“Fine, I’ll take them, shall I?”

“Why not, I’ve got seventeen slags to interview.”

“Should have staggered them!” Tennison retorted. She beckoned Jones to her side. “Can you check if there’s a handkerchief among Marlow’s things? He said he bandaged the victim’s hand with it, initial G on the corner.”

She reached for the phone as it rang. “Tennison . . .” Peter was calling her; she gave a quick look around the room. Only Jones was close by, thumbing through the log book and shaking his head.

“OK, put him through.”

She turned to face the wall while she spoke, unaware that Otley was mimicking her behind her back, to the amusement of the men.

“I’m sorry, I can’t really talk now, is it important?”

Burkin was waiting for her at the door. Otley stolled over to him.

“What’s goin’ on, are we chargin’ Marlow?”

“You’re joking . . .” Over Otley’s head, Burkin called, “Ma’am, we’ve got the search warrant!”

“What’s this for?” asked Otley.

“Marlow’s flat, now we’re looking for a handkerchief!” replied Burkin contemptuously.

With a promise to call Peter later, Tennison put the phone down and joined Burkin. As they left, Otley was at it again.

“Yeah, a bloody handkerchief, for that snot-nosed cow! Doesn’t she know we’ve only got ten hours before that bastard has to be released?”

As Tennison and Burkin mounted the steps towards flat 22, the curtains of number 21 twitched.

Burkin knocked on the door. They waited a considerable time before they heard a lock turn and the door was flung wide open.

Moyra Henson glared at them, then looked to Tennison, who was sizing her up fast. It was the first time she’d seen Marlow’s common-law wife. She knew Moyra was thirty-eight years old, but she looked older. Her face had a coarse toughness, yet she was exceptionally well made-up. Her hair looked as if she’d just walked out of the salon, and her heavy perfume, “Giorgio,” was strong enough to knock a man over at ten yards.

“Yes?” Henson snapped rudely.

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Tennison . . .”

“So what?”

Tennison was noting the good jewelery Moyra was wearing: expensive gold bangles, lots of rings . . . Her nails were long and red. She replied, “I have a warrant to search these premises. You are Miss Moyra Henson?”

“Yeah. Lemme see it. Your lot shell out these warrants like Smarties, invasion of privacy . . .”

She skimmed through the warrant. Tennison clocked her skirt, the high heels and fluffy angora sweater with the tiger motif. Miss Henson might come on as a sophisticated woman, but she was a poorer, taller version of Joan Collins, whom she obviously admired judging by the shoulder pads beneath the sweater.

“I would like to ask you a few questions while Detective Inspector Burkin takes a look around.”

Moyra stepped back, looking past Tennison to the broad-shouldered Burkin. “I dunno why he doesn’t move in, he spends enough time here.”