Free Prime Suspect (Prime Suspect (Harper)) by Lynda La Plante

want her. We’ve been working as a team for five years, bring in someone we know.”
    Kernan’s face tightened. “Right now she is all I have available, and she is taking over the case at her own request.”
    “She moved bloody fast, didn’t she, sir?” Otley’s face twisted with anger and frustration, his hands clenched at his sides.
    DI Haskons raised an eyebrow at Otley to warn him to keep quiet. “I think, sir, we all feel the same way. As you said, time is against us.”
    “She’s on the case as from now,” Kernan said firmly, unwilling to show his own misgivings. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this further. She will access the charges; just give her all the help you can, and any problems report back to me. Thank you . . .” He got out fast to avoid further argument, but he heard the uproar as he closed the door, heard Otley calling Tennison a two-faced bitch, a cow who couldn’t wait to step into a dead man’s shoes. Kernan paused outside the room, silently agreeing with him. But the investigation was at such an advanced stage, they wouldn’t be stuck with Tennison for long.
    The Commander’s voice was gruff as he briefly outlined the procedure for Tennison to familiarize herself with the Marlow case and to do everything necessary to ensure that he was charged. He told her abruptly to take it easy with Shefford’s team, who had been working together for so long that they would not welcome an outsider. He didn’t actually say, “especially a woman,” but he hinted as much. “The Superintendent will give you every assistance, so don’t be afraid to use him. And . . . good luck!”
    “It would help if he could handle the application for the three-day lay-down,” Tennison replied, and the Commander agreed.
    They shook hands and Tennison said she would do everything within her power to bring the case successfully to court. It was not until she was back in her own office that she congratulated herself, grinning like the Cheshire Cat because, at last, she had done it. She, DCI Tennison, was heading a murder case.
    Late that afternoon, still stunned by his guv’nor’s death, Bill Otley was clearing Shefford’s desk. He collected the family photographs and mementos together and packed them carefully into Shefford’s tattered briefcase. Finally he picked up a photo of Tom, his little godson, and looked at it for a long moment before laying it carefully on top of the others.
    He snapped the locks on the case, hardly able to believe that John wasn’t going to walk in, roaring with laughter, and tell them it was all a joke. His grief consumed him, swamping him in a bitterness he directed towards DCI Tennison, as if she were in some way responsible. He had to blame someone for the hurting, for the loss. He hugged the briefcase to his chest, knowing he now had to face Sheila and the children, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Maybe it would be best if he left it till the weekend, and in the meantime he’d keep John’s briefcase at the flat along with his shirts and socks . . .
    He was still sitting at his desk, holding the case, when DI Burkin looked in.
    “She’s checking over the evidence, you want to see her?”
    Otley shook his head. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as that slit-arsed bitch!”
    Tennison was ploughing methodically through all the evidence on the Marlow case. The ashtray was piled high and a constant stream of coffee was supplied by WPC Havers. She was just bringing a fresh beaker and a file.
    “Deirdre, alias Della, Mornay’s Vice record, ma’am. The reason they gave for not sending it before was that King’s Cross Vice Squad’s computer records are not compatible with Scotland Yard’s, or some such excuse.”
    Flicking through the file, Tennison took out a photograph of Della Mornay and laid it beside the photos of the corpse. She frowned.
    “Maureen, get hold of Felix Norman for me and find out how long he’ll be there. Then order me a car and