Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (8 page)

The Commander’s voice was gruff as he briefly outlined the procedure for Tennison to familiarize herself with the Marlow case and to do everything necessary to ensure that he was charged. He told her abruptly to take it easy with Shefford’s team, who had been working together for so long that they would not welcome an outsider. He didn’t actually say, “especially a woman,” but he hinted as much. “The Superintendent will give you every assistance, so don’t be afraid to use him. And . . . good luck!”

“It would help if he could handle the application for the three-day lay-down,” Tennison replied, and the Commander agreed.

They shook hands and Tennison said she would do everything within her power to bring the case successfully to court. It was not until she was back in her own office that she congratulated herself, grinning like the Cheshire Cat because, at last, she had done it. She, DCI Tennison, was heading a murder case.

Late that afternoon, still stunned by his guv’nor’s death, Bill Otley was clearing Shefford’s desk. He collected the family photographs and mementos together and packed them carefully into Shefford’s tattered briefcase. Finally he picked up a photo of Tom, his little godson, and looked at it for a long moment before laying it carefully on top of the others.

He snapped the locks on the case, hardly able to believe that John wasn’t going to walk in, roaring with laughter, and tell them it was all a joke. His grief consumed him, swamping him in a bitterness he directed towards DCI Tennison, as if she were in some way responsible. He had to blame someone for the hurting, for the loss. He hugged the briefcase to his chest, knowing he now had to face Sheila and the children, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Maybe it would be best if he left it till the weekend, and in the meantime he’d keep John’s briefcase at the flat along with his shirts and socks . . .

He was still sitting at his desk, holding the case, when DI Burkin looked in.

“She’s checking over the evidence, you want to see her?”

Otley shook his head. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as that slit-arsed bitch!”

Tennison was ploughing methodically through all the evidence on the Marlow case. The ashtray was piled high and a constant stream of coffee was supplied by WPC Havers. She was just bringing a fresh beaker and a file.

“Deirdre, alias Della, Mornay’s Vice record, ma’am. The reason they gave for not sending it before was that King’s Cross Vice Squad’s computer records are not compatible with Scotland Yard’s, or some such excuse.”

Flicking through the file, Tennison took out a photograph of Della Mornay and laid it beside the photos of the corpse. She frowned.

“Maureen, get hold of Felix Norman for me and find out how long he’ll be there. Then order me a car and tell DC Jones he’s driving me. I want to see the body tonight, but I need to interview the landlady first. And ask for another set of dabs from the victim, get them compared with the ones on Della Mornay’s file.”

Leaving Havers scribbling furiously, she walked out.

All the items from Della Mornay’s room that Forensic had finished with had been piled onto a long trestle table. It was a jumble of bags of clothes, bedding and shoes. There was also a handbag, which Tennison examined carefully. She made a note of some ticket stubs, replaced them, then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and turned to the clothing taken from the victim’s body. The bloodstains were caked hard and black. She checked sleeves, hems, seams and labels.

Engrossed in what she was doing, she hardly noticed WPC Havers enter.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, DC Jones is waiting in the car.”

Tennison turned her attention to the filthy bedclothes. The smell alone was distasteful, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Dirty little tart . . . Tell Jones I’ll be with him in a few minutes. And tell all of Shefford’s team that I want them in the Incident Room at nine sharp tomorrow morning—all of them, Maureen, understand?”

DC Jones sat in the driving seat of the plain police car. He had left the rear door open for DCI Tennison, but she climbed in beside him.

“Right, Milner Road first. What’s your first name?”

“David, ma’am.”

“OK, Dave, put your foot down. I’ve got a hell of a schedule.”

Della’s room was still roped off. Tennison looked around and noted the fine dusting left by the Scenes of Crime people, then used the end of her pencil to open the one wardrobe door that still clung to its hinges. She checked the few remaining items of clothing, then sat on the edge of the bed, opened her briefcase and thumbed through a file.

DC Jones watched as she closed the case and turned to him. “Will you bring me two pairs of shoes . . .”

She spent a considerable time looking over the dressing table, checking the make-up, opening the small drawers. By the time she seemed satisfied, Jones’ stomach was complaining loudly. He suggested it was time to eat. Tennison paused on her way downstairs and looked back at him.

“I’m OK, but if you can’t hold out, go and get yourself something while I interview the landlady.”

When Jones got back to the house he found Tennison sitting in the dirty, cluttered kitchen in the basement, listening to Mrs. Salbanna moaning.

“The rents are my living, how long will you need the room for? I could let it right now, you know!”

Tennison replied calmly, “Mrs. Salbanna, I am investigating a murder. As soon as I am satisfied that we no longer need the efficiency, I will let you know. If you wish you can put in a claim for loss of earnings, I’ll have the forms sent to you. Now, will you just repeat to me exactly what happened the night you found Della Mornay? You identified her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve told you twice, yes.”

“How well did you know her?”

“How well? You’re jokin’,” I didn’t
know
her. I let a room to her, that’s all.”

“How often did you see her?”

“As often as I could, to get the rent off her. God forgive me for talking ill of the dead, but that little bitch owed me months in rent. She was always late, and it gets so if you throw her out on the street you’ll never get the money back, right? She kept on promising and promising . . .”

“So you saw her recently?”

“No, because she was in and out like a snake. I hadn’t seen her for . . . at least a month, maybe longer.”

“But you are absolutely sure that it was Della Mornay’s body?”

“Who else would it be? I told you all this, I told that big bloke too.”

“And that night you didn’t hear anything unusual, or see anyone that didn’t live here?”

“No, I didn’t come home till after eight myself. Then, because I’d had such a time with my daughter—she’s had a new baby, and she’s already got two, so I’ve been looking after them . . . Well, by the time I got home I was so exhausted, I went straight to bed. Then I was woken up by the front door banging. I put notices up, but no one pays attention. It started banging, so I got up . . .”

“You didn’t see anyone go out? Could someone have just left?”

“I don’t know . . . See, it’s got a bit of rubber tire tacked on it to try and stop the noise, so if they didn’t want to be heard . . . But it was just blowing around in the wind, it was a windy night . . . I told the other man all this.”

Tennison closed her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Salbanna.”

Tennison stopped off at Forensic on her way to view the body, and sat in silence while Willy Chang explained the complex details of the DNA test that had resulted in George Marlow being picked up on suspicion of murder. She looked at the slides.

“There was a big rape and murder case up in Leicester. They did a mass screening, every man in the entire village, and they got him. The semen tests took weeks to match, but in the case of such a rare blood group it’s much easier to define. He’s an AB secreter and belongs to group two in the PGM tests, so it narrows the field dramatically. We’ve been doing test runs on a new computerized cross-matching system, just using the rarer blood groups, for experimental purposes. Your man was tested in 1988, and was actually on record.”

“So you got a match from the computer, out of the blue?”

“Yes. When we got the read-out it was mayhem in here, it was such a freak piece of luck.”

“So the computer is infallible, is it?”

“Not exactly, it’ll give you the closest match it can find. We have to confirm the results with our own visual tests on the light-box. Want to see it?”

Tennison was shown two sets of negatives that looked like supermarket bar codes, with certain lines darker than others. The black bands on each matched perfectly. She made some notes, then asked to use a telephone.

She placed a call to her old base at the rape center in Reading and requested the records of all suspected rapists charged as a result of DNA testing. She wanted to see how the judges had reacted, if they had allowed the DNA results to be the mainstay of the evidence.

Felix Norman slammed the phone down as a corpse, covered by a green sheet, was wheeled into the lab. Five students, all masked, gowned and shod in white wellington boots, trailed in after the trolley.

He gestured for them to gather round, then lifted the sheet. “Well, you’re in luck, this is a nice fresh ’un. I’m gonna have to leave you for a few minutes, but you can start opening it up without me.”

He picked up a clipboard and strode out to where Tennison and Jones were waiting. Greeting them with nothing approaching civility, he led them to the mortuary. At the far end of the rows of drawers he stopped and pulled on a lever, releasing the hinge, and slid out the tray with “D. Mornay” chalked on it.

Before removing the sheet from the body, Norman reeled off a list of injuries from the clipboard, including the number and depth of the stab wounds.

“I hear you had a lucky break with the forensic results. Your suspect has a very rare blood group?”

Tennison nodded, waiting for him to draw the sheet back. He did so slowly, looking at DC Jones’ pale face.

The body had been cleaned, the blond hair combed back from her face. The dark bruises remained and the gashes on the head were deep and clear. Tennison frowned, leaning forward.

“Pull her out further, will you?”

Norman drew the drawer out to its fullest extent. Tennison walked around, peering at the dead girl’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“Shefford identified her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, and her landlady, Mrs. Corinna Salbanna.”

Tennison made a note on her pad, walked back again, then leaned in even closer. She stared for a long time before she asked to see the wounds on the torso. Norman pointed out the incisions, then indicated the deep weals on the tops of the arms.

“These seem to indicate that she was strung up. We’ll do some tests with weights . . . And here, on her wrists, you can see the marks of the ropes, tied so tightly they left imprints, the mark of her watch strap too, see . . .”

“Where’s the cut? Small cut on her hand?”

“Here.” He showed Tennison the corpse’s right wrist. “Small, but quite deep. Would have bled a fair bit.” He continued reading from his notes. “Extensive bruising all over the front of the body, plus a good deal around the genital and anal areas, but nothing on the back or buttocks.”

Tennison nodded and again peered closely at the victim’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“I asked for another set of prints, will you make sure they’re on the way, and the set from Della Mornay’s file.”

Jones shifted his weight and muttered that he’d check it out. “We already have a set, ma’am.”

Tennison snapped back, “I need another set, and fast.”

Norman looked at his watch. “My students are waiting, Inspector.”

Tennison was frowning. She turned again to Jones. “Go and check on those prints now, Jones.” Then she addressed Felix Norman. “I’ve got a few more questions I can ask while you work, OK?”

Norman sighed, covered the corpse and closed the drawer while Tennison added to the notes she had made during her inspection, then he led her into the dissection room.

For the next few minutes, Tennison watched as Norman, with apparent relish, helped a student remove the specimen’s heart.

“That’s it, ease it out . . .”

Jones returned and stood at Tennison’s side. “Prints are organized, ma’am.”

She ignored him and continued scribbling in her notebook. Jones watched Norman and his students as they worked on. Blood dripped into buckets set at each end of the trolley, and the stains on their gowns and rubber gloves made them appear ghoulish. On one lens of Norman’s half-moon spectacles there was a clear fingerprint in blood. DC Jones’ stomach turned over.

Tennison seemed intent on her notes. She did not so much as glance at Jones, who hadn’t spoken for some time.

“How soon can you do the weight tests? I need to know exactly how she was strung up.”

“My dear lady,” Felix replied, “we’ll do them as quickly as we can, and you’ll be the first to hear, though I’d have thought you had enough on your suspect to bang him up for life.”

He turned to the student and gave a helping hand as he opened the heart.

“Look at this, Inspector. This poor bugger’s veins were so clogged up it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. Classic English breakfast causes this; bacon, fat . . . You like a cooked breakfast, Inspector?”

Tennison glanced around the room; Jones had disappeared. She smiled to herself.

The students clustered around Norman and took notes as he went on, “Liver very dodgy, see just by the size . . . I hear through the grapevine that those wankers over at the labs can’t even find the winder from the victim’s watch. They’ve got fifteen square yards of carpet, combing it inch by inch. Right, now let’s have a look at his testicles . . . Hmmm, well-endowed gent.”

Tennison knew she had as much as she was going to get. “Thank you for your time, Professor Norman. As soon as you can on the—”

“You’ll have my report, Inspector, but you should give us the time to do our job properly. And next time, gown-up, you know the rules.”

He turned to pierce her with his gimlet eye, as though she were one of his students, but she was gone.

When the Western finished at midnight, Peter switched the television off, poured a fresh cup of black coffee and carried it to the dining area. As he set it down by Jane’s elbow she looked up, her eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.