“What d’you expect, a dump? George works hard, be earns good money. Found his car yet, have you? It’s down to you lot, you know. This estate stinks, somebody must have seen him being taken away and nicked it.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information on that. Really, I’m just here to have a chat with you. You see, I’m taking over the investigation. The previous Inspector died, tragically.”
“Good! Less of you bastards the better. Oi, what’s he up to? Hey, sonny! You can put that laundry back, that’s my dirty knickers! Are you some perverted crotch sniffer?”
“How do you feel about your boyfriend picking up prostitutes?”
“Wonderful, it gives me a friggin’ night off!”
“I admire you for standing by him while he was in jail.”
“That bitch asked for it! She was coming on to him, and he’d had too much to drink…”
“Was he drunk when he came home on Saturday night?”
“No he was not!”
“And he arrived home at what time?”
“Half past ten. We watched a video, then we went to bed.”
Tennison took a photograph from her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table, facing Moyra. “This is the girl he admitted to picking up, admitted having sex with in his car. Now look at her.”
“What am I supposed to do, have hysterics? I feel sorry for the girl, but he only fucked her! Half the bloody government’s been caught messing around at some time or other, but their wives have stuck by them. Well, I’m doing the same. Now, if you’ve finished wrecking my flat, why don’t you get out of here?”
“I haven’t finished, Moyra. Just one more question; did you know Della Mornay?”
“No, never heard of her.
“Never?”
“No.”
“And George didn’t know her, you’re sure of that?”
Moyra folded her arms. “I have never heard of her.”
Tennison put her notebook into her briefcase. “Thank you for your time, Miss Henson.”
While she waited for Burkin to finish, Tennison had a good look around the flat. There were no handkerchiefs with the initial “G” on the corner, either in the bedroom drawers or the laundry basket. Enquiries at the laundry Moyra had told them she used came to nothing.
The flat was very much Moyra’s and only her things were in evidence; pots of make-up, knickknacks, magazines. Just one small corner of the dressing table held a neat, old-fashioned set of bone-handled brushes with George’s initials in silver. Moyra, who followed them from room to room, told them they had belonged to his father.
Tennison was struck by the neatness of Marlow’s clothes in the wardrobe. They took up only a quarter of the space, the rest of which was crammed with Moyra’s things. His suits were all expensive, in tweeds and grays, nothing bright, and the shirts were of good quality.
The small bookcase in the lounge contained paperbacks, mostly by Jackie Collins, Joan Collins and Barbara Taylor Bradford. It was as if Marlow didn’t really live there. Tennison looked again; there were a few thrillers that were more likely to be his, such as James Elroy and Thomas Harris, plus a hardback edition of Bonfire of the Vanities that she guessed belonged to him.
Finding nothing of interest, Tennison and Burkin left to start checking on the missing girls. They headed for Cornwall Gardens to question a Mrs. Florence Williams.
Sergeant Otley had a feeling this was a good one, which was why he and Jones were there instead of Tennison. The report had only been in a few hours, but the description matched their victim.
The basement area of the flat in Queen’s Gate, Kensington, looked as if a cat-fight had taken place in the dustbins, spewing rubbish among the broken furniture and bicycles that cluttered the approach to the door.
Otley peered through the filthy window. “Are you sure this is the right address, Daffy?”
“Yeah. Knock on the door, then.”
“Christ, place looks like a dossers’ pad, you seen in here?”
Jones shaded his eyes and squinted through the iron grille over the sash window. “I thought this was a high-class area,” he muttered.
“It is,” snapped Otley. “And shut your mouth, someone’s coming.”
The door was opened by a tall, exceptionally pretty girl with blond hair hanging in a silky sheet to her waist. She was wearing pink suede boots, a tiny leather miniskirt and a skimpy vest.
“Yes?”
“I am Detective Sergeant Otley, this is Detective Constable Jones. You made a missing persons report?”
“Oh, yeah, you’d better come in. It might all be a dreadful mistake, you never really know with Karen, it’s just odd that Michael hasn’t seen her either…”
Otley and Jones exchanged glances as they followed the leggy creature into the dark, shambolic hallway.
“Trudi! Miffy! There are two policemen…”
The blond turned to them and pointed to an open door. “If you want to go in there, I’ll get them. They’re in the bathroom.”
The room contained a large, unmade double bed with two cats fast asleep in the middle of the grubby sheets. The furniture was a mix of good antiques and fifties junk, but the room was as much a mess as the rest of the flat. On the fireplace wall a large, moth-eaten stag’s head hung at a precarious angle, with door-knockers hanging from its antlers.
“Do you want coffee or tea?” The blond hovered in the doorway.
“Cup of tea would be nice, thank you.”
“Indian, China or herbal?”
“Oh, just your straight, ordinary tea, love, thanks.”
Jones perched on a wicker chair until he noticed one of the legs was broken and it was propped on a stack of books. He moved a heap of clothes from a winged armchair and sat down.
Otley whispered, “What a bloody dump! Place looks as if it’s not been cleaned in years.
Jones flipped open his notebook. “The girl that came in to the station is Lady Antonia Sellingham… So if Trudi’s in the bathroom with Miffi, unless that’s another cat, the blond’s a titled aristo. Typical, isn’t it?”
Cornwall Gardens was a total waste of time. Edie Williams, reported missing by her mother, Florence, was a thirty-five-year-old mental deficient with a passion for watching trains at Euston Station. She had returned home that morning.
Otley sipped from the cracked mug of terrible-tasting tea, prompting the three girls to remember exactly when they had last seen their flatmate, Karen. It was quite normal for her to spend several days at a time with her boyfriend, Michael Hardy, but he had been away, skiing. Antonia at last decided she had not seen Karen since Friday-no, Saturday.
“Do you have a photograph of her?”
“Oh, yes, lots. There’s her modeling portfolio, would you like to see that?”
Miffy, a short, plump girl with a wonderful, chortling laugh, bounced out of the room. Lady Antonia asked if the police were worried that something had happened to Karen. Otley didn’t reply but made a note of Karen’s boyfriend’s name and phone number. He glanced at Jones, whose eyes constantly wandered back to Antonia’s legs.
The doorbell rang and Antonia strolled out, pausing to ask if anyone would care for more tea. None of them showed fear for Karen; they did not really believe that anything could have happened to her, it was just a bit odd that no one had seen her around.
Miffy returned and shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t find it, but we have got some photos of when we were in St. Moritz, they’d be the most recent. I’ll see if I can find them.”
She went off again in search of them as the leggy Antonia returned with a large cardboard box. “It’s my new pet, a chinchilla. Would you like to see it? It’s just adorable…”
Before Jones could take up the opportunity to get closer to Antonia, Miffy came back with a large, expensive-looking album. She flipped through the pages, then stopped.
“Oh, here’s a goodie, this is Karen.”
Otley took the book, stared at the photograph, then silently passed it to Jones. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant; the girls picked up on the glance between the two officers. Suddenly they were afraid.