‘Well, Jane’s work must be very stressful and—’
‘I want everything to be organized to the last detail so the wedding day will run smoothly. She could have waited a few months more, but she’s always been headstrong.’
‘You can say that again, dear. I know you were upset when she signed up to the Met without telling us, but I’m proud of her, and if it’s the career she wants then she should—’
‘Not Jane, I was talking about Pam. And as for a career, well, it sounds to me she’s mostly making tea and coffee.’
‘Well, the hair salon isn’t what I’d call a classy joint, just local and temporary, I suspect.’
‘I was talking about Jane’s job, and besides, Pam is a fully qualified colourist now so she isn’t making clients tea and coffee.’ Mrs Tennison finished whisking the eggs and poured them into a cooking pan.
Mr Tennison sighed. ‘Either way as long as they’re happy, but to be honest I do worry about Jane patrolling the streets in a rough area like Hackney. Maybe after she’s finished her probation she’ll move into something else like the mounted branch. She used to like riding when she was younger – or maybe the traffic police.’
Mrs Tennison smiled. ‘The thought of her directing traffic makes me laugh, especially as she failed her driving test twice before finally passing it.’
She was already placing two plates of scrambled eggs on the Formica-topped bar, and inserting the bread into the toaster.
‘Are you having eggs?’ he asked, sitting on one of the stools.
‘No, darling, I’m watching my weight for the wedding. I’m going to John Lewis this afternoon to collect my outfit.’
‘You will look ravishing.’
She gave him a playful slap on his shoulder and then leaned in close.
‘You will too in your Moss Bros top hat and tails . . .’
‘Am I in a top hat and tails?’
‘You know you are, so don’t start to tease me.’
He sighed and said that it was going to cost him a fortune, but she had already gone down the corridor to call Pam for breakfast.
Jane arrived at the training centre above the large post office in Holloway Road, Islington, just as her classmates were being ushered into the classroom, meaning she didn’t have time to get herself anything from the canteen. The room was basic and cold, with twenty desks made of wood and metal, laid out in five rows of four. In the centre of the classroom was a Kodak carousel slide projector facing a white screen behind which was a large blackboard.
The sergeant standing at the door pointed to a desk that had a stack of identical files with ‘Dr J. Harker. Lecture Files. Confidential’ stamped on them.
‘Stop chattering, take a file and sit where you want. Fill out the name card on your desk and then stand by it ready for inspection,’ he said in a monotone.
There were twenty probationary officers present, all in their early twenties, and only Jane and one other were WPCs. As the sergeant inspected them he told some of the male officers that they needed haircuts, hadn’t shaved properly, or their uniform trousers didn’t have neatly pressed creases. He told the other female officer present to remove her hooped earrings, and she apologized saying she had meant to do so before class but had forgotten. The sergeant gruffly remarked that if a violent prisoner grabbed them she’d never forget her ear lobes being ripped off.
Jane felt good when he commented to the rest of the class that he expected to see all their uniforms in the same neat and well-pressed condition as hers. She knew it was all thanks to her mother and realized she’d have to get some tips from her if she was going to move into the section house. Looking after her uniform, washing and ironing her clothes would then become her own responsibility.
‘Sit your backsides down,’ the sergeant shouted out.
The room was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and whispered conversation as they all sat down.
Jane found herself at the front. She looked round the classroom and saw a couple of people she knew from training school. She raised her hand slightly and gave them a wave, which they returned.
The sergeant suddenly shouted out, ‘Class!’ and everyone stood to attention as the Inspector entered with a man whom he introduced as ‘one of the foremost and renowned forensic scientists in the UK . . . Dr Julian Harker’.
Harker acknowledged the polite applause and gestured for everyone to be seated. The room was full of expectant energy as everyone waited eagerly to hear him speak.
Jane was surprised by how young Dr Harker looked: he appeared to be not much older than the rest of the class. She flicked open the front of the file and, seeing from his CV that he had a PhD in biology, realized his youthful appearance belied his actual thirty-eight years.
Harker clicked his fingers in her direction. ‘Please do not open the file yet. I will tell you when to do so.’
Jane flinched, mumbled an apology and noticed he had cold, slate-grey piercing eyes. Kath had said he was attractive, interesting and worth listening to, but in his stiff white-collared shirt, bow tie and grey, creased trousers, Jane found him rather pompous.
Harker took his time, placing his folder on the lectern before turning to an officer and asking him to close the blinds and turn off the neon strip lights. He had a very cultured, aristocratic tone.
‘In your folders are some of the relevant statements from a major investigation, such as the pathologist’s and my forensic report. There are copies of the crime scene photographs, but I will be showing you slides of the scene and bodies as well. Some of you may find them disturbing, but at some time in your career you may well find yourself attending scenes of a similar nature. I hope you have enquiring minds as there will be a Q and A session at the end of my lecture for me to clarify anything you feel necessary. However, I will be asking you questions relating to the murders during my talk as it will show me whether or not you are paying attention.’
Curious to see what was in the file, Jane sifted through the paperwork in front of her, while Harker placed a sheet of acetate paper on the overhead projector, then covered it with a blank piece of paper so as not to reveal all the contents. He switched on the overhead and, as if conducting an orchestra, used a broken telescopic radio antenna to point at the words projected onto the wall. Jane settled back in her seat, listening intently as the lecture began.
At the station Kath was at the front desk dealing with an irate Nancy Phillips who was demanding to speak with someone in authority about her grandson being slapped about. She wore a crossover apron under her cardigan, and a pair of fur-lined ankle boots. Her thick stockings fell in folds around her swollen ankles.
‘You bleedin’ lot don’t have any idea what happens when you keep nosyin’ around and drivin’ up in yer patrol cars. There’s some nasty villains livin’ around me, and God forbid you’d ever take them in. Instead yer just harass my poor Eddie when he’s done nuffink wrong. He’s entitled to a solicitor, you know, like me he knows his rights. I know he’s got drug problems, that’s why he’s livin’ with me, so I can keep an eye on him, unlike his bleedin’ mother . . . the no-good bitch, and—’
Kath slapped the desk with the flat of her hand.
‘Mrs Phillips, if you would just let me get a word in edgeways I can write down the particulars and deal with your complaint appropriately.’
‘That’s what I’m fuckin’ here fer, you dozy cow.’
The duty sergeant walked in behind Kath.
‘Hello, Nancy, what are you creating about?’
‘I want to speak to that Detective Birdbank that’s dealin’ with me grandson.’
‘It’s DCI Bradfield,’ Kath said.
It took a while longer to placate Nancy Phillips before she was taken in to speak with Bradfield. At first he had refused to talk to her, but Kath said that perhaps he should just have a few words to appease her as she was a tough old broad who knew that her grandson should have had access to a solicitor.
‘We’ve only had him in for
questioning, for Chrissake! We’ve not pressed any bloody charges, and he was withholding evidence about the phone call, Big Daddy and another dealer Dwayne somebody or fuckin’ other. I’ve got a hundred and one things to do so send her packing.’
‘Just a short chat, guv. You never know, she might even be able to help us.’
‘I’ve got officers from the drug squad coming here in a quarter of an hour so I’ll give her ten minutes, that’s all – bring her up.’
Jane was frantically scribbling down notes as Harker explained that a mother in her seventies and a daughter in her forties lived together in Biggin Hill and were murdered in their home. He brought up different slides as he described entering the victims’ premises. The class were shown small blood drops on the living-room carpet and blood smears on some of the objects removed from drawers. There were also blood drops in the hallway and some blood smears on the walls leading to the three bedrooms at the back of the cottage.
Jane felt as if she was the first officer at the scene, moving slowly and cautiously through the house, her adrenalin pumping as she feared the worst for the two female occupants.
‘Can any of you tell me about Locard’s principle of exchange?’ Harker asked, but there was silence in the room.
He sighed and glibly remarked, ‘I see that forensic awareness still isn’t taught at Hendon Police College.’
He walked to the blackboard and wrote, ‘Dr Edmond Locard, 1877–1966, French criminologist and forensic scientist – Contact Equals Trace’.
He turned back to the class. ‘He was a pioneer in forensic science and stated, “Every contact leaves a trace.” His theory is that when two objects come into contact with one another, each will take something from the other object or leave something behind. So what does that mean in the context of our unfolding crime scene?’
Jane got in first. ‘That the killer will have left traces of themself behind and taken traces from the house with them.’
‘Correct, but what I’m interested in is the wider meaning for the officers who first entered this horrific scene.’
There was a brief pause for thought in the room before a constable suggested that it meant the police officers had also left traces of themselves as they searched the victims’ cottage. Harker nodded and stated that was why you always needed to be careful about where you stood, what you touched, how you opened something like a door, so as not to damage or destroy any evidence the suspect had left behind. He told them that they should make a note of everything they did at a scene as soon as possible after the event.
Jane flicked to an empty page in her notebook and wrote down, ‘Red fibres, Julie Ann’s socks’.
Kath got a coffee for Bradfield and a cup of tea for Mrs Phillips before taking her to his office. Bradfield told Kath to stay and as the disgruntled Mrs Phillips sat on the chair in front of him she took a few deep sniffs, her nose twitching up and down like a rabbit’s.
‘It smells of Dettol in here,’ she remarked as she took out a cigarette from a packet in her apron pocket and lit it.
Bradfield gave her a cynical grin. ‘That’s thanks to your precious grandson, Mrs Phillips, he puked—’
She was shaking her finger at him before he could finish his sentence. ‘I know he’s got troubles, I know he’s been a pain in the backside, but he’s been on that substitution stuff methalene.’
‘I think you mean methadone,’ Bradfield said, raising his eyebrows in despair.
‘Metha . . . lene, dean, done, whatever . . . He’s been trying to get clean and been out lookin’ for work. I got to keep me eyes peeled for him cos his mother’s a tart and my son wouldn’t even put his name on the bleedin’ birth certificate. I’m all he’s got and I got to stand up for him. You lot are harassin’ him – he didn’t do anythin’ to that bloody girl they found.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl that was found, Julie Ann.’
‘She was a pack of trouble, hoity-toity stuck-up little tart. I threw her out, I said to him not to ever bring any bloody junkie back to my flat. You turn your back on ’em and they’ll soon have their fingers in the biscuit jar looking for the housekeeping money.’
‘So you did know her?’
‘Twice he brought her to my place, and I warned him, but he was besotted. She treated him like he was her servant, wanting the crusts cut off her bleedin’ toast.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Weeks ago . . . there I am encouraging him to keep going to the clinic to stop the drugs, warning him over and over that if he doesn’t stop I’ll have no alternative but to throw him out. She wanted to make a phone call, the cheek of her. I told her I didn’t have a phone and to get out. She asks me, all posh like, where the nearest hotel is, and I told her that if she had cash for a hotel she could bloody well leave me some money for the bed and food she had off me.’
‘A hotel?’
‘Probably lyin’, but I knew she was making money as a tom.’
‘How did you know?’ Bradfield asked.
She touched the side of her nose twice. ‘When you been around as long as I have, dear, you know these things.’
‘Do you know who her pimp was?’
Her laugh had a guttural tone to it. ‘Not personally, no, but I saw her talkin’ with a big black guy just outside the estate one day.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No I don’t. We’ve enough of them on the estate, their kids left to run riot.’
‘Did you ever see her in a red Jaguar?’
‘Believe me if I did I’d remember that. Like I told you, she stayed at mine twice and that was a while back.’
Bradfield had heard enough and was eager to get rid of her.
‘Well, Mrs Phillips, WPC Morgan has taken notes about your complaint, but your grandson was re-arrested because he lied to us, and he has been assisting us with our enquiries.’
‘Well, now you got to assist me.’
‘As I said, WPC Morgan will process your complaint through the appropriate channels.’
‘You got no right to keep him here and I want to see him before I go.’
‘Your grandson was released last night, Mrs Phillips,’ Kath said.
‘Well, where is he then? You lot picked him up, he obviously puked because you treated him so badly, and now I dunno where he is.’
‘You can report him missing to WPC Morgan,’ Bradfield said, wishing she’d stop yapping and leave.
‘No, I just want to know where he is.’
Bradfield thought the same, wondering if Eddie Phillips had done a runner, or worse, was going to tip off Big Daddy that the police had been asking questions about him. He stood up and said he would circulate Eddie’s description on the Met radio. He didn’t say the real reason was he wanted Eddie arrested again as he’d lied about Julie Ann staying at his grandmother’s. He ushered her to the door and opened it, eager to talk to two drug squad officers who he hoped could shed some light on the dealers Julie Ann had scored from. As Kath was about to step into the corridor he leaned over and whispered to her.
‘Let her sign the complaint forms then bin them, and tell everyone I want that little shit Phillips found asap.’
Kath wasn’t happy about his instructions, but as he was her superior officer she felt obliged to do as he told her.
Bradfield shut the door behind them and sitting at his desk he sighed. He ran his hands through his hair and then lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke drift up into two circles above his head. Eddie had lied yet again. Bradfield reckoned it was more than likely fear, but at the same time something really bothered him. Where was Julie Ann for those missing two weeks? Not with Eddie, it would seem, and not staying at his grandmother’s. She had to have been somewhere, and someone had to know. He began to think that all the searching for the driver of the red Jaguar was possibly a waste of time and manpower. After the first wave of excitement it felt like the investigation w
as flat-lining and if it continued that way the case would end up in the dead files. Bradfield needed a result, because without one it would be his career in the doldrums.
CHAPTER NINE
Jane was enthralled as Harker continued his lecture, even when he said that the pictures he was about to show the class may be quite distressing and he understood if anyone felt the need to look away. Jane reckoned everyone was so worked up about what was coming that no one would be able to resist the urge to look, no matter how gruesome the slides were.
‘Every crime scene is different and, like a roll of film, tells a story with a beginning, middle and an end. We all like a happy ending, but if you fail to deal with a crime scene properly, in a slow, methodical manner, you will make critical and irreversible mistakes.’
He walked over to the carousel projector and brought up the slide which he said was of the mother’s bedroom.
There were gasps round the room. A woman wearing a nightdress, dressing gown and slippers was on a wooden chair in the corner, tied up with a white sheet that was stained crimson red from her blood. Bloody footprints were all over the floor and blood splatters covered the two corner walls and ceiling area either side of the seat. Harker explained that the blood had come from the beating she had received, which had also left her face black and blue and totally unrecognizable. Brown packing tape was wrapped round her mouth and hands.
He then moved on to the next slide which was taken in the daughter’s bedroom. On top of the bed there was a woman lying face down. As Jane scanned the body she noticed that the woman’s legs were apart, her dress had been lifted up over her bare buttocks, and her underwear had been ripped in half. Harker didn’t need to say anything as it was clear from the photograph that she had been raped and murdered. There was a stunned silence and Jane could see some of her fellow officers looked horrified. She didn’t feel squeamish, more fascinated by the scene and eager to hear from Harker about the items and clues recovered for forensic examination.
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