Otley frowned but kept quiet as she continued, “I want new statements all around, and we’ll get it right this time! So get them all in again and find out where Della Mornay is now, and get the victim’s clothes and shoes checked out. Our priorities are to find the real Della Mornay and to get an ID on the body.”

She paused, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. She was wiping the floor with them, and they knew it, hated it. No one said a word as she took a sip of water, then went on.

“So we move like hell. We haven’t a snowflake’s chance of getting the three-day lay-down, so if we don’t come up with something today, Marlow will have to be released.”

She waited, hands on hips, for the howl of protest to die down. “I’m afraid it’s a fact of life! OK, anyone have any queries? No? What about Marlow’s car, the brown Rover? Anything on that yet? I want it found. Right, that’s it for now.”

The room was eerily silent as she passed them on the way out, but the moment the door closed behind her there was an explosion of catcalls and abuse.

Otley thumped the table she had recently vacated. “Fucking tart! She was after this before he was out of the bloody station! She was in with the Super almost before he was dead, the bitch! I’ll give her queries, the hard-faced tart!”

“What about Marlow’s car, Bill?”

Otley turned on Burkin. “You heard her, cow wants it traced, so we trace it! Christ, how much evidence does she bleeding want, for God’s sake? We got him, he did it! An’ she’s runnin’ around familiarizin’ herself, the stupid cunt!”

In the corridor outside the Incident Room, Tennison leant against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply to calm herself. It had been a tremendous effort to keep her cool in front of the men.

Once she was in control again, she headed for the lift to the Super’s office.

The men dispersed to their appointed tasks in dribs and drabs. DC Lillie said quietly to his partner, Rosper, “If the car was nicked, we ain’t gonna find it. It’s been stripped down by now.”

Rosper’s pug-nosed face broke into a grin. “Eh, you ever see that advert wiv the monkeys? Bleedin’ funny . . .”

Otley and Jones were left alone in the room. “What do you think, Skipper?” Jones asked.

“That tart’s gunning for John. Well, let her try it; she bad-mouths him and I’ll see her knickers are screwed . . .”

The phone interrupted him. He grabbed it. “No, she’s not here. Yeah? Yeah! Right, I’ll send someone over. Thanks!”

He hung up and gave his first smile of the morning. “That was Forensic. The spot of blood we got off Marlow’s shirt cuff, the one they’ve been growing, matches the victim’s! We got the bastard now . . .”

“This is a right bloody mess,” said Superintendent Kernan.