Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

  Mumbling about having had no breakfast, Jones climbed into her car, still wearing his crash helmet.

  Felix Norman turned the sheet back carefully. “She took one hell of a beating, poor little soul. Died about six weeks ago, so we won’t get any results on vaginal swabs. Lots of blood, I’ve sent samples over to the forensic girls. She’s got similar wounds to your first victim, made by a long, thin, rounded instrument with a razor-sharp point. All the wounds are clean, and hellish deep. Could be a screwdriver, but it’s longer than the weapon used on the other victim.”

  Tennison was wearing a mask, but the stench of the body combined with the disinfectant fumes made her sick to her stomach. “Any hope of getting anything from beneath her nails? You said she put up a struggle?”

  “Well, she did that all right, but she had false nails. A couple have snapped clean off, and three are missing altogether. She had deep scratches on her hands, similar to the other one—her hands were scrubbed.”

  Tennison nodded. “And what about the marks on her upper arms, are they the same?”

  Norman nodded but, as always until he had made out his report, he would not commit himself. “They’re similar. I’ve not compared them as yet, so don’t quote me. Maybe he strung her up to clean her, I won’t know until I’ve made more tests. He seems to have gone to great lengths to remove any traces of himself.”

  He drew the sheet back from the corpse’s face, revealing the side Tennison had not seen before. She had to turn away.

  “Cheek smashed, jaw dislocated …”

  “Can you give me any indication of his size? I mean, is he a big man, or …”

  “I’d say he was medium height, five ten, maybe a little more, but he’s very strong. These lower wounds were inflicted with one direct lunge, those to the breasts and shoulders are on an upward slant, which again indicate that she was strung up …”

  Tennison swallowed, trying to remove the taste of bile from her mouth. “Off the record, then, and I won’t quote you, you think we’re looking for the same man?”

  Norman chortled. “Off the record, and I mean that because I’ve worked my butt off to give you this much, until bloody two o’clock this morning … Yeah, I think it might be the same man. But until I’ve had more time, you mustn’t jump the gun. It was a different weapon, longer, but the same shape.”

  Tennison patted his arm, then turned to the row of seats by the doors. DC Jones was sitting there, looking very pale. As she watched, he put his head between his knees. Norman suddenly snapped his fingers and dug a hand into his back pocket.

  He brought out a screwed-up bundle of notes. “Eh, Daffy, I’ve got to give you some money, boyo!”

  Jones looked up. “Don’t mind if you do,” he managed to reply.

  “For the benefit night, man. What was it, a pony?”

  Jones looked completely blank.

  “Sorry, forgot you’re an ignorant Welsh git! Twenty-five quid, was it?”

  Jones nodded, still confused and sick. Norman handed him the cash with a flourish.

  Tennison said cheerfully, “OK, if you’re feeling better, DC Jones, you can drive me back to the station!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry about this, but I was up half the night. The wife cooked a curry, must have turned my stomach. Sorry!”

  She smiled and winked at Norman as she removed her mask. “You’ll call me with anything I can quote? And … thanks for coming out to Sunningdale. Bye!”

  Jones followed Tennison through the main doors into the station, on his way to Forensic, and noticed the stain on her raincoat. It was in a most unfortunate position, as if she’d sat in something nasty. Embarrassed, he would have let it go, but WPC Havers, coming out of the ladies’, spotted it.

  “Oh, boss, just a minute …”

  “Whatever you’ve got, it’ll have to wait.”

  Havers blushed. “It’s your coat, you’ve got a terrible stain on the back!”

  Tennison pulled her coat round to look. “Oh, bugger, it singed! I got soaked last night and left it on the radiator. Can you take it and sponge it down, see if you can do anything with it? It’s a Jaeger, really expensive …”

  While Havers inspected the coat, Tennison looked at Jones. “It’s in a pretty unfortunate position, wouldn’t you say, Jonesey? What did you think it was, menstrual cycle? Or curry tummy?”

  He flushed and replied, “I didn’t notice it, ma’am.”

  Tennison snorted. “Oh, yeah, pull the other one! Thanks, Maureen.”

  At nine o’clock George Marlow, looking extremely smart, left his flat and made his way to the paint factory he worked for. His shadows kept watch on both entrances to the building.

  The main part of the factory with the massive vats for mixing the colors was as big as an aircraft hangar. The narrow lanes between the vats stretched from one end of the building to the other. The offices were ranged along the far side and all the windows looked out over the factory floor.

  There were some outrageous stories spread among the workers about some director or other who had been caught giving his secretary a seeing-to on the desk. The embarrassed man discovered, too late, that he had neglected to draw the blinds. The entire factory had viewed the deflowering of the poor woman, Norma Millbank, who was so mortified that everyone had seen her thrashing on the desk-top that she quit her job on the spot. Since then the workers had lived in hope, but the blinds were usually kept lowered. But the offices were known from then on as the “Fish Tank.”

  The office George Marlow used when he was in London was at the far end. He shared it with three other salesmen, one of them a fresh-faced boy called Nicky, who had only been with the firm for sixteen months. A huge chart nearly covered one wall, and the men vied with each other to plot their progress in brilliant colors, like bolts of lightning. The bulletins were a great encouragement and stirred up the competition, not just among the four men in Marlow’s office but all the salesmen. Every month there was a bonus for the highest sales, and George Marlow won it as often as not. He was known as the champion.

  Marlow prided himself on being number one, and yet he was a very generous man with his contacts. He had trained and helped young Nicky Lennon, giving him introductions and special hints. Nicky was working on his accounts when the word went round that George Marlow had been picked up and charged with murder, and that he was on the factory floor right now!

  They all knew that he had been in prison for rape, and that his job had been held open for him. When he had returned to work he had thrown a big champagne party, inviting all of them to ask anything they wanted, to discuss it and get it out in the open. He talked of his trial, the prison, and still he claimed he was innocent.

  It had taken him a few months and some obvious ill-feeling and embarrassment before he was again the champion, accepted and fighting to regain the best-salesman sash. Never mind the bonus, it was the sash he wanted, and he won it fair and square the year he returned. He also won the respect of his colleagues, and because he was such a good worker and always ready to give assistance to the others, no one ever mentioned his spot of trouble.

  Marlow was a known collector of jokes, he could outjoke the professionals and keep on going. He was the man who knew everyone by name, their wives and their sisters, their troubles. There was always a special joke, and one their mothers could be allowed to hear. The secretaries flirted with him, a few had even dated him, he was so attractive, but Moyra was a strong woman who made it known that he was her man.

  The men loved Moyra, because she was as good as Marlow with the wisecracks, and they socialized quite a lot, although Marlow’s frequent trips north meant that they had few close friends as a couple. There were occasional dinners and parties at the factory.

  When Marlow crossed the factory floor, the catcalls and shouts that usually filled the cavernous building were ominously missing. Secretaries appeared around the sides of the vats, then vanished. Marlow could see police everywhere he looked, talking to the paint mixers, the sales p
ersonnel, the accountants … He couldn’t find a joke inside him even if he tried.

  He kept his head down and hurried towards the Fish Tank. He was pink with embarrassment, hearing the whispers following his progress, and he was glad to make it to his office, especially when he found it empty. He peered through the blinds, wondering why they were doing this to him. Echoing footsteps hurried past his window, the distant giggles made him sweat. Was he dreaming it, or were they all watching him, whispering about him?

  It was no figment of his imagination. As the morning wore on it grew worse, and no one came to his office. The worst moment was when he spotted young Nicky, who stared at him with unabashed distaste, so obvious that Marlow thought he was joking. When he approached the boy he turned his back and walked away. Not one person spoke to him or looked him in the face.

  He sat in his office and typed out his own resignation, as the group’s secretary insisted she was too busy. He licked the envelope and stuck the flap down, then went to see the manager. But Edward Harvey was in a meeting with all the salesmen. Marlow could see them through the window; as he walked in they fell silent. He went straight to Mr. Harvey and handed him the envelope.

  “It’s just a conference about the new paint for European distribution, George, not your territory, but you can stay if you want.”

  At least when Harvey spoke to him he looked him in the eye, even though he was lying. When Marlow walked out they started to talk again, a low hubbub at first, but it grew louder. The blinds were lifted a crack and they watched him, the champion fallen from grace. This time he had fallen too far to be picked up.

  Marlow hurried among the paint vats, then turned towards the offices. He shouted, and his voice echoed around the factory floor.

  “I didn’t do it, you bastards!”

  DC Rosper and WPC Southwood followed Marlow as he hurried from the factory. Southwood suddenly nudged her partner as she saw DI Muddyman waving to them from the main entrance.

  “He’s just quit his job,” Muddyman said as he came close. “I was just interviewing that little cracker from their accounts department, and he handed in his notice. Instructions are to keep on him, OK?”

  Rosper turned this way and that. Marlow was nowhere to be seen. “Where the hell is he?”

  Southwood pointed. Way up ahead, Marlow was just crossing the main road, heading for the tube station. Rosper and Southwood took off at a run.

  When Jones returned from booking Della’s clothing into Forensic, Otley took him aside. “Look, my old son, she’s tryin’ to rake up the dirt on our old guv’nor, so stick with her. You’re young an’ a goodlooking lad; try an’ get into her good books. Anything you find out about the old slag, report back into my shell-likes.” He tapped his ear, and continued, “We’re lookin’ for anything to needle her, know what I mean? We want her off this case …” He clocked Tennison heading towards them and shut up.

  Tennison was talking fast. “She was naked, hands tied behind her back, dead approximately six weeks. Like Karen, she wasn’t killed where she was found. You’ll get all the info as soon as I do. The rope’s not the same type, but the knot is! We’re going to have to talk to all those toms all over again!”

  The Incident Room door opened and Otley waltzed in, closely followed by the Super. All twelve people in the room turned their heads to look.

  Kernan gestured to Tennison to continue, then found a chair at the back of the room.

  “Right, what you got, Muddyman?” she asked.

  “Marlow’s made several visits to Chester Paints, the last one this morning while I was here. He’s just quit his job.”

  “What was he doing in the first week of December? Was he in the London area?”

  “Yes, it’s a pretty slack period in the paint trade, he didn’t go on the road again until …” He flicked through his notes, but Tennison was off on another track.

  “So we’ve established that Marlow was in London for both murders. Is there anything on his car yet? No? What about his neighbors?”

  “My lads have questioned most of the ones in the block. He seems to be pretty well-liked, uses the local pub regularly. Several people remembered the car, but couldn’t say when they last saw it.”

  “You’d better turn your attention to Sunningdale. I want the biggest team you can muster, do all the houses bordering the golf course. Someone must have seen him, or at least the car. It’s a collector’s item, and an unusual color, so go out there and ask them.”

  The meeting broke up. As the room emptied, Otley said to Tennison, “Did you arrange for the release of Karen’s body? The morgue said they were finished, everyone else has finished with her, Pathology and Forensic. It was all waiting on you, and her parents have asked God knows how many times …”

  “I’m sorry, yes, I’ve finished with her. Will you arrange it?”

  Otley pursed his lips. “Not my job, but if that’s what you want …” Kernan came up behind Tennison. “I’ll see you in your office, OK?” Tennison didn’t have time to reply. Otley and Kernan walked off together and she gazed after them. She was going to look for one of those gigantic wooden spoons, and present it to Otley.

  George Marlow inserted his key in the front door and pushed. The door opened about two inches and stopped dead; the chain was on.

  He rang the bell and waited; nothing happened. “Moyra? Moyra! Let me in!” he called. He had to ring and shout again before the door eventually swung open.

  As Marlow walked into the hall, Moyra stuck her head out of the door and looked around, saying loudly, “That old cow next door is going to do herself a mischief one of these days, glued to that bloody door all day!”

  Suddenly she looked across at the block of flats opposite, stared for a moment. Then she unbuttoned her blouse, crossed the walkway and opened it wide.

  In the surveillance flat DI Haskons, bored rigid, had been chatting on the radio with the two officers in the unmarked car. He sat bolt upright.

  “Well, chaps, I think she’s spotted us—I don’t suppose anyone got a shot of her titties?”

  Tennison found the Super sitting at her desk. Otley was with him. She asked Kernan about the press release.

  “So we’re not mentioning the weals on the arms this time either?”

  “No, I kept it to a minimum.” He flicked a glance at Otley. “Your decision to release Marlow could backfire …”

  Tennison was furious, but she kept her temper. “My decision? You backed me up, have you changed your mind?”

  Kernan ran his fingers through his hair and said to Otley, “You want to give us a minute?”

  “No, I want him to stay … sir.”

  “OK … The consensus seems to be that this case is getting a little heavy for you to handle.”

  Tennison couldn’t hold back. “Bullshit! I can—”

  “Just let me finish, will you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I want to ask the sergeant a question.” She turned to face Otley. “How well did Detective Chief Inspector Shefford know Della Mornay?”

  Otley replied with a shrug, “He knew her, nobody ever denied that. She was an informer …”

  “So you agree he knew her well?”

  Otley flashed a puzzled look at Kernan and shook his head.

  Tennison banged on, “Why did DCI Shefford wrongly identify the first victim?”

  “Because they bloody looked alike,” snapped Otley. “Her face was beaten to a pulp!”

  “You knew her too, didn’t you? Then why wasn’t it realized until after I took over the case that the body identified as Mornay was, in fact, Karen Howard?”

  “What’s this got to do with anything?” Kernan demanded impatiently.”

  Tennison opened a drawer and slapped two files on the desk. She stood directly in front of Kernan.

  “When I took over the case, I requested Della Mornay’s file from Vice. I was told that the delay in sending it was due to the computer changeover, leading me to believe that DCI Shefford had not had acce
ss to the records. I was mistaken.” She slapped the file. “He did have it, but it was not recorded in the case file.”

  “This is a bloody waste of time!” Otley protested, uneasily.

  “Is it? Here’s the one I received from Vice. And here’s the one Shefford received. Two supposedly identical files, but in mine there was no mention of Della Mornay being used as an informer, no record of the fact that DCI Shefford was her arresting officer when he was attached to Vice.”

  Otley pointed to the files. “I don’t know anything about that, but I do know that you’ve got some personal grudge against a man that was admired—” Tennison cut him short.

  “Shefford was so damned eager, even desperate, to make an arrest, judging by this …” She stopped, realizing her voice had climbed almost to a shriek. She went on more calmly, “I still want to know, if both you and Shefford knew Della Mornay personally, how the body was wrongly identified.”

  Otley stared at her with loathing, tried to face her down. But she had him backed into a corner; his eyes flicked from side to side as he said, “Why don’t you leave it alone! The man is dead!”

  Tennison pointed to two photographs on the wall. “So are they! Karen Howard and Della Mornay! So explain this, Sergeant …”

  Opening her desk drawer again she produced Della Mornay’s diary. “It was in your desk along with the original Vice file.”

  Otley had no reply to make. Kernan thumped the desk. “What the hell is going on?”

  “This, sir, is Della Mornay’s diary, not tagged, not logged in. There are pages missing, obviously torn out.” She turned to Otley and asked icily, “Do you know what happened to those pages?”

  “I can explain about the diary. I gave it to John … er, DCI Shefford. I presumed he would have …” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I found it when I was clearing out his desk. He must have removed the pages.”

  Through gritted teeth, Kernan whispered, “Jesus Christ!” He looked at Tennison. “You realize what this means? You are accusing a senior officer of doctoring evidence.”