Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (19 page)

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve never heard him say it. If you must know, Mother has never even approved of me being in the Force, when I was in uniform she used to make me take my bloody hat off so the neighbors would know it was me! But Pam, oh, Pam could never do anything wrong, all she’s done is produce children at such a rate she looks ten years older than she should . . .”

Peter sighed and chucked his coat on the bed. Jane’s followed, so hard that it flew across the room. She kicked off her shoes and sat down grumpily on the bed.

“Actually,” said Peter, “it was quite funny, watching you and your dad, with Torville and whatsit whizzing round on the screen . . .”

Jane grinned like the sun coming out. “He’s never got the hang of that video recorder. He taped bits of a football match over Pam’s wedding film . . .” She giggled and hummed a snatch of
Here Comes the Bride
, then shrieked, “Goal!”

She threw herself back on the bed, laughing hysterically, while Peter stood shaking his head in wonder at her sudden change of mood.

“I’m going to have a drink,” he said.

“Great, me too, and make it a large one!”

When Peter brought their drinks to the bedroom he found Jane glued to the TV screen as the opening theme of
Crime Night
faded into Brian Hayes’s voice.

“I only want to see myself, I’m sure that make-up they put on me looked appalling.”

She wound the film forward and stopped it; Peter heard her recorded voice. At the same moment the phone rang in the hall. Jane jumped to her feet and hurried to answer it. Peter sat on the bed and sipped his Scotch, watching Jane on the program sitting a little stiffly, but looking very calm and together. The screech that emanated from the hall could hardly be anything to do with that cool woman on screen . . .

She banged open the door, fist in the air. ‘We’ve got a witness who called in after the program. She says she saw Karen Howard picked up by a man. She says the man kenw her, because she’s sure he called her name . . . And, Pete, the description, she described bloody George Marlow!”

Her fist shot into the air again. “We got him! We got him, Pete!”

Pete held up her drink. “You wanted to see your performance? Well, you’re missing it.”

“Sod that, I’m gonna pick him up tonight.”

Peter looked surprised and glanced at his watch. “Tonight? Are you going to the station?”

“You’re kidding, I’m on my way right now . . .”

It was a while before she did leave; there were hurried phone calls while she was changing her clothes. She wiped the make-up off and gave Peter a perfunctory kiss, then grabbed her bag and bleeper and was gone.

Peter continued to watch her on screen, until he grew bored and switched the video off. He lay back on the bed and sighed . . . Sometimes, more times than he cared to think about, she made him feel inadequate. But tonight he didn’t just feel that way, he was also irritated by her, annoyed by her attitude, her temper, her ambition. He started counting all the emotions she aroused in him, and it was like counting sheep. There were too many, too many to remember. He fell asleep.

7

“
I
was outside Ladbroke Grove underground station,” Helen Masters was telling DCI Tennison, “waiting to meet one of the girls from the Hammersmith halfway house, Susan Lyons. She’d absconded a few days earlier, then she called to ask me to meet her. But she was late.”

Tennison nodded. Helen Masters was a terrific witness, a social worker, calm and unruffled, with, most important of all, a retentive memory.

“Were you standing on the pavement, or in the entrance? Tennison asked.

“Mostly in the ticket area, it was a pretty cold night, but I kept checking outside in case I’d missed her. That was when I saw them.”

“And who did you see?”

“The man, at first. I just watched him for something to do. There’s a bank across the road, a few yards down, and he was standing near the cash dispenser. He had dark hair . . . Then I saw Karen, the girl who was murdered. I’d seen her photographs in the newspapers, but it didn’t register until I saw them in color, on the TV program. For a second I thought it was Susan, she’s blond too. I stepped forward . . .”

“How close were you?”

“Oh, about five yards . . .” She looked around and pointed to a WPC on the other side of the room. “She was about there.”

“And then what?”

“The man over the road walked to the edge of the pavement and called to Karen.”

Tennison leaned forward and watched Helen closely as she asked her next question. “You heard him clearly, calling her name?”

Helen nodded. “There was quite a lot of traffic noise, but he definitely called out her name.”

Tennison relaxed a little. “Can you tell me what he was wearing?”

“A brownish jacket, with a light shirt underneath.”

There was a brief knock on the door and a uniformed DI entered. He gave Tennison a nod. “We’re ready for you, Miss Masters,” he said.

DI Sleeth led Helen Masters to the observation room next door, explaining the procedure as he did so.

“You will be able to see them, but they can’t see you, it’s one-way glass. Anything you want them to do, tell me and I’ll give the instructions over the address system. Take your time, and don’t worry. Any questions?”

She shook her head. DCI Tennison had already told her that another officer had to accompany her for the identity parade, to avoid any suggestion of bias. Helen gave Sleeth a nervous smile and sat in the chair he indicated, facing the one-way glass and the twelve men in the line-up. Sleeth gave Helen a small wink as he tested the microphone that linked them to the identification room.

The twelve men stood in a row, facing the observation window. Each man held a number in front of him; George Marlow was number ten. They were all dark haired and more or less of a size with Marlow, and two, like him, had a deep six o’clock shadow.

“Would you all please turn to your right,” Sleeth said into the microphone.

Helen looked at each man in turn, frowning, then made another request. Sleeth announced it.

“When I call out your number, please take one pace forward and say the name “Karen” clearly. Number one, step forward please.”

Number one turned slowly and obeyed. “Karen!”

Helen shook her head and Sleeth said, “Thank you, number one, you may step back.” He consulted with Helen and continued, “Number eight, please step forward and say the name ‘Karen’.”

The eighth man’s voice was indistinct. “Louder, please, number eight,” said Sleeth.

“Karen!” shouted number eight.

In the corridor outside the observation room, Tennison and Otley waited nervously. She was pacing up and down, smoking. The door opened and DI Sleeth came out.

“She wants a closer look,” he told Tennison, and led Helen to the main room. Tennison made no attempt to speak to her.

Otley tapped Tennison on the arm and gestured towards the observation room. It was against the rules, but she couldn’t resist. They scurried furtively inside to watch.

Helen was moving slowly down the line of men. She paused in front of number two, but only for a second. She stopped at number ten, George Marlow.

“Come on, Helen, that’s the one!” Tennison almost shouted in her excitement. Sudden panic made her check the sound system; it was set to receive only. She sighed with relief and whispered through gritted teeth, “Come on, number ten, number ten . . .”

George Marlow stepped out of the line, holding his card in front of him and staring straight ahead. Tennison’s spine tingled; it was as if he knew he was looking directly into her eyes.

“Karen!” he called loudly.

Tennison dragged on her cigarette as the tension in the viewing room built up. Otley leaned forward, gritting his teeth. She was staring too long at Marlow, taking too long . . . He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Come on, sweetheart, that’s him, yes . . . You’ve got him!”

The reception area of Southampton Row nick was a hive of activity. A woman was in tears because her Saab Turbo had been either towed away or stolen, and she swore to the desk sergeant that it had been legally parked. Two punks, wearing torn jeans and leather jackets, were being released after a night in the cells. The mother of one of the boys, a Princess Anne lookalike in a camel coat and Hermès scarf, was berating him in a voice that could have shattered glass.

“How could you be so stupid? This will ruin your chances of university! How could you do it . . . Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

Three of the men from the identity parade were leaving, pocketing their eight quid expenses, and in the midst of it all DCI Tennison was thanking Helen Masters, thanking her when she could have screamed the place down with frustration.

Arnold Upcher was guiding George Marlow through the crowd, but suddenly Marlow turned back and pushed his way past the punks towards Tennison.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” he said softly, and touched her arm.

Refusing to look at him, Tennison moved quickly, through the door which led behind the reception desk, reappearing next to the desk sergeant. Marlow faced her across the broad counter.

“Inspector Tennison! You’re making my life a misery! I was dragged out of bed at four o’clock this morning with no explanation. You’ve got people watching me night and day, tell me why? You know I’m innocent. If you’ve got something personal against me, tell me now, what did I ever do to you?”

Upcher, disapproving, grabbed his arm to drag him away. Tennison gave Marlow a long, hard stare, then turned her head to find two men taking great interest in the transaction.

“Inspector Tennison?
Daily Express,
can you spare us a few seconds?”

With a gesture to the desk sergeant, Tennison said, “Get them out of here!” The reporter was moved on by a uniformed officer at the same time as George Marlow, protesting, was being manhandled out of the door by Upcher.

“She’s got something personal against me! I
didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!
”

Scenting a story, the reporter turned his attention to Marlow.

Everywhere Tennison went that day she encountered men with sore heads and matching tempers. Burkin was the worst for wear; his triumph the night before had been paid with a cut eye and lip. Tennison found the resulting lips irritating.

“Where the hell is Jones?” Tennison demanded. “I need him with me.”

Otley’s piggy eyes were bloodshot and seemed smaller than ever. “Dunno, ma’am.” He was having difficulty looking his guv’nor in the face; he had just been telling everybody that their great witness had picked out a tax inspector who’d been hauled in off the street. They were all at it; every time she turned her back one of them would purse his lips and run his hands through his hair in imitation of Tennison on TV.

Three minutes later Jones arrived, belching from the Alka-Seltzer he’d just forced down himself. His head throbbed, his tongue felt like rubber and he looked very pale and shaky. Totally unsympathetic, Tennison told him not to bother sitting down, they were going out.

WPC Havers came rushing in. “The Super wants to see you, ma’am, right away.”

“Tell him you can’t find me.”

“Marlow’s lawyer’s with him, screaming about you giving details of the car last night. Marlow’s never reported it stolen.”

“Shit! Well, someone had better get it sorted, and before I get back. We all know how careless filing clerks can be, don’t we? The Vehicle Theft Report’s probably just been misfiled, hasn’t it, Burkin?”

The DI was standing in the center of the room, yawning. “We keeping you awake?” asked Tennison.

“Sorry, ma’am, got a bit of a headache.”

“I just hope you won.”

He started to nod but thought better of it. On top of his injuries, the bevvies he had consumed after the fight didn’t help.

“It was in a good cause, ma’am. I got him in the last round—at least, I think I did. Old Felix was virtually in the ring with me, he used to box for . . .”

Otley smirked. “Made a nice little packet for the Sheffords, at twenty-five quid a ticket.”

“Yes, I know. I bought four tickets myself, I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there.”

She jerked her head to Jones to follow her as she walked out. Otley pursed his lips; nobody had told him that split-arse had chipped in!

“It was George’s decision to give notice,” said Edward Harvey, George Marlow’s boss at the paint factory he represented. “He was getting a lot of stick from the others. I’d never have asked him to leave, he’s too good at his job, been with us ten years apart from the time he was in jail.”

“He told you all about that, did he?”

“Yes, came straight out with it. I know he was found guilty, but . . .”

“But . . . ?”

“Well, he was always a bit of a lad, popular with the girls. He swears he’s innocent, and I really can’t see why such an attractive bloke would go and do a thing like that. He was very distressed about it.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Harvey. Now, could you show us around? If you have time.”

“My pleasure.”

Mr. Harvey, a cocky little man in his fifties, showed them the well-equipped production line, stopping now and then for a word with the men on the floor.

“We employ three hundred salesmen up and down the country,” he told Tennison, while Jones all but disappeared head-first into one of the mixing vats. “We guarantee to match any color you want; the difficult shades are still mixed by hand.”

Tennison looked around with interest. “George Marlow always worked from London?”

“He started with the firm in Manchester. We moved our headquarters down here in eighty-two, and George came with us, but he kept his old routes. Had all the contacts, you see, and of course they still had family and friends up north . . .”

“They? Did Marlow travel with someone else?”

“Moyra always went with him on his trips . . .”

“How far back do your staff records go?” asked Tennison.

“Since we moved here. We had a computer system installed, but we’ve got all the files . . .”

“Would they include the hotels your salesmen used, expenses and so on?”