Jane stroked his cheek gently. “Any time you want him to stay he’s welcome, you know that, don’t you?”
He hugged her. “Yeah, I do, and I appreciate it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I know things’ll work out for you, just be patient.”
She smiled, without mentioning that it was exactly what her Chief’s attitude had been. But she had no intention of being patient. Peter didn’t really understand how important her work was to her, but he was to find out sooner than either of them anticipated.
George Marlow was quiet and co-operative. His fingerprints were taken and he was led to the cells. He stammered a little when he asked to phone his lawyer, seeming shaken, and gave the number. Although on the point of tears, he went out of his way to be helpful, but he still kept asking why he had been arrested.
Shefford had been on the go all day. Now he was preparing himself to question Marlow. His face was flushed and he was chain-smoking, cracking jokes; it was obvious that the adrenaline was still flowing.
The men on the team were clapping him on the back, calling him a lucky bastard, what a break! Several were laying bets on the outcome.
DI Burkin suddenly remembered something. “Hey, it’s his kid’s birthday tomorrow! While we’ve all got our hands in our pockets, we gonna chip in an’ buy him something? You know Otley, he’s so tightfisted the kid won’t even get an ice-cream cornet from him. What d’you say, fifty pence each?” In great humor, they all coughed up.
Before he went down to the interview room, Shefford called his home to tell Sheila, his wife, that he would be late and she shouldn’t wait up. He was too keyed up to pay much attention to what she was saying.
“You didn’t answer me this morning, John. Have you booked the clown for Tom’s party?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it sorted…” He handed the phone to Bill Otley and whispered, “Talk to the missus, mate, you’re his bloody godfather, after all. I haven’t got time…”
He lit another cigarette and turned to the files as Otley took the phone and promised faithfully that he would dress up as a clown himself if they couldn’t get Biffo for the birthday party.
The lads had been wrong about their skipper; Otley had spent more time and money in Hamley’s toy shop that weekend than they could credit. The train sets had cost an arm and a leg, but he was prepared to dip into his savings. He and Ellen had spent hours planning what they would spend it on when he retired; now his godson would be the one to benefit. It was making the decision that took the time, as well as wandering around enjoying himself in the store.
Otley replaced the receiver and turned to Shefford. “OK, guv? Need anything else? Marlow’s brief’s on his way, be about an hour. Arnold Upcher, represented him on his last caper. Tough bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t scream a lot like some of the buggers.”
Shefford winked. “I want a crack at ’im before Upcher gets here. Nice one for us, eh? What a stroke of fuckin’ luck! See if we can’t sew up Paxman’s record. Get a bottle of fizz over to Forensic lot, tell ’em I love ’em, and tell Willy to stand by for all the gear from Marlow’s place. And, yeah, I’m ready, let’s go for the bastard.”
George Marlow was sitting in the cell with his hands in his lap, head bowed. He was wearing a blue striped shirt with the white collar open at the neck; his tie had been taken away from him. His gray flannels were neatly pressed and his jacket hung over the back of his chair.
With his Mediterranean looks it was obvious that he would have to shave twice a day, but as yet his chin was clean. He raised his head when a uniformed officer opened the door and asked him politely to accompany him to the interview room.
DCI Shefford had given instructions that Upcher was to be stalled if he arrived early. He wanted a chance to question Marlow without his lawyer present. He drew himself up to his full height, threw his massive shoulders back and strode down the corridor to Room 4C. He noticed the way Marlow actually jumped with shock when he kicked the door open.
With a gesture to Marlow to remain seated, he swung a hard wooden chair around with one hand, placing it exactly opposite the suspect, and sat down.
“George? I am Detective Chief Inspector John Shefford. This is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, and that’s DC Jones over by the door. Before we get involved with your lawyer-I mean, we might not even need him-I just want to ask you a few questions, OK?”
He drew the ashtray towards him, scraping it along the formica of the table until it squealed, then lit a cigarette. “You smoke, George?”
“No, sir.”
“Good… Right then, George, can you tell us where you were on the night of the thirteenth of January? Take your time.”
Marlow kept his head down. “January the thirteenth? Saturday? Well, that’s easy. I was at home with my wife. We don’t usually go out, we get a video and a takeaway… Yeah, I was with my wife.”
“Your wife? You mean Moyra Henson, the girl you’re living with? She said she’s not your wife, she’s your girlfriend. Which is it, George? Come on, son, don’t mess us about.”
“Well, she’s my common-law wife, we’re not actually married.”
Shefford’s tongue felt and tasted like an old carpet. He searched his pockets and found a wrinkled piece of Wrigley’s chewing gum at the bottom. It must have been there for some time as it had lost its outer wrapper, and the silver paper was covered with fluff and ash from using the pocket as an ashtray. He picked the foil off, examined the gray gum, then popped it in his mouth and chewed furiously. Marlow watched his every move, as if transfixed.
Shefford folded the wrapper into a narrow strip, ran his fingernail down it, then tossed it aside and lit a cigarette. “What were you doing, say around ten o’clock?” he asked casually.
“I’d be at home… Oh, hang on, earlier… I know what I did earlier.”
Shefford inhaled the last of his cigarette and let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “Well, want to tell me?”
With a rueful smile, Marlow shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I picked up a girl. She was on the game.”
“You knew the girl, did you?”
Marlow shook his head and glanced at Otley, who was sitting a few feet away taking notes. “I’d never met her before, but I saw her outside the tube station, Ladbroke Grove. She was, you know, bending down, peering into cars as they went past… Ladbroke Grove tube station. I pulled up and asked her how much.”
“But you didn’t know her?”
“No, I’d never met her before. I asked her first how much, and she said it depends. You know they like to hustle as much as they can out of you…”
“Oh, yeah? But you been done before, George. You don’t like hassles. Della Mornay pisses you off, right? Right?
Marlow frowned, then looked at Shefford. “Della Mornay…?”
Otley checked his watch and wondered how it was all going down in the interview room. It was past seven and Shefford had been at it since four thirty, now with Arnold Upcher sitting in on the session. Otley strolled down to the basement corridor and peered through the glass panel; he could just see Marlow, sitting with his head in his hands.
“Has he confessed yet? Only it’s drinking time!”
The PC on guard raised his eyebrows. “Been a lot of shouting goin’ on in there, and at the last count Shefford had consumed five beakers of coffee.”
“Ah, well, he would-this is pub hours, son!”
Otley turned away and went to the pub to join the others from Shefford’s team. He ordered a round and sat down with his pint, telling them there was no news as yet.