“You could dig around while I’m with Miss Gilling, see if you can set something up for when we get back. And have a look at Marlow’s statements, you never know what a fresh eye will come up with.”
The little terraced cottage that Pauline Gilling shared with her father had a neat, well-cared-for garden. The inside was daintily decorated with Laura Ashley paper and a large collection of little glass animals, giving it a fragile feel which was echoed in Miss Gilling herself.
In her late thirties, she appeared older, with a pleasant but worried face. It took a while for her to unlock the front door, which was festooned with chains and bolts.
She sat on the edge of her chair and recounted the events of that day in a soft voice. It was as though she had learned it by heart; her eyes glazed slightly and she focused somewhere beyond the wall.
“It was the seventh of November, nineteen eighty-eight. At four thirty in the afternoon…”
Tennison prepared herself to work this lady over. Without taking her eyes from Gilling, she settled herself on the sofa and took out a cigarette, nodding encouragingly.
“I was working in a florist’s, and it was half-day closing. I don’t work there anymore.” She was wringing her hands unconsciously. “The shop is called Delphinia’s, and the owner’s name is Florence Herriot. November the seventh is her birthday. She asked if I would go to the pub with her at lunchtime, for a sherry. I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s, so I did not arrive until…” She gave a strangled little cough, as if her throat was too tight, and continued, “I arrived at two thirty-five. I had a glass of sherry and stayed for approximately half an hour. I always come home to get father’s lunch, but on early closing day I have my hair set, so I leave a tray for him.”
There was that strange little cough again. She was really tense now; her hands continually smoothed her skirt over her knees, which were pressed tightly together. Tennison said nothing, just waited for her to go on.
Her body went totally rigid and she had to force herself to speak. “I-I went up the path, I had my key out. I’d opened the door a few inches when… he called my name. ‘Pauline! Hallo, Pauline!’ I turned round, but I didn’t recognize him. He was smiling, and… he walked up the path towards me, and he said, ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea, Pauline?’ ” She froze, like a rabbit caught in car headlights.
Her mouth was open, but she made no sound. Deliberately, Tennison coughed, and she shook her head as if awakening, then started gabbling. “I said I was sorry, I thought there was some mistake, I didn’t know him. He came very close, pushed me into the hallway, got me by the throat, kept pushing me backwards… I was so terrified I couldn’t scream, I was afraid for my father. I tried to defend myself with my handbag, but he grabbed it and hit me with it. The clasp cut my cheek open and broke my front teeth…”
After a decent interval, Tennison prompted gently, “And then your father came in?”
“Yes. He was upstairs, I was lying on the floor, and he kept kicking me, then Daddy called out and he ran away. My father is blind, he couldn’t see him, couldn’t be called to identify him…” She was going to cry.
“But you were able to pick George Marlow out of the line-up?”
Gilling swallowed, held back her tears. “Oh, yes. He was clever, though; he had a beard when he attacked me, but he shaved it off before the identity parade. I still recognized him. It was his eyes, I will never forget his eyes… I know, if it hadn’t been for my father, George Marlow would have killed me.”
Tennison crossed the room and squatted beside Gilling’s chair. “Thank you, you did very well, and I’m sorry to have made you go through it all again.”
Gilling shrank from her, fearing to be touched, and stood up. Her nervousness was beginning to grate on Tennison.
“I go through it all the time, every time the doorbell rings, every strange sound at night… I see his face, keep expecting him to come back, to finish… I had to leave my job, I can’t sleep. He should have been put away for years, but they let him go after eighteen months. I live in terror of him coming back, because he said he would, he said he’d come back!”
Tennison climbed into the patrol car and breathed a sigh of relief. Beside her, Amson was immersed in a file.
“Marlow had a beard at the time of the rape, shaved it off for the line-up! That matches with what the toms said in Oldham, they thought the guy had a beard.”
He looked up. “D’you think there’s any truth in the story that she gave Marlow the come-on? She’s, what, thirty-eight now, and a spinster…”
Tennison bridled. “So am I, it doesn’t mean I want myself raped, and my front teeth kicked in!”
“Take it easy, it’s just that from the description she’s a bit of a dog. Marlow, on the other hand, is a goodlooking bloke, like myself.”
She replied with a laugh. “Be very careful, Sergeant, or you’ll be back rotting in Hornchurch!”
Two men were painting the row of garages on Marlow’s council estate. They were making quite a good job of it, considering neither of them had done much in that line before. A few yards away George Marlow was standing, hands in pockets, watching them.
One of the men went to his nearby van for a new tin of paint. He opened it and stirred it with a screwdriver, then wiped the blade on his already paint-covered overalls.
“Excuse me, are you going to be painting the whole block, or just the garages?” Marlow asked.
“Just this lot, far as we know, mate,” DC Lillie replied.
“They aren’t for residents, you know. Council rents them out to anyone who can afford them. The tenants have to park in the bay over there, known as Radio One…” He flashed a grin at Lillie. “Means you had one when you parked it!”
He waited for a response, which didn’t come, so he went on, “I had one, but it was nicked.”
“What, a radio?”
“My car. Rover Mark III, three-liter automatic. More’n twenty years old, collector’s item, you know.” He stared down into the tin of paint, then up at the garages.
Rosper joined in. “You leave it out? Bodywork must ’ave rusted up?”
Marlow touched the paint on the nearest garage door, then peered closer. “Had a bit of filler here and there. Suppose some kids nicked it for a joyride, be stripped down by now. Had all my emblems and badges on the front, RAC and AA, owner’s club… all on a chrome bar at the front.” He examined the paint again. “I’m in the paint business, typical of the council…” He put a hand out towards Rosper. “Can I just borrow your brush? Like to see how this goes on…”
He dipped the brush in the paint and applied a stroke as Rosper and Lillie exchanged glances behind his back. Totally unaware, he said, “You work out, do you?” He glanced round at Rosper. “You look as if you do. What gym do you use?”
He chatted on, painting the door, while they stood and watched.
Late in the afternoon, Tennison and Amson arrived at Brixton Prison to interview convict 56774, Reginald McKinney. While they waited for him to be brought to them, Amson explained that McKinney had shared a cell with Marlow in Durham and had been picked up again a few weeks ago for breaking and entering.
The warder who brought McKinney told them there was a call from the station for them. Tennison asked Amson to take it, then offered the tall, skeletal prisoner a seat.
He was suffering from a migraine, and had come from the hospital ward. One of his eyes watered and his face was twisted in pain. “We’ll try and keep this short, Reg. Now, you shared a cell with George Marlow in Durham, that right?”
“That is correct.”
His eyes were crossing, it was like putting questions to a demented squirrel. “You told your probation officer that you had met Marlow after your release.”
“That is correct.”