Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (9 page)

“Thanks, love. I just have to wade through this mound, then I’ll come to bed . . .”

“Maybe you’d be better off having a sleep now and getting up early?”

“You must be joking, I’ll have to get up at five as it is, to plough through that lot on the chair.”

Peter planted a kiss on the top of her head, went back to the bedroom and settled down to sleep. In the end, Jane didn’t come to bed at all.

As Tennison entered the Incident Room at nine the next morning, the men fell silent. They watched her as she walked to the table and sat in the chair their guv’nor had occupied the day before. She could feel their hatred; it prickled her skin. She had not expected such open animosity and it threw her slightly.

She kept her eyes down, concentrating on her notepad, then took out her gold pen and carefully unscrewed the cap. She raised her head.

“By now you are all aware that I am taking over from DCI Shefford, and I would like to take this opportunity to say how saddened and deeply shocked I am by this tragedy. John Shefford was a well-liked and highly respected officer.” She met the gaze of each man in turn as she spoke; several of them couldn’t hold her eyes, one or two others, notably Otley, glared back, challenging her silently.

“I am not attempting to step into his shoes; I am the only available DCI and as such I shall appreciate all the co-operation and assistance you can give to enable me to grasp all the details of the investigation and bring it to a successful conclusion. WPC Havers will be assisting me, and she will give you details of everything I need. I will work around the clock . . . You wanted to say something, Sergeant Otley?”

Otley was standing, rigid with anger, tight-lipped. “Yes, ma’am, I know you asked for this case specifically . . .”

She lit a cigarette and gazed at him, coldly. “If you don’t like it, put in for a transfer, through the usual channels. That goes for the rest of you; anyone who wishes to move can put in a formal request. Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” A murmur of resentment went around the room, but she ignored it. “I’m asking for some more manpower. We’ve got more officers joining the team today, including Maureen Havers and four WPCs to assist with the paperwork.”

She picked up some items from the desk and began pinning them on the big notice-board. There were two photographs and two sets of fingerprints, highlighted with red and green arrows. She pointed at them as she spoke.

“Now, here’s the really bad news. The photo on the right is Deirdre “Della” Mornay; on the left is the murder victim. Here are the prints taken from the corpse, and these are the ones from Della Mornay’s Vice file. There are nothing like the sixteen points of similarity needed for a match. The victim’s clothes are all from expensive designers such as Giorgio Armani, not Della’s line at all. Della’s shoes are all English size five; our victim took six and a half, from Bond Street.”

She looked around as they took in the implications of what she was saying. Otley was stunned; he was aware of just how well Shefford had been acquainted with Della.

Tennison went on, “We have obviously wrongly identified the victim, which makes our suspect’s statement, in which he names the girl he picked up as Della Mornay, inadmissible. If we went to court with this, the case would be thrown out. Someone’s been bloody careless. The officer who interrogated Marlow—”

Recovering quickly, Otley went on the attack, interrupting her. “You know it was John Shefford! Are you tryin’ to destroy him before he’s even buried?”

She stared him into silence. “What I want to know is how come Marlow named the victim as
Della
when the warrant gave her proper name of Deirdre? I’m told you did not state her name at the time, you just arrested him on suspicion of murder. In the tapes of his first interrogation by Shefford, Marlow insists not just once but three times that he did not know the victim, but at the end of the second interview he refers to the victim as Della Mornay. In his written statement, made that night, he again denied knowing her. In his third statement he is calling the victim by name! This would be thrown out of court, especially as Marlow’s lawyer was in the room and witnessed his denials. The cock-up is therefore down to us. DCI Shefford made a gross error in wrongly identifying our victim, just as he did in giving the name to George Marlow.”

Otley frowned but kept quiet as she continued, “I want new statements all around, and we’ll get it right this time! So get them all in again and find out where Della Mornay is now, and get the victim’s clothes and shoes checked out. Our priorities are to find the real Della Mornay and to get an ID on the body.”

She paused, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. She was wiping the floor with them, and they knew it, hated it. No one said a word as she took a sip of water, then went on.

“So we move like hell. We haven’t a snowflake’s chance of getting the three-day lay-down, so if we don’t come up with something today, Marlow will have to be released.”

She waited, hands on hips, for the howl of protest to die down. “I’m afraid it’s a fact of life! OK, anyone have any queries? No? What about Marlow’s car, the brown Rover? Anything on that yet? I want it found. Right, that’s it for now.”

The room was eerily silent as she passed them on the way out, but the moment the door closed behind her there was an explosion of catcalls and abuse.

Otley thumped the table she had recently vacated. “Fucking tart! She was after this before he was out of the bloody station! She was in with the Super almost before he was dead, the bitch! I’ll give her queries, the hard-faced tart!”

“What about Marlow’s car, Bill?”

Otley turned on Burkin. “You heard her, cow wants it traced, so we trace it! Christ, how much evidence does she bleeding want, for God’s sake? We got him, he did it! An’ she’s runnin’ around familiarizin’ herself, the stupid cunt!”

In the corridor outside the Incident Room, Tennison leant against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply to calm herself. It had been a tremendous effort to keep her cool in front of the men.

Once she was in control again, she headed for the lift to the Super’s office.

The men dispersed to their appointed tasks in dribs and drabs. DC Lillie said quietly to his partner, Rosper, “If the car was nicked, we ain’t gonna find it. It’s been stripped down by now.”

Rosper’s pug-nosed face broke into a grin. “Eh, you ever see that advert wiv the monkeys? Bleedin’ funny . . .”

Otley and Jones were left alone in the room. “What do you think, Skipper?” Jones asked.

“That tart’s gunning for John. Well, let her try it; she bad-mouths him and I’ll see her knickers are screwed . . .”

The phone interrupted him. He grabbed it. “No, she’s not here. Yeah? Yeah! Right, I’ll send someone over. Thanks!”

He hung up and gave his first smile of the morning. “That was Forensic. The spot of blood we got off Marlow’s shirt cuff, the one they’ve been growing, matches the victim’s! We got the bastard now . . .”

“This is a right bloody mess,” said Superintendent Kernan.

Tennison ran her fingers through her hair and Kernan continued, “For God’s sake don’t let the press get wind of it. Can you handle it? DCI Hicock, from Notting Hill, is available now.”

“I can handle it,” Tennison snapped. No way would she relinquish the case to Wild Bill, even if she had to hang on to it by her teeth. “I need more men, preferably from outside. If we have to let Marlow go, we’ll need someone with surveillance expertise.”

“I’ll see what we can do. Are you going to see him now?”

“I want a little chat with Marlow, off the record . . . OK?”

“Watch yourself, Upcher’s a tough bastard.”

Tennison shrugged. “But I bet he’s not down in the cells now, is he?”

Kernan shook his head. “Seems to me that Marlow wouldn’t have hired Upcher unless he was guilty. His type cost.”

“We still can’t prove he was ever in the efficiency. It’s strange that there’s nothing, not a single shred of evidence . . .”

“Forensic’s still working on it?”

“Yes,” she said, standing up. “They are, at their own pace.”

As soon as she left, Kernan picked up the phone. “Put me through to the Commander.”

Before seeing Marlow, Tennison listened again to a short stretch of tape from his interview with Shefford. Then she was ready to face the suspect for the first time.

Marlow had been left to kick his heels in an interview room for some time, sitting in silence, watched by a uniformed PC. DI Burkin was sitting in the corridor outside, reading the paper. He was a well-built man, a prized member of the police boxing team, and his slightly battered face showed traces of his career. He rose to his feet when DCI Tennison approached.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s Frank, isn’t it?”

Burkin nodded and jerked his thumb towards the interview room. “He’s got coffee, and he doesn’t smoke.”

Tennison was taken aback by Marlow’s handsome looks; the photographs in his file had given her completely the wrong impression. He resembled an old-time movie star, not exactly Valentino, more Robert Taylor. His blue-black hair was combed back from his face, high cheekbones accentuated his jawline. His amber eyes and long, dark lashes beneath thickly arched brows would be the envy of any woman.

He glanced at the uniformed officer for permission to stand, then rose to his feet. His clothes were well-cut, rather formal; a blue and white striped shirt with a white collar highlighted his dark good looks. His suit jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair.

“Please stay seated, Mr. Marlow. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, this is Detective Inspector Frank Burkin. I suppose you have been told that the DCI in charge of this investigation—”

Marlow interrupted her in a low, husky voice with a slight northern twang. “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry, he was a nice man.” He glanced at Burkin, then back to Tennison, placed his hands together on the table and half-smiled; a dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Tennison returned his smile involuntarily. “You have been very co-operative, Mr. Marlow, and I’m sorry to have to question you all over again. But you must understand that in taking over the case I need to know everything . . .”

“Yes, I understand.”

Tennison was furious with herself because her hand was shaking as she placed Marlow’s statement and her notebook on the table. “Would you just tell me, in your own words, exactly what occurred on the night of Saturday the thirteenth of January?”

Marlow began quietly, explaining that he had drawn some money from a cash dispenser in Ladbroke Grove. He was about to return home when he saw her standing outside the tube station, obviously touting for business.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who was standing?”

“Della Mornay!”

“Oh, you knew her, did you?”

“No, I didn’t know her name, never saw her before. He told me, said it was a tart by the name of Della . . . He told me.”

“Who, exactly, told you the girl’s name?”

“Inspector Shefford.”

“OK, George, go on. Tell me what happened next.”

“I got into my car and drove past her, slowly. She came to the window, asked me if I was looking for someone. All I said was maybe, it depended how much. She said it was twenty-five pounds for full sex. If I wanted . . .”

Looking up, Tennison caught his strange, beautiful eyes. He looked away, embarrassed.

“Go on, Mr. Marlow. Twenty-five pounds for full sex . . .”

He cleared his throat and continued, “Masturbation fifteen. I agreed to pay the twenty-five, and she directed me to some waste ground beside the . . . the Westway, I think it is. We got into the back seat. We . . .” he coughed. “We did it, then she asked me to drop her back to the Tube. Then, as she climbed over the seats into the front she caught her hand, her left hand, on my radio. It’s got a sort of sharp edge, and it was only a little nick, but I wrapped my handkerchief around it . . .”

“Er, sorry, George, you just said, ‘She cut her hand on my radio’?”

“Yes.”

“Which hand?”

He frowned and raised his hands, looking from one to the other. “Her right hand, yeah . . . It was her right hand, because my radio’s between the seats. It’s got a sharp edge.”

He indicated the spot on his own wrist—exactly where the small cut was on the wrist of the corpse. “You can take the radio out, it’s portable. They’re always being nicked out of cars, round where I live.”

He paused for a second and sighed. “You found my car yet?”

Tennsion shook her head. “Go on. She cut herself?”

“Yeah. I gave her my handkerchief, wrapped it round her wrist. It’s got my initial on it, G . . . Then I paid her, drove her back to Ladbroke Grove station. When I dropped her off, the last I saw of her she was picking up another punter. It was a red car, I’m not sure which make, could have been a Scirocco. I didn’t kill her, I swear before God that was the last I saw of her. Then I drove home, got back about half past ten, maybe nearer eleven . . .”

Tennison had been reading his statement as he talked. It was not word for word, but slightly abbreviated, as if he was getting used to repeating only the pertinent facts. “You saw a red car stop. Was it facing towards you or in the opposite direction?”

“Oh, it was coming towards me. I was going down Ladbroke Grove towards Notting Hill Gate.”

“So you would have dropped her on the pavement opposite the car? Or did you swerve across the road and deposit her on the other side?”

“Oh, I crossed the road. Then when she got out I drove straight down to the Bayswater Road.”

“You live on the Maida Vale/Kilburn border, wouldn’t you have gone the other way? It’s a quicker route, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. I never thought about it, really. I went straight along to Marble Arch, into Edgware Road and straight to Kilburn to get a video.”

“Have you picked up girls in that area before?”

Marlow shook his head and looked down at his hands. “No, and I wish to God I hadn’t picked this one up either, but . . .”

“But?”

He looked up, and again she was caught by the strange color of his eyes. “She was very attractive, and I thought, why not . . .”