Lynda La Plante - Prime Suspect

“Moyra Henson, I am WPC Southill. We would like you to accompany us to the Southampton Row-”

Moyra swung her boutique bag to slap Southill in the face, then went for her, kicking and spitting, screaming that she wanted to be left alone. Her screeching drew everyone’s attention: shop assistants rushed out to see what was going on, customers rammed into each other on the escalators, as Moyra’s screams echoed throughout the mall. Her face was puce with hysteria.

She seemed to cave in suddenly, her back pressed against the window, hands up.

“I just want to be left alone, ahhhh, please, please leave me alone! Don’t touch me! I’ll come with you, just don’t touch me!”

She started to retrieve her fallen purchases and stuff them into the torn boutique bag. She had hurled her handbag to the floor, spilling cosmetics, wallet, mirror all over the marble floor, and she insisted on picking everything up herself. She was crying now, her mascara running down her face, her hysteria over.

She allowed herself to be led to the waiting patrol car where she sat, sniffing noisily, her nose all red, and stared out of the window. As the car moved off and the siren started up, she seemed to gather her senses, taking a hankie from her bag and blowing her nose. WPC Southill watched closely as she pulled out a perfume atomizer and gave Oakhill the nod to check it.

“It’s perfume, Chanel, and it’s very expensive. Cost over thirty quid, and I only use it sparingly-I mean, too much and you overdo it. So if you don’t mind giving it back? What’d you think I was gonna do, spray it in the driver’s eyes and make my escape? Screw you, screw the lot of you, you’re all wankers!”

She spent the rest of the journey to the station checking her wallet, counting her money and repacking everything in orderly fashion. But she didn’t say anything else; she felt there wasn’t any point.

The lock-up was cavernous. Water dripped constantly, forming pools on the floor, and the shape of it amplified the eerie sounds of the trains overhead. The place stank of damp, ancient oil and many other things.

The far end was pitch dark. Near the center of the empty space Tennison could just make out a large, shrouded shape in the gloom. She chose to ignore the little scuttling, splashing noises of the rats.

“Everybody watch where you stand,” Tennison ordered, her voice echoing. “Lights, are there any lights?”

Fluorescent lights blinked on slowly, casting a cold blueish light which reflected in the puddles. Tennison advanced, picking her way slowly and carefully until she reached the middle. She lifted the old tarpaulin by one corner, exposing gleaming chrome and gold-brown paintwork.

“Well, we’ve got the car!” she called briskly, peering inside it. There was no radio between the seats. “I want the Forensic crowd down here ASAP. The less we move or touch, the better.”

DS Amson was tiptoeing through the pools of water towards her. She stepped back, knocking into him, and turned to give him an earful when she saw his smile freeze. He was looking past her to the far end of the lock-up. Tennison followed his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, and pointed. “This is where he did it.”

Arrayed on the wall like an exhibit in a black museum were chains, shackles and a hideous collection of sharpened tools.

“How are you going to play it?” Kernan asked Tennison.

She was tense, champing anxiously at the bit. “Henson first, break the alibi. Marlow’s brief’s on his way in.”

“Right, Jane, and… well done!”

“Not done yet,” she replied, flexing her fingers. “Not yet.”

Flanked by Amson and Muddyman, with Havers in her wake, Tennison swept along the corridor to the interview room. Muddyman and Amson entered first, going to opposite sides of the room. Tennison walked straight to the table where Moyra Henson sat smoking, her solicitor beside her. Tennison could feel the change in her; she was afraid.

She addressed the solicitor. “Mr. Shrapnel? This is Detective Inspector Muddyman, Sergeant Amson and WPC Havers.” With a nod to Havers to close the door, she sat down and placed some files on the table. “You have been made aware that your client has not been arrested at this stage, but is here of her own free will to answer questions and assist in the investigation into the murders of Karen Howard and Della Mornay.”

“Yes, I am aware of the situation, and my client is prepared to assist in any way that will not incriminate her or instigate criminal proceedings against her,” the small gray-suited man replied.

For the first time since entering the room, Tennison looked directly at Moyra.

“At twelve forty-five today we gained access to George Arthur Marlow’s rented lock-up garage in King’s Cross. A brown Rover car, registration number SLB 23L, was discovered on the premises, together with certain incriminating evidence. In your recent statement you claimed that you had no knowledge of the whereabouts of this car, is that true?”

There was no bravado left in her. “I didn’t know anything about it, I thought it had been stolen.”

“In the same statement you gave George Arthur Marlow an alibi, stating that he returned to the flat you share on the night of the thirteenth of January, nineteen-ninety, at ten thirty. Is that correct?”

Moyra glanced at her solicitor, then back to Tennison and gave a nod.

“When I interviewed you on that occasion, you were shown pictures of murder victims, do you remember? You stated that you had never met any of the women in the photographs.”

Again Moyra nodded and looked to Mr. Shrapnel. Tennison opened one of her files and brought out two photographs.

“On the sixteenth of May, nineteen seventy-one, you and Deirdre Mornay were on trial at Manchester Juvenile court.” She laid the photograph of Della on the table. Moyra did not react. “In early January of this year, Karen Howard was a customer at the booth in Covent Garden that you took over from Annette Frisby.” Karen’s photo was put in front of Moyra. Again she did not react.

Two more photographs; this time of the bodies of the murdered girls.

“Moyra, you are not looking at the photographs. If you don’t want to look at Della, then look at Karen. George called out to her, offered her a lift, then took her to King’s Cross and tortured her, mutilated her. But first, he hung her on the wall in chains and raped her. Look at it, Moyra, see her hands tied behind her back, the marks on her body… Look at her, Moyra! ”

Shrapnel raised his hands as if to say, “That’s enough!”

“Your client, Mr. Shrapnel, stands to be accused as an accessory to murder. Don’t you think she should know what that crime involved?”

“My client has co-operated fully-”

Slowly, Moyra put out a hand and picked up the photos.

“Your client, Mr. Shrapnel, has systematically lied to us. Now she has a chance to-” Tennison stopped and watched Moyra’s reaction to the photographs; she stared at each one, then covered the one of Karen’s body with her hands and closed her eyes.

Shrapnel was saying, “Moyra is George Marlow’s common-law wife…”

Tennison raised a hand to quieten him as Moyra started to speak to her.

“Would you get the men to leave, just the women stay… I won’t talk in front of them.”

Amson gripped Shrapnel by the elbow and hurried out, followed by Muddyman. In the silence, Moyra sat with her hands over the picture of Karen, looking at Tennison with dead, unemotional eyes.

“I didn’t know Della, I didn’t even remember her. She was just a kid. But I did her nails, she used to bite them and… I didn’t know her, it was just that she used to come and have the odd nail replaced, you know, if she’d broken one.”