Lynda La Plante: Prime Suspect

“You’ll get it, I give you my word.” Kernan looked pointedly at his watch. “Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get on. Just be patient, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive, and your turn will come.”

She walked to the door, depressed that she had failed yet again to convince him.

“Thank you for your time!”

As the door closed behind Tennison, Kernan leaned back in his chair. A few more months and she would leave of her own accord. He had never liked working with women and knew that his men felt the same way. All the same, he knew she was right. She was a highly qualified officer, it was just something about her, about all the high-ranking women he had come across. Maybe it was simply the fact that she was a woman.

Tennison had missed breakfast in the rush to get Joey ready, but her anger seemed to have sharpened her appetite. She decided to have a bite to eat in the canteen.

She ate alone, eavesdropping on the rowdy conversation from the next table. DI Burkin was cracking a joke about somebody being trapped on a mountain when the “bing-bong” went. He and DI Haskons were wanted in Administration. They stood up, laughing. Young DC Dave Jones, newly transferred from Cardiff, turned from the counter with his loaded tray to see the two DIs heading towards the exit.

“You want me along?”

Burkin pointed a finger and Jones’s eager face fell. “You always interrupt my jokes, Daffy. Give yourself fifteen, then get down to the Incident Room.”

Tennison watched in amazement as Jones tackled the vast amount of food he had piled on his tray: sausages, eggs, chips, baked beans, a heap of toast and two puddings with custard.

“Brunch, is it?” she asked, pleasantly.

“No, ma’am, I missed my breakfast because I had to go over to the labs for the guv’nor.” He stuffed a huge forkful of food into his mouth.

“You’re on Shefford’s team, then?”

Unable to speak, Jones nodded vigorously.

“I hear he’s going to charge the suspect this morning, is that right?”

Jones wiped his mouth on a paper serviette. “Yes, ma’am, he and Sergeant Otley are with the Super now. It looks good, the Sarge said.”

Tennison sipped her coffee. “Have they found the car? I hear your suspect says his car’s been stolen?”

Jones had timed his eating badly; again, he could only nod. He was relieved when the “bing-bong” went; this time it was for Tennison.

She drained her coffee cup and picked up her bag of groceries. Passing Jones, she smiled. “See you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Several officers, some of them uniformed, acknowledged her as she made her way to the door. There was an air of embarrassment; no one seemed to like her, but her rank of DCI demanded respect.

Jones waited until she had left before he burped loudly, which was received with a smatter of applause, then he continued eating at a frightening rate. He didn’t want to miss the big moment. The Sarge had told him it was a dead cert that they’d charge Marlow, and Paxman’s record would be smashed.

It was Maureen Havers who had put out the call for Tennison, to tell her that the photocopier was now out of order, so she was still unable to do the stuff Tennison needed for court. She asked if she should take it to another station or wait until their own machine was repaired.

Tennison dropped her bag on the desk. “I don’t believe this place, can’t they get a bloody mechanic to fix it? What the hell’s wrong with it, anyway?”

“Someone used the wrong type of paper and it’s all jammed inside. We’re trying to find the guilty party, ma’am, but it’s really fouled up this time.”

Tennison rolled up her shirt-sleeves. “Right, I’ll fix it myself, at least it’ll keep me occupied for a while. We’ll take all the copying, and that stuff on my desk is for the shredder, let’s do something useful…”

With their arms full of paper, they passed the open door of the Incident Room. The men were standing around in groups, with DI Burkin in the center telling another of his shaggy dog stories.

“I hear they’re charging the suspect. You heard anything, Maureen?”

Havers had to jog to keep up with her. “Yes, ma’am, they’ll break the record. There’s a booze-up in the pub, whole station’ll be there. Kitty’s over a hundred and fifty quid already.”

Tennison squatted to peer inside the photocopier. “Fucking thing’s jammed all right, look at the mess! How do you open it up?”

Havers knelt beside her to read the instructions on the side of the machine. “It says here, lift lever A, release spring…”

Tennison pushed her aside. “I’ll do it, get out of my light… Now then, pull what where?”

She yanked the lever and the machine split itself in two. “Oh, shit, now what?”

“How about waiting for the mechanic, ma’am?”

Tennison froze her with a look. “I’ve started, so I’ll continue…”

For what seemed an age, the only sounds in the office were the ticking of the clock and the flick as Kernan turned the pages of Marlow’s file.

“Christ, what a stroke of luck, John, bloody marvelous. What about the blood on the jacket?” He looked from Shefford to Otley, approvingly.

Shefford grimaced. He had a weird tingling in his left arm, all the way to his fingertips. He flexed his hand, rubbed the wrist.

“Willy’s working his butt off. Should… should come through any time now…” The pain was shooting down his arm now, and his chest felt as if it was being crushed… “It was the size of a pinprick, they’re waiting for it to expand at the labs, then we can check… Oh, Jesus…”

The pain was so bad it made Shefford fight for air. Kernan looked up, concerned. “Are you OK, John?”

“I dunno,” Shefford gasped, “I’ve got… like a cramp in my arm…”

He went rigid as a new spasm of pain hit him. He snorted, and Kernan saw blood oozing from his nose. There was a terrible look of fear in his eyes.

The pain seemed to be blowing him apart, like the bomb he had felt ticking inside his head. It was blowing up, he was blowing up! Rubbing his arm frantically, he snorted again and the blood poured down his chin. Then he pitched forward, cracking his head on the edge of Kernan’s desk.

The Super was already picking up the phone, shouting for a doctor, an ambulance, as Otley grabbed Shefford and tried to ease him back into his chair. But the man was so big that Otley staggered under his weight.

Shefford’s body suddenly relaxed and his head lolled on Otley’s shoulder. Otley cradled him in his arms, shouting hysterically for an ambulance… Kernan ran round the desk to help him lower Shefford to the floor. They loosened his tie, opened his shirt, and all the while Otley was saying over and over, “S’all right, John, everything’s OK, just stay calm… Don’t move, guv, it’s all being taken care of, ambulance is on its way…”

The photocopier throbbed into life and shot out three crumpled sheets of sooty paper. Tennison gave a satisfied sigh and stood up, brushing at the black specks on her hands.

“Right, Maureen, try it with a sheet we want to shred, just in case it eats it.”

It seemed that a herd of elephants suddenly charged down the corridor outside. Tennison opened the door and stepped back to avoid being trampled as the stretcher-bearers raced along. They passed too swiftly for Tennison to see who their patient was under the oxygen mask.

The corridor suddenly filled with people, propping doors open, running to follow the stretcher. Word went round like wildfire; John Shefford had collapsed.

Tennison hurried into her office to watch the ambulance in the street below, but found the window space already occupied by two WPCs. She slammed the door.