Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

Superintendent Kernan called a two o’clock meeting with Commander Geoff Trayner to discuss the situation, particularly Tennison’s request to take over the Marlow case. Neither man liked the idea, even though the file on the desk proved she was fully qualified and her exboss in the Flying Squad had given her a glowing recommendation.

  Tennison had been with the Flying Squad for five years, and had taken a lot of flak from the men. Unlike two of her female colleagues in a similar position she had stayed her course. Her report noted that she had been offered a position training female officers because of her previous experience working with rape victims and her instigation of many changes which had been adopted by rape centers all over the country. She had turned the offer down, not wishing to go back into uniform, and had subsequently been transferred to AMIT. She was, as they were well aware, the only female DCI attached to a murder squad; with someone of her record it would be very difficult to bring someone in from outside to take over.

  Kernan drummed his fingers on the desk. “The men won’t like it, you know that, but as far as I can see we don’t really have a choice. There’s no one free on AMIT except her. I’ve checked locally, and of the usuals I know Finley’s in Huddersfield, Smith and Kelvin are still tied up on that shooting last week in Shepherd’s Bush … And she’s got a mouth on her, I don’t want her creating a stink. She as good as threatened to resign if she was overlooked again.”

  “She’s one of these bloody feminists, I don’t want any flak from that angle. We’ll give her a trial run, see what happens, but if she puts a foot out of line we’ll have her transferred and get her out of our hair. Agreed?”

  Kernan nodded and slapped Tennison’s file closed. “I’ll get her in to see you, and I’ll break it to the men.” He pressed a button on his intercom and requested Tennison’s immediate presence.

  “DCI Tennison’s in court today, sir,” his secretary replied.

  “Hell, I’d forgotten … Let everyone know I want her the moment she comes in.”

  Jane Tennison was lucky for once. The jury was out by two-fifteen and she was away. Still upset by John Shefford’s death, she drove straight to the building site where Peter was working.

  Peter was in his hut, talking to one of his workmen. Jane held herself rigid and waited until the man was gone, then rushed to Peter and sobbed her heart out.

  It was a while before she was calm enough to make much sense, but he eventually pieced the events of the day together. He put his arms around her; it felt so good to have him to come to that she started crying all over again.

  “You know, from everything you’ve said, this Shefford was well-liked, it must be a shock to everyone. Perhaps you should have given it a few days.”

  He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned away. “You don’t understand,” she snapped, “Marlow will be released tomorrow unless we charge him. If they want extra time they have to have someone to take it before the magistrate, someone who knows what’s going on. If the magistrate doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to hold him, he’ll refuse the three-day lay-down.”

  Peter didn’t really care if they released Yogi Bear, but he made all the right noises. At last she blew her nose and stood up, hands on hips.

  “If those bastards choose someone else to take over, you know what I’ll do? I’ll quit, I mean it! I’ll throw in the towel, because if I don’t get the case—I mean, with Shefford dead it leaves only four on the AMIT team, and I know the other three are working, so they’d have to bring in someone from outside. And if they do, I quit. Then I’ll take them to a fucking tribunal and show them all up for the fucking chauvinist pigs they are! Bastard chauvinists, terrified of giving a woman a break because she might just prove better than any of them! I hate the fuckers …”

  Tentatively, Peter suggested that they go home early, have a relaxing evening, but she shot back at him, “No way, because if they should call me and I’m not hanging by that phone, then the buggers have an excuse.”

  “Use your bleeper.”

  She grinned at him, and suddenly she looked like a tousle-headed tomboy, “You’re not going to believe this, but I was so pissed off I left it at the station.” Then she tilted her head back and roared with laughter. It was a wonderful laugh, and it made him forget the way she had snapped at him.

  That was the first time he became aware of the two separate sides of Jane Tennison; the one he knew at home, the other a DCI. Today he’d caught a glimpse of the policewoman, and he didn’t particularly like her.

  The moment Tennison reached her office the telephone rang. She pounced on it like a hawk. She replaced the receiver a moment later and gave it a satisfied pat. She took a small mirror from her desk drawer and checked her appearance. She suddenly realized that Maureen Havers was sitting quietly in the corner.

  “Wish me luck!” she said, and gave Havers a wink as she opened the door.

  Havers sat at her neatly organized desk and stared at the closed door. She’d seen Tennison’s satisfaction and knew something was going down. Wish me luck? She put two and two together and knew that Tennison was going after John Shefford’s job. She was disgusted at Tennison’s lack of sensitivity; she seemed almost elated.

  Havers picked up the phone and dialed her girlfriend in Records. “Guess what, I think my boss is going after Shefford’s job … Yeah, that’s what I thought, real pushy bitch.”

  3

  Otley was the last to arrive in the Incident Room. He apologized to the Super and received a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

  The room was filled with palpable depression; there was a heaviness to every man. Some of them couldn’t meet Otley’s eyes but stood with heads bent. Only yesterday they had been laughing and joking with their big, burly boss. Shefford had been loved by them all and they took his death hard.

  Kernan cleared his throat. “OK, I’ve gone over all the reports on the Marlow case and it looks in good shape. I think, when I’ve had time to assess it all, we can go ahead and charge him. But until that decision is made, and I know time is against us, I am bringing in another DCI to take over. You all know Detective Chief Inspector Tennison …”

  A roar of shock and protest drowned his next words, and he put up a hand for silence. “Now come on, take it easy, just hear me out. As it stands, I reckon we’ll have to try for a three-day lay-down, so I want all of you to give Inspector Tennison every assistance possible. Let her familiarize herself with the case, and then we can charge Marlow …”

  Otley stepped forward. “I’m sorry, sir, but it isn’t on. Bring in someone from outside, we don’t want her. We’ve been working as a team for five years, bring in someone we know.”

  Kernan’s face tightened. “Right now she is all I have available, and she is taking over the case at her own request.”

  “She moved bloody fast, didn’t she, sir?” Otley’s face twisted with anger and frustration, his hands clenched at his sides.

  DI Haskons raised an eyebrow at Otley to warn him to keep quiet. “I think, sir, we all feel the same way. As you said, time is against us.”

  “She’s on the case as from now,” Kernan said firmly, unwilling to show his own misgivings. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this further. She will access the charges; just give her all the help you can, and any problems report back to me. Thank you …” He got out fast to avoid further argument, but he heard the uproar as he closed the door, heard Otley calling Tennison a two-faced bitch, a cow who couldn’t wait to step into a dead man’s shoes. Kernan paused outside the room, silently agreeing with him. But the investigation was at such an advanced stage, they wouldn’t be stuck with Tennison for long.

  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 hint
ed 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.”