Tennison gave him a sidelong look. “Draft too much for you, is it?”
“No, ma’am, just thought it might be too much for you!”
She stared out of the window, talking more to herself than to him.
“You know, being a woman in my position is tough going. I mean, I have intuition, but it’s probably very different from yours. As a man, you feel that Marlow did it. Are you saying that your intuition tells you that Marlow is a perverted sexual maniac? Because this girl was tortured, strung up, beaten and raped … And you just feel it’s George Marlow?”
“It’s more than that, ma’am. I mean, he had sex with her.”
“So? That doesn’t make him the killer. You’ve got to find the gaps, the hidden areas. His common-law wife is his alibi; she stood by him before, when he was convicted of a serious sex assault. He snatched the woman’s handbag, knocked her about a bit, then he freely allowed them to take samples for DNA testing to see if they could find anything else against him. They didn’t, so it was his first offense. His girlfriend must have gone through hell over that. No matter how hard-faced she seems, she’s still a woman! She was betrayed by him, but they both used the excuse of drink. He had been drinking, and a lot of men do things when drunk that they’d never consider doing when sober, right? But our killer is a cold-blooded, calculating man. He scrubs his victim’s hands …”
“Well, I agree with what you’re sayin’, ma’am, but there is something about him …”
“You can’t bloody charge a man because there’s something about him! You can only do that with evidence, proof, and we have not got enough proof to hold George Marlow.”
The radio crackled and Tennison went to answer it, saying, “Maybe this will be it, fingers crossed!”
Control patched through a call from Forensic. It was Willy Chang, though Tennison could hardly tell. His voice was breaking up over the air.
“Inspector? We’ve crackle the carpet, every inch of crackle, crackle … have nothing. There’s not one shred of evidence to prove your man was ever there. We’ll keep at it, but I’m not hopeful.”
Tennison leaned back in her seat. “Well, that confirms it. As I was saying, we have nothing, not a hair, a fragment of material, to put Marlow in that efficiency. She was covered in blood, but we’ve got not so much as a pinhead on a pair of his shoes … How did he get her in there and walk away without so much as a single stain?”
“But there was one, ma’am, on his sleeve.”
“Ah, yes, but he has a plausible explanation for that. The only thing that might possibly finger him is his car. If he killed her in his car he has to have left something … And by the by, Burkin, would you stop calling me ‘ma’am’, makes me feel like a ruddy queen. I like ‘boss’ or ‘guv’nor,’ take your pick. Kingston Hill coming up on the right …”
Otley led the three bewildered girls and the handsome, tanned young man to the canteen, pushing the door open to allow them to pass in front of him. Michael Hardy paused politely, and Otley waved him on, taking a good look at the boy’s high-heeled cowboy boots and heavily studded biker’s jacket. But it was the ponytail that got him; his eyes gleamed.
“Take the ladies to a table, sir, at the far end out of everybody’s way, and I’ll arrange some refreshments.” He watched, shaking his head, as the four of them seated themselves, then turned to the counter.
The two canteen workers were about to haul the shutter down, but he scuttled over. “Hang about, Rose! I want four coffees for this lot, on the house. I’ll get you a docket later.”
The other woman walked off in a huff, not even attempting to serve him. The charming Rose muttered to herself as she turned to the steaming urn and drew four cups of pale brown liquid, banged them on the counter. Otley loaded them onto a tray. “Thanks, darlin’!”
He plonked the tray on the table, slopping the contents of the cups, and told them they would have to wait for Inspector Tennison to return. Then with a brief apology he wandered off.
He passed Maureen Havers, who had stopped to chat to DC Lillie.
“Have you heard, they’re bringing in Hicock to replace her?”
Otley’s ears flapped. “What was that? Hicock?”
“Yeah, I got it from the Super’s secretary.”
Otley nearly danced for joy. “Great! Now we need a get-together, get a report done …”
DI Muddyman joined them. “What am I missing?”
“Word’s out that they’re bringing in Hicock, Tennison’s gonna get the big E …” Otley beamed. “We better give them a little assistance, I’ll get a vote of no confidence going. That’ll teach the pushy bitch.”
He was almost rubbing his hands in glee as he headed out of the canteen. DC Lillie was more interested in the group of girls in the corner. He nudged Jones.
“Eh, I thought all the toms were downstairs? I wouldn’t mind interviewing that lot. Who’s the puff with the ponytail?”
Jones prodded Lillie in the chest. “They’re the victim’s flatmates, you prat!”
“What, you got an ID on her?”
“Not official, we gotta wait for the Queen Mother! Skipper’s sortin’ it out, sent her off to Brighton.”
The men laughed amongst themselves, while Karen’s four friends waited and waited for someone to tell them why they had been brought in, tell them anything at all. Officers came and went, but no one approached them. Michael was growing impatient, but he realized the long wait meant something terrible had happened. No one answered his questions, no one would tell him if Karen had been found.
“Was it Coombe Lane, ma’am?”
“Yep, should be off to the left … Yes, this is it. Oh, yeah, very posh.”
Tennison licked her fingers, then sniffed them. They smelt of fish and chips. She took a perfume atomizer from her bag and sprayed herself quickly.
They cruised slowly along Coombe Lane and stopped at a barred gate with a sign, “The Grange.” Tennison hopped out to open it. The tires crunched on the gravel drive and they both looked around, impressed.
The Tudor-style house, all beams and trailing ivy, stood well back from the road. There was a golf course behind.
“Obviously loaded, and no doubt Otley has sent us on another wild-goose chase,” commented Tennison. “OK, we both go in—and straighten your tie, Burkin!”
Large stone eagles and huge urns of flowers and ivy flanked the heavy oak door. There was an old-fashioned bell-push and, next to it, a modern plastic bell.
The deep bellow of a large dog was the first response to Tennison’s ring. She stepped back and waited, hearing footsteps on a stone-flagged floor. Then the door was opened wide.
“Major Howard? I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison and this is Detective Inspector Burkin. Do you think we could ask you a few questions?”
With a slight frown he replied, “Yes, of course. Do come in.”
They followed the major through the echoing hall into a vast drawing room with french windows overlooking a rolling, immaculate lawn. There were oil paintings and ornate statues in abundance, elegant sofas and chairs covered in rose silks. Even Tennison could tell that the thick, sculptured Chinese carpet was worth several years’ salary. The whole place smelt of money.
A little over-awed, Tennison watched the major closely as he apologized for his shirt-sleeves and put his jacket on over his dark green cords and checked shirt. Tall and well-built, he had obviously been a very handsome man in his youth. Now, with iron-gray hair and a back straight as a die, he still exuded the sort of easy charm that comes with total confidence.
He turned to DI Burkin. “Sit down, Inspector. Now, what can I do for you? Is there something wrong?”
Tennison stepped forward. “Thank you, sir, I’ll stand. I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison. I hope we will not take up too much of your time, but we are enquiring about your daughter. She has been reported missing?”
The major looked surprised. “By whom?”
Tennison was annoyed at herself fo
r having to check her notebook. “A young man by the name of Michael Hardy. He gave this address.”
The major frowned. “Well, I hope this isn’t some practical joke, that’s her boyfriend. My daughter Karen doesn’t actually live with us, she shares a flat with some girls in Kensington. I’d better call my wife, see if she can get to the bottom of this. Reported missing? Are you sure? I haven’t heard the first thing about it. To be honest, I thought it was about Karen’s car. She got a new Mini for her birthday and her parking tickets are always being sent here. We’ve had some fair old arguments about that. But please, I won’t be a moment, excuse me.”
As soon as he was out of the room, Tennison walked across to the grand piano on which stood a number of family photographs. One, in a particularly large frame, showed a girl holding the reins of a pony and smiling into camera. She would be about ten years old. The next photograph was of a family Christmas, with everyone in paper hats roaring with laughter. Tennison’s heart started thumping and she moved along to the photo that had caught her eye.
The beautiful, sweet young face, the wondrous hair … She was the epitome of youth and health, a smiling, vibrant, free-spirited girl. Tennison turned slowly towards Burkin.
“We’ve found her …”
Mrs. Felicity Howard handed Tennison two large, professional photographs of her daughter, taken in the past year. They confirmed Tennison’s suspicion. The major, knowing without being told that something was dreadfully wrong, moved to his wife’s side and held her gently.
Quietly, Tennison said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I believe your daughter may be dead. It will be necessary for one of you to come with us to identify the body.”
The major sat without speaking throughout the journey. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. Tennison did not attempt to make conversation; when she had radioed in to say that she was bringing Major Howard to identify the victim, she lapsed into silence.
Otley, Jones and Muddyman spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing prostitutes and call girls for the second time. They were all unhelpful, uncooperative, and one or two even had the cheek to complain about loss of earnings.
None seemed able to recall when they had last seen Della Mornay. It seemed that she was reasonably well-liked, but no one admitted to mixing with her when not on the streets.
The story was the same from the pimps and the patrons of the clubs and cafés frequented by Della Mornay. By late afternoon there was no evidence of any recent sighting of Della; it appeared that no one had seen her for weeks. At last, one very young girl volunteered the information that a friend of Della’s, known only as Ginger, had contracted Aids and returned to Manchester. Perhaps Della had gone to visit her.
A few girls hinted that Della had the odd S & M client, but when asked for names their faces went blank; the reaction was the same when Otley enquired if anyone else had ever been picked up by any of Della’s special clients. No one was interested.
Otley was gasping for a cup of tea, or something stronger, but the canteen was closed. He jerked a thumb at Muddyman and winked. Muddyman followed him out.
“Let’s take a little break. We can use the office, she won’t be back yet.”
Two of the tarts he had interviewed passed him on their way out. They waved; he gave them the finger.
“You know,” he said viciously, “when you start talkin’ to them all it makes my skin creep. They’re like an alien species, opening their legs for any bastard that’ll pay up. I’d like to get a water cannon, wash the lot of them off the streets.”
Muddyman shrugged. “Well, if the johns weren’t there, they wouldn’t be on the streets in the first place. Hose them and you’ve gotta hose the guys doin’ the kerb-crawling after their skinny, dirty little cunts.”
Otley opened the office door carefully and looked around it; it was empty. He closed the door softly behind them.
Tucked at the back of one of his desk drawers was a half-bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to Muddyman.
“Fuckin’ toms, I tell you, we had this Marlow done up, we’d have sent him down if it wasn’t for that bitch Tennison. Now we got to crawl through the gutters, makes me puke.”
“Maybe the one we found wasn’t a tom?”
“Bullshit! She was in Mornay’s flat, why else was she there, you tell me that? Don’t give me any crap because she was wearing designer knickers, I’ve had girls come in dripping with mink, wearing high-class gear, but they’re all the same, open the legs, drop in yer money!”
Muddyman thought it best to keep quiet as Otley was really sounding off. His face was twisted with anger and pent-up frustration.
“My wife, the most decent woman you could ever wish to meet, never done a bad thing in all her life, died of cancer, screamin’ in agony. She was goodness itself, and she was a bag of bones. These slags, tartin’ around, passing on filthy diseases … Why my wife? That’s what I ask myself over and over, why does a decent woman die like that and they get away with it?”
Wisely, Muddyman decided there was no answer to that. Instead, he enquired for the third time what they were going to do about the three girls and Michael Hardy.
“What d’you think, we keep them here until ma’am comes back. I get their statements, I can’t whip ’em over to the morgue, she’s got a family … We wait, but it’ll be worth it, because it’s all going down on my report sheet!”
“The canteen’s closed, Skipper, they’re in one of the interview rooms—not the one with the tarts. They’ve been here for hours, an’ I think Lillie’s taken a fancy to the tall blond one!”
Muddyman was referring to the youngest member of the team, DC Lillie, nicknamed Flower. He took the brunt of their wisecracks when Jones wasn’t around.
Otley sucked in his breath and prodded Muddyman’s chest. “I’m doin’ the report, an’ I know how long they’ve been here, OK? When the canteen reopens we’ll wheel ’em back up, an’ you tell Lillie no chattin’ up the blond Puss in Boots, savvy?”
Muddyman bristled. Sometimes Otley got right under his skin, seeming to forget who was the senior officer. But he replied, “I savvy, Sarge!”
In the mortuary, the wait for the body to be brought out seemed interminable, yet it was no more than a few minutes. The major stood in the small waiting room, tense and unspeaking.
After putting out a DO NOT DISTURB sign, Felix Norman opened the door of the waiting room and gestured to Tennison that everything was ready. He held the door open as Tennison led the major out, followed by Burkin. They formed a small group around the open drawer where Karen lay covered with a green sheet. Tennison looked at the major.
“Are you ready?”
He nodded. His hands were clenched at his sides as the sheet was drawn back.
“Major Howard, is this your daughter, Karen Julia Howard?”
He stared as if transfixed, unable to raise his eyes. He did not attempt to touch the body. Tennison waited.
After a long, terrible pause, the major wrenched his eyes from the body.
“Yes, this is my daughter,” he whispered.
His work forgotten, Otley was still holding forth to Muddyman. The only way to get rid of Tennison, who he instinctively associated with the tarts, was a vote of no confidence. He had spread the word to any who would listen, and was sure the team would back him. Suddenly, he remembered that he had intended to see the Super to tell him they thought the victim had been identified.
Tennison had many questions she needed to ask the major, but before she could phrase the first one, he said bluntly, without looking at her, “How did my daughter die? I want to know the facts. I want to know how long she has been dead, and why I have not been contacted before this. I want to know when I can have my daughter’s body, to give her a decent funeral … And I want to know who is in charge of this investigation …”
Tennison interrupted. “I am in charge of the investigation, sir.”
He stared at her, then looked at Burkin. “I am a
personal friend of Commander Trayner’s, I must insist on speaking to him. I do not … I will not have a woman on this case, is that clear? I want to speak to the Commander …”
Tennison sighed. “I am in charge of this investigation, sir. If there is anything you wish to discuss with me, please feel free to do so. I assure you we will release your daughter’s body as soon as it is feasible. The only problem is if you want to have her cremated …”
“Cremated? Good God, no, a Christian burial is what I want for my daughter …”
“Then the delay should be minimal, Major. I’ll see to it personally,” Tennison promised. “I think perhaps the questions I need to ask you can wait until you have had a chance to recover. I will arrange for a car to take you home …”
“I want to speak to Commander Trayner. If I didn’t make myself clear in the first place, woman, then let me repeat to you, I refuse … I will not have … I will not have a female in charge of this case.”
Tennison was about to reply when Burkin caught her eye. He gripped her elbow and whispered, “Leave the room, let him cry, leave him …”
She allowed herself to be steered from the room. She stood in the corridor, angry at first, then looked through the small glass panel in the door. She could see the major; he slammed his fist into the top of the bare table.
“I have many friends, I know many people who could take over this investigation …” Then he disintegrated like a helpless child, his body sagged and he held out his arms, in desperate need of comfort from anyone, a stranger, even the Detective Inspector …
Gently, Burkin held the heartbroken man as he sobbed his daughter’s name over and over.
Tennison felt inadequate and ashamed of herself for being so eager to question the major. In his grief and rage he had turned to the young Inspector, not to her. For a long time he wept in Burkin’s arms.
Listening to him, Tennison was flooded with sympathy.
Eventually the door opened and Burkin emerged.
Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) Page 9
