Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

  While they waited, John Shefford used the payphone to call his home. It was his son’s birthday the next day and Otley, the boy’s godfather, wanted to know what to buy him. His wife, however, had more on her mind.

  “Have you booked the clown for Tommy’s party, John?” Sheila asked. “I gave you the number last week, remember?”

  Shefford was about to confess that he had forgotten all about it when he was saved by the bell; Felix Norman’s assistant came to fetch him.

  “I’ve got to go, love, they’re ready for me. See you later!”

  Gowned up, masked and wearing the regulation wellington boots, Shefford joined Norman.

  Two bare, pale feet protruded from the end of the green sheet, a label bearing Della Mornay’s name and a number tied to one ankle. Norman started talking before Shefford had even reached the trolley.

  “Death, old mate, was around twelve-fifteen—it’s a classic, her watch got broken and stopped. The gold winder, by the way, is missing, so they’ll have to comb the carpet. The watch face is intact, but the rope that was used to tie her wrists must have twisted the winding pin off the watch. Now, you asked if she was raped; could be. Recent deposits of semen in the vagina and rectum, and in the mouth, extensive bruising to the genital area. I sent the swabs over to Willy at the lab …” he checked his watch, “five hours ago. Might get a blood type this afternoon. OK, the wounds …”

  Norman threw the green sheet over the head to expose the torso, and pointed to the puncture marks. The body had been cleaned, and they showed up clearly.

  “Upper right shoulder, right breast, lung punctured here, and here. Another laceration to the throat, sixth deep wound just above the navel. The wounds are neat, made with a small, rounded object, the point narrow, flat and sharp, like a sharpened screwdriver, perhaps. Not all the same depth—one three inches, one six inches, the one in the right breast is even deeper.”

  Shefford examined the wounds and listened intently, nodding his head. Felix Norman was one of the best in his field, and Shefford had learned from experience to let him have his say before asking any questions.

  Norman continued, “OK, she also has a deep puncture to her left eye, probably what finished her off. A real mess, wanna see?”

  “No, just carry on,” replied Shefford with distaste, running his hands through his hair.

  Norman referred to his notes. “Oh, yeah, this is interesting. Look at her hands. They seem to have been scrubbed, with a wire brush, by the look of them. But there’s a nasty little nick here, and there’s a smell of chlorine, some kind of household bleach. No doubt I’ll find out the exact brand when I’ve been given the time a man of my calibre likes to have in order to do his job thoroughly! Anyway, it looks as if the scrubbing job on her hands has eliminated any possibility of blood or tissue fragments under the nails. She probably didn’t put up much of a struggle, but then, her hands were tied …”

  Shefford avoided looking at the naked torso as much as possible. “Anything else?”

  Norman sniffed. “Yeah, something strange …” Laying his clipboard aside, he picked up one of the corpse’s arms. “See, same on both sides? Deep welts and bruising to the upper arms. At this stage I can’t say what caused it, but she might have been strung up. I’ll have to do some more tests, but it looks like she was put in some kind of clamp. Interesting, huh?”

  Shefford nodded. Somewhere at the back of his mind a bell rang, but he couldn’t capture the memory … Norman covered the body again and continued, peering over his glasses. “Right-handed killer, height difficult to estimate at this stage, especially if she was strung up, but four of the wounds entered the body on an upward slant and two are straight, so I reckon he’s around five-ten. But don’t quote me until I’ve …”

  Shefford pulled a face. Norman, for all his bravado, went strictly by the rules and hated being pressed for results before he was one hundred per cent sure.

  “Thanks mate. Get back to me as soon as you’ve got anything. When the report’s ready, Bill can collect it personally. And, Felix—I really appreciate it!”

  Norman snorted. He had worked fast, but then he and John Shefford were old friends. He watched as Shefford removed his surgical mask and began to untie his gown.

  “You got anything, John?”

  Shefford shook his head. “Looks like one of her johns was into bondage and things got out of hand. See you …”

  At the station, Della Mornay’s effects were being sorted and examined. Her handbag had been found, but it contained no keys. They were able to dismiss robbery as a motive as her purse, containing fifteen pounds, was in the bag and a jewel box on her dressing table, containing a few silver chains and a gold bangle or two, was undisturbed.

  In King’s Cross, Della Mornay’s territory, fifteen of Shefford’s men were interviewing every known prostitute and call girl. They were getting little assistance, but the feedback was that Della had not been seen for weeks. There was a suggestion that she might have gone to Leeds to visit a friend dying of AIDS, but no name was mentioned.

  The painstaking task of checking every forensic sample, the tapes of fibers, the fingerprints, was barely begun, and had brought no results so far. The entire area was combed for a murder weapon without success. In that neighborhood no one ever volunteered information, especially to the police.

  Shefford and Otley met up again at Milner Road and spent an hour or so interviewing and looking over the efficiency again, but they discovered nothing new. Mrs. Salbanna, recovered from her shock, was already asking when she could let the room.

  Shefford was hungry and very tired. He had a few pints and a pork pie in the local, then kipped down in his office while Otley went home to his flat to fetch his guv’nor a clean shirt. Shefford often stayed over at his place and left a few items of clothing there for emergencies.

  Although he could have done with putting his head down for a few hours himself, Otley sprayed the shirt with starch and ironed it, paying special attention to the collar. Pleased with his handiwork, he slipped it onto a hanger and sat down for a cup of tea. He had a system for avoiding washing up; he simply used the same cup, plate and cutlery all the time. He ate all his main meals in the station canteen, and had even given up his morning cornflakes because they were a bugger to get off the bowl if you left them overnight.

  The silver-framed photographs of his wife, his beloved Ellen, needed a good polish, but he’d have to leave them until his next weekend off. They were the only personal items in the flat that he bothered with. Ellen had been the love of his life, his only love, since he was a teenager. Her death seven years ago, from cancer of the stomach, had left him bereft, and he mourned her now as deeply as the moment she had died. He had watched helplessly as she disintegrated before his eyes. She had become so weak, so skeletal, that he had prayed, anguished and alone, for her to die.

  It has been obvious to everyone at work that Skipper Bill Otley had personal problems, but he confided in no one. His solitary drinking and his angry bitterness had caused many arguments, and his boys, as he called them, had at last left him to himself. In the end, John Shefford had taken him aside and demanded to know what was going on, earning his abusive response, “Mind yer own fuckin’ business, my personal life’s me own affair.”

  Shefford had snapped back angrily that when it affected his work it became the boss’s business, and Otley would be out on his ear if he didn’t come clean about what was tormenting him. He pushed Otley to the point where he finally cracked.

  Once he understood, Shefford had been like a rock. He was at the hospital, waiting outside the ward, when Ellen died. He had organized the funeral, done everything he possibly could to help. He was always there, always available, like the sweet, beloved friend Otley had buried. When Shefford’s son was born he asked Otley to be godfather; the bereaved man became part of the family, his presence demanded for lunch on Sundays, for outings and parties. He and Ellen had longed for children, in vain; now his off-duty time was filled with
little Tom’s laughter and nonsense. So Otley wouldn’t just iron his guv’nor’s shirt; he would wash it, and his socks for good measure. John Shefford meant more to him than he could ever put into words; he loved the man, admired him, and backed him to the hilt, convinced that he would make Commander one of these days. No one would be more proud of him then than Bill Otley.

  With the clean shirt over his arm, Otley whistled on his way back to the station.

  At eleven, Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison parked her Ford Fiesta and entered Southampton Row police station. It was a crisp, frosty day, and she was wrapped up well against the cold.

  She was officially off-duty, but had come in to prepare some final papers for a session in court the next day.

  None of the blood samples taken from the efficiency had yielded a clue to the identity of Della Mornay’s killer. Hers was a very common group and the only one found at the scene. But the DNA tests on the semen taken from her body were a different matter.

  The new computerized DNA system was still at the experimental stage, but already the results of thousands of tests taken in the past two years had been entered on it. As a matter of routine, Willy Chang’s forensic team ran the result from Della Mornay against the existing records and were astonished to find a match; a visual check on the negatives, using a light-box, confirmed it. The man Della Mornay had had sex with shortly before her murder had been convicted of attempted rape and aggravated robbery in 1988.

  Willy Chang was jubilant; here was the lever they needed to press the government into releasing funds for a national DNA profiling system. He picked up the phone.

  The message caught Shefford on Lambeth Bridge, on his way home for lunch and only a stone’s throw from the Home Office labs. He hung up the handset, turned the car around immediately and punched Otley’s arm.

  “You’re not gonna believe this, we got a friggin’ suspect! He’s got a rare blood group and it’s on the ruddy computer!”

  For the past three months DCI Tennison had been working on a tedious fraud case involving a tobacconist who was being sued for non-payment of VAT. The man’s ferret of an accountant had more tricks up his sleeve than a conjuror, and a long series of medical certificates exempting him from court appearances. But tomorrow, at last, Judge George Philpott would complete his summing-up. Known as the legal equivalent of Cary Grant for his good looks and slow delivery, Philpott had already taken two days; Tennison hoped he would finish quickly for once so she would have time to check her desk before the end of the day.

  Not that there would be anything of interest; in all her time on the special Area Major Incident Team, known as AMIT, there had been little but desk work. She had often wondered why she had bothered switching from the Flying Squad, where at least she had been busy. The set-up of five DCIs and their teams had appealed to her, and she had believed she would be able to use her skills to the full.

  Sitting at her desk, Tennison heard a screech of brakes from the car park. She glanced out of the window in time to see Shefford racing into the building.

  “What’s DCI Shefford doing in today, Maureen?” she asked her assistant, WPC Havers. “He’s supposed to be on leave.”

  “I think he’s heading the investigation.”

  “What investigation?”

  “Prostitute found dead in her room in Milner Road.”

  “They got a suspect?” Tennison snapped.

  “Not yet, but they’re getting all the Vice files on the victim’s pals.”

  Tennison bristled. “How did Shefford get it? I was here until after ten last night!”

  Maureen shrugged. “I dunno, guv, I think it was a middle-of-the-night job. Probably hauled him out of the afters session in the pub.”

  “But he’s only just finished with that shooting in Kilburn—and there were the Iranian diplomats before that.”

  Tennison clenched her fists and stormed out. Maureen winced at the banging of the door.

  DCI Tennison paced up and down the corridor, trying to talk herself down. Eighteen months she’d been waiting for a decent case, dealing with more paperwork than in her entire time at the rape center in Reading, and now the boss had gone out of his way to give DCI Shefford the case that should have been hers. She’d known when she applied for the transfer that she would be in for a tough time; had she stayed where she was she’d have been promoted to a desk job by now.

  But five years with the Flying Squad had toughened her up. She went back to her room and put a call through to the Chief’s office, determined to have it out with him, but he was in a meeting. She tried to work on her statements for the court hearing but her frustration wouldn’t let her concentrate.

  At midday Tennison was again disturbed by the racing of engines from the car park. Shefford was off again, and in a hell of a hurry. She gave up trying to work and packed her things; it was nearly lunchtime anyway.

  Tennison missed the “heat” as Shefford gathered his team together, his booming voice hurling insults as he fired orders at them. He was moving fast on the unbelievable stroke of luck that had given him his suspect on a plate.

  George Arthur Marlow had been sentenced to three years for attempted rape and assault, but had served only eighteen months. He had still been protesting his innocence when he was led away from the dock.

  The case had been a long-drawn-out affair as Marlow insisted he was innocent. At first he had denied even knowing the victim, referred to only as “Miss X,” but when faced with the evidence he told the police that he and “Miss X” had been drinking together in a wine bar. He stated that she had blatantly encouraged his advances, but when it came to the crunch she refused him.

  Marlow’s blood tests at the time had shown him to have an exceptionally rare blood group; he belonged to a small percentage of AB secreters, of whom there is only one in 2,500 head of population. He had been one of the first to be entered on the new computer, and when a lab assistant ran his details through the system she hit the jackpot.

  The warrant was ready. Shefford high on adrenaline, called his men together. Already he had dribbled coffee down his clean shirt, and he followed it now with cigarette ash. Otley brushed him down as he bellowed, “DCI Donald Paxman holds the record in the Met, lads, for bringing in a suspect and charging him within twenty-four hours. Gimme me raincoat … cigarettes, who’s got me cigarettes?”

  He shrugged into his coat with the effortless ability of the permanently crumpled man, lighting a cigarette at the same time and switching it from hand to hand as his big fists thrust down the sleeves. “We smash that record, lads, and it’s drinks all round, so let’s go! Go, go!”

  Jane Tennison let herself into her small service flat which she had shared for the last three months with her boyfriend, Peter Rawlins. Six feet tall, broad-chested, his sandy hair invariably flecked with paint, he was the first man she had lived with on a permanent basis.

  Peter came out of the kitchen when he heard her key in the door and beamed at her. “OK, we’ve got Chicken Kiev with brown rice, how does that suit?”

  “Suits me fine!”

  She dumped her briefcase on the hall table and he gave her a hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. “Bad day?”

  She nodded and walked into the bedroom, tossing her coat on the bed. He lolled in the doorway. “Want to talk about it?”

  “When I’ve had a shower.”

  They had spent a lot of time talking since they had met; Peter had been in the throes of divorce and Jane had provided a sympathetic ear. Marianne had left him for another man; it had hit him hard because it was not just any other man, but Peter’s best friend and partner in his building firm, And she had taken with her the little son he adored, Joey.

  Jane and Peter’s relationship had begun casually enough; they had been teamed together in the squash club tournament and had since met on several occasions for the odd drink or cup of coffee after a game. Eventually he had asked her to see a film with him, and on that first real date she ha
d listened to the details of his divorce. It was only after several films that he had even made an attempt to kiss her.

  Jane had helped Peter to move into a temporary flat while his house was sold, and gradually their relationship had become closer. When he started looking for a permanent place to live she suggested he move in with her for a while. It wasn’t very romantic, but as the weeks passed she found herself growing more and more fond of him. He was easygoing, caring and thoughtful. When he told her he loved her and suggested they look for a bigger place together, she agreed. It was a pleasant surprise to her how much she wanted to be with him.

  When she had showered, Jane sat at the table in her dressing gown and Peter presented his Chicken Kiev with a flourish. She was so grateful and happy that she had someone to share her life with that she forgot her problems for a moment.

  As he opened a bottle of wine she cocked her head to one side and smiled. “You know, I’m getting so used to you, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. I guess what I’m trying to say in my roundabout way is—”

  “Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass.

  “Yeah, to you, to me, to us …”

  Marlow seemed dazed by the arrival of the police. He stood in the narrow hallway of his flat, holding a cup of coffee, apparently unable to comprehend what they wanted.

  “George Arthur Marlow, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder …” Otley had to repeat the caution, then remove the cup from Marlow’s hand himself to put the handcuffs on him.

  Moyra Henson, Marlow’s girlfriend, appeared from the kitchen, followed by the smell of roasting lamb.

  “What the hell’s going on here? Oi, where are you taking him? He hasn’t had his dinner …”

  Ignoring her, they led Marlow out to the car as quickly as possible. In his bewilderment, he almost cracked his head on the roof of the patrol car as he was helped inside.

  The uniformed officers went in to search the flat, while a WPC took Moyra into the kitchen and told her that Marlow had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of a prostitute. Moyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head, disbelieving.