Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

  “No, darling, my voice isn’t what it was.” She put a hand to her head. “Did you bring me a scarf?”

  It was high tide, and the spray was blowing onto the promenade. He parked the chair beside a bench and brought out a silk square. Folding it carefully, he handed it to her.

  “Thank you, darling. I was asking Matron if we could get a better hairdresser, only I need a trim, but I don’t like the young girl that comes in. Oh, she’s very sweet, but she’s an amateur …”

  George watched her tie the square over her head, carefully tucking in the hair. “You have to watch these girls, they cut off far too much …”

  George could see the reflections of her past beauty as she tilted her head coquettishly. “All ship-shape, am I, darling?”

  He nodded, and gently pressed a stray curl into place. “All ship-shape. Now, how about singing me ‘Once I had a secret love, that dwelt within the heart of me’ … ?”

  Sitting in her wheelchair, wrapped in her rug, she swayed to the rhythm, her hands in the air like an old trouper. Being together like this brought the memories flooding back to both of them, and they were laughing too much to finish the song.

  “You always like the old ones best. Remember that Elvis medley I used to do?” She sat up straight and played an imaginary piano as she sang, “Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfil; for, my darling, I love you, and I always will … That was your Dad’s favorite. I don’t know what he would think about this … What does that Moyra think of it all?”

  George’s face fell. “Now, Mum, don’t start. Moyra’s a good woman, and she’s stood by me.”

  He took a newspaper from the carrier bag. It was folded so that the article about him was on the outside. Managing to grin at her, he asked, “What did you give them this photo for? I hated that school.”

  Mrs. Marlow pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Your dad would turn in his grave …”

  “Don’t cry, Mum, don’t … I’m innocent, Mum, I had to do something to prove it. They’ll lay off me now, and I got paid a fair bit. I’ll get a new job—they gave me good references. Things’ll turn out, don’t you worry.”

  He walked to the railings at the edge of the promenade and threw the paper into the sea. When he turned a moment later to face her, his hands were in his pockets.

  “Which one’s got a present in?” he demanded. “I want a song, though, you must promise me a song.”

  She made a great performance out of it, finally fooling him into giving her a clue to which pocket his gift was in. He presented the perfume with a flourish and she made him bend down for a kiss. Her warmth and her love for him shone out, despite her fears.

  On the way back to the home they sang, “Why am I always the bridesmaid, never the blushing bride?” vying with each other to sing the silly bits and breaking into giggles.

  Moyra was doing the ironing. While George put the kettle on he was singing “Why Am I Always the Bridesmaid?”

  “Every time you go to see her you come back singing those stupid songs,” Moyra complained.

  “That was by way of a proposal,” he said as he put coffee in their mugs and poured the boiling water. “I reckon it’s time I made an honest woman of you.”

  “Not if your mother has any say in the matter; I was never good enough for you in her eyes!” Moyra retorted. “And I notice she gave the papers that photo of you in your posh school uniform …”

  He handed her a mug of coffee. “Did I ever tell you about—”

  She interrupted him. “How beautiful she looked at the school prize-giving? How all the lads said she looked like a movie star? Yes, you did!”

  “But I’ve never told you about afterwards, after the prize-giving.”

  “I dunno why you go on about it, you were only at the school two minutes.”

  “I walked Mum and Dad to the gates. They were all hanging out of the dormitory windows, giving her wolf-whistles. Mum was being all coy, you know, waving to the boys. She didn’t want them to know we didn’t have a car, that they were going to catch the bus. And then, just as we got to the gates, the wind blew her wig off. They all saw it …”

  Moyra spluttered through her mouthful of coffee. “You’re kidding me! Blew her wig off!” She laughed aloud.

  Offended, he blinked. “It wasn’t funny, Moyra. My dad ran down the road to get it back, and she just stood there, rooted to the spot …” He raised his hands to his own hair. “I didn’t know her hair had fallen out. Dad helped her put the wig back on, but the parting was all crooked. Underneath all the glamour she was ugly; an ugly stranger.”

  “And everybody saw it? Did she ever talk about it?”

  “She never even mentioned it.”

  “I always thought it was just old age, you know. I’ve never said anything to her, but it’s so obvious. How long has she been bald, then?”

  “I don’t know. She still pretends it’s her own hair, even to me, says it needs trimming and so on.”

  “Well what do you know! Underneath it all the Rita Hayworth of Warrington is really Yul Brynner in disguise!”

  He looked at her for a moment, then laughed his lovely, warm, infectious laugh. He slipped his arms around her and kissed her on the neck.

  “Did you mean it, George? About getting married?”

  He lifted her in his arms and swung her around. “I love you, Moyra—what do you say, will you marry me?”

  “Will I? I’ve had the license for two years, George, and you won’t get out of it.”

  He smiled at her. Sometimes his resemblance to his mother took her breath away. He was so goodlooking, every feature neat and clean-cut. Doris had been a real looker, and George was the most handsome man Moyra had ever known. Held tight in the circle of his arms she looked up into his dark eyes, eyes a woman would pray for, with thick dark lashes. Innocent eyes …

  “I love you, George, I love you.”

  His kiss was gentle and loving. He drew her towards the bedroom.

  “George! It’s nearly dinnertime!”

  “It can wait …”

  DCI Tennison stared at the headline, furious. Then she ripped it down from the Incident Room door. She took a deep breath, crumpled the paper into a ball and entered the room.

  The men fell silent, watching her. She held the ball of paper up so they could all see, then tossed it accurately into a wastepaper basket.

  “OK, we’ve all read it, so the least said about it the better. But it’s not just me with egg on my face.”

  She crossed to her desk and dumped her briefcase. “It makes our surveillance operation look like a circus.”

  “Any word on what their readers’ survey came up with, ma’am?” asked Otley with a snide smile. “For or against female officers on murder cases?”

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. “Oh, you’re a biased load of chauvinists, and there’s thousands more like you!”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” chipped in Dave Jones, “you could always get a job in panto!”

  He was holding up the photograph of her from the paper, but it had been added to in felt-tip. She started laughing and clipped him one.

  Maureen Havers walked in as he raised his hands to defend himself. She tapped Tennison on the back.

  “Why me? I didn’t draw all over it. It was him!” Jones pointed to Burkin, who hung his head, although he couldn’t really give a fuck. When she’d gone, Jones would get a right clip round the earhole.

  Tennison turned to Havers, who told her she was wanted on the top floor.

  “Oh well, here it comes. See you all later.”

  Otley claimed everybody’s attention as soon as she had gone. “Right, we’ve all had a jolly good laugh, now get yer pin-brains on this lot. We want all these unsolved murders on the computer, so we can cross-check them for any that occurred when Marlow was in the vicinity.”

  As they went reluctantly to work, Maureen Havers had a word with Otley.

  “You finished with the Oldham files? Only they hav
en’t been put on the computer …”

  “I’ll sort ’em, love. Haven’t had a chance to look through them yet.”

  Havers began to distribute more files around the Incident Room, which was greeted with moans and groans. Otley rapped his desk.

  “Come on, you lot, settle down. Sooner you get this lot sorted, sooner we’re in the pub. As an incentive, first round’s on me!”

  But a pint wouldn’t compensate for the tedious slog of sifting through hundreds of unsolved murders. Otley opened the Oldham file he had already checked over; he knew there was a problem, and now he had to work out the best way to deal with it.

  The bar was full of familiar faces. At one of the marble-topped tables several of the lads were discussing the unsolved murders.

  “I’ve looked at twenty-three cases,” Muddyman said, “all around Rochdale, Burnley, Southport; and I’ve got one possible but unlikely …”

  Rosper cut in, “There was a woman found in a chicken run in Sheffield. Reckon she’d been there for months. The chickens were knocking out record numbers of eggs!”

  “You know they’ve been feeding the dead ones to the live ones, that’s why we’ve had all this salmonella scare. Got into the eggs,” Lillie contributed.

  “This woman was seventy-two, an old boiler!” Rosper chuckled.

  They were suddenly all aware that Tennison had walked in. She looked around, located Jones and went to lean on the back of his chair.

  “Next round’s on me, give us your orders,” she told them. “The bad news is: I’m asking for volunteers. They’ve withdrawn the official surveillance from Marlow, so I want four men to cover it.”

  Lillie stood up. “Excuse me …”

  “Great, that leaves three …”

  “I was just going for a slash …”

  Rosper laughed and she nailed him. “Two! Come on, undercover’s a piece of cake. Two more …”

  She handed Rosper a twenty and sent him to the bar. “Let’s get those drinks in. I’ll have a large G and T.”

  Lillie pulled out a chair for her. “How did it go, boss?”

  The others pretended not to listen. Tennison said quietly, “If I don’t pull something out of the bag very soon, I’m off the case.”

  Her gin and tonic arrived. She thanked Rosper and he handed her back her money.

  “What’s this?”

  Rosper shrugged. “It’s OK, Skipper coughed up.”

  “Is this a truce? Ah well, cheers!” She raised her glass to them, but Muddyman and Rosper were looking towards Otley, who was sitting at the bar.

  “Cheers, Skipper!” Muddyman called.

  Otley turned and grinned, as if he had got one over on Tennison, even in the pub.

  With a few drinks inside them they returned to the Incident Room to work. The stacks of paperwork did not seem to have diminished much, despite the busy atmosphere. The room was thick with tobacco smoke and littered with used plastic cups. Tennison, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, was double-checking and collating results.

  At nine o’clock, Muddyman stood up and announced that he was going home. Many of the others started to make a move and Otley approached Tennison.

  “We’ve got several cases that need looking into: one at Oldham, another at Southport, an’ we’re checking one in Warrington. Ma’am … ?”

  Tennison looked up. “Sorry.”

  “Who do you want checking these unsolved cases?”

  “Oh, anyone who’s been cooped up here all day, give them a break.”

  “OK,” Otley muttered. He made a few notes on a pad. “I’ll do the Oldham … Muddyman, Rosper and Lillie are on Marlow, so that leaves … Can you take the Southport case?”

  “OK, just pin it up for me.”

  Otley put the list up on the notice-board and picked up his coat. As he left he passed WPC Havers.

  “You’ll be able to retire on your overtime, gel!”

  “Night, Sarge!” she replied as she passed some telephone messages to Tennison. “Why don’t you take a break, boss?”

  “Because I’ve got more to lose, Maureen.” She rose and stretched, yawning, then went to examine the list on the notice-board. “I’ve lost track,” she sighed.

  Only three of the men were left working. “Go on home, you lot,” she told them. “Recharge your batteries.”

  DC Caplan put his coat on and asked, “Anyone for a drink?”

  I’ve had enough liquid for one day, mate,” replied Jones. I’ll be bumping into the mother-in-law in the night, she spends more time in the lavvy than a plumber …”

  There was a metamorphosis taking place right in front of them, not that anyone noticed. DC Jones, of the polished shoes and old school tie, had taken to wearing striped shirts with white collars and rather flashy ties, similar to those favored by DI Burkin. He was also knocking back the pints, was even the first in the bar at opening time. It was taking time, but he was at last becoming one of the lads.

  As they left, still joking, Havers asked Tennison casually, “What’s with Oldham, then? He got relatives there or something?”

  “What?”

  “Skipper asked for anything from Oldham. I wondered what the attraction was … Mind if I push off?

  It slowly dawned on Tennison what she was talking about. “He’s doing it to me again!” She shook her head in disbelief and muttered a vague goodnight to Maureen, intent on getting to the bottom of it. Maureen saw her uncover one of the computers and start tapping the keyboard as she closed the door.

  Tennison muttered to herself, “Right, Otley, let’s find out just what your game is! Jeannie Sharpe … March nineteen eighty-four …” She moved the cursor down the screen, read some more, then picked up the phone to make an internal call. There was no reply; she put the receiver down and went across to the large table in the center of the room where all the files were stacked in alphabetical order. Whistling softly, she selected the Oldham file and flipped through it, then carried it back to the computer.

  “Ah … Jeanie Sharpe, aged twenty-one, prostitute …” She compared the entry on the computer with the notes in the file. “Head of investigation, DCI F. G. Neal … Detective Inspector Morrell and … DI John Shefford!”

  She pushed her chair back, staring at the computer screen. Why was Otley so intent on taking the Oldham case? It had to be something to do with Shefford; it was too much of a coincidence. He had put her down for Southport with DC Jones; she snatched the list down from the notice-board. By the time she had retyped it she was seeing spots before her eyes. It was time to call it quits; but she, not Otley, was now down for Oldham.

  “My car’ll be here any minute! I was too tired to drive last night.” Dressed and ready for work, Jane was rushing around the kitchen. Peter, still half-asleep, stumbled in.

  “ ’Morning!”

  “I got in a bit late, so I slept in the spare room. Feel this—d’you think it’ll soften up by tonight?” She handed him an avocado.

  “It’s fine.” He stood in the middle of the kitchen and stretched. The avocado slipped from his grasp and Jane caught it deftly.

  “I’ll be back early to get everything ready for tonight. I’m doing what Pam suggested: pasta and smoked salmon. Prawns and mayonnaise in the avocados … Ah!” She whipped round and jotted “Mayonnaise” on her notepad. The doorbell rang. “And cream. Give us a kiss. I’ll see you about seven. If anyone calls for me, I’ll be in Oldham.”

  She left Peter standing in the kitchen. “Oldham, right …” He woke up suddenly. “Oldham?” But he was talking to himself.

  Tennison and Jones followed the uniformed Sergeant Tomlins through a makeshift door in a corrugated iron fence. Tomlins was still trying to make up for his error at Manchester Piccadilly station, where he had assumed Jones to be the Chief Inspector.

  “In nineteen eighty-four all this part was still running,” he said as he led them into the cavernous, empty warehouse. “It was shut down soon afterwards, and hasn’t been occupied since. The only people th
at came here were the tarts with their customers, and I think some still do.”

  “We got the call at four in the morning, from a dosser who’d come in for the night.” He pointed to an old cupboard against a wall, minus its doors. “He found her in there.”

  Tennison inspected the cupboard. “Actually inside?”

  “Yes. The doors were still on then, but not quite closed. She was lying face down, her head that way … This shed was used for dipping parts; the vats used to fill the place.” He spread his arms to indicate the whole area. “They all went for scrap, I suppose. They lowered the stuff on pulleys—you can still see the hooks—then raised them again to dry.”

  Dozens of rusty hooks still hung from the ceiling. Tennison looked around and asked, “Hands tied behind her back, right?”

  “Yes. Savage beating, left half-naked. Her face was a mess. Her shift was found outside, and her coat over there.”

  They started to leave but Tennison turned back to stare at the spot where Jeannie Sharpe was found.

  “Nasty place to end up, huh?”

  “Well, these tarts bloody ask for it.”

  She snapped at him, “She was twenty-one years old, Sergeant!” but he was moving ahead, heaving the rubbish aside. He waited for them at the door.

  “You wanted to have a word with her friends? Slags isn’t the word for it …” He pushed the corrugated iron aside for Tennison to pass. “We clean up the streets and back they come, like rodents.”

  She let the door slam back in his face. “Sorry!” she said.

  The flat was damp, with peeling wallpaper, but an attempt had been made to render it habitable. The furniture was cheap: a single bed, a cot, a painted wardrobe and a few armchairs, and it was fairly tidy, apart from the children’s toys scattered everywhere.

  Tennison was sitting in an old wing-chair beside a low table on which were two overflowing ashtrays, a teapot and a lot of biscuit crumbs. She was totally at ease, smoking and sipping a mug of tea.

  Carol, a drably dressed but attractive blond woman in her early thirties, was telling her about the last time she had seen her friend Jeannie alive.

  “We were all together, just coming out of the pub, our local, y’know. We’d had a few …”