Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper))

by Lynda La Plante

  Linda, plump and cheerful with dark hair, interrupted her. “I hadn’t! I was on antibiotics, can’t drink with them.”

  “His car was parked, er … You know where the pub is?” Tennison shook her head. “Well, it’s right on a corner, y’know, so there’s a side street …”

  Finishing her tea, Tennison suggested they go and look.

  The three women stood on the corner outside the pub. It wasn’t easy to tell by looking at them which were the prostitutes and which the senior policewoman.

  “See, there’s the side street. He was parked just there. You could only see a bit of the car,” Carol was saying.

  Tennison offered her cigarettes round. “You couldn’t tell me the make of it? The color?”

  “It was dark, I reckon the car was dark, but it had a lot of shiny chrome at the front, y’know, an’ like a bar stuck all over with badges an’ stuff. He called out to Jeannie …”

  Tennison grabbed the remark. “He called out? You mean he knew her name?”

  “I don’t think it was her name. It was, y’know, “How much, slag?” I said to her, hadn’t she had enough for one night …”

  Carol put in: “Ah, but she was savin’ up, wanted to emigrate to Australia if she could get enough.”

  “So Jeannie crossed the road? Did you see her get into the car?”

  Linda replied, “She went round to the passenger side.”

  “I looked over, y’know, to see, but he was turning like this …” Carol demonstrated. “I only saw the back of his head.”

  Tennison stepped to the kerb and peered around the corner as Linda said, “We never saw her again. She had no one to even bury ’er, but we had a whip-round.”

  “Fancy a drink?” asked Tennison.

  They piled into the pub and found an empty booth. Carol went to the bar while the locals sized up Tennison. They were mostly laborers in overalls.

  Linda had produced a photograph of herself and Jeannie. “Lovely lookin’, she was. That’s me—I was thinner then, and blond. Cost a fortune to keep it lookin’ good, so I’ve gone back to the natural color. Set me back twenty-five quid for streaks! We used to get cut-price, mind, at the local salon, but they’ve gone all unisex, y’know. I hate having me ’air done with a man sitting next to me, don’t you?”

  Tennison opened her briefcase to take out her copy of the News of the World, but was interrupted by a man in dirty, paint-splashed overalls who strolled across from the juke box. He put a hand on Tennison’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “I’ve got fifteen minutes, the van’s outside …”

  Turning slowly, she removed his hand from her shoulder. “I’m busy right now.” He made no move to go, so she looked him in the eye. “Sod off!”

  He looked in surprise at Linda, who mouthed “Cop!” and shot out before anyone could draw breath. Tennison carried on as though nothing had happened.

  Carol returned with the drinks as Tennison placed the newspaper on the table.

  “The barman says you just missed the London Express, but there’s a train at four minutes past five.”

  “I’ll be cutting it fine …” Tennison checked her watch and smiled. “Dinner party! Is this like him?” She pointed to the newspaper photo of Marlow and took a sip of her drink.

  “He’s a bit tasty, isn’t he?” Carol commented, and glanced at Linda. “He was dark-haired …”

  “You thought he had a beard, didn’t you?” Linda said.

  “Beard? You never mentioned that in your statement.”

  “She couldn’t get out of the nick fast enough, they’re bastards,” Carol informed her. “An’ I’ll tell you something for nothing—they never gave a shit about Jeannie. We’re rubbish, until they want a jerk-off! Four kids we got between us, and no one’s interested in them. An’ that inspector geezer, y’know, him …” She nudged Linda. “I’m not sayin’ any names, but …”

  “I will,” said Linda. “It was that big bloke, John Shefford. They got rid of him faster than a fart.”

  Tennison asked, deadpan, “What do you mean?”

  “I reckon they found out about him an’ Jeannie,” Carol told her confidentially. “Next thing we knew, he was on his bike, gone to London. He was as big a bastard as any of ’em—bigger. Jeannie never had a chance: her stepdad was screwin’ her from the time she was seven. She was on the streets at fourteen, an’ that Shefford used to tell her he’d take care of her. Well, he never found out who killed her; they never even tried.”

  “Poor kid, strung up like that, like a bit of meat on a hook!” Linda said. “You have to be really sick …”

  Tennison jumped on her. “What? What did you say?”

  “The dosser who found her, he told me.”

  “You know this man? He got a name?”

  “Oh, he’s dead, years back, but he told me all about it. Hanging by her arms from a hook in the ceiling.”

  It was getting late. Peter checked his watch anxiously and started to lay the dining table. Where the hell was she?

  The front door crashed open and Jane rushed in, yelling, “Don’t say a word, I’ve got it timed to the second. Don’t panic!”

  True to her word, everything was just about ready by eight o’clock, and she had put on a nice dress, though her hair was still damp. She ran quickly around the table, distributing place mats.

  “Water’s on, what else can I do?” Peter asked.

  She stood back to look at the table. “Right, glasses for red, glasses for white, starter plates, teaspoons … Napkins! Shit, hang on …”

  She shot out to the kitchen, returning to fling a packet of paper napkins at him, then disappeared again, shouting, “Bread, bread!”

  The doorbell rang as she came back with the basket of rolls. She gave Peter the thumbs-up.

  “All set! Let them in!”

  Peter grabbed her and kissed her cheek, then they both headed for the hall.

  When they had finished eating, Jane cleared the table and went to make the coffee, taking her glass of wine with her. The kitchen was a disaster area with hardly a square foot of clear work surface. She tidied up a little while she waited for the percolator.

  Peter rushed in, obviously panicking. “You’re taking your time! Where are the liqueur glasses?”

  “We haven’t got any! You’ll have to use those little colored ones Mum gave me.’ She drained her glass of wine. “How’s it going?”

  He relaxed a little. “Just getting down to business. Can you keep the women occupied? I’ll take the tray.”

  As he hurried back to his guests, Jane yawned and pressed the plunger on the percolator. The hot coffee shot from the spout, all over her dress. “Shit!” Then she shrugged, wiped herself down as best she could, fixed a smile on her face and marched out with the coffeepot.

  Frank King was obviously the dominant male, the one with the money and the big ideas. He had spread some plans on the table and was explaining them to Peter and Tom.

  Frank’s wife, Lisa, and Tom’s wife, Sue, were sitting in the armchairs at the other end of the room, drinking apricot brandy from tacky little blue and green glasses. They were both dressed to the nines, perfectly coiffed and lip-glossed, but Lisa was the one with the really good jewelery. Jane poured them coffee.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it? I like sweet liqueurs,” Lisa was saying to Sue. “We spent three months in Spain last year; the drinks are so cheap, wine’s a quarter of the price you pay here. Oh, thanks, Jane. Mind you, the price of clothes—all the decent ones are imported, that’s what makes them so expensive.”

  Jane moved on to the men. Neither Tom nor Frank thanked her for the coffee and Peter, intent on what Frank was saying, refused it.

  “Like I said, no problem. Get the bulldozers in and they’re gone before anyone’s woken up. Don’t know why they make such a fuss about a few trees anyway. So, we clear this area completely, but leave the pool, which goes with this house here. The other we build at an angle, the two of them have to go up in less than three-quarte
rs of an acre …”

  “What sort of price are we looking at?” Tom wanted to know.

  “The one with the pool, four ninety-five. The one without we ask three fifty. That’s low for an exclusive close …”

  Leaving them to it, Jane found a small glass that Peter had poured for her on the dresser. She carried it over to the women and sat down.

  She took a sip from the glass. “Christ, it’s that terrible sweet muck!” Up again, Jane fetched a wine glass and went looking for the brandy. It was on the table beside Frank’s elbow, and she helped herself to a generous measure. She had been drinking since lunchtime: gins in the pub, on the train, wine throughout dinner. She was tying one on, but it didn’t show, yet. She captured a bowl of peanuts and sat down again. It seemed as though Lisa hadn’t stopped talking.

  “She goes on and on, she wants a pony. I said to Frank, there’s no point getting her one if she’s going to be the same as she was over the hamster. The poor thing’s still somewhere under the floorboards …”

  Sue took advantage of the pause to speak to Jane. “Tom was telling me you have Joey at weekends.”

  Jane was searching for her cigarettes. She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but Lisa got in first.

  “What I wouldn’t give to have mine just for weekends! Au pairs have been the bane of my life …”

  “Oh, I’ve never had any troub—”

  Lisa steamed on regardless. “I’ve had German, Spanish, French and a Swedish girl. I was going out one day, got as far as the end of the drive and realized I’d forgotten something, so I went back. She was in the Jacuzzi, stark naked! If Frank had walked in …”

  “Probably would have jumped on her!” At last Tennison had got a word in edgeways, She grinned.

  Sue nearly laughed, but remembered in time that she wanted to stay in Lisa’s good books. She changed the subject.

  “You’re with the Metropolitan Police, Jane? Peter was telling …”

  Lisa broke in: “Well, I’d better tell Frank to ease up on the brandy, can’t have you arresting him …”

  “That’s traffic, not my department,” Jane replied, knocking back her brandy.

  “Oh, so what do you do? Secretary? I was Frank’s before we got married.”

  “No, I’m not a secretary.” The day was beginning to catch up on Jane, or rather the tragic little Jeannie. There was no one to bury her, so we had a whip-round …

  If Lisa had heard Jane’s reply she paid no attention. Her peanut-sized brain was now fixed on wallpaper, and she was holding forth about which was best, flock or fabric. In her opinion, fabric held its color better …

  The three men were still sitting around the table, hogging the brandy bottle. As Jane helped herself to another large one, Frank pushed his glass forward without pausing for breath.

  “I put my men on the main house, Pete’s men on the second, and the two of them go up neck and neck. I’m looking for a quick turnover, so we do a big color brochure with artist’s impressions and start selling them while we dig the foundations. Tom does the interiors, and we split the profits …”

  Jane was unused to being ignored. She downed the brandy and poured another to carry back to her perch on the arm of the only really comfortable chair which, oddly enough, no one had sat in. She knocked over the bowl of peanuts into the chair and spent a few minutes eating the spilt ones from the seat, then slowly slid into it herself.

  Lisa had not drawn breath, but Jane’s accident with the peanuts finally brought her verbal assault course on wallpaper to a grinding halt. There was one of those classic silences among the women, during which Frank’s voice could still be heard.

  Lisa turned her full attention on Jane. “I hear you were on the Crime Night program?”

  “That’s right, I was answering the telephones, I was the one passing the blank sheet of paper backwards and forwards.”

  Missing the sarcasm in Jane’s voice, Lisa ploughed on, “I am impressed! I never watch it, it scares me, but I’m paranoid about locking the house. And if a man comes near me when I’m walking Rambo …” She laughed. “That’s our red setter, I’m not talking about Frank!”

  Jane switched off for a moment, gazing into the bottom of her empty glass. When she snapped to again she realized that Lisa hadn’t paused once.

  “But don’t you think, honestly, that a lot of them ask for it?”

  “What, ask to be raped?” Jane shook her head and her voice grew loud, “How can anyone ask to be raped?”

  She jumped to her feet, swaying slightly and glaring as if interrogating Lisa, who shrank back in her seat. “Where do you walk your dog?”

  “Well, on Barnes Common …”

  “Barnes Common is notorious, women have been attacked on Barnes Common!”

  Lisa rallied a little. “Yes, I know, but I wouldn’t go there late at night!”

  “There are gushes, gullies, hidden areas. You could have a knife at your throat, your knickers torn off you, and bang! You’re dead. But you weren’t asking for it!”

  “I—I was really talking about prostitutes …”

  “What about them? Do you know any? Does Sue know any?” She turned to the men, she had their attention now. “How about you? Can you three tell me, hands on hearts, that you’ve never been with a tom?”

  Lisa whispered to Sue, “What’s a tom?”

  Tennison snapped, “A tart!”

  In the ensuing silence, the telephone rang. Peter said, “It’ll be for you, Jane.”

  She weaved her way to the door, but turned back, blazing, when she heard Peter say, “I’m sorry about that!”

  “Don’t you ever make apologies for me! We were just having a consev … a conservation! She slammed the door.

  “Keep her off the building site, Pete,” Frank said in a low voice.

  “Actually, I’d like an answer to her question,” said Lisa.

  “I think that went off all right, didn’t it?” Jane, creaming her face, was talking to Peter.

  “You asking me?”

  “No, I was talking to the pot of cold cream! You’re going to do the deal, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah … Did you have to bring up all that about tarts?”

  “Put a bit of spark into the evening.”

  “It wasn’t your bloody evening!”

  “Oh, thanks! I broke my bloody neck to get that dinner on the table!”

  “It’s always you, Jane! You, you, you! You don’t give a sod about anyone else!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “You care about the blokes on your team, your victims, your rapists, your “toms,” as you call them, you give all your time to them.”

  “That’s my job!”

  “Tonight was for my job, Jane. But no, you’ve got to put your ten cents’ worth in!”

  “Ok, I’m sorry … sorry if I spoilt the evening!”

  The tiredness swept over her like a tidal wave. She had no energy to argue, and went for the easy way out, giving him a smile. “OK? I apologize, but I think I had too much to drink, and they were so boring …”

  He stared at her, infuriated. Her comment really got to him. “This is business, Jane, do you ever think how boring all your fucking talk is? Ever think about that, ever think how many conversations we’ve had about this guy George Marlow? You ever consider how fucking boring you get? Do you? I don’t know him, I don’t want to know about him, but Christ Almighty I hear his name …”

  “Pete, I’ve said I’m sorry, OK? Just let it drop.”

  He was unwilling to let it go, but he shrugged. Jane put her head in her hands and sighed. “Pete, I’m tired out. I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as well as you’d planned, but you’ve got the contract, so why don’t we just go to bed?”

  The memories of the day swamped her: the smell of the factory, the smell of the two tarts’ flat, her feelings, the smells, all muddled and out of control … She couldn’t stop the tears, she just sat hunched in front of the mirror, crying, crying for the waste, the
little tart who had been raped by her stepfather when she was seven, little Jeannie with no one to bury her, who Jane didn’t even know, yet she was crying for her and all the other Jeannies who lived and died like that and nobody gave a shit for …

  Peter squatted down and brushed her hair from her face. “It’s all right, love. Like you said, I got the contract. Maybe I had a few too many … Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  Jane went to bed, but she didn’t sleep for a long time. When she woke she found the kitchen full of the debris of dinner; not a single dish had been washed. She put her coat on, ready to leave for work, and took two aspirin with her coffee.

  Peter, his hair standing on end, joined her.

  “Pete, I’ve been thinking over everything. Last night …”

  With a grin he reached for her, tried to kiss her. She stepped back. “I love you, Pete, I really do, but you’re right. It doesn’t work, does it? I do put my work first. I don’t think I can change, because I’m doing what I always wanted, and to succeed I have to put everything into it. I have to prove myself every day, to every man on that force—and to myself …”

  She was telling him that they could never lead the sort of life he wanted. It hurt a lot, and he wanted to gather her in his arms, make it all right. But the doorbell rang. They just looked at each other, with so much more to say and no time to say it in.

  Peter said quickly, “Don’t say anything more now, let’s talk it over tonight. Maybe I haven’t been easy to live with, maybe if I was more secure …”

  The doorbell rang again. “You’d better go, Jane.”

  “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

  Peter stood for a moment after she’d left, surveying the kitchen, then he lashed out at the stack of dishes on the draining board, sending them crashing into the sink.

  Tennison sat silently beside Jones as he drove. It unnerved him. Eventually he said, just to break the silence, “Still no trace of Marlow’s car.” She didn’t react. “Are you OK?” he asked.

  “I want that bloody car found!” she snapped.

  “Trouble at home? I got all your shopping OK, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I got an earful when I got home. My dinner had set like cement.”