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

tell DC Jones he’s driving me. I want to see the body tonight, but I need to interview the landlady first. And ask for another set of dabs from the victim, get them compared with the ones on Della Mornay’s file.”
    Leaving Havers scribbling furiously, she walked out.
    All the items from Della Mornay’s room that Forensic had finished with had been piled onto a long trestle table. It was a jumble of bags of clothes, bedding and shoes. There was also a handbag, which Tennison examined carefully. She made a note of some ticket stubs, replaced them, then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and turned to the clothing taken from the victim’s body. The bloodstains were caked hard and black. She checked sleeves, hems, seams and labels.
    Engrossed in what she was doing, she hardly noticed WPC Havers enter.
    “Ma’am? Ma’am, DC Jones is waiting in the car.”
    Tennison turned her attention to the filthy bedclothes. The smell alone was distasteful, and she wrinkled her nose.
    “Dirty little tart . . . Tell Jones I’ll be with him in a few minutes. And tell all of Shefford’s team that I want them in the Incident Room at nine sharp tomorrow morning—all of them, Maureen, understand?”
    DC Jones sat in the driving seat of the plain police car. He had left the rear door open for DCI Tennison, but she climbed in beside him.
    “Right, Milner Road first. What’s your first name?”
    “David, ma’am.”
    “OK, Dave, put your foot down. I’ve got a hell of a schedule.”
    Della’s room was still roped off. Tennison looked around and noted the fine dusting left by the Scenes of Crime people, then used the end of her pencil to open the one wardrobe door that still clung to its hinges. She checked the few remaining items of clothing, then sat on the edge of the bed, opened her briefcase and thumbed through a file.
    DC Jones watched as she closed the case and turned to him. “Will you bring me two pairs of shoes . . .”
    She spent a considerable time looking over the dressing table, checking the make-up, opening the small drawers. By the time she seemed satisfied, Jones’ stomach was complaining loudly. He suggested it was time to eat. Tennison paused on her way downstairs and looked back at him.
    “I’m OK, but if you can’t hold out, go and get yourself something while I interview the landlady.”
    When Jones got back to the house he found Tennison sitting in the dirty, cluttered kitchen in the basement, listening to Mrs. Salbanna moaning.
    “The rents are my living, how long will you need the room for? I could let it right now, you know!”
    Tennison replied calmly, “Mrs. Salbanna, I am investigating a murder. As soon as I am satisfied that we no longer need the efficiency, I will let you know. If you wish you can put in a claim for loss of earnings, I’ll have the forms sent to you. Now, will you just repeat to me exactly what happened the night you found Della Mornay? You identified her, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, I’ve told you twice, yes.”
    “How well did you know her?”
    “How well? You’re jokin’,” I didn’t know her. I let a room to her, that’s all.”
    “How often did you see her?”
    “As often as I could, to get the rent off her. God forgive me for talking ill of the dead, but that little bitch owed me months in rent. She was always late, and it gets so if you throw her out on the street you’ll never get the money back, right? She kept on promising and promising . . .”
    “So you saw her recently?”
    “No, because she was in and out like a snake. I hadn’t seen her for . . . at least a month, maybe longer.”
    “But you are absolutely sure that it was Della Mornay’s body?”
    “Who else would it be? I told you all this, I told that big bloke too.”
    “And that night you didn’t hear anything unusual, or see anyone that didn’t live here?”
    “No, I didn’t come home till after eight myself. Then, because I’d had such a time with my daughter—she’s had a