Marianne was wearing a short, frilly evening dress. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was the type that novelists describe as silky, a real shampoo advert. To Jane’s surprise she seemed much younger than her thirty-eight years.
“Hi, Pete, I’ve brought everything he could possibly need, and a lot he might not …”
Peter turned to introduce Jane. “Jane, this is Marianne.”
“Hi, nice to meet you, it’s good of you to have Joey.”
“Oh, that’s OK, nice to meet you.” She bent down to the little boy, who still clung to his father’s legs. “And you must be Joey? You know what we’ve got? Fish fingers, do you like fish fingers?”
“What else have you got?”
“Chocolate cake, you want some? Yes? Come on, then, let me show you the kitchen.”
She held out a hand to Joey, who shied away at first, but then he edged forward and gripped her hand tightly. “I got a new Revenge of the Joker mask!” he confided.
“Have you? Is that from Batman, then?”
Joey nodded. Anxious to get away from Marianne’s critical gaze, Jane smiled and said, “Would you like a drink, Marianne?”
“No, Steve is waiting …”
Duty done, Jane and Joey scuttled into the kitchen, but Jane could hear every word through the thin door. She showed Joey the cake box, opened it and reached into the top cupboard for a plate.
Marianne smiled and tossed her streaked, blond hair back. She leaned confidentially towards Pete.
“Pete, I’m pregnant.” She gave him a long, direct look.
Peter swallowed. “It’s not …” He glanced nervously toward the kitchen.
“Who knows? Anyway, I really appreciate this. You know what I was like in the early stages with Joey, I’m so sick every morning, awful.”
He pulled himself together. “You look OK!”
“Well, it’s all show. Underneath this I’m white as a sheet and getting hideously fat.” She wasn’t; as far as Peter could recall she hadn’t even put on much weight with Joey. Marianne went on, “She’s not at all what I expected! Is it working out?”
He nodded, and glanced again towards the kitchen door. “You’d better go, I don’t want him getting upset.”
“Oh, he’s fine, and I should say goodbye to … what’s her name?”
“Jane.” Again Peter looked towards the kitchen door. “Jane! Marianne’s leaving!”
The partly defrosted cake was halfway to the plate when it slipped off the bread knife and back into the box, showering Jane in the process. Peter opened the door to see her covered in chocolate and cream, trying in vain to wipe it off with a tea towel.
“Bit of an accident! Good to meet you, Marianne, hope you have a nice dance.”
“Oh, it’s not a dance, just a small dinner party.”
Jane covered her astonishment with a smile. If she had got herself done up in a dress as glitzy as that, it would have been for a ball at the very least.
Joey kissed his mother, apparently unperturbed at her leaving, then ran back to the kitchen to stick his fingers in the blobs of chocolate and lick them.
As the door closed behind Marianne, Jane cocked her head to one side. “So I wasn’t what she expected, huh? Next time I’ll borrow a WPC’s hat!”
There was a crash from the kitchen as the entire chocolate cake, box and all, fell to the floor. Joey looked crestfallen, expecting to be punished, but Jane just looked at the mess on the floor and handed Joey a spoon.
“OK, let’s have tea!”
It was eleven thirty when Shefford completed his interrogation of George Marlow. He discussed the results briefly with Arnold Upcher; he was sure he had enough evidence to charge Marlow. Upcher, tired himself, pursed his lips and gave a small shrug.
“Then if you feel you have the evidence, Inspector, there is little I can do. But he’s been here since early afternoon, that means you’ve got twenty-four hours. You will, of course, inform me if you go for extra time?”
Shefford was confident that he could charge Marlow without having to present all his evidence to a magistrate and beg for the statutory three days’ delay to consolidate his case, or “three-day lay-down”, as it was known. Exhausted though he was, and a little punchy, he was still going strong. His main concern was to get the statements transcribed from the tapes.
Upcher, needing time to review Marlow’s situation, had said little as he took his leave of Shefford. He knew intuitively that something was wrong, but until he had time to digest the case he wouldn’t even contemplate discussing it.
None of it made sense; Marlow was a handsome, attractive male, a man with a good, steady relationship at home. He was popular, he had a job that he thoroughly enjoyed and which brought him good money and his employers had even held it open for him when he was convicted of attempted rape. Upcher had succeeded in getting the burglary charge dropped, and in Marlow’s defense at the trial he had played heavily upon the confusion about which party had made the initial approach, whether both of them had been drunk—they had been seen in the same bar, and Marlow’s claim that she had led him on and subsequently refused him had rung true. In Upcher’s opinion the victim was a very disturbed woman whose evidence was unreliable, and he had been shattered by the verdict. Not just from a professional point of view; his relationship with Marlow was good, he actually liked the man and believed him to be innocent.
Marlow had taken it well, although Upcher was surprised that he had requested his representation for this, a much more serious charge. He had borne Upcher no grudge about losing the case, and had even admitted that, drunk or sober, he should not have forced himself on the woman, even though he had truly believed it was what she wanted. He had said, with a rueful smile, “I’ll never drink more than my limit again, so I suppose some good’ll come out of it. I didn’t hurt her though, Arnold, she made that up, the cops got it wrong.”
Was Marlow a rapist and a murderer? Upcher thought not, and could not believe he had misjudged the man to such an extent. The question occupied his thoughts all the way back to his Queen’s Gate flat.
The Arnold Upchers of this world are expensive, and anyone seeing the tall, angular man in the hand-tailored suit parking his dark green Jaguar in the residents’ bay could have been forgiven for mistaking him for the famous conductor who had once lived in the elegant service block a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. With the remote control he locked his car and set the alarm, allowing the chill night air to clear his head. By the time he reached his door, Upcher was convinced that the police had got it wrong again. Marlow was innocent, and he would prove it.
Jane crawled to bed at midnight. She had exhausted her stock of stories before Joey finally fell asleep, from the three little pigs to a strange mixture of Batman confronting the Ninja Turtles.
Peter was sitting up waiting for her. He flipped the bedclothes back and patted the mattress. “Come in, my beauty! And tell me a story …”
She snuggled into bed and gave him a blow-by-blow description of the goings-on at the police station.
“They were like kids playing at cops and robbers! I don’t know what they were up to, but they stopped me working. They’ve got a nice juicy murder that should have been my case, and you know what I’ve got instead? A dyspeptic accountant who’s had his bloody case adjourned four times in a row! Last time I had to wait at court all morning like a prat until he sent in some fictitious doctor’s note, and then I was told to go away. Next thing, the little sod’ll up and leave the country—I would, in his position. He owes ten years’ income tax and VAT. I’ve got to know the little pest so well over the past three months that I can tell you what he’ll be eating for breakfast, and even when I suggested that another adjournment would be… . Am I boring you?”
Peter smiled. He had only been half-listening.
She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I could manage another sentence, I’m so tired … Oh, God, am I tired!”
Peter switched the bedside light off and reached for her, wan
ting to draw her close, but she muttered, “I’m afraid I’m too knackered … anyway, haven’t you had enough for one day? Book me in for tomorrow night, OK?” She was fast asleep as she finished speaking.
Peter lay awake for about ten minutes, then put the light back on to read his book. Jane started to snore and he gently eased her onto her side. She gave a little grunt and then a pathetic, “Sorry … I’m sorry …”
John Shefford was dog-tired by the time he arrived home, but his brain was ticking like a bomb. The events of the day kept repeating themselves like a newsreel in his head and he had to drink half a bottle of Scotch before he felt the dark clouds gathering to cushion him to sleep.
It seemed only a moment before the alarm woke him. His head throbbed and he took four aspirin before he could get out of bed, crunching them between his teeth and hoping that they’d reach the parts that screamed for numbness.
Sheila had his breakfast ready. As she dished it up she reminded him of his promise about the clown for Tom’s party. She had wrapped the presents and heaped them on the breakfast table, where Tom had found them at the crack of dawn, and he was beside himself, in a fever of excitement. They had both been touched by the lads’ whip-round for Tom, which they had presented in cash in a large Metropolitan Police envelope to be put into his Post Office savings account.
By seven, Shefford was none too happy. He tried to show enthusiasm, but he was getting ratty trying to eat his breakfast with one hand and fend off his son’s new boxing gloves with the other. His nagging headache wouldn’t shift, and he had another three aspirin with his coffee. Sheila was still going on about the clown, and he gave his solemn oath that not only would there be a clown but that he would perform magic acts that would silence even Tom.
The little lad had started boxing his sister, and her screams cut through Shefford’s head like a knife. Sheila removed his half-eaten scrambled eggs.
“I’m not expecting you to be here, that’s why the clown’s important. God forbid I should ask you to do anything so normal as to be home at half past five with Tom’s godfather for his party, it’d be an act of madness on my part …”
“Look, sweetheart, maybe I will make it, if things go well. We had a hell of a breakthrough yesterday; we’ve got a suspect and I think we can charge him. If we can do it this afternoon I can get home, and Bill’s promised to dress up, how’s that?”
Sheila screwed up her face and snorted. “Haw, haw, promises, promises! And would you take those gloves off him, and tell him they can only be worn under supervision. I never wanted him to have them in the first place …”
Shefford crooked his finger at Tom, who shadow-boxed up to him, ducking and diving as his father had taught him.
“OK, Tom, off with the gloves. The rule’s been laid down by the boss, you only use them when I’m around, OK? So give me a quick jab-jab, and a left hook before I go.”
Tom was fast and managed to clip his father on the nose. Sheila laughed, but Shefford’s eyes watered and he grabbed the gloves, pulling them off as the telephone began to ring.
“Daddy, it’s for you!”
Shefford listened to Felix Norman with difficulty while his daughter wound the phone cord around her neck and Tom raced up and down the hall with his rugger ball, weaving around the defense—his father—and scoring a try in the kitchen doorway.
It was Norman’s habit to get to the lab at seven each morning to escape the rush hour, though rumor had it that he was more concerned about avoiding his wife, as he was invariably found there late each night.
“What in God’s name’s going on there?” he yelled.
Shefford glared at his son and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. This gesture was famous in the household and was always obeyed. His daughter jabbed her lethally sharp elbow in his balls as she untangled herself from the curly cord and he grimaced, giving her a good whack on the back of the head, which had no effect at all. She hurtled after her brother, whooping at the top of her voice.
“OK, sorry about that, Felix old mate, but it’s Tom’s birthday. No, he got the ball last year, this year it’s boxing gloves …” He reached automatically for his cigarettes.
“Noisy little sod’s a real chip off the old block … Well, wish him happy birthday from me. How’s your suspect measure up, by the way? Is he right-handed?”
Shefford sucked on his cigarette. “Yep … How’s this for size; he’s five feet ten and a half, well-built, looks like he works out.”
On the other end of the line, Felix puffed at his cigar. When the two men were together in one room they created such a dense fog that they were known as the Danger Zone. “I’d say, John boy, you’re a lucky sod. By the way, I was talking to Willy last night. Did he mention to you that he reckons there’s not enough blood in that room?”
“You mean she wasn’t killed there?”
“It’s his department, but I’d say he’s probably right.”
The press release that morning said little, just that a known prostitute had been murdered. Della had no family and no one volunteered any information about her movements. It was the same story all round; none of Della’s friends and associates the police had contacted so far had seen her for weeks. Of ten residents of the house who had given statements, not one could say when they last saw her. Mrs. Salbanna had been staying at her daughter’s to help with the children while her newest grandchild made an appearance, and had not been home much for several weeks. Anyway, Della had been avoiding her for months because of the rent she owed. It was as if she had never existed, and, sadly, no one seemed to care.
By eight-thirty Shefford was at his desk, going over the typed-up statements from the previous day. He also had the full details he’d requested on Marlow’s previous conviction. As he sifted through the information an alarm bell rang in his head, the same as on the previous day. Something was trying to breakthrough …
Sergeant Otley brought coffee and doughnuts on a tray.
“Otters, there’s something niggling me about this guy. Can you check something out for me, but tiptoe it? A girl was murdered in Oldham when I was there; get me the information on her, but keep schtum.”
Otley licked sugar off his top lip and replied, “Yeah, what you think, he maybe did others?”
Shefford nodded. “Yeah. Watch out for me on this, I knew the one in Oldham too, know what I mean?”
Otley sucked jam and sugar off his fingers and carried his beaker of coffee to his own desk. He inched a drawer open and brought out Della Mornay’s diary.
“What do you want done with this?” he asked.
Shefford bit into his second sugar-coated bun. “Hang on to it, old son, I’ll check it out later. I’m goin’ down to the cells, then upstairs, give the boss everythin’ we’ve got. I reckon he’ll give us the go-ahead to charge the bastard. If we finish it, you gotta hire a fuckin’ clown’s outfit!”
Laughing, Otley replaced the diary in his desk drawer. He called out as Shefford left, “Eh, Big John, there’s two hundred quid riding on us from DCI Tibbs’ bunch, says we can’t beat Paxman’s record!” Otley could hear Shefford’s big, bellowing laugh all the way down the corridor.
Shefford was still laughing while he waited for the cell door to be opened. He wanted to have a look at Marlow; he always did this just before he charged a suspect. There was something in a murderer’s eyes, he had never been wrong yet.
Freshly shaved and showered, the prisoner looked somehow different this morning. Shefford was slightly taken aback; there was an eagerness to Marlow, a light in his eyes when he saw who it was at the door.
“Can I go?” Marlow asked.
Without speaking, Shefford shook his head slowly.
Jane Tennison parked her car with difficulty. DCI Shefford’s dented and filthy Granada was angled across his space and hers and she had a tight squeeze to get out of the driving seat. Her pleated tartan skirt brushed against the Granada and she dusted it off in disgust, hoping that this would be the last time she would ha
ve to wear her court outfit for a while, unless the nasty little accountant engineered yet another stay of execution.
In the female locker room, she hung her smart black blazer with the brass buttons in her locker, straightened her high-necked Victorian-style blouse, ran a comb through her short fair hair and slicked some gloss on her lips, all in a matter of moments. She rinsed her hands at the row of washbasins and thumped the soap dispenser, which was empty as usual. Her irritation deepened when she caught sight of Maureen Havers, wasting time tittering with someone at the open lockerroom door and fiddling with the Alice band she often wore to keep her thick red hair off her pretty face. As she talked she whisked it off, shook her hair and replaced it, still giggling, then shut the door.
Havers started to sing as she opened her locker, then stopped short.
“Mornin’, guv, didn’t realize you were here.”
Tennison dried her hands and stepped back from the mirror. “D’you think this skirt could do with being shorter?” she asked.
Havers peered around her locker door. “Looks OK to me. That shirt suits you.”
“I’m in court this morning, remember?”
“Ahhh, it’s Cary Grant Philpott, is it? In that case you’d better take the skirt up about a foot, keep him awake!”
A short time later, Havers breezed into the office with the pile of photocopying Tennison had asked her to do.
“We’ll have to wait, the machine’s in use.”
Tennison exploded. “Tell whoever’s on the bloody thing to get off it, I must have the stuff before I go to court!”
Havers beamed good-naturally. She was used to Tennison’s outbursts and knew better than to answer back. She had once, and regretted it; Tennison had a very sharp tongue. A perfectionist herself, Tennison expected the same diligence and professionalism from everyone else. Her pinched, angry look warned Havers that she was brewing a real explosion.
“I’ll nip down and see if it’s free, boss, OK?”
“Like now, Maureen, would be a good idea!”
Havers couldn’t resist a little dig. “OK, boss, but DCI Shefford’s team have sort of got priority. They arrested someone yesterday for the Della Mornay murder, so the Paxman record’s being challenged again. DCT Shefford’s lads have started the countdown.”
Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) Page 4