Lynda La Plante: Prime Suspect

“What did they say?”

“The bath’ll run over.”

“What did they say?”

“Maybe they’ve already found it, I dunno. I’ve got my own problems. They’ll get me just for doing a few manicures.” She threw the brush down on the dressingtable and stormed into the bathroom. Marlow picked up the brush and began to run it through his hair.

Peter looked around the efficiency. It was clean and close to the building yard. The best thing was the rent, a hundred a week. He had paid the landlady up front for a month. Dumping his suitcase without bothering to unpack, he went straight out again, arriving outside Marianne’s just after breakfast. He watched from a distance until Marianne’s husband had taken Joey to school, then rang the bell.

Marianne offered her cheek, which he kissed, and coffee, which he accepted. She tidied the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and sat opposite him at the kitchen table.

“I’ve moved, so if you need me, here’s my new address,” he told her.

“Oh, so it didn’t work out with the policewoman?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Really? Because I won’t be able to have Joey to stay? Well, wrong, because he can stay with me for as long as need be.”

Marianne unfolded the small note of his address and got up to pin it on the notice-board. He sipped his lukewarm coffee and asked, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Do you want toast?”

“No. I want to know if this new baby’s mine. Is it?”

“What?”

“Come on, don’t mess me around. I got the sort of nudge, nudge when you came round, so tell me the truth. Is it mine?”

“Well, of course not, don’t be ridiculous!”

“That afternoon, it could have been mine, couldn’t it?”

“No, I’m too far gone. I must have been pregnant, or just… Look, Pete, that was a stupid mistake, and I don’t know why I let it happen. I’m sorry if by going to bed with you that one time I let you think…”

“Wait, wait! I don’t think anything, I just wanted to know for sure, and now I do, I’ll go.”

She caught his arm. “I’m sorry, Pete, I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I’m truly sorry. But it was just something that happened.”

“Just something?”

Peter walked to the front door. He felt helpless, inadequate, there was so much more to say but he didn’t know how to begin. The sweet smell of her in her dressing-gown, her softness, got in the way of his anger. It always had.

His hand was on the door, about to open it, when he turned back. “I want Joey, every other weekend. I’ll start paying maintenance as soon as my business is on its feet.”

Marianne nodded, but before she could say anything he had the door open. “Goodbye, then,” she said at last.

Peter didn’t reply. All the way down the neat gravel path, across the street to his truck, he couldn’t even think straight. How had it happened? One day, a wife he adored, a son he doted on, a secure business, a house-albeit with a mortgage… He had had so much, and now it was gone. Marianne had a bigger house, a new husband, another baby on the way, and all Peter had was a rented efficiency and a suitcase. Even his business was in bad shape. In fact, no matter how he viewed his life, he was on a downward spiral. He just couldn’t understand how it had happened that his best friend, a man he had been at school with, trusted and liked, had taken everything from him.

As he drove off, Marianne watched from an upstairs window. She felt wretched, part morning sickness and part guilt. She was genuinely sorry for him, sorry for leaving him, sorry for everything that had happened. He was such a kind, gentle man. She had never set out to fall in love with someone else, it was just one of those things. It upset her that he had believed the new baby was his, but she hadn’t lied.

She patted the curtains back into place and ran herself a bath. While she waited she started making out a list of groceries and Peter was forgotten.

Peter unpacked his belongings and went to a café for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. He arrived at work much later than usual and one of his chippies asked if everything was OK.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“How’s the Inspector?”

“That’s all in the past.”

“Can’t say I blame you. That one looked as if she’d nick you if you laid a finger on her!”

Peter laughed loudly, and the chippie pushed the day’s mail across the untidy desk. “Looks like a lot of bills to me, guv’nor. Be out back if you need me.”

Peter had hardly given Jane a thought since he left. She had been important to him for the time he had been with her, but he knew he wouldn’t see her again. There really wasn’t any point. If the truth was on the line, there was a side to her that he hated, that masculine, pushy side. She had never been his kind of woman, and he doubted if any man could cope with a woman who loved her career more than anything else. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to all the ramifications of who had done what, how and to whom, and what she was going to do about it. He wouldn’t have to hear about her “toms,” her “lads,” or that bloody George Marlow. The next girl would be young, pretty and without prospects, and he’d make sure she could cook, didn’t mind ironing shirts and liked kids.

“Boss! Karen’s photographs have arrived.”

Tennison turned from the washbasin where she was brushing her hair. “Be right with you.”

“Everybody’s waiting in the Incident Room, and… the Super’s in there.”

Tennison was suddenly not so cheerful. “Shit! OK, I’ll be there.”

A few moments later she found Superintendent Kernan standing in the middle of the Incident Room among a general hubbub. The moment she entered the room, silence fell.

“Sorry, guv, you wanted to see me?” She felt a flush creeping up her face.

“Just a few moments.” He gestured to the door, then said to Amson, “Carry on.”

Tennison waited for him at the door and followed him out, hearing Terry Amson saying, “Right, I want everybody to have a look at these new photographs of Karen Howard…” She closed the door behind her and faced Kernan.

“This was on my desk when I came in.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “They backed you one hundred per cent, refused to have Hicock take over. Did you know about it?”

Every single man had signed the petition. Tennison’s eyes brimmed with tears. “No… No, I didn’t.”

“Things have taken a big turn, eh? You’re lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, sir. We’ve worked our butts off.”

“Let me have all the new information as soon as possible, and”-he smiled-“good luck!”

He strode away and she opened the door. All the men in the room had their backs to her; they were watching Maureen Havers.

“These shots were taken on the day Karen died,” said Havers, pointing to a group of photos on the notice-board. “You can see quite clearly that her nails were short. But these”-she pointed to another group-“these were taken a week before. Look at her hands.”

In the second batch Karen’s nails were long and red. Sergeant Amson turned to Jones. “Get on it, check with her flatmates, see where she got them done!”

While Jones looked up the number, the others crowded around the photos. Still not one man had turned towards Tennison. Jones picked up the phone and started dialling.

Highly embarrassed, Tennison walked to the center of the room. “I won’t harp on, but I want all of you to know that I appreciate you backing me up…”

Muddyman hurtled in, shouting, “Suspect’s on the move, guv’nor, with his girlfriend! The lads reckon something’s going down!”

Jones was through to the flat. “Lady Antonia? This is DC Jones from Southampton Row police station. We need to know if Karen used a beauty parlor or hair salon, and if so do you know if she had… excuse me…” He beckoned frantically to Havers. “What do you call them?”