Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (16 page)

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 access 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.”

“Marlow made two statements. In the second one he stated that he picked up
Della
Mornay. He has to have got her name from Shefford. Yes, I know what I’m saying. If I discover any further irregularities . . .”

“Any so-called irregularities, Chief Inspector, you bring straight to me. I will decide if the matter is to be taken further.”

“Until I have verification that both women were murdered by the same man, I’d like to keep the discovery of Mornay’s body under wraps.”

“Marlow still your main suspect?”

“Yes, sir. I want him kept under pressure, round-the-clock surveillance. I know it’s expensive, but if he’s killed twice . . .”

Kernan nodded, and she continued, “I’d also like to handle the press releases myself from now on, sir—reporting to you, of course.”

She had won, and she knew it. She walked out and left them there, closing the door quietly behind her.

There was a moment’s silence. Otley just stood there, still looking at the floor, waiting for the explosion.

“You bloody idiot! She’s effing wiped the floor with the lot of you! You were lucky this time,
she
let you off the hook, not me!”

Otley dug into his pocket and brought out his wallet. “It was just the days John went to see her, nothing to do with the case.”

His face set, Kernan held out his hand. Otley laid a few crumpled pieces of paper on his palm.

“He was fond of her . . .” When he looked up, Kernan was gone. He turned to face the photograph of Della on the wall. “He was very fond of her.”

George Marlow was looking at the TV guide in his
Evening Standard.
He paid no attention to the large photograph of Karen Howard on the front page.

“You’re home early,” Moyra commented from the doorway.

“Did you get a video?” he asked.

“Yeah . . . The cops’ve been here again, they took the rest of your shoes. I said they’d better bring them quick or you’d be selling paint in your stocking feet.”

“No I won’t,” he answered, “I quit today before they could sack me.”

Moyra walked to the window, the tears pricking her eyes. She moved the curtain slightly to look across at the dark windows of the surveillance flat.

“Bastards! You’d think we were the spies, the way they carry on. I’m keeping the chain on the door all the time now. They’ve had all our keys, and I don’t trust them. They could have had them copied . . .”

He looked up. He couldn’t say anything to comfort her, and she was trying hard not to cry as she said, “It’s getting me down, George, like we’re prisoners . . .”

“I’m sorry . . .” He put his hand out for her, but she held back, folding her arms.

“Moyra, don’t you turn against me. No one said a single word to me in the factory, except Edward Harvey, and even he didn’t want to look me in the eye . . . I love you, Moyra, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“I have to take it too, George. With you not earning, what are we going to do?”

He stood there looking forlorn and his voice cracked as he said, “I won’t let them beat me, I’ll find another job . . .” He shook his fists in the air in frustration and yelled, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it! So help me God, I didn’t do it . . .”

The telephone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared at it as it continued to shrill.

Moyra sighed. “I’ll get it. If it’s another of those filthy bloody perverts . . . And those kids next door . . .”

She picked up the phone but said nothing for a second or two, then, “Oh, hallo, Doris . . . Yes, just a minute.”

She turned to George. “It’s your mum, it’s a payphone.”

He shook his head, unable to face speaking to her.

“You’ll have to talk to her, come on, love.”

He pulled himself up and took the receiver. Moyra was astonished that he could sound so bright.

“Hallo, Mum! I’m fine, yeah. How’s your hip? It is?” He whispered to Moyra, “She’s only using one stick now!”

He listened awhile, then answered, “Thanks, Mum, I wish the cops felt the same way. You know what they’re like . . . I’m sorry, they’re talking to everyone I know.”

Moyra watched him closely until he put the phone down and stood there, dejected.

“You never even mentioned you’ve no job, you should have told her.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“It will be when you can’t pay for her ‘residential home.’ ” Moyra couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“I’ll manage, man with my experience can always get work. Things’ll be OK, I’ll go and see her. Will you get me the perfume she likes?”

Moyra wanted to weep; his whole life was turned upside-down, and hers, and he was asking her to buy perfume.

“She must have a drawerful.”

“I like to take her something, you know that. I’m all she’s got.”

“You’re all I’ve got too, George!”

He gave her a sweet, gentle smile, showing his perfect teeth, his slanting, wonderful eyes. She loved him to bursting sometimes.

“I’ll get us a cup of tea.” She didn’t mean to sound abrupt, it just came out that way.

When Jane arrived home that night, later than she had promised, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath and to crash out.

As she walked into the bedroom, Peter took one look at her face. “I suppose you don’t want to go out to eat? Want me to get a takeaway?”

“Oh, yeah, but first I want a shower.”

“I booked a court, didn’t the message get to you?”

She looked at him and realized that he had been playing squash. “I’m sorry, love, I’ve been in and out of the station. I meant to call, but I kept getting waylaid.”

“You gonna be waylaid over this dinner?”

“What? The takeaway?”

“No, I told you, I asked you for a date when I could invite Frank King and his wife, and Tom and Sheila, to dinner. I told you.”

“I know, and I haven’t forgotten. I’ve even arranged for Pam to come over tomorrow to help me sort out the menu!”

“Well, there’s no need to go mad!”

“With my culinary expertise, darlin’, I doubt it, but I’ll have a go.”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her, looking into her eyes. “It’s important to me. I lost out on a contract; if I pull off this deal with Frank King we’ll set up a partnership. He’s got a big yard, employs fifty guys, and then Tom supplies the paint. We cut cost all round. I don’t know if they want me with them, but it’d be a big plus for me, so the dinner’s important.”

“I know, it’s no problem, but my hunger is! Lemme have a shower, you get the nosh.”

The hot water felt good. Wrapped in a big toweling dressing gown, Jane switched on the television and lay on the bed to watch it. She could have gone to sleep there and then, but Peter arrived with the Chinese takeaway. She could hear him banging around in the kitchen but didn’t have the energy to get up and help him.

The telephone rang and Peter appeared at the door. “If that’s for you to go out, I quit!
I quit
!”

It was Jane’s mother on the line to remind her of her father’s birthday and to invite her to a small party. Jane covered the mouthpiece and called Peter, “Pete! Pete, it’s Mum! Are you free next Monday? It’s Dad’s seventy-fifth and she’s having a little do! Pete?”

Peter brought the tray with the cartons of food and a bottle of wine. “Sounds OK,” he said.

Jane listened to her mother carrying on about her sister Pam’s pregnancy and pulled a face. “Pam’s got water retention!”

Already tucking in to the food, Peter gestured that it would get cold.

“Mum, I’ll have to go, we’re just having dinner. Yes! I’ll be there, and Peter . . . OK . . . Give Pop my love!” She put the phone down, “Dear God, don’t let me forget Dad’s birthday card, remind me to send it off.”

It was almost ten. They settled back to watch TV as they ate, but Jane had no sooner lifted the fork to her mouth than the phone rang again. She pushed the tray away.

“I’ll get it.”

Peter continued eating. He could hear excitement in Jane’s voice, then her laughter. At least it sounded like good news. She came back into the bedroom, beaming.

“Guess what, I’m going to be on TV!”

“What? I thought
Opportunity Knocks
was defunct?”

“Ho, ho! No, I’m going on
Crime Night
, the police program, and I will be the first female murder officer they’ve ever had on!”

“Oh, great! Finish your dinner, the crab and noodle’s good.”

Jane twirled around, suddenly no longer tired. “I pulled every string I could muster. Mind you, the Chief’s got to give the go-ahead, but he can’t refuse. I mean, to date we’ve got bugger all, but I know this’ll bring us something, I just know it. I’m gonna get that bastard . . .

“When is it?”

“The twenty-second, they need a while to organize the mock-up film, and I’ve got to put together all the evidence we can use . . . Oh, shit! It’s Dad’s birthday!”

“Well, maybe they can have it another day?”

“Don’t be stupid, the program goes out at the same time every week . . .”

Peter threw his fork down. “I didn’t mean the bloody TV program, I meant your Mum could change the party night!”

“Oh, sorry. It’ll be OK, I’ll just have to make a late entrance.”

“I’m not that dumb. Do you want to finish your dinner or not?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Fine, then I’ll clear away.”

He snatched up the tray. As he passed her she put out a hand. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m not hungry.”

“That’s OK, suit yourself, you usually do!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s Saturday night, Jane. I thought that just for one night, just one, you wouldn’t be on the bloody phone!”

She sighed and flopped back on the bed. She was so hyped up about the TV program that she hadn’t given Peter a thought. But by the time he came back into the room she was sitting cross-legged, with that tomboyish grin he liked so much. For a moment he thought it was for him, but then she clapped her hands.

“I am going to nail him, Pete, I know it!”

“I’m going to the pub, see you later.”