Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (4 page)

Shefford had been on the go all day. Now he was preparing himself to question Marlow. His face was flushed and he was chain-smoking, cracking jokes; it was obvious that the adrenaline was still flowing.

The men on the team were clapping him on the back, calling him a lucky bastard, what a break! Several were laying bets on the outcome.

DI Burkin suddenly remembered something. “Hey, it’s his kid’s birthday tomorrow! While we’ve all got our hands in our pockets, we gonna chip in an’ buy him something? You know Otley, he’s so tightfisted the kid won’t even get an ice-cream cornet from him. What d’you say, fifty pence each?” In great humor, they all coughed up.

Before he went down to the interview room, Shefford called his home to tell Sheila, his wife, that he would be late and she shouldn’t wait up. He was too keyed up to pay much attention to what she was saying.

“You didn’t answer me this morning, John. Have you booked the clown for Tom’s party?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it sorted . . .” He handed the phone to Bill Otley and whispered, “Talk to the missus, mate, you’re his bloody godfather, after all. I haven’t got time . . .”

He lit another cigarette and turned to the files as Otley took the phone and promised faithfully that he would dress up as a clown himself if they couldn’t get Biffo for the birthday party.

The lads had been wrong about their skipper; Otley had spent more time and money in Hamley’s toy shop that weekend than they could credit. The train sets had cost an arm and a leg, but he was prepared to dip into his savings. He and Ellen had spent hours planning what they would spend it on when he retired; now his godson would be the one to benefit. It was making the decision that took the time, as well as wandering around enjoying himself in the store.

Otley replaced the receiver and turned to Shefford. “OK, guv? Need anything else? Marlow’s brief’s on his way, be about an hour. Arnold Upcher, represented him on his last caper. Tough bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t scream a lot like some of the buggers.”

Shefford winked. “I want a crack at ’im before Upcher gets here. Nice one for us, eh? What a stroke of fuckin’ luck! See if we can’t sew up Paxman’s record. Get a bottle of fizz over to Forensic lot, tell ’em I love ’em, and tell Willy to stand by for all the gear from Marlow’s place. And, yeah, I’m ready, let’s go for the bastard.”

George Marlow was sitting in the cell with his hands in his lap, head bowed. He was wearing a blue striped shirt with the white collar open at the neck; his tie had been taken away from him. His gray flannels were neatly pressed and his jacket hung over the back of his chair.

With his Mediterranean looks it was obvious that he would have to shave twice a day, but as yet his chin was clean. He raised his head when a uniformed officer opened the door and asked him politely to accompany him to the interview room.

DCI Shefford had given instructions that Upcher was to be stalled if he arrived early. He wanted a chance to question Marlow without his lawyer present. He drew himself up to his full height, threw his massive shoulders back and strode down the corridor to Room 4C. He noticed the way Marlow actually jumped with shock when he kicked the door open.

With a gesture to Marlow to remain seated, he swung a hard wooden chair around with one hand, placing it exactly opposite the suspect, and sat down.

“George? I am Detective Chief Inspector John Shefford. This is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, and that’s DC Jones over by the door. Before we get involved with your lawyer—I mean, we might not even need him—I just want to ask you a few questions, OK?”

He drew the ashtray towards him, scraping it along the formica of the table until it squealed, then lit a cigarette. “You smoke, George?”

“No, sir.”

“Good . . . Right then, George, can you tell us where you were on the night of the thirteenth of January? Take your time.”

Marlow kept his head down. “January the thirteenth? Saturday? Well, that’s easy. I was at home with my wife. We don’t usually go out, we get a video and a takeaway . . . Yeah, I was with my wife.”

“Your wife? You mean Moyra Henson, the girl you’re living with? She said she’s not your wife, she’s your girlfriend. Which is it, George? Come on, son, don’t mess us about.”

“Well, she’s my common-law wife, we’re not actually married.”

Shefford’s tongue felt and tasted like an old carpet. He searched his pockets and found a wrinkled piece of Wrigley’s chewing gum at the bottom. It must have been there for some time as it had lost its outer wrapper, and the silver paper was covered with fluff and ash from using the pocket as an ashtray. He picked the foil off, examined the gray gum, then popped it in his mouth and chewed furiously. Marlow watched his every move, as if transfixed.

Shefford folded the wrapper into a narrow strip, ran his fingernail down it, then tossed it aside and lit a cigarette. “What were you doing, say around ten o’clock?” he asked casually.

“I’d be at home . . . Oh, hang on, earlier . . . I know what I did earlier.”

Shefford inhaled the last of his cigarette and let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “Well, want to tell me?”

With a rueful smile, Marlow shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I picked up a girl. She was on the game.”

“You knew the girl, did you?”

Marlow shook his head and glanced at Otley, who was sitting a few feet away taking notes. “I’d never met her before, but I saw her outside the tube station, Ladbroke Grove. She was, you know, bending down, peering into cars as they went past . . . Ladbroke Grove tube station. I pulled up and asked her how much.”

“But you didn’t know her?”

“No, I’d never met her before. I asked her first how much, and she said it depends. You know they like to hustle as much as they can out of you . . .”

“Oh, yeah? But you been done before, George. You don’t like hassles. Della Mornay pisses you off, right? Right?

Marlow frowned, then looked at Shefford. “Della Mornay . . . ?”

Otley checked his watch and wondered how it was all going down in the interview room. It was past seven and Shefford had been at it since four thirty, now with Arnold Upcher sitting in on the session. Otley strolled down to the basement corridor and peered through the glass panel; he could just see Marlow, sitting with his head in his hands.

“Has he confessed yet? Only it’s drinking time!”

The PC on guard raised his eyebrows. “Been a lot of shouting goin’ on in there, and at the last count Shefford had consumed five beakers of coffee.”

“Ah, well, he would—this is pub hours, son!”

Otley turned away and went to the pub to join the others from Shefford’s team. He ordered a round and sat down with his pint, telling them there was no news as yet.

“But he had his head in his hands, looked like the guv’nor’s cracked him. Gonna break that bloody record . . .”

They set about betting on how long it would take Shefford to get a confession from Marlow and whether or not he would break Paxman’s record. They might not have been so confident if they had been privy to the statement that was being taken from Marlow right then.

2

S
hefford was using the regulation tape recorder. Marlow craned his head forward and directed his speech at the built-in microphone.

“I dropped her off at the tube station, and paid her.”

“OK, so then what did you do?”

“I went to Kilburn to get a video, and I was home by . . . about ten thirty.”

Marlow rubbed his chin. He needed a shave now, the stubble made him look darker, swarthier.

“Like I said, Inspector, I remember, when I looked back, she was peering into another car, a red . . . maybe a Scirocco, I dunno, but she was looking for the next customer. I just got the video and went home, got there at ten thirtyish. I can’t remember the exact time, you’ll have to ask Moyra, she’ll remember.”

“And you maintain that you did not know this girl you picked up? You had never met her or seen her before?”

“No, sir. Like I said, she just came over to my car.”

Shefford opened a file and held out a photograph of Della Mornay, taken from Vice records. “Is this the girl you picked up?”

Marlow leaned forward, without actually touching the photo, then sat back in his chair. “I’d never met her before, I didn’t know her.”

He looked to his brief, then back to Shefford. “I picked her up at about seven thirty. It was dark, I don’t remember her all that well . . .”

“You had sex with her, George! You tellin’ me you didn’t see her face? Come on, George . . .”

Marlow shifted his weight in his chair. “It was in the back of the car!”

“Let’s go again, George, an’ I want all the details.”

Peter was stuffing his work clothes into the overflowing laundry basket when Jane woke up. He rammed the lid on the basket. “We need a washing machine, you know.”

She yawned. “Yeah, but the kitchen’s too small. Besides, the launderette does it for me, they’ll even do the ironing if you want, but it’s fifty pence per article. I’ll get Mrs. Fry to take a load down in the morning.” She yawned again. “What’s the time?”

“It’s nearly six. I’ve got some bad news.” He sat down beside her. “Well, not bad news for me, but for you, maybe! It must be telepathy . . . You know, after you said Joey could stay, Marianne called. She’s bringing him over to stay the night. I didn’t even have to ask, she suggested it.”

“That’s OK! What time’s he coming?”

Peter shrugged. “Oh, about seven thirty. Look, you don’t have to do anything.”

Jane freaked. “Is she bringing him? I mean, will she come in?”

He shrugged again. “Look, I can take him for a hamburger, he’ll be no problem.”

“Bollocks! Go down to the corner Indian, they’re still open, and get some fish fingers. Kids like fish fingers, and baked beans, and Mars bars . . . No, tell you what, Smarties. I’ll make up the spare bed while you’re gone.”

“It’s already done, and I’ve put that Anglepoise lamp by the bed, he sleeps with a light on.”

“OK, I’ll wash my hair and get dolled up.”

“You don’t have to, he’s only six, for Chrissake! He won’t care what you look like.”

“Ah, but Marianne will be looking me over, and I want to make an impression. After all, I’m the Other Woman!”

“Not quite!”

“Oh, go on, get going . . .”

Jane rolled up the newspaper he had left on the bed and whacked him on the head with it, then dashed to the bathroom. Joey would be arriving soon, and she wanted to be ready.

At Southampton Row, Moyra Henson had been interviewed over and over again. She gave Marlow a perfect alibi and wouldn’t be budged; he was at home, she insisted, as he had said in his own statement. He had been at home watching television with her. Marlow had not left the flat all evening, and they had gone to bed together.

When she was finally let go, DI Burkin was ordered back to her flat to impound Marlow’s car, a brown, automatic three-liter Mark III Rover. He took two officers with him and gave Moyra a lift home.

She kept up a constant stream of abuse all the way back in the patrol car, sitting between the two officers. They didn’t say a word. Burkin, uncomfortable in the front seat with his long legs cramped against the glove compartment, was also silent, though Moyra’s voice was beginning to grate on his nerves and he would be glad when they got shot of her.

There was no sign of the Rover; it was not in the parking bay or anywhere in the vicinity of the flats. Sullen and uncooperative, Moyra accused the police of stealing it themselves.

As she shampooed her hair under the hot water, all Jane could think of was how John Shefford had done her out of a murder case. She had to make an effort to shake herself out of it, she was becoming obsessed. Before she knew it, Peter was back from the shop.

He yelled that he’d got a few extras. He opened the bathroom door.

“I got a chocolate cake, that one you like. It needs defrosting so I’ve left it on the draining board, OK?”

“Yep, just give me a few minutes to get my glad-rags on and I’ll set the table.”

But by the time she had dressed and dried her hair, Peter had done it all. Jane shrieked that she had wanted the best china, and started collecting the plates. Peter caught hold of her.

“Hey, this is just fine! Don’t put out the best stuff, he’s liable to smash something.”

“Do I look OK?”

He held her at arm’s length. “Yeah, nice blouse, looks Victorian.”

“Well, it’s not, it’s cheap Laura Ashley, so I bought two, but they’re my best!”

She was wearing a full skirt from Next and a pair of red suede shoes she had never worn before; every time she had put them on she had felt they were a bit too flash, so they were pristine, not a scuff in sight. It tickled Peter that she was making such an effort, even down to perfume.

When the doorbell rang Jane flushed, and he grinned. “Just relax, she’ll only stay a minute.”

Jane hovered near the kitchen while Peter opened the door. Joey flew into his arms, yelling, “Dad! Dad!” Peter swung him up and kissed him, then put him down, but Joey hugged his dad’s legs.

Jane peered at the door, expecting the ex-wife. First came a huge bag, large enough for Joey to stay two months, then a box of toys. Finally Marianne’s back was visible.

She spoke to someone who was invisible to Jane. “I won’t be a sec, darling!”

Peter’s face was like stone. He had not even acknowledged Marianne’s new husband, his old friend.

Marianne was wearing a short, frilly evening dress. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was the type that novelists describe as silky, a real shampoo advert. To Jane’s surprise she seemed much younger than her thirty-eight years.

“Hi, Pete, I’ve brought everything he could possibly need, and a lot he might not . . .”

Peter turned to introduce Jane. “Jane, this is Marianne.”

“Hi, nice to meet you, it’s good of you to have Joey.”

“Oh, that’s OK, nice to meet you.” She bent down to the little boy, who still clung to his father’s legs. “And you must be Joey? You know what we’ve got? Fish fingers, do you like fish fingers?”

“What else have you got?”

“Chocolate cake, you want some? Yes? Come on, then, let me show you the kitchen.”