Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) (18 page)

“No,” Felicity said, “Karen was prettier.”

The tears streamed down her cheeks as WPC Morgan turned a corner into a side street, stopped by a white Mini and unlocked it. After putting the portfolio in the back she sat in the driving seat and tried to start the car, but the engine would not turn over.

Brian Hayes’s voice accompanied the film. “Having arrived for work at the film studio early in the morning, Karen had left her car lights on, and the battery was flat. A man working on the building site opposite was backing his truck into the street while Karen was trying to start her car. He stated that it was almost six forty-five.”

On the screen, the driver hopped down from his cab and crossed the road to offer his assistance.

“Got a problem, have you, love?”

“Yes, I think the battery’s flat.”

“You need jump leads, love. Sorry I can’t help, but hang on a mo.”

He called across to his mates, asking if they had any jump leads, and was told they had not. The driver suggested that he and his pals could give the car a push, but he had to return to his truck as he was blocking a van from leaving the building site.

“Thanks for your help, but I think I’d better call the AA.”

Brian Hayes’s voice again took up the story. “Karen locked her car and waved to the driver as he moved off. Then she walked back to the main road.”

George Marlow was standing directly in front of the television screen, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his face expressionless, as Moyra entered the room.

“Turn it off, George. What are you watching it for? Turn it off!”

She didn’t wait for George, she turned it off herself. “What are you watching it for?”

With a sigh, Marlow asked, “Why do you think?”

“You tell me?”

“Because somebody out there might have the fucking evidence that’ll get me off the hook, that’s why. I didn’t kill her, but somebody did, and they’re trying to make out that it was me. I want to see if there’s anything I can help them with. Now turn it back on!”

“No!”

“Jesus Christ, Moyra! You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I just don’t want to see her.”

“It isn’t her, she’s dead. That’s a policewoman.”

“I know that,” Moyra snapped. “Why don’t you go out and bloody pick her up while you’re at it?”

Marlow shook his head in disbelief. “Look, how many more times? If I could turn the clock back, if there was any way I could . . . But I can’t. I picked that girl up and now they’re saying that I killed her. I swear before God that I didn’t, and maybe, just maybe, there’s something in that program that’ll make me remember more. Somebody killed her, Moyra, but not me!”

“I don’t want to see it.”

“Then leave the room.”

He bent to switch the set on again but she broke down. “Why? Why did you do it, George? Why?”

“You mean why did I pick her up? Why did I fuck her?”

“Yes! Yes, tell me why!”

“Because she was there, and I was there, and she . . . She gave me the come-on, and she was . . . I don’t know why! If I was to say to you that I’d never have sex with another woman, you wouldn’t believe me. She was a tart. I picked her up, we did the business, I paid her. It meant nothing, it never means anything. I don’t cheat on you, Moyra, and I never have.”

“You don’t what? You don’t cheat on me?
Jesus Christ, What do you call it?
”

“
Wanking off! And no, I don’t call that cheating!
It’s fast, clean and finished, and I pay for it.”

You can say that again . . .”

“Yeah, I’m paying for it, I’m paying, Moyra. All I want is for them to find out who did it, find him and let me off the hook.”

Moyra snapped the TV set on. “You want him found, what d’you think I want?”

The telephone rang. Moyra turned and looked as if she would yank it from the wall and hurl it across the room. Marlow gripped his hands together, trying to concentrate on the television.

“Don’t answer it, Moyra, just leave it.”

Moyra marched to the phone. “If this is another crank bitch, then I’m ready for her. I’m bloody ready for anyone.”

She snatched up the phone but said nothing, just listened. Then she sighed and held the receiver out to Marlow.

“It’s your mother. George, it’s Doris.”

She handed the phone over, not even bothering to say hallo to Mrs. Marlow. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching the way he swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to calm himself, make himself sound relaxed.

He said brightly, “Hallo, my old love? Mum? Eh, eh, now what’s this? You crying, sweetheart?”

Moyra sighed and turned back to the TV set, arms folded, only half-listening to George’s conversation.

“Yes . . . Yes, Mum, I’m watching. We’ve got it on. Yes, I know . . . Look, I don’t want to talk about it, can I call you back? Because I want to see it! No, no . . . I was released, Mum, it was just . . . No, they don’t want to see me again, no, they released me. It was a big mistake . . .”

Moyra turned the volume up and turned to George. “Jesus Christ, they got a car identical to yours! Look, look at the TV! They’re giving out your number plate! George!”

Marlow dropped the phone back on the hook and stared in shock at the screen. Moyra shouted for him to get on to his lawyer, but he slumped in his chair, hands raised helplessly. “How can they do this to me? Why . . . ? Why are they doing this to me?”

“Oi, Otley, what the fuck’re you doin’ in here? You’ve missed the soup and the chicken frisky . . . mind, I don’t blame you, we’ll all be salmonellaed by tomorrow!”

Otley ignored the well-flushed Jones as he chuntered on. The barman had started the glass-washing machine, and the din from the main hall was drowning out the TV program.

“Come on, Burkin’s on first! He’s matched against the Raging Bull of Reading!”

Otley pointed drunkenly at the screen. “Look at this bull dyke, Jesus, hate her guts . . . She’s comin’ on like bleedin’ Esther Rantzen! Look, d’you believe it? And I’m tellin’ you, she’s really done herself in.”

Jones stared at the small screen. “Shit, it’s Marlow’s car, isn’t it? I mean, the make?”

“Yeah, an’ if that’s not an infringement of personal privacy, she’s given out his fuckin’ registration number!”

Otley chortled, choked and drained his glass. Tennison, on screen, was discussing the Rover with Brian Hayes, then the camera zoomed in on her face for a close-up.

“Did Karen have a handbag with her on the night she died? Her portfolio was found in her car, but no bag. There was also her Filofax; it could be that she carried it in a handbag, and it has not been found. The witness who saw her stop at a cardphone and directed her to a payphone on Ladbroke Grove couldn’t tell us if she had a bag or not . . .”

Otley exploded. “Oh, that’s bloody marvelous! By tomorrow mornin’ we’ll have every soddin’ lost bag in the London area . . . This bloody woman is a total fuckin’ idiot . . .”

On screen, Tennison was still talking. “ . . . Telecom tell us that the coinbox was out of order that night. The AA have no record of a call from Karen . . .”

The bellowing of the Master of Ceremonies cut through the singing and shouting from the main room. “Gentlemen, in the red corner we have DI Burkin, weighing in at sixteen stone fifteen pounds, let’s hear it for him . . . And in the blue corner, the Raging Bull of Reading!”

Boos and cat-calls drowned Brian Hayes and Tennison. DC Jones gave up on Otley and returned to the hall to watch the fight. This was his first benefit, being the fresh man on the team, and he was having the time of his life. He seemed unaware that the orange juice was well and truly laced with vodka, but he’d know by the end of the evening. He was well on his way to getting totally plastered for the first time in his life.

Otley did not join table six until
Crime Night
was over and the fight was in the fourth round. Burkin looked very much the worse for wear, his nose streaming blood and one eye nearly closed.

During the break, Felix Norman climbed into the red corner, screaming instructions as if he was Burkin’s second. “Keep your fists up! Up, man! You’re flayin’ around like a bloody oik! Hit him with a good body, then one, two, one, two . . .”

Felix hauled out of the ring as the bell rang for the next round. Men were bellowing from the back of the room for Felix to sit down, they could not see through his bulk.

Otley cheered loudly as he poured himself a large Scotch from one of the many bottles in front of him. Kernan was whistling and thumping on the table; Otley leaned across to him.

“ ’Ere, Tennison’s done ’erself in tonight, guv! Wait till you see what she bloody went on about in the telly program. How she wangled that I’d like to know!”

“Yeeessssss!” Kernan was on his feet, fists in the air, as Burkin landed a good uppercut to his opponent’s chin. The entire room erupted and chants of “Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .” mingled with a pitiful request over the public address system for whoever had parked in front of the fire escape to move his car. The chanting mounted in a crescendo as Burkin staggered as if he was going to keel over, but he planted his elbow in the Raging Bull’s ribs, and a small but visible head butt gave an opening for his right hand. The cheers were deafening as Burkin was proclaimed the winner.

The tiny blast of a worn-out record of
The Eye of the Tiger
started playing for the next bout as the buckets for donations to Shefford’s family were being passed around. Otley sat back in his chair with a grin like the Cheshire Cat; he knew Tennison was in the shit, knew it, because he also knew that Marlow’s car had not been reported stolen. To give out his registration number on live national television was going to create a nasty scene with Marlow’s legal adviser. Otley’s hands itched for his wooden spoon . . .

DC Jones was propped against the table, insisting on singing a solo, demanding to be let into the ring. His young face was flushed an extraordinary red, his shirt was undone . . . Otley chuckled; they’d got the poor lad well and truly pissed. He stood up to give Jones a helping hand and slithered beneath the table, where he remained for the rest of the evening.

Jane drove straight from the television studios to her parents’ flat. The follow-up would not go on air for another hour and a half, and she was not required to wait for the phone-in. The two officers left in charge had her number, and she was ready to act immediately on any information that came in.

Her family had waited long enough, so the champagne was open and the candles on her father’s birthday cake were lit when she rang the bell, just in time to join the chorus of
Happy Birthday.
She had forgotten to post his card, but presented it with a flourish with the two bottles of champagne she had picked up on the way from the television center.

Her father hugged her tightly, proud of her achievements, although he never said much about it. She kissed him while her mother looked on, surreptitiously removing the supermarket price labels from the champagne bottles, but not before she noticed they were bought locally. Jane couldn’t even spare the time to buy her dad a present!

“Well, was I OK? What do you think, did I look OK?”

She was asking generally, but her eye caught Peter’s and he gave her the thumbs-up. “Well, come on, put the video on, let me see meself!” She sat down with a glass of champagne.

Her father leaned against the back of the sofa. “What’s this Brian Hayes bloke like, then? I listened to him on the radio, you know.”

“Oh, he’s great! Did you think I was OK, Dad?”

“Course you were, love. Do you want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks, I just want to see what I looked like. The second part’ll be on soon.”

Peter started the video and ice skaters zapped across the screen in fast forward. Then came a snatch of
Dallas
, then back to the skating.

“Is this the video? Peter? Is it on?”

Peter straightened and flashed a look at Jane’s father. “Sorry, love, I think we recorded the wrong channel . . .”

“What! Oh, shit, no, you haven’t, have you?”

The ice spectacular continued. As Peter looked on, Jane threw a beaut of a tantrum, only interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

The second part of the program reviewed the number of calls that had been received and mentioned further evidence in the Karen Howard case.

There had actually been ten calls connected with the murder, but only one was to prove worthwhile. Once the cranks and hoaxers had been weeded out, one caller remained. Helen Masters, a social worker, had seen Karen in Ladbroke Grove on the night of the murder; she had seen a man picking her up, a man who, she was sure, knew the victim.

It was almost midnight when two officers arrived at Miss Masters’ house in Clapham to take a statement. She had seen a man she was able to describe in detail, and was sure she would be able to recognize again. She described the man as five feet nine to ten, well dressed, rather handsome, with very dark hair; she described George Arthur Marlow.

Jane and Peter argued all the way home from her parents’ flat. They were still rowing when they reached their door. Peter was furious at her behavior; they had all been waiting for her to cut the birthday cake, but as soon as she had arrived she had caused a terrible argument over her father not recording the program. Her tantrum, which was how he described her tirade against her father, was disgusting, especially when she knew that they had recorded it at home anyway.

Jane refused to back down, it was important to her and her father had known it.

“Do you think he did it on purpose, for God’s sake?”

“That’s not the point! They all knew how important it was to me, but they didn’t give a fuck! The stupid old sod should have let someone else do it! He always gets it wrong!” She stormed into the bedroom.

“Of course they bloody cared!” Peter slammed the front door so hard that it sprang open again and hit him on the shoulder. “You arrive late, scream about the bloody telly, then get on the phone for the rest of the night!” He strode into the bedroom, still yelling, “I don’t know why you bothered turning up, you’re a selfish bloody cow! He’d been waiting to see you, he’s proud as punch about you!”