Lynda La Plante: Prime Suspect

At midday Tennison was again disturbed by the racing of engines from the car park. Shefford was off again, and in a hell of a hurry. She gave up trying to work and packed her things; it was nearly lunchtime anyway.

Tennison missed the “heat” as Shefford gathered his team together, his booming voice hurling insults as he fired orders at them. He was moving fast on the unbelievable stroke of luck that had given him his suspect on a plate.

George Arthur Marlow had been sentenced to three years for attempted rape and assault, but had served only eighteen months. He had still been protesting his innocence when he was led away from the dock.

The case had been a long-drawn-out affair as Marlow insisted he was innocent. At first he had denied even knowing the victim, referred to only as “Miss X,” but when faced with the evidence he told the police that he and “Miss X” had been drinking together in a wine bar. He stated that she had blatantly encouraged his advances, but when it came to the crunch she refused him.

Marlow’s blood tests at the time had shown him to have an exceptionally rare blood group; he belonged to a small percentage of AB secreters, of whom there is only one in 2,500 head of population. He had been one of the first to be entered on the new computer, and when a lab assistant ran his details through the system she hit the jackpot.

The warrant was ready. Shefford high on adrenaline, called his men together. Already he had dribbled coffee down his clean shirt, and he followed it now with cigarette ash. Otley brushed him down as he bellowed, “DCI Donald Paxman holds the record in the Met, lads, for bringing in a suspect and charging him within twenty-four hours. Gimme me raincoat… cigarettes, who’s got me cigarettes?”

He shrugged into his coat with the effortless ability of the permanently crumpled man, lighting a cigarette at the same time and switching it from hand to hand as his big fists thrust down the sleeves. “We smash that record, lads, and it’s drinks all round, so let’s go! Go, go!”

Jane Tennison let herself into her small service flat which she had shared for the last three months with her boyfriend, Peter Rawlins. Six feet tall, broad-chested, his sandy hair invariably flecked with paint, he was the first man she had lived with on a permanent basis.

Peter came out of the kitchen when he heard her key in the door and beamed at her. “OK, we’ve got Chicken Kiev with brown rice, how does that suit?”

“Suits me fine!”

She dumped her briefcase on the hall table and he gave her a hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. “Bad day?”

She nodded and walked into the bedroom, tossing her coat on the bed. He lolled in the doorway. “Want to talk about it?”

“When I’ve had a shower.”

They had spent a lot of time talking since they had met; Peter had been in the throes of divorce and Jane had provided a sympathetic ear. Marianne had left him for another man; it had hit him hard because it was not just any other man, but Peter’s best friend and partner in his building firm, And she had taken with her the little son he adored, Joey.

Jane and Peter’s relationship had begun casually enough; they had been teamed together in the squash club tournament and had since met on several occasions for the odd drink or cup of coffee after a game. Eventually he had asked her to see a film with him, and on that first real date she had listened to the details of his divorce. It was only after several films that he had even made an attempt to kiss her.

Jane had helped Peter to move into a temporary flat while his house was sold, and gradually their relationship had become closer. When he started looking for a permanent place to live she suggested he move in with her for a while. It wasn’t very romantic, but as the weeks passed she found herself growing more and more fond of him. He was easygoing, caring and thoughtful. When he told her he loved her and suggested they look for a bigger place together, she agreed. It was a pleasant surprise to her how much she wanted to be with him.

When she had showered, Jane sat at the table in her dressing gown and Peter presented his Chicken Kiev with a flourish. She was so grateful and happy that she had someone to share her life with that she forgot her problems for a moment.

As he opened a bottle of wine she cocked her head to one side and smiled. “You know, I’m getting so used to you, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. I guess what I’m trying to say in my roundabout way is-”

“Cheers!” he said, lifting his glass.

“Yeah, to you, to me, to us…”

Marlow seemed dazed by the arrival of the police. He stood in the narrow hallway of his flat, holding a cup of coffee, apparently unable to comprehend what they wanted.

“George Arthur Marlow, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder…” Otley had to repeat the caution, then remove the cup from Marlow’s hand himself to put the handcuffs on him.

Moyra Henson, Marlow’s girlfriend, appeared from the kitchen, followed by the smell of roasting lamb.

“What the hell’s going on here? Oi, where are you taking him? He hasn’t had his dinner…”

Ignoring her, they led Marlow out to the car as quickly as possible. In his bewilderment, he almost cracked his head on the roof of the patrol car as he was helped inside.

The uniformed officers went in to search the flat, while a WPC took Moyra into the kitchen and told her that Marlow had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of a prostitute. Moyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head, disbelieving.

“There’s been a terrible mistake, you can’t do this to him, it’s a mistake…” She broke away from the WPC and ran to the front door. She shrieked like a banshee when she realized the police were taking out clear plastic bags of clothing at a rate of knots. Marlow’s shoes, jackets, shirts, all listed and tagged, were shown to Moyra while she protested shrilly. But she didn’t attempt to stop the officers, and they remained for hours, searching and removing items. When they had finished, Moyra was taken to the police station for questioning.

She was no longer irate, but coldly angry. She hated the pigs, hated them. They had already put George inside for a crime she knew he hadn’t committed, and now she was sure they were about to frame him for murder. All the whodunnits she watched on video and the moral standpoints of Dallas and EastEnders had taught her her rights, and not to trust the bastards.

Jane lay curled in Peter’s arms, telling him about Shefford and his attitude to her; not quite openly antagonistic but near enough. It was pretty much the same with all the men, but Shefford was so macho that he took pleasure in sending her up, albeit behind her back.

It was still a new thing for her to have someone to listen to her problems. She had been in such a foul mood when she had arrived home, making love to him had taken all the tension away. It was good to have Peter, to feel loved and wanted. She told him how the Chief had given her the usual speech about waiting, but she had to make a decision soon. The longer she waited and accepted the cases no one else wanted, the more she knew she would be put upon. If Kernan didn’t give her a break she would quit. The men gave her no respect…

Peter laughed. “They don’t know you, do they?”

She grinned. “No, I suppose they don’t. I’ll get a break one day, and by Christ they’ll know what’s hit them then.”

He bit her ear. “Get them to play a game of squash with you, they’ll soon take notice of that determined little face. First time I played against you I thought: Holy shit, this one’s a maniac.”

She laughed her wonderful, deep, throaty laugh. When they made love it no longer mattered that her bosses had overlooked her; only Peter was important. She had said it to him that afternoon, and told him she loved him.