Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane’s father was sitting right in the center of the sofa opposite the television, his hand on the remote control. Her mother was settling her grandchildren for the night, or trying to. They were dashing up and down the hall of the flat, screaming their heads off. She was getting a headache.

  Jane’s sister, Pam, yelled at them to be quiet and go to bed, but they paid no attention to their mother. Their father, Tony, glared at her over the evening paper and she told him to go and see to them. Peter, sitting on the arm of the sofa, gave the harassed Tony a wink and opened a bottle of wine.

  “Can I give you a refill, Mr. Tennison?”

  “Thanks … Everyone should get in here, it’s going to start in a minute.”

  Peter poured the wine. The birthday cake and champagne were all on hold for Jane’s arrival. Mrs. Tennison came rushing in with more plates of sandwiches.

  “Peter, check he’s got the right channel for the video, she wants us to record it.”

  Her husband looked daggers at her. “Just come in and sit down, she’ll be on in a minute.”

  Peter looked at the video machine. “Are you on the right channel, Mr. Tennison?

  The Crime Night theme started and everyone took their seats. Mr. Tennison, ignoring Peter’s question, turned up the volume on the TV and sat back. “Right, no talking …”

  All of John Shefford’s team were gathered around the bar, off the main hall where the benefit dinner was to take place. The MC stood in the doorway, bellowing himself hoarse.

  “Take your seats for dinner, gentlemen, please! Dinner is now being served, please take your seats for dinner …”

  No one paid him the least attention, especially Sergeant Otley, who was leaning over the bar tugging at the sleeve of the harassed barman.

  “Is the TV set up in the back? I want to see the start of the program.”

  Dave Jones nudged him. “Come on, let’s go and eat. Someone’ll have taped it.”

  Otley shrugged him away. “Go on in, we’re on the center table. I’ll be a few seconds, go on … Oi, Felix! you want a quick one before we go in?”

  Felix Norman had appeared in the doorway, still in his overcoat. “I can’t find a bloody parking space!” he yelled.

  The MC had got hold of a microphone and his voice boomed, “Please take your seats, gentlemen, dinner is now being served!” He was obviously under pressure from a row of aged waitresses who were giving him foul looks. “Please go in to dinner!”

  At last there was a slow surge into the main hall where the tables had been set up around a central boxing ring. Norman downed his double malt and grinned at DI Muddyman.

  “How’s our man? I hope he’s not been in here; he can’t box and drink. When I was the amateur middleweight champion of Oxford, did I tell you, I had ten bouts …”

  Someone yelled, “How many years ago was that now, Felix?” Everyone had heard of his boxing prowess, sadly cut short by a hand injury, and no one paid any further attention in the crush as they all tried to get into the main hall at once. Superintendent Kernan was laughing at some joke, the tears rolling down his cheeks, and Otley whistled to him, pointing towards the hall.

  “We’re on table six, Mike, right up against the ring!”

  As the men sorted themselves out and filtered into the hall, Otley scuttled round the bar and headed for the back room, where there was a small portable TV set. A little unsteadily, Otley propped himself near the door, and was squashed against the wall as the barman came through with a crate of bottles.

  Tennison was on screen. Otley squinted. “That’s her, she’s on! What’s she think she’s come as, Maggie Thatcher?”

  He inched further into the room to get a better view. As he had organized the benefit night he had been propping up the bar since six-thirty, and the small screen made his eyes water. He could see six of Tennison, six of the bitch! And one was bad enough.

  Tennison paused on cue for the footage of Karen’s funeral. She was in fact coping very well. She was now halfway through her discussion with Brian Hayes; she was clear, concise and very direct.

  “We know Karen left the offices of the MacDonald Advertising Company soon after six-thirty on the evening of the thirteenth of January this year. She told the people she was working with that she was going home to her flat in Kensington. No one was seen to meet her. She turned left into Ladbroke Grove, towards the side street where she had parked her white Mini.”

  The picture cut to Brian. “Karen Howard never returned to her flat. Were you in Ladbroke Grove that night, Saturday the thirteenth of January, at around six-thirty? Did you see Karen?”

  Again the picture cut. The screen showed WPC Barbara Morgan, dressed in the dead girl’s clothes, walking away from the film company’s offices.

  As Jane was no longer the center of attention, her mother got up from her seat to get a glass of wine. She was told to sit down again and not interrupt the program. She gave Peter a look and pointed to the video machine, whispering, “Is it on the right channel, Peter?”

  Mr. Tennison pounded on the arm of the sofa. “Be quiet!”

  “Jane’s not on, and I was just asking if you’d checked it’s on the right channel.”

  “I have! Now be quiet!”

  Mrs. Tennison sighed. The recreation of the dead girl’s movements meant nothing to her; she was a stranger.

  Major and Mrs. Howard were sitting in front of their television set, holding hands tightly. The major had not wanted his wife to see the program, but she had quietly insisted. They had been told so little, they knew only the bare essentials about the death of their beloved daughter.

  WPC Barbara Morgan was wearing a blond, shoulder-length wig and a jacket similar to the one worn by the real Karen on the night she had been murdered. The jacket had never been traced. The WPC also wore sheer black stockings, a leather miniskirt and identical black ballet pumps. She actually carried Karen’s own portfolio containing her modeling pictures.

  On screen, Barbara Morgan began acting out the last known movements of Karen Howard. Walking casually along Ladbroke Grove, she headed towards the Mini.

  The major and his wife watched the last known movements of their daughter, the last hours of her life.

  “She looks like her.” The major’s voice was very low and he gripped his wife’s hand more tightly.

  “No,” Felicity said, “Karen was prettier.”

  The tears streamed down her cheeks as WPC Morgan turned a corner into a side street, stopped by a white Mini and unlocked it. After putting the portfolio in the back she sat in the driving seat and tried to start the car, but the engine would not turn over.

  Brian Hayes’s voice accompanied the film. “Having arrived for work at the film studio early in the morning, Karen had left her car lights on, and the battery was flat. A man working on the building site opposite was backing his truck into the street while Karen was trying to start her car. He stated that it was almost six forty-five.”

  On the screen, the driver hopped down from his cab and crossed the road to offer his assistance.

  “Got a problem, have you, love?”

  “Yes, I think the battery’s flat.”

  “You need jump leads, love. Sorry I can’t help, but hang on a mo.”

  He called across to his mates, asking if they had any jump leads, and was told they had not. The driver suggested that he and his pals could give the car a push, but he had to return to his truck as he was blocking a van from leaving the building site.

  “Thanks for your help, but I think I’d better call the AA.”

  Brian Hayes’s voice again took up the story. “Karen locked her car and waved to the driver as he moved off. Then she walked back to the main road.”

  George Marlow was standing directly in front of the television screen, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his face expressionless, as Moyra entered the room.

  “Turn it off, George. What are you watching it for? Turn it off!”

  She didn’t wait for George, she turn
ed it off herself. “What are you watching it for?”

  With a sigh, Marlow asked, “Why do you think?”

  “You tell me?”

  “Because somebody out there might have the fucking evidence that’ll get me off the hook, that’s why. I didn’t kill her, but somebody did, and they’re trying to make out that it was me. I want to see if there’s anything I can help them with. Now turn it back on!”

  “No!”

  “Jesus Christ, Moyra! You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I just don’t want to see her.”

  “It isn’t her, she’s dead. That’s a policewoman.”

  “I know that,” Moyra snapped. “Why don’t you go out and bloody pick her up while you’re at it?”

  Marlow shook his head in disbelief. “Look, how many more times? If I could turn the clock back, if there was any way I could … But I can’t. I picked that girl up and now they’re saying that I killed her. I swear before God that I didn’t, and maybe, just maybe, there’s something in that program that’ll make me remember more. Somebody killed her, Moyra, but not me!”

  “I don’t want to see it.”

  “Then leave the room.”

  He bent to switch the set on again but she broke down. “Why? Why did you do it, George? Why?”

  “You mean why did I pick her up? Why did I fuck her?”

  “Yes! Yes, tell me why!”

  “Because she was there, and I was there, and she … She gave me the come-on, and she was … I don’t know why! If I was to say to you that I’d never have sex with another woman, you wouldn’t believe me. She was a tart. I picked her up, we did the business, I paid her. It meant nothing, it never means anything. I don’t cheat on you, Moyra, and I never have.”

  “You don’t what? You don’t cheat on me? Jesus Christ, What do you call it?”

  “Wanking off! And no, I don’t call that cheating! It’s fast, clean and finished, and I pay for it.”

  You can say that again …”

  “Yeah, I’m paying for it, I’m paying, Moyra. All I want is for them to find out who did it, find him and let me off the hook.”

  Moyra snapped the TV set on. “You want him found, what d’you think I want?”

  The telephone rang. Moyra turned and looked as if she would yank it from the wall and hurl it across the room. Marlow gripped his hands together, trying to concentrate on the television.

  “Don’t answer it, Moyra, just leave it.”

  Moyra marched to the phone. “If this is another crank bitch, then I’m ready for her. I’m bloody ready for anyone.”

  She snatched up the phone but said nothing, just listened. Then she sighed and held the receiver out to Marlow.

  “It’s your mother. George, it’s Doris.”

  She handed the phone over, not even bothering to say hallo to Mrs. Marlow. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching the way he swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to calm himself, make himself sound relaxed.

  He said brightly, “Hallo, my old love? Mum? Eh, eh, now what’s this? You crying, sweetheart?”

  Moyra sighed and turned back to the TV set, arms folded, only half-listening to George’s conversation.

  “Yes … Yes, Mum, I’m watching. We’ve got it on. Yes, I know … Look, I don’t want to talk about it, can I call you back? Because I want to see it! No, no … I was released, Mum, it was just … No, they don’t want to see me again, no, they released me. It was a big mistake …”

  Moyra turned the volume up and turned to George. “Jesus Christ, they got a car identical to yours! Look, look at the TV! They’re giving out your number plate! George!”

  Marlow dropped the phone back on the hook and stared in shock at the screen. Moyra shouted for him to get on to his lawyer, but he slumped in his chair, hands raised helplessly. “How can they do this to me? Why … ? Why are they doing this to me?”

  “Oi, Otley, what the fuck’re you doin’ in here? You’ve missed the soup and the chicken frisky … mind, I don’t blame you, we’ll all be salmonellaed by tomorrow!”

  Otley ignored the well-flushed Jones as he chuntered on. The barman had started the glass-washing machine, and the din from the main hall was drowning out the TV program.

  “Come on, Burkin’s on first! He’s matched against the Raging Bull of Reading!”

  Otley pointed drunkenly at the screen. “Look at this bull dyke, Jesus, hate her guts … She’s comin’ on like bleedin’ Esther Rantzen! Look, d’you believe it? And I’m tellin’ you, she’s really done herself in.”

  Jones stared at the small screen. “Shit, it’s Marlow’s car, isn’t it? I mean, the make?”

  “Yeah, an’ if that’s not an infringement of personal privacy, she’s given out his fuckin’ registration number!”

  Otley chortled, choked and drained his glass. Tennison, on screen, was discussing the Rover with Brian Hayes, then the camera zoomed in on her face for a close-up.

  “Did Karen have a handbag with her on the night she died? Her portfolio was found in her car, but no bag. There was also her Filofax; it could be that she carried it in a handbag, and it has not been found. The witness who saw her stop at a cardphone and directed her to a payphone on Ladbroke Grove couldn’t tell us if she had a bag or not …”

  Otley exploded. “Oh, that’s bloody marvelous! By tomorrow mornin’ we’ll have every soddin’ lost bag in the London area … This bloody woman is a total fuckin’ idiot …”

  On screen, Tennison was still talking. “ … Telecom tell us that the coinbox was out of order that night. The AA have no record of a call from Karen …”

  The bellowing of the Master of Ceremonies cut through the singing and shouting from the main room. “Gentlemen, in the red corner we have DI Burkin, weighing in at sixteen stone fifteen pounds, let’s hear it for him … And in the blue corner, the Raging Bull of Reading!”

  Boos and catcalls drowned Brian Hayes and Tennison. DC Jones gave up on Otley and returned to the hall to watch the fight. This was his first benefit, being the fresh man on the team, and he was having the time of his life. He seemed unaware that the orange juice was well and truly laced with vodka, but he’d know by the end of the evening. He was well on his way to getting totally plastered for the first time in his life.

  Otley did not join table six until Crime Night was over and the fight was in the fourth round. Burkin looked very much the worse for wear, his nose streaming blood and one eye nearly closed.

  During the break, Felix Norman climbed into the red corner, screaming instructions as if he was Burkin’s second. “Keep your fists up! Up, man! You’re flayin’ around like a bloody oik! Hit him with a good body, then one, two, one, two …”

  Felix hauled out of the ring as the bell rang for the next round. Men were bellowing from the back of the room for Felix to sit down, they could not see through his bulk.

  Otley cheered loudly as he poured himself a large Scotch from one of the many bottles in front of him. Kernan was whistling and thumping on the table; Otley leaned across to him.

  “ ’Ere, Tennison’s done ’erself in tonight, guv! Wait till you see what she bloody went on about in the telly program. How she wangled that I’d like to know!”

  “Yeeessssss!” Kernan was on his feet, fists in the air, as Burkin landed a good uppercut to his opponent’s chin. The entire room erupted and chants of “Blood … blood … blood …” mingled with a pitiful request over the public address system for whoever had parked in front of the fire escape to move his car. The chanting mounted in a crescendo as Burkin staggered as if he was going to keel over, but he planted his elbow in the Raging Bull’s ribs, and a small but visible head butt gave an opening for his right hand. The cheers were deafening as Burkin was proclaimed the winner.

  The tiny blast of a worn-out record of The Eye of the Tiger started playing for the next bout as the buckets for donations to Shefford’s family were being passed around. Otley sat back in his chair with a grin like the Cheshire Cat; he knew Ten
nison was in the shit, knew it, because he also knew that Marlow’s car had not been reported stolen. To give out his registration number on live national television was going to create a nasty scene with Marlow’s legal adviser. Otley’s hands itched for his wooden spoon …

  DC Jones was propped against the table, insisting on singing a solo, demanding to be let into the ring. His young face was flushed an extraordinary red, his shirt was undone … Otley chuckled; they’d got the poor lad well and truly pissed. He stood up to give Jones a helping hand and slithered beneath the table, where he remained for the rest of the evening.

  Jane drove straight from the television studios to her parents’ flat. The follow-up would not go on air for another hour and a half, and she was not required to wait for the phone-in. The two officers left in charge had her number, and she was ready to act immediately on any information that came in.

  Her family had waited long enough, so the champagne was open and the candles on her father’s birthday cake were lit when she rang the bell, just in time to join the chorus of Happy Birthday. She had forgotten to post his card, but presented it with a flourish with the two bottles of champagne she had picked up on the way from the television center.

  Her father hugged her tightly, proud of her achievements, although he never said much about it. She kissed him while her mother looked on, surreptitiously removing the supermarket price labels from the champagne bottles, but not before she noticed they were bought locally. Jane couldn’t even spare the time to buy her dad a present!

  “Well, was I OK? What do you think, did I look OK?”

  She was asking generally, but her eye caught Peter’s and he gave her the thumbs-up. “Well, come on, put the video on, let me see meself!” She sat down with a glass of champagne.

  Her father leaned against the back of the sofa. “What’s this Brian Hayes bloke like, then? I listened to him on the radio, you know.”

  “Oh, he’s great! Did you think I was OK, Dad?”

  “Course you were, love. Do you want a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks, I just want to see what I looked like. The second part’ll be on soon.”