Lynda La Plante - Prime Suspect

Peter smiled. He had only been half-listening.

She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I could manage another sentence, I’m so tired… Oh, God, am I tired!”

Peter switched the bedside light off and reached for her, wanting to draw her close, but she muttered, “I’m afraid I’m too knackered… anyway, haven’t you had enough for one day? Book me in for tomorrow night, OK?” She was fast asleep as she finished speaking.

Peter lay awake for about ten minutes, then put the light back on to read his book. Jane started to snore and he gently eased her onto her side. She gave a little grunt and then a pathetic, “Sorry… I’m sorry…”

John Shefford was dog-tired by the time he arrived home, but his brain was ticking like a bomb. The events of the day kept repeating themselves like a newsreel in his head and he had to drink half a bottle of Scotch before he felt the dark clouds gathering to cushion him to sleep.

It seemed only a moment before the alarm woke him. His head throbbed and he took four aspirin before he could get out of bed, crunching them between his teeth and hoping that they’d reach the parts that screamed for numbness.

Sheila had his breakfast ready. As she dished it up she reminded him of his promise about the clown for Tom’s party. She had wrapped the presents and heaped them on the breakfast table, where Tom had found them at the crack of dawn, and he was beside himself, in a fever of excitement. They had both been touched by the lads’ whip-round for Tom, which they had presented in cash in a large Metropolitan Police envelope to be put into his Post Office savings account.

By seven, Shefford was none too happy. He tried to show enthusiasm, but he was getting ratty trying to eat his breakfast with one hand and fend off his son’s new boxing gloves with the other. His nagging headache wouldn’t shift, and he had another three aspirin with his coffee. Sheila was still going on about the clown, and he gave his solemn oath that not only would there be a clown but that he would perform magic acts that would silence even Tom.

The little lad had started boxing his sister, and her screams cut through Shefford’s head like a knife. Sheila removed his half-eaten scrambled eggs.

“I’m not expecting you to be here, that’s why the clown’s important. God forbid I should ask you to do anything so normal as to be home at half past five with Tom’s godfather for his party, it’d be an act of madness on my part…”

“Look, sweetheart, maybe I will make it, if things go well. We had a hell of a breakthrough yesterday; we’ve got a suspect and I think we can charge him. If we can do it this afternoon I can get home, and Bill’s promised to dress up, how’s that?”

Sheila screwed up her face and snorted. “Haw, haw, promises, promises! And would you take those gloves off him, and tell him they can only be worn under supervision. I never wanted him to have them in the first place…”

Shefford crooked his finger at Tom, who shadow-boxed up to him, ducking and diving as his father had taught him.

“OK, Tom, off with the gloves. The rule’s been laid down by the boss, you only use them when I’m around, OK? So give me a quick jab-jab, and a left hook before I go.”

Tom was fast and managed to clip his father on the nose. Sheila laughed, but Shefford’s eyes watered and he grabbed the gloves, pulling them off as the telephone began to ring.

“Daddy, it’s for you!”

Shefford listened to Felix Norman with difficulty while his daughter wound the phone cord around her neck and Tom raced up and down the hall with his rugger ball, weaving around the defense-his father-and scoring a try in the kitchen doorway.

It was Norman’s habit to get to the lab at seven each morning to escape the rush hour, though rumor had it that he was more concerned about avoiding his wife, as he was invariably found there late each night.

“What in God’s name’s going on there?” he yelled.

Shefford glared at his son and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. This gesture was famous in the household and was always obeyed. His daughter jabbed her lethally sharp elbow in his balls as she untangled herself from the curly cord and he grimaced, giving her a good whack on the back of the head, which had no effect at all. She hurtled after her brother, whooping at the top of her voice.

“OK, sorry about that, Felix old mate, but it’s Tom’s birthday. No, he got the ball last year, this year it’s boxing gloves…” He reached automatically for his cigarettes.

“Noisy little sod’s a real chip off the old block… Well, wish him happy birthday from me. How’s your suspect measure up, by the way? Is he right-handed?”

Shefford sucked on his cigarette. “Yep… How’s this for size; he’s five feet ten and a half, well-built, looks like he works out.”

On the other end of the line, Felix puffed at his cigar. When the two men were together in one room they created such a dense fog that they were known as the Danger Zone. “I’d say, John boy, you’re a lucky sod. By the way, I was talking to Willy last night. Did he mention to you that he reckons there’s not enough blood in that room?”

“You mean she wasn’t killed there?”

“It’s his department, but I’d say he’s probably right.”

The press release that morning said little, just that a known prostitute had been murdered. Della had no family and no one volunteered any information about her movements. It was the same story all round; none of Della’s friends and associates the police had contacted so far had seen her for weeks. Of ten residents of the house who had given statements, not one could say when they last saw her. Mrs. Salbanna had been staying at her daughter’s to help with the children while her newest grandchild made an appearance, and had not been home much for several weeks. Anyway, Della had been avoiding her for months because of the rent she owed. It was as if she had never existed, and, sadly, no one seemed to care.

By eight-thirty Shefford was at his desk, going over the typed-up statements from the previous day. He also had the full details he’d requested on Marlow’s previous conviction. As he sifted through the information an alarm bell rang in his head, the same as on the previous day. Something was trying to breakthrough…

Sergeant Otley brought coffee and doughnuts on a tray.

“Otters, there’s something niggling me about this guy. Can you check something out for me, but tiptoe it? A girl was murdered in Oldham when I was there; get me the information on her, but keep schtum.”

Otley licked sugar off his top lip and replied, “Yeah, what you think, he maybe did others?”

Shefford nodded. “Yeah. Watch out for me on this, I knew the one in Oldham too, know what I mean?”

Otley sucked jam and sugar off his fingers and carried his beaker of coffee to his own desk. He inched a drawer open and brought out Della Mornay’s diary.

“What do you want done with this?” he asked.

Shefford bit into his second sugar-coated bun. “Hang on to it, old son, I’ll check it out later. I’m goin’ down to the cells, then upstairs, give the boss everythin’ we’ve got. I reckon he’ll give us the go-ahead to charge the bastard. If we finish it, you gotta hire a fuckin’ clown’s outfit!”

Laughing, Otley replaced the diary in his desk drawer. He called out as Shefford left, “Eh, Big John, there’s two hundred quid riding on us from DCI Tibbs’ bunch, says we can’t beat Paxman’s record!” Otley could hear Shefford’s big, bellowing laugh all the way down the corridor.

Shefford was still laughing while he waited for the cell door to be opened. He wanted to have a look at Marlow; he always did this just before he charged a suspect. There was something in a murderer’s eyes, he had never been wrong yet.