Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

As she closed the door behind her, Bradfield opened his new pack of Woodbines.

  Jane went to the small PCs’ writing room, next to the parade room, to type up the post-mortem report. When she’d finished she took it up to DCI Bradfield to check over, but he wasn’t in his office. She left the report on his desk and went down to the collator’s office to talk to PC Donaldson about the residents of the Kingsmead and Pembridge estates.

  ‘Bloody hell, are you telling me he wants you to check out every address and person on the estate? You do realize that on the Kingsmead alone there are nearly a thousand flats and over four thousand residents? I’m happy for you to look through my criminal index cards, but like I said before, you can only do it in here. If you want microfiche copies of any files then write the name and criminal-record number in my book here and I’ll order them from the Yard.’

  ‘Can I take the voters’ register with me, please?’

  ‘Go on then. I’ve got a spare one in my desk drawer so you can keep that one for now. If you get any suspect names run them by me and I’ll see if I can find out any more about them from my various sources.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Jaguar cars?’

  ‘Not really, way above my wages. I’m a Ford Cortina man myself. Why?’

  ‘DCI Bradfield said the victim of his murder investigation was last seen getting into a Jaguar and I don’t know much about cars myself.’

  ‘You could try the black rats.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Traffic police. A black rat is an animal that will eat its own family, which equates to a traffic officer having no compassion for uniform patrol and CID officers when it comes to drink driving or other vehicle offences. There isn’t much they don’t know about different makes of cars. Try the unit at Bow.’

  On her way to the incident room Jane knocked on DCI Bradfield’s door to see if he had read her report on the post-mortem, and to ask if she should now index and file it. The door was opened by a huge man in his early fifties with a ruddy, stern-looking face. He was at least eighteen stone and wore a blue pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, tie and black brogues.

  ‘Sorry, I was looking for DCI Bradfield,’ she said, wondering who he was.

  ‘So was I, young lady, and as the Divisional Detective Chief Superintendent I expect to be addressed as “sir” or “Mr Metcalf”.’

  Jane stood to attention. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—’

  ‘Do you know where DCI Bradfield is?’

  ‘He said he had a meeting with you in the uniform Chief Superintendent’s office, sir.’

  ‘Ah, I thought it was in his office. Do you need to see him urgently or can I pass a message on?’

  ‘No, sir, I just wanted to ask if I should file the report I typed up for him on the post-mortem of Julie Ann Collins.’

  The DCS held up Jane’s report. ‘I’ve just been reading it. DCI Bradfield’s report is very detailed, to the point and interesting. Poor thing was pregnant and used as a punchbag, I see. Anyway I’d best get on – this report can be indexed and filed.’ He handed it to Jane.

  She knew it would be a bad move to say she had actually compiled as well as typed it, but didn’t want to upset Bradfield or get him into trouble.

  Jane had hoped to find Sally in the incident room, but there was no one about. She looked around. There was a piece of paper with ‘Indexer’ written on it stuck to the side of a desk and on top of it was the carousel index-card holder. Also on the desk were two trays. The one marked ‘IN’ was overflowing with paper while the ‘OUT’ one was empty.

  Just as Jane was wondering where to start, there was a howl as Sally ran in crying.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Honestly, it’s like working with a bunch of school kids! I mean what childish idiot thinks it’s funny to do that?’ Sally said, exasperated.

  Jane was confused. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Somebody’s put cling film under the toilet seat. I sat down to pee and the next thing I know it’s bouncing back at me and soaking my knickers and skirt. It’s so stupid! I just thank God I wasn’t throwing up.’

  Jane and the other women officers, alongside the female clerical staff at the station, were sick to death of the male officers’ childish behaviour. It was only because they couldn’t be bothered to walk down to the basement where the men’s toilets were situated. Kath had complained on more than one occasion to Sergeant Harris, not only about the fact that the seats were constantly being left up, but also about the fact that there was always urine all over the floor because of the male officers’ inability to aim properly. In retaliation, there had been another ‘prank’ incident where the black-plastic toilet seat had been smeared with fingerprint ink and it had taken days to wear off the backside of the poor WPC who had sat on it.

  Jane calmed Sally down and the indexer looked relieved when told that DCI Bradfield wanted Jane to be a temporary stand-in for her.

  ‘Thank God, because I have a mountain of stuff I should have got done but it’s been so difficult – I just feel sick all the time. They should have got someone to help me out weeks ago. I warned Bradfield, and he’s the worst of the bunch when it comes to indexing as he stuffs everything into a file, and it’s all jumbled up and in no kind of order.’

  Sally began explaining the indexing system and gave Jane a crash course on what to do.

  ‘The first forty-eight hours of a murder inquiry are always the most hectic, but after a few days if they haven’t charged anyone it slows down and you get a chance to catch up.’

  ‘It’s very quiet in here – are all the detectives out on enquiries?’ Jane said, looking around.

  ‘Mostly yes, but the local ones tend to use their own desks in the main CID office to write their reports. They only come in here to hand them in, or if they want you to do something for them. The briefings and meetings are all held in here, though.’

  Sally went on to explain that if DCI Bradfield or DS Gibbs wanted tea or coffee she was expected to make it for them because they were senior officers, but if a detective constable asked she should tell them to get their own.

  ‘Believe you me, they’ll all try it on when you’re new, but don’t let them get away with it. Really you should have another indexer working with you. I’ve been complaining for months, but nothing has been done to help ease the load. Bradfield said he would ask the DCS for extra staff and another indexer, but when it comes to more female officers they frown and think one is more than enough.’

  Jane was trying hard to take on board everything she had been told, and could hardly believe it when Sally started to put her coat on.

  ‘Are you leaving now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you be coming back tomorrow?’

  ‘No, love, I am officially on maternity leave and I want to go and lie down at home. They knew I was leaving today and I am not staying here another minute, especially after that bloody stupid thing in the toilets.’ She started removing her personal items from drawers, picked up a small pot plant with bedraggled leaves and put everything into a paper carrier bag.

  ‘You have to make sure you keep all the information up to date on the sheets of paper hanging on the walls.’

  Sally jotted down her home number and handed it to Jane, saying that if she ran into any problems, or was confused as to what to do, she could ring her. Jane thanked Sally and wished her well.

  Left alone, Jane sat trying to assimilate everything. She put the thick file from Bradfield to one side thinking she should start on the trays. She took out her notebook and flicked through to the last page where she had made a note when speaking to Donaldson about the red Jaguar. She decided that she would get that done straight away.

  Jane phoned the Bow traffic office and was put through to the garage sergeant. She gave her name and number and said that she was working on the Julie Ann Collins murder investigation. She explained that the witness could only say that he’d seen the car from the rear and thought it was a fairly n
ew red Jaguar.

  ‘Well, I doubt it would be the E-type Jag as they are sports cars, much lower to the ground and a very different shape all round, especially at the rear. You’ll probably be looking for an XJ6, and although your witness said fairly new I’d allow a bit of leeway and go back to September 1968 when the XJ6 was first manufactured, so anywhere between and including an F to L suffix index plate. Also there are different shades of red, like regency, signal . . . ’

  Jane was making notes in her pocket book. ‘OK now, the engine will be a 2.8 or 4.2 litre with six cylinders, which is the more popular, and they all have twin exhausts as well as a petrol cap on both sides of the upper boot. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, almost – just a second, and er, don’t they all have a small cat on the bonnet?’

  The sergeant laughed. ‘It’s a statue of a leaping jaguar. It was never on the XJ series, though some people did fit one themselves, but anything like that on a front bonnet became illegal in 1970 because of the injuries it can cause to pedestrians.’

  ‘What about the inside?’

  ‘Wood and leather upholstery is standard on both models.’

  ‘And what colour would the upholstery and carpets be on a red XJ6?’ Jane asked, remembering DS Lawrence pointing out the red fibres on Julie Ann’s socks at the postmortem.

  ‘As standard the leather interior would be magnolia or biscuit with matching light-coloured carpets.’

  ‘Could the boot carpet be red?’ Jane asked, feeling she was clutching at straws.

  ‘All the carpet could be red if you pre-ordered the car and specifically asked for it to be customized.’

  Jane felt a buzz of excitement and wondered if the fibres came from the red Jaguar the victim was last seen getting into. She thanked the garage sergeant for being so helpful and informative and was about to put the phone down.

  ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished. There’s also the possibility it was an XJ12, with a 5.2 litre engine, but that only came out in July last year. Same shape as the XJ6 except it has two small front grilles either side of the large one.’

  Jane licked the tip of her pencil as she realized just what he had said.

  ‘So we could be looking at thousands of Jaguars across the country?’ she asked with trepidation.

  ‘Let’s have a look in my production book here . . . roughly to date the 2.8 is around nineteen thousand vehicles, 4.2 fifty-nine thousand and the XJ12 just short of three thousand, so that’s—’

  She gasped. ‘Eighty-one thousand Jags . . . bloody hell . . . sorry, Sergeant, I didn’t mean to swear.’

  ‘It’s a lot, but you can narrow down your search and start with red and variant-coloured cars registered from ’68 onwards.’

  ‘Could you list those for me?’

  ‘No way, I can’t help you with that. But the manufacturers should be able to, and can give you the registration details so you can track them to the current and any previous owners. Anyway, I need to go as there’s been a fatal accident down by the Blackwall Tunnel. Good luck with your search,’ he said, and ended the call.

  Jane realized the enormity of the task facing Bradfield, even assuming the Jaguar was red. She looked in the Yellow Pages for the nearest Jaguar sales garage. She called them, giving her details to the receptionist and requesting brochures for the XJ6 series models and the XJ12. The receptionist said she’d stick them in the post on her way home.

  Jane was about to type up her notes on the cars when she remembered what Sally had said about keeping the information sheets up to date. She used a black marker pen to put up some brief details about the post-mortem and Professor Martin’s conclusions.

  ‘Hello, darlin’.’ The male voice startled her and she dropped the pen.

  She bent down to pick it up and in doing so suddenly felt her backside being squeezed. She turned round sharply in anger.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Do what, darlin’ . . . what did I do?’

  ‘You put your hand on my bottom – it’s unacceptable.’

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, I’m just showing my admiration for a very neat little arse.’

  The officer who had touched her was wearing a black-leather jacket, flared trousers, white shirt with the top button undone and a wide, garish kipper tie. His colleague was similarly dressed but wearing a black roll-neck sweater. Both men were in their early thirties and had sideburns and collar-length hair.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jane asked nervously.

  ‘Well, apart from you, sweetheart, we’re after DCI Bradfield. We’re from the Sweeney and need to tip him the wink on something.’

  Jane realized they were flying squad officers and explained that the DCI was at a meeting with the DCS and said she could pass on any information to him. The two detectives looked at each other as if she couldn’t be privy to what they knew.

  ‘Don’t worry, as his indexer I’m the soul of discretion,’ she said sarcastically.

  The one who had touched her shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, we’re pretty busy so you’ll have to do. Word has it you’re trying to trace a red Jag in connection with a murder.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘We had an armed robbery on Saturday just gone at a Yid jeweller’s house up the road in Stamford Hill.’

  The detective explained that the suspects were seen to make off in a red Jag and a witness got a part registration. The suspect vehicle had since been recovered in Chatsworth Road, Hackney on Monday afternoon. Jane knew this was not too far from either the Kingsmead or the Pembridge Estate and realized the importance of the information.

  ‘Where’s the car now?’ she asked.

  ‘We had it taken into the lab at Lambeth. Anyway, the owner is Italian and said he didn’t even know the car was stolen until we knocked on his door. Said he’d been ill in bed for a few days and hadn’t even noticed it was nicked off the driveway.’

  ‘You think he was involved in the robbery and dumped the car?’

  ‘Ten out of ten, Inspector Clouseau . . . and maybe even involved in your murder. We nicked him and turned over his drum but found nothing from the Yid shop.’

  Jane was irritated by his Clouseau remark, and confused by his jargon. ‘Excuse me, but a Yid and a drum?’

  ‘You’re fairly new Old Bill, ain’t ya? A Yid’s a Jewish person, a drum’s a house and we searched it. The Eyetie’s on an ID parade 11 a.m. tomorrow morning at Stoke Newington nick, so if Bradfield has any witness he wants to eyeball the line-up then bring ’em over.’

  She scribbled the information down as fast as she could. ‘I’ll make sure he gets these details.’

  Jane watched as the two flying squad officers walked away. The one who’d touched her had a strange gait, a sort of slow swagger, his hands cutting across the front of his body.

  Kath came into the room just as they neared the door.

  The detective in the kipper tie stopped and stood in the doorway. ‘Hello, Kath, you’re looking as lovely as ever. You doing anything tonight . . .?’

  Kath brushed him aside. ‘Piss off, Duke,’ she said and the two detectives laughed as they went.

  Kath sat down opposite Jane. ‘Bloody flying squad, they think they’re movie stars. The gobby one’s called Duke because he swaggers around like the actor John Wayne. He used to work here before he went on the flying squad. You gotta watch him as he’s got WHT.’

  Jane smiled, realizing the significance of his walk for his nickname, and asked Kath what illness WHT was.

  ‘Wandering-hand trouble, very touchy-feely, and if he tries anything on with you, confront him.’

  ‘I already have. He squeezed my backside and I told him it was unacceptable behaviour.’

  ‘Be firmer next time – they think they can get away with anything so if he tries it again tell him you’ll report him.’

  ‘Right, I will.’

  ‘And at the same time give his wandering hands a good swipe. There’s a few times I’d have like
d to have slapped his face, I can tell you.’

  ‘How’s it going with your burglar?’

  ‘Brilliant. We searched his house and he had a big wedge of cash stashed in a tin box under his bed. He admitted it was stolen from various OAPs’ flats on different estates. Looks like he’s going to cough to a good few burglaries when we interview him, and the detective working with me reckons Bradfield will be well impressed.’

  Jane congratulated Kath on her good work and told her how Bradfield had asked her to do some indexing for him.

  ‘You’re kidding me! That poor Sally was run off her pregnant feet – they should have replaced her weeks ago. I’d hate to be doing Bradfield’s indexing because he’s a lazy sod when it comes to paperwork. Listen, I’ve already heard Sergeant Harris moaning about it downstairs and that’s why I came to see how you’re getting on.’

  As they spoke DCI Bradfield walked into the room and glared at Jane. ‘Why did you give the post-mortem report to DCS Metcalf before I read it?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir, I left it on your desk and he found it when he was looking for you.’

  ‘The DCS likes to snoop about, so in future put stuff for me in a sealed envelope with my name on it. Get me a coffee and a ham, not tuna or egg, sandwich,’ he said sternly and turned to Kath.

  ‘I’ve been hearing about your successful arrest and the recovery of a large sum of money, WPC Morgan. Good work. Tell me, what uniform shift are you on at the moment?’

  Kath explained that she worked alongside Jane and was also on late shift, but had booked a few days’ leave as from tomorrow to visit her sister in Brighton.

  ‘Listen, Kath, I could do with an extra pair of hands helping on this investigation as I’m short-staffed.’

  ‘OK, guv, I’ll cancel my leave, but I’ll need to sort it with Sergeant Harris first.’

  ‘Leave him to me – you’re on board as from tomorrow.’ He turned to leave the room.

  Jane raised her hand. ‘I’ve been making some enquiries about Jaguar cars, sir, and I—’

  ‘Later, Tennison, I’m busy – remember I don’t want tuna or egg, just straight ham and a black coffee.’

  Tired out, Jane returned to Bradfield’s office with a coffee and sandwich. The room was filled with clouds of smoke and the smell of the pungent Woodbine cigarettes he favoured. He pulled at his tie to loosen his collar, and handed her back the post-mortem report, telling her to index and file it. She felt as if she was invisible to him and thought he might have at least thanked her or complimented her on the report, like the DCS had done. He also wanted her to write up on the team noticeboard that an office meeting would be held tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and everyone was to be present without fail. One of his detectives had been back to the Homerton Hospital’s Drug Dependency Unit and made enquiries, speaking to a doctor, nurses and some of the drug-addict patients. Although Julie Ann Collins was known to them no one had seen her for two weeks and, even more surprisingly, nobody knew she was pregnant. The doctor assigned to her case was not forthcoming, stating that patient confidentiality was of the utmost importance when treating drug addicts. The detective had, however, spoken briefly with a social worker at the hospital, a large, mixed-race woman called Anjali O’Duncie, who said she had known Julie Ann well, and Eddie. Bradfield said O’Duncie was being brought into the station at 6.15 p.m., having agreed to be interviewed about the last time she saw Julie Ann.