At Luigi’s that evening, Jane had ordered a salade niçoise. Gibbs, however, was wading through a very large dish of lasagna and had already consumed two glasses of Chianti.
“Did you always suspect that Barry Dawson had murdered his wife?” Jane asked.
“Not to begin with. I mean, I was there when it was recorded as a non-suspicious death. But later, you know, when suspicions were flying I remembered something about him.”
“Like what?”
“The dog . . . he was snapping and growling at everyone, and was shut in his cage. I wasn’t that keen on it being brought in the car with me. His mother kept going on about it being nice tempered, then when Barry got the lead and opened the cage the poor thing cowered back and was terrified of him.”
“Yes, I remember . . . and I also recall his mother saying that it was a sweet-natured dog.”
“When those two were carrying Shirley’s body to put it in the bath they said the dog was barking and running around, and it woke up the little girl. In a statement to DCI Shepherd Barry admitted that he had whipped the dog to be quiet and had put him in the cage.”
Jane glanced at Gibbs. He never ceased to fascinate her because the more she got to know him the more sides of him he allowed her to see.
“I knew something was bad about Dawson then—a dog only cowers in fear for a reason, especially as it was normally well behaved.”
Jane nodded. She wondered at what point she herself had been suspicious and was concerned that it hadn’t been for a considerable time.
“I didn’t immediately think he had any connection as he was obviously so emotionally distraught . . . I felt that he was very genuine. To see him cradling his little girl in the neighbors’ basement, having just found his wife, was deeply distressing for me to witness. It wasn’t until there were small pieces of the jigsaw that didn’t match up . . . his lies about Katrina, and his attempts to give himself an alibi with the phone calls. He suddenly transformed from being a compassionate, loving husband to a weak, blubbering man.”
Gibbs interjected. “But he wasn’t bad-looking, and Katrina obviously thought he was a good catch . . .”
Before Jane could respond Gibbs signaled to the waiter for the bill and glanced at his watch. It was almost 9:30 p.m.
“Right, the tarts should be out, and we should go and find your girl . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jane and Gibbs had walked along Wardour Street twice and were now heading toward Berwick Street.
“There she is!” Jane exclaimed.
The blue rabbit fur coat stood out in the neon lights from the various sex shops and strip clubs. Jane was very mindful of the red-haired boy appearing, but there was no sign of him, and maybe they had scared him enough not to get back to work straightaway.
Suddenly there were large groups of men standing outside the strip clubs, as the hustle and bustle of the seediest part of the West End kicked in. Heavy muscle men stood outside the strip joints stopping any customers they didn’t like the look of from coming inside. Deafening music played loudly from every doorway, in competition with each other.
Gibbs stopped. “Where the hell did she go?”
Jane shrugged and shook her head.
Taxis dropped and picked up girls and customers, and the hookers moved along the street showing off their figures and backcombed beehive hairstyles. They wore an assortment of red plastic macs, high-heeled patent shoes and miniskirts that were so small they looked like curtain pelmets. Some had on silver and gold hot pants, showing off their bum cheeks in fishnet stockings. They wore glittering earrings, bracelets and necklaces, and many of them revealed too much cleavage to be decent in skintight boob tubes. These were the street girls, and hurrying from one venue to the next were the strippers. They carried their costumes and wigs in tote bags, their faces plastered with thick makeup and false eyelashes, as they ducked and dived between the strip joints. Many of them were doing three to four shows a night.
Incongruously, as Jane and Gibbs moved nearer to the high-priced revue bars, smartly dressed men and women mingled with the crowd. The most famous club, the Raymond Revuebar, was very popular. The narrow road was filling up with classy cars, while women in glamorous long dresses and furs were escorted by men in evening suits. They were greeted at the entrance of the bar by a suitably attired doorman.
Gibbs was getting pissed off. “Well, she must be around here somewhere . . . I need a leak, so I’m popping into the pub.” He went into the Queen’s Head, leaving Jane waiting outside.
Having done the business, Gibbs ordered a bottle of Coke, and drank three quarters of it before asking the barman to fill it up to the neck with vodka. He then went back out to Jane, who was clearly very frustrated that Janet had disappeared.
“We lost her,” Jane said.
“Terrific! Listen, the kid, the red-haired boy, he said she hangs out in Chinatown. Let’s go back and get the car and head over there.”
Gibbs started up the engine and they began to reverse out of the car park. The old parking attendant removed the rope from the cratered area, hoping for a tip, but he didn’t get one.
“It’s unbelievable watching the real lowlife cheek by jowl with the fancy people getting out of their flash cars, all dressed up to see the fan dancers and sequined strippers,” Jane commented.
“Grow up, sweetheart . . . most of the hostesses in those swanky places are on the game and charge a fortune for a glass of cheap fizz and a feel up. But I doubt your Janet is in their league, or she wouldn’t be working that patch over at London Fields. She might be working in one of the brothels . . . hard to know. They use plain white, nondescript doors and the girls are out the back in all the shitty little partitioned bedrooms. The entrances are more’n likely in Wardour Street. You’d be amazed how many smart-looking Private Members’ clubs are fronts for seedy brothels. I can do a drive past, but then I’m calling it quits for tonight.”
They drove up the entire length of Wardour Street and right onto Oxford Street, before heading back south around Soho Square and into Greek Street, but there was no sign of Angie. Determined to keep looking, they crossed over to Dean Street and back up to Oxford Street, before returning down Wardour Street. Reaching the end of the road they were about to turn left into Shaftesbury Avenue when Jane was sure she saw the blue rabbit fur coat. Directly across the road was the start of Chinatown, with all the lanterns swinging on ropes across a pedestrianized area. There were numerous small, lit-up restaurants and noodle bars, with flashing lights and throngs of customers. The streets were filled with people buying Chinese food in takeaway cartons, and there was a strong, slightly sickly sweet smell of frying chicken and fish.
“It’s her, I’m sure of it! D’you see her, Spence? She’s outside the restaurant with a blue neon sign above it . . . her blue fur coat’s obvious.”
Jane started to open the car door and clamber out.
“Hang on, just hang on. You don’t go out here alone.”
An irate driver behind them sounded his horn as Gibbs made a hand signal for him to overtake. He then mounted the pavement and reversed a few yards. As soon as the engine stopped, Gibbs and Jane were both out and running beside a theater with huge posters advertising the big hit musical Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The main entrance for Chinatown was now a few yards ahead. Gibbs was moving faster than Jane, turning out of her sight for a moment. As she caught up he held out his arm for her to stop beside him.
“Stay back a minute, Jane . . . she’s heading straight toward us . . .”
Gibbs stepped forward, saying Angie’s name. Jane, almost directly behind him, moved to try and block her from passing saying, “We just need to talk to you.”
Without missing a beat Janet side-stepped and made a run for it, heading straight into Shaftesbury Avenue. A bus missed her by a terrifying few feet and, with traffic moving both ways beside her, she tried to make it across the road. Gibbs was dodging oncoming vehicles and held his hand up
in the air as if it was some kind of warning that he was a police officer. Janet made the mistake of turning back to look at him. The oncoming green Mini estate screeched to a halt as it clipped her left hip and she flipped up into the air and sprawled over the bonnet. Jane made it to the pavement as the distressed driver climbed out, shouting that the woman had run directly into him. Gibbs dragged Janet up onto her feet and gripped both hands on her fur coat, hauling her away.
“She’s fine . . . just get back into your car and drive off. Move it.”
Jane picked up Janet’s tote bag, which had fallen from her hand when she was flung over the bonnet, and she was beside Gibbs as he dragged Janet to their patrol car. She didn’t scream and seemed to be in a state of shock, heaving for breath. As Gibbs opened the passenger door she started kicking and punching, and then snarled as she tried to bite his hand.
Gibbs backhanded her hard and, shoving her into the car face forward, he chucked the keys to Jane and instructed her to drive. He had his whole weight on Janet as he pushed her face down and told her she was under arrest, and that they were CID. She seemed to deflate like a punctured rubber tire, then swore at him.
“You fuckin’ arseholes! I need a doctor . . . you bastards . . .”
Jane was shaking badly as she drove through the West End and headed toward a multi-story car park that Gibbs suggested they use to ask Angie some questions. The car park was regularly used by the Met and the attendant lifted up the barrier and asked no questions. They went up to the fourth floor where it was partly open, with only a few cars parked. Gibbs gestured for Jane to drive to the furthest corner, then instructed her to reverse and park up.
Janet had grown quiet and Gibbs allowed her to sit up beside him. She was complaining about the pain in her hip and had rubbed it, then pulled down her elastic skirt waistband to check it out. Only as they parked up and Jane switched off the engine did Janet show she was scared. She had a deep, rasping, husky voice that sounded part cockney and part American.
“I don’t like this . . . I want to know what you two are after. You got to show me some fuckin’ ID cos I don’t believe you are coppers.”
Gibbs took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head, and he lit one for himself. He gestured toward Jane who turned to face her.
“That is WDC Jane Tennison. She was stationed at Hackney until recently, and was part of the investigation into a series of sexual assaults. She was subsequently on the arrest of the perp, who is also being accused of rape. WDC Tennison was given your coat to wear. Why was that?”
“I dunno”
“Why did she need to wear something that made her look like you? It’s a very distinctive coat, Janet, or do you prefer to be called Angie?”
She shrugged and gestured for Gibbs to open the window as the smoke was wafting in her face from his cigarette.
“The arresting officer was DI Nick Moran . . . you know him?”
“No.”
“You know anything about the rapist?”
“No.”
“He was caught trying to assault WDC Tennison in your coat, so shall we start again?”
“They sell ’em in Brick Lane. They also come in pink, and three different sizes . . . small, medium and large, and you can call me any name you like, you bastard.”
“Don’t make me angry. I am going to give you one last chance to give me some answers. Firstly, about the severe beating you took; secondly, about DI Moran’s relationship with you; and thirdly, how your coat was used in a CID covert operation and then you got it back, as you are still wearing it.”
He slapped Janet hard on the back of her head and she jolted forward and then rocked back. Jane decided that enough was enough and leaned over from the front seat.
“Please, Spence, will you let me talk to her? There’s no need for you to get physical . . .”
“Oh, I see . . . we’re going to play good cop, bad cop, are we? You lot make me sick.”
Gibbs gave Janet another hard slap, took out his handcuffs and gripped her wrist. He clicked them on and then attached one end to the door handle.
“She’s all yours, for ten minutes.”
Gibbs reached into the front seat shelf and pulled out his Coke bottle, then opened the door and slammed it shut. Jane turned her body round in the front seat and pulled up her legs so she was raised higher and was able to lean toward Janet.
“Please don’t make him angry . . . we’re trying to get to the truth. It is a very serious offense to withhold evidence, and for an officer to be connected to that offense will have severe repercussions that will give us reason to arrest you.”
“I haven’t fuckin’ done anything wrong! I don’t know what you are bloody talking about. Just what offense am I supposed to have done? I tell you what is an offense, you two almost getting me bloody run over and then kidnappin’ me, and bringing me to this shit-hole.”
“A bigger offense will be you leaving your son on his own while you are in Holloway, because that’s where you are going to be sent for a long time.”
“Pleeease don’t try that one . . . you’re fishin’ and you ain’t gonna catch me, because I’ve been around far longer than you ever had hot dinners. If you had anything on me I’d be down the station banged up, instead of being handcuffed with an amateur DC who looks like a teenager let out by Mummy and Daddy for the night.”
Jane felt her hackles rising.
“You listen to me . . . I was the officer that got attacked, wearing your coat stinking of your perfume. He tried to rape me, split my lip open, but it is nothing compared to what he did to that poor kid he raped and left for dead. I have to be honest that I was not sure about him committing the rape of that seventeen-year-old, but if you have evidence to prove he is the rapist then you are letting him walk free . . . Why? Just tell me why?”
“Money.”
“What?”
“He owes me, that’s why.”
“Owes you? But that doesn’t make any sense . . . You would let him off the hook because he owes you?”
“He did this to me . . .”
Janet pulled open her shirt and there was a deep scar just below her throat and across her breasts. It was shocking and Jane couldn’t think of anything to say as Angie did up her blouse.
“Screwed me up for stripping in any decent club. Besides, I just wanted to get some compensation. I’d have given it up in time, before his trial anyway.”
“Given what up? I mean, do you really have incriminating evidence? Come on, start talking to me, I know about the phone calls to Allard’s wife, I know you were blackmailing her into paying you a lot of money and I am asking you now to be honest with me.”
“Yeah, I admit it, and I reckon that piece of garbage knows I could get him on the rape, otherwise why let his slitty-eyed wife pay up the cash? He knows I’m Angie, but he doesn’t know my real name. I’ve got him by the short and curlies.”
“What evidence do you have?” Jane asked.
“I had the knife that he cut me up with.”
Jane took a deep breath.
“Did you give the knife to DI Moran?”
“Mind yer own fuckin’ business.”
“It is my business. It is very important—was the flick knife in your possession after he attacked you?”
“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.”
“I wore your coat, and I was attacked because of it. He thought I was you, didn’t he, Janet?”
Janet laughed and leaned back.
“Just goes to show, doesn’t it, darlin’? In the dark all cats are gray. He had such an adrenalin buzz, he was stinkin’. Let me tell you something else . . . there’s no way that little slitty-eyed bitch of a wife didn’t know what he was getting up to. He must’ve gone back to her reeking of sex. He’s hung like a horse!”
Jane almost recoiled.
“The only person that’s been half-decent to me is Nick Moran. After Allard cut me up I couldn’t work. I was badly in debt and I needed money f
or my son . . . I’m not making excuses.”
“Take me through exactly what happened when he attacked you.”
“I was up by the Lido, waiting for a punter. It was about 11 p.m. and I was getting cold. I was passing under a load of big trees, and the next minute he’s behind me, grabbing me by the neck and saying that he was going to kill me.”
“Can you remember the exact words he used?” Jane asked.
“‘You thieving whore . . . I’m going to kill you.’ Next minute he’s lifted me off my feet. I fight him off, punchin’ and kickin’ him, and I grabbed his balaclava . . . I was trying to pull his hair, but the hood came off in my hand. I spat at him, but he was too strong. He pushed me down on the ground, ripped open my blouse, and slashed at my neck and my breasts with the knife. I thought I was gonna die, so I kneed him in the balls and he dropped the knife. Then he heard the uniform copper shouting, cos he heard me screamin’. By the time they got to me Allard had jumped up and run off.”
“You had the knife?”
“Yes, in me pocket.”
“And as you had taken his balaclava it meant that you could recognize him—did you also take that?”
“No, I fuckin’ didn’t.”
“But you saw his face?”
“Yeah, of course I fuckin’ did!” Angie shouted.
“And that was all you used to blackmail Marie, that you could identify him and you had no other evidence?”
“For Chrissakes, I’ve told you now. I wanna get out.”
At that moment Gibbs opened the passenger door and peered in.
“Are you all right, Tennison?”
“Yes, I’m fine . . . close the door, please.”
Angie continued. “Anyway, they took me to hospital, stitched me up, but my face was a mess, I mean, I was in a bad way.”
Jane leaned closer to her. “You made out a report at Hackney Station, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did . . . they photographed my injuries and took a statement after I’d been to the hospital.”
“Let’s just go back. I need to know when you knew that earlier that night a young teenage girl had been raped in that same area.”
Hidden Killers Page 35
