one else could hear what he was saying, but they all turned to stare at Tennison’s team and raised their glasses in salute.

DCI Tennison was facing the Superintendent across his desk. He poured her a large whisky and said, as he handed it to her, “Well, congratulations! The trial’ll be a long process, but you go home now and get some sleep, you deserve it.”

“Yeah, I need it. It was a long night.” She looked and sounded exhausted. Downing the whisky in one, she stood up and made for the door.

The phone rang and the Super picked it up. “Kernan . . . Yes, just a moment.” He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Tennison. “You were right to stick to your guns. Six counts of murder! And the beautician link . . . It was a woman’s case, after all!”

He put the phone to his ear again, dismissively, and swiveled round in his chair; it’s business as usual. “I’m putting Caldicott on it,” he said into the phone. “They’re bringing the son in for questioning.”

Tennison rose to the bait. “Fifty per cent of murder victims are women, so it looks as if I might have my hands full!” she retorted.

The door slammed behind her before Kernan could swivel round to reply.

“Woman’s case, my arse!” Tennison muttered to herself, still seething about Kernan’s comment. She spotted Maureen Havers peering at her from the double doors further down the corridor.

“Maureen, any of the lads about?”

Havers replied casually, “Oh, I don’t think so, we were all on two till ten. Oh, DCI Jenkins wants the Incident Room cleared, could you pop along before you leave?”

Pursing her lips, Tennison pushed through the other side of the doors and marched towards the Incident Room. Havers hung back and watched her go.

The Incident Room was crammed to bursting, but surprisingly quiet. Every single member of Tennison’s team was there. Someone called, “Here she is!” and they all watched expectantly as the door handle turned.

Tennison walked in to cheers, whistles and the sound of popping corks. A huge bunch of flowers was pressed into her hand and Burkin started singing, the others quickly joining in: “Why was she born so beautiful, why was she born at all? She’s no bloody use to anyone, she’s no bloody good at all!”