He put the phone to his ear again, dismissively, and swiveled round in his chair; it’s business as usual. “I’m putting Caldicott on it,” he said into the phone. “They’re bringing the son in for questioning.”
Tennison rose to the bait. “Fifty per cent of murder victims are women, so it looks as if I might have my hands full!” she retorted.
The door slammed behind her before Kernan could swivel round to reply.
“Woman’s case, my arse!” Tennison muttered to herself, still seething about Kernan’s comment. She spotted Maureen Havers peering at her from the double doors further down the corridor.
“Maureen, any of the lads about?”
Havers replied casually, “Oh, I don’t think so, we were all on two till ten. Oh, DCI Jenkins wants the Incident Room cleared, could you pop along before you leave?”
Pursing her lips, Tennison pushed through the other side of the doors and marched towards the Incident Room. Havers hung back and watched her go.
The Incident Room was crammed to bursting, but surprisingly quiet. Every single member of Tennison’s team was there. Someone called, “Here she is!” and they all watched expectantly as the door handle turned.
Tennison walked in to cheers, whistles and the sound of popping corks. A huge bunch of flowers was pressed into her hand and Burkin started singing, the others quickly joining in: “Why was she born so beautiful, why was she born at all? She’s no bloody use to anyone, she’s no bloody good at all!”
“Three cheers for our guv’nor, hip-hip…”
“Hooray…!”
Tennison nearly choked on her champagne, her back was slapped so hard. “You bastards!” she spluttered. “I thought you’d all pissed off! Cheers!”
She bit her lip, but the tears brimmed over. Then out came her great, bellowing laugh and she punched the air. “We did it! We got him!”
Many months later, George Marlow stood in the dock to answer the charges against him. The Clerk of the Court read them out:
“George Arthur Marlow, you stand before this court accused of six indictments of murder. That on the fourteenth of January, nineteen ninety, you did murder Karen Howard, contrary to common law…”
Major and Mrs. Howard were holding hands, staring straight ahead, unable to look at George Marlow, to turn their heads just a fraction to see him. He had taken their beloved daughter, he had raped her and mutilated her, and waiting for them to catch him had been the longest time they had ever lived through, a lifetime, Karen’s lifetime. There would always be pain, that would never go away, and the confusion. Marlow had destroyed not just their daughter’s life, but theirs.
“… That on the third of December, nineteen eighty-nine you unlawfully took the life of Deirdre Margaret Mornay…”
Two prostitutes, friends of Della, leaned forward for a glimpse of her murderer. One of them sat back, afraid of her own feelings. Looking at him, with his handsome face, his fresh, immaculate white shirt, if he was to pick her up she wouldn’t be likely to refuse him. They nudged each other and stared at DCI Tennison, who was sitting with the prosecution counsel. Her face was impassive. She gave them an almost imperceptible nod.
“You are also charged that on the fifteenth of March, nineteen eighty-four, you murdered Jeannie Avril Sharpe, that in January nineteen eighty-five you murdered Ellen Harding…”
Carol and Linda had traveled down from Oldham. They were sitting in the gallery. Linda leaned forward on her elbows but could only just see the crown of his curly head. Jeannie had wanted to emigrate to Australia, she had wanted… But she had never got anything, anyone to help her, love her. Now, maybe, she could rest in peace. Maybe.
Carol twisted a paper hankie in her hands. She could hear him as clear as anything, calling to Jeannie, calling her to come to his car.
In her wheelchair at the end of a row of spectators, Mrs. Marlow sat, as well-groomed as ever. She held her head high, making no effort to wipe away the tears that trickled down her face. Her pale blue eye shadow, her carefully outlined lips and powdery cheeks framed in false chestnut curls, seemed to crumble before George Marlow’s eyes. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear it; she was dying in front of him.
A young man sitting near her was leaning forward in his seat, staring intently at Marlow.
“… That in July nineteen eighty-six you murdered Angela Simpson…”
The young man’s face crumpled when he heard Angela’s name, and he cried. He tried hard to control himself, but the years between Angela’s murder and the arrest of George Marlow had been a nightmare. Five years, five long years of his life under suspicion, always wondering if somehow he could have saved her. Five years of nightmares, but above all the loss of his childhood sweetheart, the only girl he had ever loved.
When George Marlow’s eyes flickered towards him he had never known such hatred. He had never believed himself capable of killing, but he could have killed Marlow with his bare hands; kill him, hurt him, make him feel the pain he had inflicted on Angela.
“… And in October, nineteen eighty-seven you murdered Sharon Felicity Read…”
Sharon’s father sat stiffly at the back of the gallery in his best suit, starched shirt and bowling club tie. Sharon’s mother had died, a year after they received the news; he had lost his wife and daughter because of the same man. Not a day passed without this quiet, respectable man remembering his daughter, his sweetheart, his own darlin’…
He wept because she had only just begun to grow into a woman, and he wept because he was haunted by his wife’s face when he had told her that their daughter had been found. The arrogance of Marlow didn’t anger him, didn’t inspire him to revenge; it just left him with an overwhelming sadness, because nothing mended his heart.
Tennison kept her eyes averted from Marlow, her head bowed, but he seemed to draw her attention as if willing to look at him. She stared suddenly as a door opened, throwing a wedge of light onto a dark figure, hunched at the back of the court. It was Moyra, and she had aged twenty years.
“George Arthur Marlow, having heard the charges against you, how do you plead?”
Tennison looked up at him. He was astonishingly handsome; his dark eyes, high cheekbones and glossy hari oozed vitality. She drew a sharp breath because he was looking at her. As their eyes met he seemed to smile, yet his lips did not move. It was just a lightness in his eyes… there was no anger, no malice.
“Not guilty, sir,” he replied.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MY THANKS TO
Elaine Causon, my researcher and assistant who deserves so much credit for Prime Suspect. To Jenny (Mealy Mouth) Sheridan who paid for the lunch at which Prime Suspect was conceived. My thanks to Sally Head, Don Leaver, Ken Morgan, Roy Stonehouse, Sheelagh Killeen, and to all the cast of Prime Suspect, and my admiration and sincere thanks to its director, Chris Menaul.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lynda La Plante's fourteen novels, including the Prime Suspect series, have all been international bestsellers. She is an Honorary Fellow of the British Flim Institute and a member of the UK Crime Writers Awards Hall of Fame. She was awarded a CBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours list in 2008. She runs her own television production company and lives in London and Easthampton, New York. A new American television series based on Prime Suspect premieres this fall on NBC.
