Otley shook his head. Tennison said, very softly, “Not enough . . .”

She turned and went back into the room, leaving Otley cursing to himself.

“How much more does she need, for Chrissake . . .”

Tennison spent another three-quarters of an hour with Marlow. At the end of that time she stacked her files and notebooks and thanked him for his co-operation. Seemingly intent on putting her things away, she asked, as if it was an afterthought, “You drove home, Mr. Marlow? Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a garage? Did you put the car in a garage?”

“No, I left it outside my flat. There’s a parking bay, under cover, for residents. They say they can’t find it, has it been stolen, do you think? Only, I should get on to my insurance broker if it’s true.”

Without replying, Tennison turned to walk out. He stopped her.

“Excuse me, am I allowed to leave yet?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Marlow, you are not.”

Tennison was exhausted, but she hadn’t finished yet by a long chalk.

Burkin had been falling asleep. He snapped to attention when Tennison knocked to be let out.

“Marlow can go back to his cell. Then I need a search warrant for his flat. We’ll go together,” she told him.

“Right, ma’am . . . I’ll get the warrant.”

“Meet me in the Incident Room ASAP.” Tennison went down the corridor almost at a run.

For once the Incident Room was fairly quiet. Otley was sitting staring into space when Burkin joined him.

“She interviewed Marlow, then she went to see the Super.”

Otley smirked. “An’ she’ll be interviewing all afternoon, I got girls comin’ in from all over town. Keep her out of our hair!”

He fell silent as Tennison walked in with a big sandy-haired man and introduced him as DI Tony Muddyman, “Tony will be with us as from tomorrow. I’ve given him the gist of the case, but you’ll have to help fill in the details.”

Otley had met him before and wasn’t too sure about him, but several of the others greeted him like a long-lost cousin.

“Anything on Marlow’s car?” Tennison asked Otley.

“No, not yet. There’s a roomful of girls waiting for you.”

“What?”

“All known associates of Della Mornay. You asked for them to be reinterviewed and they’re comin’ in by the carload. There were seventeen at the last count . . .”

“I haven’t got time to interview them! Why don’t you take their statements and leave them on my desk?”

To cover his fury, Otley crossed the room to the notice-board and pinned up a large poster. It advertised a benefit night for DCI Shefford’s family.

“Is this the list of girls reported missing?” Tennison had picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

“Yeah, it’s got “Missing Persons Report” on the top, hasn’t it?”

“Cut it out, Sergeant.”

“One in Cornwall Gardens, another in Brighton, one in Surrey looks promising . . .”