Lynda La Plante - Prime Suspect

The body had been cleaned, the blond hair combed back from her face. The dark bruises remained and the gashes on the head were deep and clear. Tennison frowned, leaning forward.

“Pull her out further, will you?”

Norman drew the drawer out to its fullest extent. Tennison walked around, peering at the dead girl’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“Shefford identified her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, and her landlady, Mrs. Corinna Salbanna.”

Tennison made a note on her pad, walked back again, then leaned in even closer. She stared for a long time before she asked to see the wounds on the torso. Norman pointed out the incisions, then indicated the deep weals on the tops of the arms.

“These seem to indicate that she was strung up. We’ll do some tests with weights… And here, on her wrists, you can see the marks of the ropes, tied so tightly they left imprints, the mark of her watch strap too, see…”

“Where’s the cut? Small cut on her hand?”

“Here.” He showed Tennison the corpse’s right wrist. “Small, but quite deep. Would have bled a fair bit.” He continued reading from his notes. “Extensive bruising all over the front of the body, plus a good deal around the genital and anal areas, but nothing on the back or buttocks.”

Tennison nodded and again peered closely at the victim’s face, then turned to DC Jones.

“I asked for another set of prints, will you make sure they’re on the way, and the set from Della Mornay’s file.”

Jones shifted his weight and muttered that he’d check it out. “We already have a set, ma’am.”

Tennison snapped back, “I need another set, and fast.”

Norman looked at his watch. “My students are waiting, Inspector.”

Tennison was frowning. She turned again to Jones. “Go and check on those prints now, Jones.” Then she addressed Felix Norman. “I’ve got a few more questions I can ask while you work, OK?”

Norman sighed, covered the corpse and closed the drawer while Tennison added to the notes she had made during her inspection, then he led her into the dissection room.

For the next few minutes, Tennison watched as Norman, with apparent relish, helped a student remove the specimen’s heart.

“That’s it, ease it out…”

Jones returned and stood at Tennison’s side. “Prints are organized, ma’am.”

She ignored him and continued scribbling in her notebook. Jones watched Norman and his students as they worked on. Blood dripped into buckets set at each end of the trolley, and the stains on their gowns and rubber gloves made them appear ghoulish. On one lens of Norman’s half-moon spectacles there was a clear fingerprint in blood. DC Jones’ stomach turned over.

Tennison seemed intent on her notes. She did not so much as glance at Jones, who hadn’t spoken for some time.

“How soon can you do the weight tests? I need to know exactly how she was strung up.”

“My dear lady,” Felix replied, “we’ll do them as quickly as we can, and you’ll be the first to hear, though I’d have thought you had enough on your suspect to bang him up for life.”

He turned to the student and gave a helping hand as he opened the heart.

“Look at this, Inspector. This poor bugger’s veins were so clogged up it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. Classic English breakfast causes this; bacon, fat… You like a cooked breakfast, Inspector?”

Tennison glanced around the room; Jones had disappeared. She smiled to herself.

The students clustered around Norman and took notes as he went on, “Liver very dodgy, see just by the size… I hear through the grapevine that those wankers over at the labs can’t even find the winder from the victim’s watch. They’ve got fifteen square yards of carpet, combing it inch by inch. Right, now let’s have a look at his testicles… Hmmm, well-endowed gent.”

Tennison knew she had as much as she was going to get. “Thank you for your time, Professor Norman. As soon as you can on the-”

“You’ll have my report, Inspector, but you should give us the time to do our job properly. And next time, gown-up, you know the rules.”

He turned to pierce her with his gimlet eye, as though she were one of his students, but she was gone.

When the Western finished at midnight, Peter switched the television off, poured a fresh cup of black coffee and carried it to the dining area. As he set it down by Jane’s elbow she looked up, her eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.

“Thanks, love. I just have to wade through this mound, then I’ll come to bed…”

“Maybe you’d be better off having a sleep now and getting up early?”

“You must be joking, I’ll have to get up at five as it is, to plough through that lot on the chair.”

Peter planted a kiss on the top of her head, went back to the bedroom and settled down to sleep. In the end, Jane didn’t come to bed at all.

As Tennison entered the Incident Room at nine the next morning, the men fell silent. They watched her as she walked to the table and sat in the chair their guv’nor had occupied the day before. She could feel their hatred; it prickled her skin. She had not expected such open animosity and it threw her slightly.

She kept her eyes down, concentrating on her notepad, then took out her gold pen and carefully unscrewed the cap. She raised her head.

“By now you are all aware that I am taking over from DCI Shefford, and I would like to take this opportunity to say how saddened and deeply shocked I am by this tragedy. John Shefford was a well-liked and highly respected officer.” She met the gaze of each man in turn as she spoke; several of them couldn’t hold her eyes, one or two others, notably Otley, glared back, challenging her silently.

“I am not attempting to step into his shoes; I am the only available DCI and as such I shall appreciate all the co-operation and assistance you can give to enable me to grasp all the details of the investigation and bring it to a successful conclusion. WPC Havers will be assisting me, and she will give you details of everything I need. I will work around the clock… You wanted to say something, Sergeant Otley?”

Otley was standing, rigid with anger, tight-lipped. “Yes, ma’am, I know you asked for this case specifically…”

She lit a cigarette and gazed at him, coldly. “If you don’t like it, put in for a transfer, through the usual channels. That goes for the rest of you; anyone who wishes to move can put in a formal request. Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” A murmur of resentment went around the room, but she ignored it. “I’m asking for some more manpower. We’ve got more officers joining the team today, including Maureen Havers and four WPCs to assist with the paperwork.”

She picked up some items from the desk and began pinning them on the big notice-board. There were two photographs and two sets of fingerprints, highlighted with red and green arrows. She pointed at them as she spoke.

“Now, here’s the really bad news. The photo on the right is Deirdre “Della” Mornay; on the left is the murder victim. Here are the prints taken from the corpse, and these are the ones from Della Mornay’s Vice file. There are nothing like the sixteen points of similarity needed for a match. The victim’s clothes are all from expensive designers such as Giorgio Armani, not Della’s line at all. Della’s shoes are all English size five; our victim took six and a half, from Bond Street.”

She looked around as they took in the implications of what she was saying. Otley was stunned; he was aware of just how well Shefford had been acquainted with Della.

Tennison went on, “We have obviously wrongly identified the victim, which makes our suspect’s statement, in which he names the girl he picked up as Della Mornay, inadmissible. If we went to court with this, the case would be thrown out. Someone’s been bloody careless. The officer who interrogated Marlow-”