“He told you all about that, did he?”
“Yes, came straight out with it. I know he was found guilty, but…”
“But…?”
“Well, he was always a bit of a lad, popular with the girls. He swears he’s innocent, and I really can’t see why such an attractive bloke would go and do a thing like that. He was very distressed about it.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Harvey. Now, could you show us around? If you have time.”
“My pleasure.”
Mr. Harvey, a cocky little man in his fifties, showed them the well-equipped production line, stopping now and then for a word with the men on the floor.
“We employ three hundred salesmen up and down the country,” he told Tennison, while Jones all but disappeared head-first into one of the mixing vats. “We guarantee to match any color you want; the difficult shades are still mixed by hand.”
Tennison looked around with interest. “George Marlow always worked from London?”
“He started with the firm in Manchester. We moved our headquarters down here in eighty-two, and George came with us, but he kept his old routes. Had all the contacts, you see, and of course they still had family and friends up north…”
“They? Did Marlow travel with someone else?”
“Moyra always went with him on his trips…”
“How far back do your staff records go?” asked Tennison.
“Since we moved here. We had a computer system installed, but we’ve got all the files…”
“Would they include the hotels your salesmen used, expenses and so on?”
“This company is run like clockwork,” said Harvey proudly. “We like to know where our men are and what they’re doing.”
“We will need to examine them,” Tennison said, clocking Jones’ incredulous reaction. “Just Marlow’s, of course.”
Harvey looked puzzled, but said mildly, “Just so long as we get them back.”
Tennison was starving when she arrived back at the station. She grabbed a sandwich and tried to eat it in her office, but she was interrupted by Maureen Havers, who had contacted the Rape Center about Marlow’s earlier victim and managed to find out who she was.
“She wanted her identity kept secret, but it’s Miss Pauline Gilling, ma’am, from Rochdale. She’s been having counselling after a nervous breakdown, and the people in Rochdale say it would only aggravate the situation if we started asking questions.”
Tennison spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “I could be in line for a breakdown myself…” She took a sip of coffee. “Get back on to them and don’t take no for an answer.”
She finished the rest of her sandwich and started gathering items for the team meeting. “Oh, and Maureen, you don’t know where I am if the Super asks, OK?”
They were all there. Otley was pinning black-and-white photographs of Della Mornay’s and Karen Howard’s bodies on the notice-board. There were also blow-ups of the marks on their arms. He turned to the waiting men.
“Right, you can see the similarities of these marks. We got a DNA match on George Marlow’s sperm with the blood samples from when he went down for rape, but that’s no help with Della. It also doesn’t help that he admitted having sex with Karen, and gave a very plausible reason, which seems to check out, for the spot of Karen’s blood on his sleeve. We’re sure his car’s the key; find that and I reckon we’ve got ’im. So keep at it.”
He moved on to the photos of the bodies. “The clearest evidence linking the girls, apart from the marks on the arms, is the way their ’ands were tied. Not the rope itself, but the knots.”
“Ah, knot the rope, eh, Sarge?” Burkin put in, still lisping.
Otley gave him the finger and replied, “Yeah, very funny… The knots are the same, but any boy scout could tie ’em. Now it’s your turn, Inspector…”
Tennison entered the room, munching a packet of crisps. Burkin waited while she sat down, then picked up from Otley.
“The sack that covered Della Mornay’s body was the usual type of hessian, no markings, but there were traces of sump oil on it. There was also sump oil found on Karen’s skirt. It doesn’t mean a lot, Karen could have got it off her own car.” He nodded to Tennison. “All yours,” and sat down.
She crunched the last few crisps and screwed the bag up, tossing it at the wastepaper basket and missing. As she bent to retrieve it they all saw the edge of pink lace. Otley, who never missed a trick, pursed his lips and crossed his legs like an old queen.
“Karen didn’t put up much of a struggle,” Tennison began, spitting a piece of crisp onto her jacket and brushing it off. “Her nails were short, clean, no skin or blood beneath them, but her hands had been scrubbed with something similar to the kind of brush used on suede shoes. Gimme Della’s…”
Otley passed her a blow-up of Della’s hands and she put it up beside the others. “I asked for this because you can see scratch marks on the backs of the hands and fingers. Now, Della did fight, and her nails, unlike Karen’s, were long and false. She lost them from the thumb, index and little fingers of her right hand.”
Burkin asked, “Did Marlow have any scratches on him when he was stripped?”
“No, he didn’t. George Marlow is still the prime suspect, but we have no evidence to put him in that efficiency, no eye witness to link him with either Karen or Della, no mention of him in Della’s diary. The list of what we don’t have is endless. But if Marlow killed Della before he killed Karen, then he knew her room was empty. He might even have known that the landlady was away, probably hoped that Karen’s body wouldn’t be found for weeks. His mistake there was in leaving the light on. Mornay’s handbag was in her room, but there were no keys.”
Always ready to needle her, Otley piped up, “That reminds me, ma’am-handbags. We got a good selection an’ they’re still comin’ in; blue ones, green ones, big ’uns an’ little ’uns. What d’you want me to do with ’em?”
Tennison responded quite calmly, considering. “Get one of her flatmates in, let her go over them to save time. Right, the good news is, I’m going home. Sergeant Otley will now tell you the bad news.”
As she left the room, she could hear the moan that went up in response to the bad news; all weekend leave was cancelled.
“All leave, that is, apart from ’er own. We got to check through all that gear from the bleedin’ paint factory, an’ there’s a lot. It’s a wonder they ’aven’t computerized their salesmen’s bowel movements… Get to it!”
When he went to Superintendent Kernan’s office later that evening, Otley found him sitting at his desk, writing memos. Kernan pushed his work aside and poured Otley a large Scotch.
Otley sat down, took a swig and sighed. “We’re gettin’ nowhere, guv, we’ve ’ad nothing for days now,” he said bitterly. “It’s demoralizing, an’ it’s takin’ good men off the streets.”
“Most of them have been on the streets, and we’ve still got nowhere,” Kernan replied. “But now she’s digging up unsolved murder cases on Marlow’s sales routes. He covered the Manchester area, Rochdale, Burnley, Oldham.”
Otley shook his head in disgust and opened his mouth to speak, but Kernan wouldn’t let him.
“And I’ve OKed it, so cool off, Bill. I know what you’re after, but unless there’s good reason for kicking her off the case, she stays put.”
“It’s because she’s a woman, isn’t it? If it’d been any of my lads that done that cock-up on telly, given out Marlow’s registration number… You know he never reported it stolen! There’s no report in the log, and I heard his brief was in here creating about it…”
Pissed off with Otley’s attitude, Kernan cut him short. “Records had the report all the time, Bill. It was misfiled. She’s off the hook, and so am I.” He paused to let it sink in and wagged a warning finger. “Bill, a word of advice. Make it your business to get on with her.”