“The foxes had a go at her, and the dog belonging to the man who found her. But look at the arms again: the same marks, almost identical to those found on Karen.”
Another body was flashed up on the screen. “Jeannie Sharpe, killed in Oldham in nineteen eighty-four. Again, note the bruising and welts on the upper arms. Fourth victim …”
Amson pointed to DI Muddyman and whispered, “You ready?” Muddyman climbed to his feet.
“Another video now, this time of Angela Simpson, whose family sent it to us. She was knifed to death in a public park in nineteen eighty-five. She was a hairdresser, well-liked kid, about to get married. This is her engagement party.”
The sweet face of Angela Simpson smiled into camera, showing off her engagement ring, then self-consciously kissing the young man beside her. Her smiling fiancé gave a thumbs-up sign, and Angela turned to the camera, laughing, and put her hands over the lens. Then she loomed very close and kissed the camera.
“During the house-to-house enquiries, George Marlow was interviewed. He had been staying in a bed and breakfast only fifty yards from the gates of the park where she was found. There were no marks on her upper arms, but look at this …”
There was a shot of Angela, lying face down, legs apart. Her hands were tied behind her back.
“The rope, the way the hands were tied were just the same as in victims one and two.”
There was a slight commotion as a WPC entered and tried to find Tennison in the dark. She delivered a brief message and departed, clocked by the men. Frank Burkin stood up to take DI Muddyman’s place.
“The fifth girl”—Burkin waited for the shot to appear on screen—“was Sharon Reid. She was sixteen, still at school, and worked part-time in a local beauty salon …”
When he had finished they broke for lunch, and the discussion was continued less formally in the canteen. Reading the menu, DC Lillie was reminded about the old woman, the one found in the chicken run. She had had similar marks on her arms to the others. He asked Sergeant Amson, who was in the queue behind him.
“Marlow was in the vicinity, that’s good enough for me to try and pin it on him.” He looked around Lillie to see what the hold-up was. “Come on, Burkin!” he yelled.
Lillie persisted. “But they didn’t all have clamp marks … Oh, not ruddy Chicken Kiev again! The garlic’s a killer!”
Burkin, his plate full, moved away from the counter, and joined Muddyman, who was holding forth about Marlow.
“I’ve been watching him for weeks now, he’s a real friendly bloke, right? He chats to the lads every day. Just because he was in the area, it doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”
Burkin picked up the lurid plastic tomato from the table and squeezed ketchup all over his plate, then stuffed a huge forkful of chips in his mouth. Bits of potato flew everywhere while he talked.
“There must be hundreds of salesmen workin’ that area, you could take your pick. You ask me, all that film was about this morning was that we’ve got more bloody tarts being bumped off”—he paused to burp—“an’ no bloody suspects.”
The “bing-bong” sounded and a voice requested the presence of DCI Tennison in Administration. The men ignored it and carried on talking about Marlow; everyone who had had contact with him seemed to be convinced that he was a good bloke and therefore not a murderer. Terry Amson arrived and picked up on the conversation.
“He lied about the lock-up, we know that.”
“We’ve only got the word of an old lag on that, it’s not proof,” Burkin retorted. There was another call over the PA system for Tennison. “Looks like the boss is gonna get the big boys pullin’ the rug on her … Coffee all round?” He looked at Lillie. “Your turn.”
Maureen Havers found Tennison hiding in the locker room, eating a large hamburger.
“Is DCI Hicock a big red-haired bloke? He’s in with the Commander and the Super’s there too. You’re being paged all over the station.”
“Am I?” Tennison asked innocently. “Well, they’ll just have to find me.”
Having successfully evaded her bosses, Tennison returned to the Incident Room to continue the briefing. She pinned photographs of all six of the victims on the notice-board while she waited for everyone to settle down.
“Right! Six victims, no set pattern. They did not, as far as we can ascertain, know each other. They didn’t look alike, they belonged to different age groups, different professions. Apart from certain minor similarities they were not all killed in the same manner. The only link between them all is that Marlow was in the area when they were murdered. Did he kill all six? Is there something we’ve overlooked, another link?”
Muddyman was slumped right down in his chair, totally relaxed. He waved a hand to attract Tennison’s attention.
“In the case of Karen, a witness stated that she heard a man call out her name. It was the same with Jeannie. But what about Angela, the little blond one? She was killed in the shrubbery in broad daylight, a good distance from the path, which was her usual route home. So how did she get there? If someone had called out to her … And the one who was raped, Gilling, she said he called her name …”
“Point taken,” said Amson, “but you’ve got two toms, one hairdresser, a schoolgirl … How did he get to know their names, if he knew them?”
Havers had made her way to the front, using her elbows, and was standing by the photographs. She raised her hand, about to say something, but lowered it, not sure of her ground. She moved closer to Tennison and touched her arm.
“Boss, I think … It may be off the wall …”
“Anything, my love, I’m right up against it. What you got?”
“I did a bit of checking, but it all falls down with Gilling. She was a florist, but there’s one link with the others. It was mentioned once …”
“To Marlow?”
“No, not him—Moyra Henson.”
Tennison could barely hear her against the growing racket in the room. “Come on, lads, keep it down a bit!” she yelled, then turned back to Havers.
“Go on.”
“When she was brought in for questioning I typed her statement. She put herself down as unemployed …”
“Yeah … Quiet! Quieten down!”
The noise slowly subsided. Some of the men closed in on Tennison and Havers, realizing something was going on.
Havers coughed nervously. “She was picked up for prostitution, fifteen years ago, according to her record. But on that charge-sheet she’s down as a freelance beautician. If she worked when she was traveling around with Marlow, he could have met the girls that way. But Gilling doesn’t fit in …”
“Good on ya, Maureen!” Tennison gave her a quick hug. “We’ll check it out.”
Unaware of the tension, Jones walked in carrying an MSS internal fax sheet. “This might be useful, ma’am,” he said to Tennison. “I’ve checked back on Marlow’s past addresses. They’ve been in Maida Vale for three years, and before that they were in Somerstown, not far from St. Pancras. He’s had the Rover for twelve years, so what if he had a lock-up close to his previous flat?”
Rosper had a sudden thought. “Yeah! Those garages we’ve been painting, Marlow told us he tried to rent one, but the council leases ’em out to the highest bidder. Maybe he kept his old garage because he couldn’t get one near by …”
The phone rang and DI Muddyman answered it, then covered the mouthpiece. “Guv? You’re wanted upstairs, you here or not?”
“No, I’m not! Go and bring that hard-nosed cow in!”
Moyra wasn’t happy at being taken down to the station, and she made sure the whole estate knew about it.
“Had a good eyeful?” she screeched at her next-door neighbor as she was led out to the car. “I tell you, they get more mileage out of you lot than a ruddy video … Don’t push me!”
Marlow trailed behind them. “I don’t understand, do you want me as well?”
Tennison emerged from the car and held the back door open for Moyra. “Not
this time, George.”
They left him standing there, still trying to work out what was going on.
Tennison had a quick wash and checked that the Super had left for the day before she emerged with Maureen Havers from the locker room, ready to interview Moyra.
Amson was pacing up and down the corridor outside. “Mrs. Howard is sending some of Karen’s latest model photos by courier, shouldn’t be long. You all set? Got plenty of cigarettes?”
She took a deep breath and nodded, then followed Amson and Havers along the corridor to room 4-C.
Havers went in first, followed by Amson, who held the door open for Tennison. After a beat, Tennison followed, like a prize fighter.
“I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, this is WPC Maureen Havers, and Detective Sergeant Amson. Thank you for agreeing to answer our questions …”
“I had an option, did I?” Moyra interrupted.
Amson placed a thick file on the bare table in front of Tennison. She opened it and extracted a statement.
“You were brought into the station on the sixteenth of January this year, is that correct?”
“If you say so!”
“Is this the statement you made on that occasion?” Tennison laid it in front of her.
Moyra glared at it. “Yesss …”
“And is this your signature?”
“Of course it bloody is!”
“Thank you. I would like to draw your attention to the front page—here. It states that you are unemployed, is that correct?”
“It says so, doesn’t it?”
“So you are unemployed.”
“Yes, I’m on the bloody dole. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Tennison extracted another document from the file and put it in front of her. “We have this previous statement from you, dating back to nineteen seventy-five. You were charged with soliciting, and stated your profession as beautician.”
“Is there a law against it?”
“Did your training include a hairdressing course?”
Moyra was getting rattled. She answered abruptly, “No!”
“So you are not a hairdresser?”
“No, but I once had a Siamese cat.”
“So you are a freelance beautician?”
“Yeah, you know, manicures, hands, facials.” She peered at Tennison across the table. “You could do with a facial, smoking’s very bad for your skin.”
“Do you work as a beautician?”
“What do you want to know all this for? You think George is a transvestite now, do you?”
“George Marlow, your common-law husband, is still under suspicion of murder. I need the answers to my questions to help us eliminate him from our enquiries.”
“Pull the other one, you’re just interested in incriminating him.”
“I’d like you to tell me where you were on these dates: March the fifteenth, nineteen eighty-four …”
“No ruddy idea, darlin’. Ask me another.”
“The second of November nineteen eighty-five. Twenty-third of July, nineteen eighty-six. Ninth of April nineteen eighty-seven.”
“I dunno, I’d have to look in me diaries, not that I’ve got them that far back.” She bent down and started fiddling with her shoe.
“They were dates when your common-law husband was traveling in Warrington, Oldham, Burnley, Rochdale …”
Moyra looked up. “Oh, in that case I was with him. I always travel with him.”
“So on the dates that I have mentioned, you are pretty sure that you were with George, yes?”
“I travel with him, I stay with him.”
“Doing freelance work as a beautician?”
“Well, yeah. I do a bit.”
“In salons?”
“Yeah, no law against that.”
“There is if you’ve been claiming unemployment benefit and not declaring income, or paying tax on it. There’s a law against that.”
Moyra actually shrank back in her chair, though her answer was bold enough. “It’s nothing, just a bit of cash, you know, pin money.”
“How long do you think it would take for me to check out just how much you’ve been earning?”
“You bastards never give anyone a break.”
“I’ll give you a break, Moyra. No charges if—if—you give us a detailed list of the salons you’ve worked in, the names of your clients …”
As Tennison placed a pen and a sheet of paper in front of Moyra, Amson leaned over and whispered to her. With a nod to Havers, she followed him from the room.
“If this pins any of those cases on Marlow, she’s virtually making herself an accessory!”
“What are you suggesting?” Tennison snapped. “Get her lawyer in just when she’s cooperating?”
“You’re jumping the gun. What we need is a lever, something to push Marlow with. She’s his alibi, and so far she’s not backed down on that.”
Tennison banged the coffee machine with the flat of her hand. “Christ, you’re right! An’ we need a fucking lever to make this machine work …” She looked at her watch. “OK, leave it with me. I’ll have one more go.” She smiled. “But gently does it!”
Moyra was beginning to look tired. She leaned her head in her hand.
“I’ve listed the salons, but that doesn’t mean to say that I work there regular. Sometimes they don’t have any customers for me, and it’s mostly manicures.”
“What’s this Noo-Nail?” Tennison asked, looking over the paper.
“It’s American, paint-on nails; your own grow underneath.” She held out a hand for Tennison to inspect. “See, they look real, don’t they? But that part’s false.”
Havers, trying to look interested, stifled a yawn. Amson was half-asleep.
“Aah, I see!” Tennison nodded, then asked nonchalantly, “Did you do Miss Pauline Gilling’s nails?”
Without a flicker, Moyra replied, “Look, love, I do so many, I don’t know all their names.”
“Surely you’d remember Pauline Gilling? George was sent down for attacking her …” She pushed a photograph across the table.
Moyra refused to look at the photo and snapped, “No, no! An’ she lied, she came on to George! She’d been in the pub, she lied …”
“What about Della Mornay? Did you do her nails?” She put another photograph on the table.
“No!”
“Take a look, Moyra. Della Mornay.”
“I don’t know her!”
“No? You stated that George returned home on the night of the thirteenth of January this year at ten-thirty …”
Under pressure again, Moyra fought back. “Yes! Look, I know my rights, this isn’t on! I’ve been here for hours, I’ve answered your questions, now I want a lawyer.”
“George’s car, the brown Rover, where is it? We know he has a lock-up, Moyra, and we’ll find it, it’s just a question of time. I’ll need to talk to you again.” She stood up. “OK, you can go, thank you.”
“Is that it? I can go home?”
Tennison nodded and walked to the door, leaving Moyra nonplussed.
It was light before Moyra got home. George made her a cup of coffee and brought it to her in the lounge.
“Bastards are going to get me for fiddling the dole and tax evasion. They know I’ve been working.”
“They kept you all night just for that?”
“There were a few other things.”
“What? What did she want to know? Ask about me, did she?”
Moyra stood up and started unbuttoning her blouse. “What do you think?”
She walked out of the room and, after a moment’s hesitation, Marlow followed her to the bedroom. She tossed her blouse aside and unzipped her skirt, leaving it where it fell. He picked them up and folded them while she went into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the bath taps.
“What are you following me around for?”
“I just want to know what went on!”
She turned to him, snapping. “They
wanted to know about the bloody florist! Kept asking me about her. I’ve stood by you, George, but so help me if I find you’ve been lying to me I’ll …”
She turned and walked out. “Put some Badedas in for me …”
He picked up the big yellow bottle and squirted some of the contents into the water, then stood in the doorway, watching her cream her face.
“I’ve never lied to you, Moyra, you know that.” He reached out to touch her but she slapped his hand away, finished wiping her face with a tissue.
“Where’s the car, George?”
“It was stolen, I don’t know where it is.”
She picked up her hairbrush. “It wasn’t here, George. You came home that night without it. I remember because your hair was wet, you said it was raining.” She turned to him while she brushed her hair, slowly. “Is it in the lock-up? They’re going to get you because of that bloody car … They can plant evidence, you know, and they’re out to get you.”
“What did they say?”
“The bath’ll run over.”
“What did they say?”
“Maybe they’ve already found it, I dunno. I’ve got my own problems. They’ll get me just for doing a few manicures.” She threw the brush down on the dressingtable and stormed into the bathroom. Marlow picked up the brush and began to run it through his hair.
Peter looked around the efficiency. It was clean and close to the building yard. The best thing was the rent, a hundred a week. He had paid the landlady up front for a month. Dumping his suitcase without bothering to unpack, he went straight out again, arriving outside Marianne’s just after breakfast. He watched from a distance until Marianne’s husband had taken Joey to school, then rang the bell.
Marianne offered her cheek, which he kissed, and coffee, which he accepted. She tidied the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and sat opposite him at the kitchen table.
“I’ve moved, so if you need me, here’s my new address,” he told her.
“Oh, so it didn’t work out with the policewoman?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Really? Because I won’t be able to have Joey to stay? Well, wrong, because he can stay with me for as long as need be.”
Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) Page 21
