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
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
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