She watched him leave. “What a bloody prat! Since he got those suede shoes he thinks he’s Don Johnson…”
It was suddenly quiet, as it always was before the scream went up. Havers looked at the photographs Karen Howard’s mother had sent, glossy six-by-ten modeling shots. They had only been interested in her nails, but now she looked at the girl’s lovely face. Karen had been a beautiful girl with a freshness to her skin that shone out from the photographs. Her hair was silky, her eyes bright. It was obvious that she had still been an amateur, the poses weren’t quite right, but maybe that was what gave her an air of innocence, of childlike vulnerability.
Havers was not the only police officer, male or female, who felt protective towards such victims, as if it was their responsibility to ensure that they could rest in peace. She brushed her hand across the photograph.
“I think we’ve got him, Karen, love,” she whispered. The dead girls stared sightlessly into the empty room: Karen, Della, Jeannie, Angela, Sharon, Ellen, as if they too were waiting to rest.
11
As her patrol car raced through the heavy traffic, Tennison sat next to the driver, listening in on the open channel. Amson was sitting on the edge of the back seat, trying to see where they were going.
DC Oakhill was reporting George Marlow and Moyra Henson’s every move direct to them.
“Suspect leaving taxi now, with Henson. Entering Great Portland Street station. They’ve split up, she’s gone down to the trains and he’s coming out on the north side, over.”
DI Haskons cut in. “I got him! I’m on foot, heading down the Euston Road, outside Capital Radio, repeat, I’m on foot. He’s hailed another bloody taxi, over.”
“I’ll take the woman…” Oakhill’s voice faded out.
“We’ll go straight to Euston, see if we can head him off at the pass,” said Tennison.
George Marlow leaned in at the taxi window to speak to the driver, and pointed towards Euston. Then he hopped in the back, but the taxi made a left turn towards Camden Town.
A plain car, driven by DC Caplan, slotted into the traffic behind the cab. His passenger, DI Muddyman, reported, “OK, we’re there. Suspect in black cab, heading for Camden Town. No, right, he’s turned right, towards Euston again. We’ve got him, we’ve got him now, turning right again, back towards the Euston Road, over.”
DC Jones rushed out of the Floral Street beauty salon and stuck his head through the car window to talk to DI Burkin.
“They had her down for a full day on the second of January, the day before that modeling job where she had the long nails. But she didn’t book a manicure, and they don’t do these nails, whatever they’re called. One of the assistants, a Dutch chick, says she recommended a woman in the market.”
“Shit,” Burkin said. “We can’t get the car in there. You leg it, and I’ll meet you in Southampton Street.”
The black taxi weaved its way down a side street and reached the corner of Euston Road. There were two vehicles now between it and Muddyman’s unmarked car.
The cab edged into the solid traffic on the Euston Road. Marlow was out of the door on the far side and had disappeared into a junk furniture store before any of them could blink.
“Shit! This is Muddyman. Marlow’s out of the cab, taxi is empty, repeat, Marlow again on foot. Biker, come in, biker…”
Outside the junk shop the cyclist in the skintight Lycra pedal-pushers slowed down and bent to fiddle with his toe-clips. He spoke softly into his radio.
“He’s out, heading along the Euston Road again, on foot, over.”
On the opposite corner, Muddyman was out of the car and following, keeping a good distance from Marlow.
Oakhill came close to losing Moyra Henson in the crowded complex of tunnels and staircases at Baker Street, and had to force the doors open to board the southbound Jubilee line train.
He threaded his way through the carriage to stand by the next set of doors. Henson was staring into space; then she turned and studied her reflection in the dark window, and fished in her handbag for a square doublesided mirror. She licked her lips and threaded her fingers through the front of her hair and shook it out, then folded the mirror and zipped it back into her bag.
She was totally unaware of Oakhill watching her, strap-hanging only a few feet away.
Amson was leaning between the front seats with a map in his hand. “He’s here, could be heading for Euston or King’s Cross, but he’s ducking and diving…”
“Hold it, Control’s coming through.” She raised a hand to the earpiece on which she was picking up relayed messages. “He’s jumped on a number seventy-three bus. No, he’s off it, he’s turned in the direction of Battle Bridge Road, behind King’s Cross station…”
Amson pointed it out on the map. “That’s here. Doesn’t look like he’s going for a train, but there are lock-ups in the railway arches all along here…”
“Come on, you bugger, go for the car, get your bloody car!”
A voice said in her ear, “You’re out of luck, car five-four-seven. Your man’s just gone into a café, he’s sitting talking to the owner. It’s the taxi stopover…”
Tennison pursed her lips and tapped her foot regularly against the transmission tunnel of the car. Her ear was aching because she was so uptight at the possibility of missing a radio call that she kept pressing the earpiece harder into her ear.
“What the fuck d’you think he’s doing?”
Amson shrugged. “Could do with a cup of coffee myself.” His fingers drummed against the back of her seat. He was shrugging it off, but like everyone else he was right on the edge, waiting, waiting…
Among the crowded little stalls selling jeans and T-shirts, DC Jones found a tiny booth containing only a small white-covered table and two chairs. A sign nailed to the top of the wooden frame announced: “Noo-Nails by Experienced and Qualified Beautician.”
Annette Frisby, the proprietress, was bending over a client’s hand, carefully painting her new nails a violent pink. Jones squashed himself in beside them and showed Annette his identification and a photograph of Karen Howard.
“Have you ever done this girl’s nails?”
She squinted at the photo. “I couldn’t tell you, I do as many as eight a day…”
“Look at her again.” He tried to squat down to her level and pointed at the beautiful young face. “She was found murdered, on the fourteenth of January last. Look again, did she ever come to this stall?”
“January? I wouldn’t have been here anyway. My friend takes over when I can’t do it.”
Jones ground his teeth in frustration. “Have you got her name and address?”
The café was too small to contain more than a long bar and a few stools. George Marlow was sitting at the far end, drinking cappuccino.
The only other customer got up and left. Marlow approached the man behind the bar.
“Can I have the keys, Stav?”
Stavros pulled a cardboard box from beneath the bar. “Been away, have you, John? Haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“Yeah. Mum was taken bad.” Marlow held his hand out for the keys. “What’s the damage?”
From across the street it wasn’t possible to see the object that had been passed to George Marlow, but when he opened his wallet Muddyman could see him counting out ten-pound notes.
Moyra Henson had changed tubes twice, doubling back on herself, then she hurried onto a Central line train. Oakhill was certain that she had no idea he was tailing her.
He was four or five bodies behind her as she went up the escalator and emerged at Oxford Circus. Keeping well back, he radioed in for back-up, fast; Oxford Street was packed with shoppers and Moyra was moving like the clappers. He stayed on her tail in and out of Richard Shops, then across the road to Saxone, back again to another shoe shop, then on up the street to Next.