Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) Read Online Free PDF

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 . . .