“Was it Coombe Lane, ma’am?”
“Yep, should be off to the left… Yes, this is it. Oh, yeah, very posh.”
Tennison licked her fingers, then sniffed them. They smelt of fish and chips. She took a perfume atomizer from her bag and sprayed herself quickly.
They cruised slowly along Coombe Lane and stopped at a barred gate with a sign, “The Grange.” Tennison hopped out to open it. The tires crunched on the gravel drive and they both looked around, impressed.
The Tudor-style house, all beams and trailing ivy, stood well back from the road. There was a golf course behind.
“Obviously loaded, and no doubt Otley has sent us on another wild-goose chase,” commented Tennison. “OK, we both go in-and straighten your tie, Burkin!”
Large stone eagles and huge urns of flowers and ivy flanked the heavy oak door. There was an old-fashioned bell-push and, next to it, a modern plastic bell.
The deep bellow of a large dog was the first response to Tennison’s ring. She stepped back and waited, hearing footsteps on a stone-flagged floor. Then the door was opened wide.
“Major Howard? I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison and this is Detective Inspector Burkin. Do you think we could ask you a few questions?”
With a slight frown he replied, “Yes, of course. Do come in.”
They followed the major through the echoing hall into a vast drawing room with french windows overlooking a rolling, immaculate lawn. There were oil paintings and ornate statues in abundance, elegant sofas and chairs covered in rose silks. Even Tennison could tell that the thick, sculptured Chinese carpet was worth several years’ salary. The whole place smelt of money.
A little over-awed, Tennison watched the major closely as he apologized for his shirt-sleeves and put his jacket on over his dark green cords and checked shirt. Tall and well-built, he had obviously been a very handsome man in his youth. Now, with iron-gray hair and a back straight as a die, he still exuded the sort of easy charm that comes with total confidence.
He turned to DI Burkin. “Sit down, Inspector. Now, what can I do for you? Is there something wrong?”
Tennison stepped forward. “Thank you, sir, I’ll stand. I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison. I hope we will not take up too much of your time, but we are enquiring about your daughter. She has been reported missing?”
The major looked surprised. “By whom?”
Tennison was annoyed at herself for having to check her notebook. “A young man by the name of Michael Hardy. He gave this address.”
The major frowned. “Well, I hope this isn’t some practical joke, that’s her boyfriend. My daughter Karen doesn’t actually live with us, she shares a flat with some girls in Kensington. I’d better call my wife, see if she can get to the bottom of this. Reported missing? Are you sure? I haven’t heard the first thing about it. To be honest, I thought it was about Karen’s car. She got a new Mini for her birthday and her parking tickets are always being sent here. We’ve had some fair old arguments about that. But please, I won’t be a moment, excuse me.”
As soon as he was out of the room, Tennison walked across to the grand piano on which stood a number of family photographs. One, in a particularly large frame, showed a girl holding the reins of a pony and smiling into camera. She would be about ten years old. The next photograph was of a family Christmas, with everyone in paper hats roaring with laughter. Tennison’s heart started thumping and she moved along to the photo that had caught her eye.
The beautiful, sweet young face, the wondrous hair… She was the epitome of youth and health, a smiling, vibrant, free-spirited girl. Tennison turned slowly towards Burkin.
“We’ve found her…”
Mrs. Felicity Howard handed Tennison two large, professional photographs of her daughter, taken in the past year. They confirmed Tennison’s suspicion. The major, knowing without being told that something was dreadfully wrong, moved to his wife’s side and held her gently.
Quietly, Tennison said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I believe your daughter may be dead. It will be necessary for one of you to come with us to identify the body.”
The major sat without speaking throughout the journey. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. Tennison did not attempt to make conversation; when she had radioed in to say that she was bringing Major Howard to identify the victim, she lapsed into silence.
Otley, Jones and Muddyman spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing prostitutes and call girls for the second time. They were all unhelpful, uncooperative, and one or two even had the cheek to complain about loss of earnings.
None seemed able to recall when they had last seen Della Mornay. It seemed that she was reasonably well-liked, but no one admitted to mixing with her when not on the streets.
The story was the same from the pimps and the patrons of the clubs and cafés frequented by Della Mornay. By late afternoon there was no evidence of any recent sighting of Della; it appeared that no one had seen her for weeks. At last, one very young girl volunteered the information that a friend of Della’s, known only as Ginger, had contracted Aids and returned to Manchester. Perhaps Della had gone to visit her.
A few girls hinted that Della had the odd S & M client, but when asked for names their faces went blank; the reaction was the same when Otley enquired if anyone else had ever been picked up by any of Della’s special clients. No one was interested.
Otley was gasping for a cup of tea, or something stronger, but the canteen was closed. He jerked a thumb at Muddyman and winked. Muddyman followed him out.
“Let’s take a little break. We can use the office, she won’t be back yet.”
Two of the tarts he had interviewed passed him on their way out. They waved; he gave them the finger.
“You know,” he said viciously, “when you start talkin’ to them all it makes my skin creep. They’re like an alien species, opening their legs for any bastard that’ll pay up. I’d like to get a water cannon, wash the lot of them off the streets.”
Muddyman shrugged. “Well, if the johns weren’t there, they wouldn’t be on the streets in the first place. Hose them and you’ve gotta hose the guys doin’ the kerb-crawling after their skinny, dirty little cunts.”
Otley opened the office door carefully and looked around it; it was empty. He closed the door softly behind them.
Tucked at the back of one of his desk drawers was a half-bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to Muddyman.
“Fuckin’ toms, I tell you, we had this Marlow done up, we’d have sent him down if it wasn’t for that bitch Tennison. Now we got to crawl through the gutters, makes me puke.”
“Maybe the one we found wasn’t a tom?”
“Bullshit! She was in Mornay’s flat, why else was she there, you tell me that? Don’t give me any crap because she was wearing designer knickers, I’ve had girls come in dripping with mink, wearing high-class gear, but they’re all the same, open the legs, drop in yer money!”
Muddyman thought it best to keep quiet as Otley was really sounding off. His face was twisted with anger and pent-up frustration.
“My wife, the most decent woman you could ever wish to meet, never done a bad thing in all her life, died of cancer, screamin’ in agony. She was goodness itself, and she was a bag of bones. These slags, tartin’ around, passing on filthy diseases… Why my wife? That’s what I ask myself over and over, why does a decent woman die like that and they get away with it?”
Wisely, Muddyman decided there was no answer to that. Instead, he enquired for the third time what they were going to do about the three girls and Michael Hardy.