As Jane looked through the interview she noticed that there were two pages that did not bear her signature. She was about to flick back when Nichols spoke.
“Is there a problem, officer?”
Jane looked glum as she put the notes down on the witness box. “I don’t appear to have signed two pages of the interview, yet DI Moran and Mr. Allard have. It may have been an error on my behalf.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I don’t suspect you of anything untoward. We all make mistakes when we are in a rush and not concentrating. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes,” Jane replied, wondering what was going on in Nichols’s mind.
“I know the interview is a photocopy of the original, but would you mind quickly signing the two pages for my benefit, just so everything is tickety-boo for my file?”
Jane got out her pen, flicked through to the pages that were unsigned, duly wrote her name and number and held out the papers to the usher to return to Mr. Nichols.
“Please double-check the pages you just signed.”
Jane was puzzled. “I know I just signed them and you saw me do it, so why?”
“Read the two pages you just inadvertently signed,” Nichols said pointedly.
Jane now turned to the two pages, put the others to one side and couldn’t believe what she started to read. It was the alleged confession made by Peter Allard written by DI Moran.
Nichols picked up on her expression of amazement.
“You see how easy it is to be tricked into signing something when you are confused and flustered, as was Peter Allard when DI Moran asked him to sign what he believed was the record of the second interview. Like DI Moran did, I simply slipped the confession into the middle of the bundle and you, in all innocence, signed the confession as if you were guilty of a crime you never committed.”
Jane felt awful but now realized that Nichols was probably right and DI Moran had indeed tricked Peter Allard into signing the false confession by slipping it into the bundle and then removing it before she signed the record of the interview. She looked up at Moran but he didn’t bat an eyelid, and Mr. Nichols, having made his point to the magistrate, sat down.
The magistrate didn’t look impressed and cleared his throat.
“You have made your point by using WPC Tennison as a scapegoat, Mr. Nichols. However, I am still of the opinion that the charge of rape will be committed to the Old Bailey for trial. I also accept that your client has pleaded to the indecent assaults and assault on a police officer, for which I can sentence him today. In my opinion, the penalties of imprisonment in this court are inadequate with regard to the seriousness of the offenses. Therefore, I will commit him for sentencing in custody at the higher court by the presiding judge on completion of the rape trial.”
Peter Allard jumped up in the dock, pleaded his innocence and shouted that he had been tricked by DI Moran. The magistrate told him to sit down and be quiet, but he wouldn’t desist and now Marie Allard joined in by shouting that the officers were all liars. It became so unruly that the magistrate ordered Allard to be taken to the cells and his wife removed from the courtroom. When this was done the magistrate stood up, said the case was over and that all parties could leave, then he left the room by his personal side entrance.
As Jane stepped out of the witness box she looked at Moran and Edwards with disgust and let them leave the room before her.
Jane picked up her police hat from the waiting room. There was no sign of Moran or Edwards. She stepped into the street and was relieved to see that Marie Allard wasn’t there. As she stood at the bus stop an unmarked CID car pulled up and Moran leaned out of the passenger window.
“You want a lift back to the station?”
“No, I’ll make my own way.”
“Please yourself,” he replied in a dour tone. “You did all right in there, Allard’s barrister thought he was bloody Perry Mason.” Moran waved his arm for DC Edwards to drive off.
Marie was making the children’s breakfast of cereal and scrambled eggs on toast. The kettle was on and the toast was under the grill. She had already called them twice and could hear them running noisily from room to room. The “nice house” was in complete disarray, with cupboards and drawers open everywhere.
“Breakfast! Come to the table NOW!” she shouted, as she went out of the kitchen into the hall. Her son ran out from the sitting room, followed by her daughter. The little girl had a red velvet rose clipped into her hair. It was the treasured rose from the vase next to the statue of the Virgin Mary.
Marie snatched it from the child’s hair, screeching, “You know never to touch that . . . you very, very naughty girl, and you get punished.”
“Punished like Susie Luna,” her son said gleefully.
Marie was shocked and looked so frightened that he felt guilty.
“Sorry, Mama . . .”
“Sit down at the table. Do as I say right now, both of you.”
Marie went into the sitting room. She crossed herself and kissed her crucifix, and tried to calm herself down. How did her son know that name? What made him say it? The fear gripped her again. She was about to replace the rose in the vase next to the Virgin Mary, but instead she tore it to shreds, stuffing the frail leaves and velvet petals into her apron pocket.
Marie went back into the kitchen to finish preparing the children’s breakfast. They sat very quietly watching her as she frantically whisked the eggs in a bowl, spilling some on the counter. The toast was now burning under the grill, and the kettle was whistling loudly. Then the phone started ringing shrilly in the hall, making her physically jump. She turned the kettle off and grabbed the toast from under the grill, almost throwing it onto the table.
“You put on butter,” she said to the children. The phone carried on ringing as Marie hurried to answer it.
“Hello?”
She heard nothing but silence. Puzzled, Marie asked again, “Hello? Hello—who is this?”
Irritated by the silence, she was about to hang up when a voice crooning the words of a familiar Rolling Stones song began to come through the phone. Marie froze as the voice got louder and louder.
“Who is this?” Marie asked again. But the voice didn’t stop, now almost screaming the words to “Angie” down the line.
“What you want?” Marie was crying now, shaking, her hand gripping the phone, unable to put it down.
The singing stopped abruptly and a hoarse voice answered.
“Five hundred pounds in used notes. If you report this call, I got the evidence to put your husband away for rape. I’ll call again in two days.”
Marie heard the line go dead. The receiver felt like a heavy weight in her hand as she slowly replaced it. She stood rooted with fear in the hallway. She didn’t know what to do.
Chapter Seven
Jane looked out of the window; the leaves were falling now and the warmth of September had long gone and an autumn chill was in the air. She was sitting nervously in a small anteroom at Scotland Yard, wearing full uniform. While a PA was working busily at a nearby desk, Jane took a final look at some small note cards she had written. A male uniform officer came out of the interview room in a state of distress. Pulling off his clip-on police tie he kicked at a chair, and Jane, now even more nervous, got up to go in, but the PA told her to wait and said that she would be called when they were ready.
Over the PA’s intercom Jane heard a gruff male voice asking for WPC Tennison to be sent in. She stood up and smoothed out her uniform, picking off some fluff from her jacket. She took a deep breath and entered the room.
Three men, a Commander, a Detective Chief Superintendent and a DCI, sat behind a long table. Jane was invited to take a seat opposite them and the Commander, who was sitting between the two other officers, flipped open a file with her name on it. “WPC Tennison, we know your name, would you be kind enough to tell us who will be interviewing you today?”
Jane looked puzzled as there were no name cards. However, she’d done her research a
nd knew the three senior officers’ names. She looked at each of them as she gave their names.
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t do their homework and get it wrong, like the last officer.”
Next the Commander asked why she thought she should be made detective. Jane swallowed. “During my time in uniform I feel I have proved myself capable through hard work and tenacity.”
The DCI asked, “Have you any registered informants?”
“No, sir, I reacted on anonymous information. I did some research before obtaining a search warrant which resulted in the discovery of a quantity of stolen goods.”
She was then asked what the goods were and sheepishly replied they were clothes from Woolworths, but it was an organized gang of women shoplifters who were selling the goods on a market stall.
“Hardly the crime of the century,” said the DCI. “Well, I expected to hear something a bit more interesting and worthy of someone who wants to become a Met detective.”
“I recently acted as a decoy and subsequently arrested a man who was wanted for a series of indecent assaults on women, as well as a rape.”
“Did he indecently assault you?” the Commander asked.
“Yes,” Jane replied, blushing and wondering if they already knew about the case.
“What exactly did he do?” the Superintendent asked. It felt as if he was reveling in Jane’s obvious embarrassment.
“He touched me, sir . . .”
He smirked. “How did he touch you? Was it a quick squeeze or a full-on grope?”
“He grabbed me from behind, and he groped my breast. Then he tried to drag me to a darkened area by the Lido. When I attempted to break away from him he hit me in the mouth with his elbow, splitting my lip. I thought he was going to rape me, sir.”
The Commander looked at her file and then glanced up at her, tapping the page with his finger.
“It states here that the suspect alleged that in actual fact you assaulted him?”
Jane was tight-lipped as she informed them that the suspect attacked her first and that she had defended herself.
The Commander turned over another page, again tapping it with his forefinger.
“According to this report it says that you hit him across the head with a truncheon, also delivering a well-aimed kick to his groin?”
One of the other two men sitting at the table winced, saying that he didn’t know women carried truncheons. Jane was becoming very tense.
“I borrowed one from a colleague and had it tucked up my coat sleeve.”
They smiled.
“Forward thinking and good planning—well done. No doubt he deserved a good whack across the head.”
The Detective Chief Superintendent asked, “Has he been convicted?”
“The magistrate committed him for sentencing in custody at the higher court on completion of the rape trial.”
He turned to another page, and whispered to his colleagues.
The DCI picked up the report, and took over the questioning. He remarked that Jane had previously been interviewed by A10 department over an allegation that a DS Gibbs had assaulted a drug dealer and had stolen his money.
Jane was very defensive, but maintained her control, as she explained, “The drug dealer withdrew the allegation and DS Gibbs has been reinstated to duty.”
The Commander pointed out that this didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. He took the report back and flicked to yet another page. It seemed like an age before he looked up again.
“You were interviewed by A10 a second time over a botched bank raid, during which an explosion occurred and a DCI Bradfield and WPC Morgan were both killed?”
Jane became very subdued. “I was the officer who initiated the investigation when I recognized the main suspect’s voice from an audio tape.” It was very difficult to ascertain what all three men were thinking. They whispered to one another, and passed the reports back and forth, reading and turning pages.
The Commander then quoted from DCS Metcalf’s report, which said that Jane had stuck to her guns about the suspect and although the investigation had ended in tragedy she was above reproach and had acted in a professional manner at all times. He was recommending her for the rank of detective. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. Metcalf had done as he had promised after all. The Commander added, “The final decision, however, rests with us. Please wait outside.”
Jane stood up, gave a slight nod, and walked out. As she closed the door behind her, her legs felt like jelly. She sat back down in the chair outside the interview room.
The PA looked up. “You’re the final candidate, how did it go?” she asked sympathetically.
Jane frowned. “Not too well.”
“Well, don’t look so worried. There’s another board for detective in a year’s time.”
Jane sank back in her seat, convinced she had failed. The intercom buzzed and she was called back into the interview room again. She stood in front of the panel trying to hide the shake in her legs.
The Commander spoke. “It has been a tough decision and we are not all in agreement. The CID in London only has a handful of women within their ranks and you have been recommended by DCS Metcalf, a highly respected and astute senior officer. However, you’re still young in service compared to so many of the other candidates, and there are only a limited number of vacancies to be filled . . .” He paused before asking Jane for her warrant card, which she handed to him. He took it, smiled, and handed her back a new one. When she looked at it she saw the words “Detective Constable Tennison.”
The panel congratulated her and told her that as from Monday she would be posted to Bow Street Police Station CID. She was to report there at 10 a.m. to meet her new DCI. Jane’s legs still felt very wobbly as she left, this time not with trepidation but with sheer excitement. She was so happy that she wanted to shout the news out to the world, and dance down the wide staircase.
After her interview, lightheaded with relief, she’d headed to Oxford Street and decided to treat herself to some clothes before going to see her parents to tell them the good news. That Friday evening Jane stood at the familiar front door, still wearing her uniform under a new raincoat. She had a bag of new clothes in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She didn’t use her key as she wanted to give her parents a surprise. She couldn’t wait to tell them the good news. Mrs. Tennison opened the front door and, seeing the bottle of champagne, she clapped her hands before Jane could say a word.
“Oh! Pam didn’t tell me she’d spoken to you!”
Jane was confused.
“About what?” she asked, as she dropped the shopping bags in the hallway and took off her raincoat.
Her mother rushed into the living room to announce that Jane had arrived with a bottle of champagne. Jane followed her mother into the room, holding her new warrant card in one hand and the champagne bottle in the other.
“I’m really excited about this! . . . Look at my new—”
Pam grabbed the bottle, grinning, as Mrs. Tennison said, “So are we! It’s such wonderful news, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?” Jane asked.
“Pam told us, of course! We’re absolutely thrilled! I’ll get some champagne glasses so we can all celebrate.”
“How did she know I’d passed the interview board?” Jane asked, somewhat confused. There was a stunned silence in the room.
“I’ll be starting at Bow Street Police Station on Monday.”
“Oh . . . we thought you’d come to celebrate Pam’s wonderful news.”
“What news?” Jane asked.
“She’s pregnant, so you’ll soon be an auntie.”
Mrs. Tennison went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards looking for champagne glasses. Almost as if it was an afterthought she asked, “Will you still be in uniform at Bow Street?”
Jane patiently explained that she was now a member of the plain-clothed CID and that she’d been made detective. She proudly held up her new warrant
card. Mrs. Tennison glanced at it and then handed it back.
“I think it’s safer in uniform, dear, after what happened to those detectives in the bank explosion.”
Pam now joined them.
“I would think that central London isn’t a very safe place, what with that bank explosion. And now you’re really going to have to take care of yourself as you’ll have responsibilities as an auntie. If you agree we both want to have you as Godmother.”
Mrs. Tennison very obviously didn’t want to talk about Jane’s work and told her father to get a tray for the glasses and open the bottle of champagne so that they could celebrate Pam’s pregnancy.
Jane felt totally deflated. It was as if her news was trivial in comparison. She tried to put on a brave face, smiling and then toasting Pam with her champagne. Mrs. Tennison asked Jane if she would be moving back home.
“Not at present.”
“How will you get to and from Bow Street?”
Jane said that she hadn’t had time to look at the best route yet. Mr. Tennison opened a drawer in the kitchen and took out an A—Z.
“Right, always best to be prepared . . . let’s have a look. You can get the Central Line to Holborn, then change onto the Piccadilly Line for one stop to Covent Garden, then walk through Covent Garden to Bow Street.”
It was unbelievable. Suddenly everyone was concentrating on the route for her to get to her new job.
Mrs. Tennison was quick to point out that the Bakerloo Line from Maida Vale was just down the road and went directly to Charing Cross. Bow Street was only a short walk from there. So Jane should move back home.
Mr. Tennison changed the subject. Pam, who always liked being in the spotlight and had just snatched it from Jane with her news about being pregnant, began asking everyone to list the names they all liked best for either a boy or a girl. Jane sipped the rather tepid champagne and glanced at her father. He raised his glass to her.
“Congratulations, my darling . . . You must be very proud, as am I. You’re going to be Detective Jane Tennison . . . good girl, shows they must think a lot of you.”
Hidden Killers Page 12
