Lynda La Plante - Prime Suspect

“OK, put him through.”

She turned to face the wall while she spoke, unaware that Otley was mimicking her behind her back, to the amusement of the men.

“I’m sorry, I can’t really talk now, is it important?”

Burkin was waiting for her at the door. Otley stolled over to him.

“What’s goin’ on, are we chargin’ Marlow?”

“You’re joking…” Over Otley’s head, Burkin called, “Ma’am, we’ve got the search warrant!”

“What’s this for?” asked Otley.

“Marlow’s flat, now we’re looking for a handkerchief!” replied Burkin contemptuously.

With a promise to call Peter later, Tennison put the phone down and joined Burkin. As they left, Otley was at it again.

“Yeah, a bloody handkerchief, for that snot-nosed cow! Doesn’t she know we’ve only got ten hours before that bastard has to be released?”

As Tennison and Burkin mounted the steps towards flat 22, the curtains of number 21 twitched.

Burkin knocked on the door. They waited a considerable time before they heard a lock turn and the door was flung wide open.

Moyra Henson glared at them, then looked to Tennison, who was sizing her up fast. It was the first time she’d seen Marlow’s common-law wife. She knew Moyra was thirty-eight years old, but she looked older. Her face had a coarse toughness, yet she was exceptionally well made-up. Her hair looked as if she’d just walked out of the salon, and her heavy perfume, “Giorgio,” was strong enough to knock a man over at ten yards.

“Yes?” Henson snapped rudely.

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison…”

“So what?”

Tennison was noting the good jewelery Moyra was wearing: expensive gold bangles, lots of rings… Her nails were long and red. She replied, “I have a warrant to search these premises. You are Miss Moyra Henson?”

“Yeah. Lemme see it. Your lot shell out these warrants like Smarties, invasion of privacy…”

She skimmed through the warrant. Tennison clocked her skirt, the high heels and fluffy angora sweater with the tiger motif. Miss Henson might come on as a sophisticated woman, but she was a poorer, taller version of Joan Collins, whom she obviously admired judging by the shoulder pads beneath the sweater.

“I would like to ask you a few questions while Detective Inspector Burkin takes a look around.”

Moyra stepped back, looking past Tennison to the broad-shouldered Burkin. “I dunno why he doesn’t move in, he spends enough time here.”

Tennison was growing impatient. “Could we please come in?”

Moyra turned with a shrug and walked along the narrow hall. “I don’t have much option, do I? Shut the door after you.”

The flat was well decorated and exceptionally clean and tidy. The cosy sitting room contained a three-piece suite which matched the curtains and a fitted carpet.

Tennison looked around. “This is very nice!”

“What d’you expect, a dump? George works hard, be earns good money. Found his car yet, have you? It’s down to you lot, you know. This estate stinks, somebody must have seen him being taken away and nicked it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information on that. Really, I’m just here to have a chat with you. You see, I’m taking over the investigation. The previous Inspector died, tragically.”

“Good! Less of you bastards the better. Oi, what’s he up to? Hey, sonny! You can put that laundry back, that’s my dirty knickers! Are you some perverted crotch sniffer?”

“How do you feel about your boyfriend picking up prostitutes?”

“Wonderful, it gives me a friggin’ night off!”

“I admire you for standing by him while he was in jail.”

“That bitch asked for it! She was coming on to him, and he’d had too much to drink…”

“Was he drunk when he came home on Saturday night?”

“No he was not!”

“And he arrived home at what time?”

“Half past ten. We watched a video, then we went to bed.”

Tennison took a photograph from her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table, facing Moyra. “This is the girl he admitted to picking up, admitted having sex with in his car. Now look at her.”

“What am I supposed to do, have hysterics? I feel sorry for the girl, but he only fucked her! Half the bloody government’s been caught messing around at some time or other, but their wives have stuck by them. Well, I’m doing the same. Now, if you’ve finished wrecking my flat, why don’t you get out of here?”

“I haven’t finished, Moyra. Just one more question; did you know Della Mornay?”

“No, never heard of her.

“Never?”

“No.”

“And George didn’t know her, you’re sure of that?”

Moyra folded her arms. “I have never heard of her.”

Tennison put her notebook into her briefcase. “Thank you for your time, Miss Henson.”

While she waited for Burkin to finish, Tennison had a good look around the flat. There were no handkerchiefs with the initial “G” on the corner, either in the bedroom drawers or the laundry basket. Enquiries at the laundry Moyra had told them she used came to nothing.

The flat was very much Moyra’s and only her things were in evidence; pots of make-up, knickknacks, magazines. Just one small corner of the dressing table held a neat, old-fashioned set of bone-handled brushes with George’s initials in silver. Moyra, who followed them from room to room, told them they had belonged to his father.

Tennison was struck by the neatness of Marlow’s clothes in the wardrobe. They took up only a quarter of the space, the rest of which was crammed with Moyra’s things. His suits were all expensive, in tweeds and grays, nothing bright, and the shirts were of good quality.

The small bookcase in the lounge contained paperbacks, mostly by Jackie Collins, Joan Collins and Barbara Taylor Bradford. It was as if Marlow didn’t really live there. Tennison looked again; there were a few thrillers that were more likely to be his, such as James Elroy and Thomas Harris, plus a hardback edition of Bonfire of the Vanities that she guessed belonged to him.

Finding nothing of interest, Tennison and Burkin left to start checking on the missing girls. They headed for Cornwall Gardens to question a Mrs. Florence Williams.

Sergeant Otley had a feeling this was a good one, which was why he and Jones were there instead of Tennison. The report had only been in a few hours, but the description matched their victim.

The basement area of the flat in Queen’s Gate, Kensington, looked as if a cat-fight had taken place in the dustbins, spewing rubbish among the broken furniture and bicycles that cluttered the approach to the door.

Otley peered through the filthy window. “Are you sure this is the right address, Daffy?”

“Yeah. Knock on the door, then.”

“Christ, place looks like a dossers’ pad, you seen in here?”

Jones shaded his eyes and squinted through the iron grille over the sash window. “I thought this was a high-class area,” he muttered.

“It is,” snapped Otley. “And shut your mouth, someone’s coming.”

The door was opened by a tall, exceptionally pretty girl with blond hair hanging in a silky sheet to her waist. She was wearing pink suede boots, a tiny leather miniskirt and a skimpy vest.

“Yes?”

“I am Detective Sergeant Otley, this is Detective Constable Jones. You made a missing persons report?”

“Oh, yeah, you’d better come in. It might all be a dreadful mistake, you never really know with Karen, it’s just odd that Michael hasn’t seen her either…”

Otley and Jones exchanged glances as they followed the leggy creature into the dark, shambolic hallway.

“Trudi! Miffy! There are two policemen…”