Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (6 page)

Shefford was still laughing while he waited for the cell door to be opened. He wanted to have a look at Marlow; he always did this just before he charged a suspect. There was something in a murderer’s eyes, he had never been wrong yet.

Freshly shaved and showered, the prisoner looked somehow different this morning. Shefford was slightly taken aback; there was an eagerness to Marlow, a light in his eyes when he saw who it was at the door.

“Can I go?” Marlow asked.

Without speaking, Shefford shook his head slowly.

Jane Tennison parked her car with difficulty. DCI Shefford’s dented and filthy Granada was angled across his space and hers and she had a tight squeeze to get out of the driving seat. Her pleated tartan skirt brushed against the Granada and she dusted it off in disgust, hoping that this would be the last time she would have to wear her court outfit for a while, unless the nasty little accountant engineered yet another stay of execution.

In the female locker room, she hung her smart black blazer with the brass buttons in her locker, straightened her high-necked Victorian-style blouse, ran a comb through her short fair hair and slicked some gloss on her lips, all in a matter of moments. She rinsed her hands at the row of washbasins and thumped the soap dispenser, which was empty as usual. Her irritation deepened when she caught sight of Maureen Havers, wasting time tittering with someone at the open lockerroom door and fiddling with the Alice band she often wore to keep her thick red hair off her pretty face. As she talked she whisked it off, shook her hair and replaced it, still giggling, then shut the door.

Havers started to sing as she opened her locker, then stopped short.

“Mornin’, guv, didn’t realize you were here.”

Tennison dried her hands and stepped back from the mirror. “D’you think this skirt could do with being shorter?” she asked.

Havers peered around her locker door. “Looks OK to me. That shirt suits you.”

“I’m in court this morning, remember?”

“Ahhh, it’s Cary Grant Philpott, is it? In that case you’d better take the skirt up about a foot, keep him awake!”

A short time later, Havers breezed into the office with the pile of photocopying Tennison had asked her to do.

“We’ll have to wait, the machine’s in use.”

Tennison exploded. “Tell whoever’s on the bloody thing to get off it, I must have the stuff before I go to court!”

Havers beamed good-naturally. She was used to Tennison’s outbursts and knew better than to answer back. She had once, and regretted it; Tennison had a very sharp tongue. A perfectionist herself, Tennison expected the same diligence and professionalism from everyone else. Her pinched, angry look warned Havers that she was brewing a real explosion.

“I’ll nip down and see if it’s free, boss, OK?”

“Like now, Maureen, would be a good idea!”

Havers couldn’t resist a little dig. “OK, boss, but DCI Shefford’s team have sort of got priority. They arrested someone yesterday for the Della Mornay murder, so the Paxman record’s being challenged again. DCT Shefford’s lads have started the countdown.”

Tennison frowned. The name of the victim, Della Mornay, rang a bell, but before she could ask any questions Havers had ducked out of the door. She chewed her lips, drummed her fingers on the desk. “Come on, why do I know that name . . . ?” She remembered, then; in the Flying Squad two years ago she had brought Della Mornay in for questioning, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what the case was. Something to do with a pimp who had beaten up one of his girls . . . Della was a tough little bitch, blond and rather pretty. She had refused to give evidence against the man. The fact that she had once interviewed the victim made Tennison all the more angry that she had not been given a chance to handle the case. Mike Kernan, the Superintendent, was going to hear about this.

Tennison closed her office door and turned just as Sergeant Otley bumped into her.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am.”

“I hear you’ve got a suspect, that right?” She meant to sound just interested, but she could not disguise the sarcasm.

“Yep, brought him in yesterday lunchtime. Word’s out that the ink won’t be dry on the warrant before the boss charges him. The DNA result was bloody marvelous.”

“Yeah, and such good timing! I heard there wasn’t much else happening.”

Otley shrugged. This was the one he didn’t like, the know-all who had been prowling around for the past eighteen months. He had studiously avoided any contact with her, just in case he was roped in to work with her.

“I wouldn’t say that, ma’am. The team’s pretty tough, John Shefford drives us hard.”

She turned, without agreeing, and he watched her push through the swing doors in her neat jacket and skirt. As the doors slammed behind her, he gave her the finger.

Kernan toyed uneasily with a felt-tipped pen as he listened to Tennison’s complaint. He had never liked her, had been against her joining AMIT from the word go, but she had been more or less forced on him. She had more experience than at least one of the other DCIs, who was already on his second case. He cleared his throat and replaced the cap carefully on the pen.

“You want a transfer, is that what this is about?”

“No, I want to be given a chance. I was available for the Mornay case, but DCI Shefford was called in from leave to take it over. I want to know why I have had not so much as a sniff of anything since I’ve been here.”

Kernan opened his desk diary and noted that he had a lunch appointment before replying, “It was my decision. Shefford knows the area and he once arrested the victim on a prostitution charge. She was also one of his informers . . .”

“I knew the victim too, sir. I’ve been checking my old records and I brought her in for questioning two years ago . . .”

“I’m sorry, I was unaware of that . . .”

“Are you saying I would have got the investigation if you had been aware of it, sir?”

“Look, I’ll be honest. Shefford’s one of my best men . . .”

“I know that, sir, but he’s just finished that big case and he had been given two days’ leave. It was a long and difficult case, he needed to rest. I could easily have attended the court session today and handled the investigation, but I was overlooked. All I want to know is, why, and is this going to continue?”

Kernan looked at his watch. “As you said, you had to be in court. According to the roster you were not available, but when you are you will have your chance, along with the other four officers . . .”

“DCI McLear is on a murder case right now, sir. He has nowhere near my experience, he came here six months after me. I notice his desk isn’t loaded with petty fraud and tax evasion cases. I have had nothing else since I arrived.”

“Look, Jane, if you want a transfer then put in for it through the right channels.”

She was spitting mad, but managed to control herself. “I don’t want a transfer, I want to do the work I have been trained for, and I want you to give me your word that I will not be overlooked again.”

Kernan gave her the same speech he had spouted at her the last time she had complained, and she sighed. She had the distinct feeling that he couldn’t wait to get her out of the office. She looked down at her shoes and seethed as he continued, “It takes time, Jane. If you are not prepared to wait, then perhaps you should consider asking to be transferred. As I have said to you before, we all appreciate your record, and your obvious abilities . . .”

“But you are not prepared to let me put them into practice, right?”

“Wrong. Just bide your time, don’t rush things.”

“Rush, sir? I’ve been here eighteen months.”

“I’ve said all I intend saying at this point. I am sorry you feel the way you do, but until a case comes up that I feel is right for you, then . . .”

“Then I carry on as before, is that what you were going to say, Mike? Oh, come on, don’t fob me off again. You gave me the same speech last time. You know I’ve been treated unfairly; all I’m asking for is a chance to show you, show everyone here, what I’m capable of.”

“You’ll get it, I give you my word.” Kernan looked pointedly at his watch. “Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get on. Just be patient, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive, and your turn will come.”

She walked to the door, depressed that she had failed yet again to convince him.

“Thank you for your time!”

As the door closed behind Tennison, Kernan leaned back in his chair. A few more months and she would leave of her own accord. He had never liked working with women and knew that his men felt the same way. All the same, he knew she was right. She was a highly qualified officer, it was just something about her, about all the high-ranking women he had come across. Maybe it was simply the fact that she was a woman.

Tennison had missed breakfast in the rush to get Joey ready, but her anger seemed to have sharpened her appetite. She decided to have a bite to eat in the canteen.

She ate alone, eavesdropping on the rowdy conversation from the next table. DI Burkin was cracking a joke about somebody being trapped on a mountain when the “bing-bong” went. He and DI Haskons were wanted in Administration. They stood up, laughing. Young DC Dave Jones, newly transferred from Cardiff, turned from the counter with his loaded tray to see the two DIs heading towards the exit.

“You want me along?”

Burkin pointed a finger and Jones’s eager face fell. “You always interrupt my jokes, Daffy. Give yourself fifteen, then get down to the Incident Room.”

Tennison watched in amazement as Jones tackled the vast amount of food he had piled on his tray: sausages, eggs, chips, baked beans, a heap of toast and two puddings with custard.

“Brunch, is it?” she asked, pleasantly.

“No, ma’am, I missed my breakfast because I had to go over to the labs for the guv’nor.” He stuffed a huge forkful of food into his mouth.

“You’re on Shefford’s team, then?”

Unable to speak, Jones nodded vigorously.

“I hear he’s going to charge the suspect this morning, is that right?”

Jones wiped his mouth on a paper serviette. “Yes, ma’am, he and Sergeant Otley are with the Super now. It looks good, the Sarge said.”

Tennison sipped her coffee. “Have they found the car? I hear your suspect says his car’s been stolen?”

Jones had timed his eating badly; again, he could only nod. He was relieved when the “bing-bong” went; this time it was for Tennison.

She drained her coffee cup and picked up her bag of groceries. Passing Jones, she smiled. “See you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Several officers, some of them uniformed, acknowledged her as she made her way to the door. There was an air of embarrassment; no one seemed to like her, but her rank of DCI demanded respect.

Jones waited until she had left before he burped loudly, which was received with a smatter of applause, then he continued eating at a frightening rate. He didn’t want to miss the big moment. The Sarge had told him it was a dead cert that they’d charge Marlow, and Paxman’s record would be smashed.

It was Maureen Havers who had put out the call for Tennison, to tell her that the photocopier was now out of order, so she was still unable to do the stuff Tennison needed for court. She asked if she should take it to another station or wait until their own machine was repaired.

Tennison dropped her bag on the desk. “I don’t believe this place, can’t they get a bloody mechanic to fix it? What the hell’s wrong with it, anyway?”

“Someone used the wrong type of paper and it’s all jammed inside. We’re trying to find the guilty party, ma’am, but it’s really fouled up this time.”

Tennison rolled up her shirt-sleeves. “Right, I’ll fix it myself, at least it’ll keep me occupied for a while. We’ll take all the copying, and that stuff on my desk is for the shredder, let’s do something useful . . .”

With their arms full of paper, they passed the open door of the Incident Room. The men were standing around in groups, with DI Burkin in the center telling another of his shaggy dog stories.

“I hear they’re charging the suspect. You heard anything, Maureen?”

Havers had to jog to keep up with her. “Yes, ma’am, they’ll break the record. There’s a booze-up in the pub, whole station’ll be there. Kitty’s over a hundred and fifty quid already.”

Tennison squatted to peer inside the photocopier. “Fucking thing’s jammed all right, look at the mess! How do you open it up?”

Havers knelt beside her to read the instructions on the side of the machine. “It says here, lift lever A, release spring . . .”

Tennison pushed her aside. “I’ll do it, get out of my light . . . Now then, pull what where?”

She yanked the lever and the machine split itself in two. “Oh, shit, now what?”

“How about waiting for the mechanic, ma’am?”

Tennison froze her with a look. “I’ve started, so I’ll continue . . .”

For what seemed an age, the only sounds in the office were the ticking of the clock and the flick as Kernan turned the pages of Marlow’s file.

“Christ, what a stroke of luck, John, bloody marvelous. What about the blood on the jacket?” He looked from Shefford to Otley, approvingly.

Shefford grimaced. He had a weird tingling in his left arm, all the way to his fingertips. He flexed his hand, rubbed the wrist.

“Willy’s working his butt off. Should . . . should come through any time now . . .” The pain was shooting down his arm now, and his chest felt as if it was being crushed . . . “It was the size of a pinprick, they’re waiting for it to expand at the labs, then we can check . . . Oh, Jesus . . .”

The pain was so bad it made Shefford fight for air. Kernan looked up, concerned. “Are you OK, John?”

“I dunno,” Shefford gasped, “I’ve got . . . like a cramp in my arm . . .”

He went rigid as a new spasm of pain hit him. He snorted, and Kernan saw blood oozing from his nose. There was a terrible look of fear in his eyes.

The pain seemed to be blowing him apart, like the bomb he had felt ticking inside his head. It was blowing up, he was blowing up! Rubbing his arm frantically, he snorted again and the blood poured down his chin. Then he pitched forward, cracking his head on the edge of Kernan’s desk.