“Tamara meet Jane; Jane meet Tamara.” Gibbs caught Tamara’s eye and touched the side of his nose.
As they shook hands, Jane noticed there was a trace of white powder at the base of Tamara’s right nostril, which she hurriedly wiped off.
“Sorry, Gibbsey. Nice to meet you, Jane. Gibbsey’s told me a lot about you.” Tamara’s cut-glass accent was pure Sloane Ranger.
“Really? What’s Gibbsey been saying?”
Gibbs wagged his finger at Tamara to say nothing but she didn’t seem to notice.
“That you’re a bit sensitive, but tenacious, with plenty of balls.”
Jane laughed and turned to Gibbs with just a touch of sarcasm. “Thank you, Gibbsey, that’s very kind of you to notice. Gibbsey talks about you all the time, Tamara.” Jane paused to make Gibbs wonder what she was going to say next. From the anxious look on his face, it had worked.
“And having met you at last, I can see why. You look stunning, just like Debbie Harry.”
“Well, thank you, Jane, that’s very kind.” Tamara beamed.
Gibbs looked relieved. “We need to get ready and tune up, Tamara.”
“I just need the loo again. Nice to meet you, Jane. We’ll catch up later.” She headed off to the toilets.
“She gets nervous before a gig,” Gibbs explained.
“I just hope she doesn’t get you in trouble.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, that wasn’t sherbet dip on the end of her nose, was it?” Jane said in a hushed voice.
“It’s just a tiny bit to steady her nerves. And before you ask, I’m not doing any drugs.”
“If Tamara gets nicked for possession, you could be in serious shit, even out of a job.”
“It’s OK, she’s a good girl, and I know what I’m doing when it comes to relationships.” Gibbs made his way through the crowd and onto the stage.
Jane wondered if he’d been having a dig about her past relationships as she watched the band going through a quick sound check and a final tune-up, before launching into Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” Jane got herself a second glass of wine and started to relax, letting the music drive her anxieties about the case from her mind. She was glad that she’d decided to come along and was impressed with the band, who sounded better than she’d imagined. Gibbs had a surprisingly good voice, and as the lead guitarist he didn’t hit a bum note. Tamara was lead singer in the next number, which was Blondie’s “Sunday Girl,” and Jane reckoned when it came to Debbie Harry, she had the voice as well as the looks. She found herself singing along with Tamara as she belted out the lyrics.
The woman standing next to Jane didn’t agree. “Spencer’s great on guitar, isn’t he? Pity about the singer, though. She looks more like Diana Dors than Debbie Harry—and sounds more like her, too.”
Jane didn’t recognize her, but her voice was familiar. She was very attractive, mid-thirties, with long blond hair and dressed in a red boob tube, black flared trousers and stilettos. The woman waved at Gibbs to catch his attention, and Jane could see Gibbs looking surprised as he gave her a discreet nod of acknowledgement. Jane had an idea who she was but wanted to be sure.
“Hi, I’m Jane. I work with Spencer at Peckham.”
“I’m Jo. We’re just friends. Have they been going long?”
“Yeah, they’ve done a few numbers.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jo said, moving closer to the front of the stage.
Jane already suspected Gibbs and Jo Hastings were more than “just friends,” and couldn’t believe Gibbs would be so stupid as to invite her to the gig with Tamara performing alongside him. She wondered if Jo just wanted to surprise Gibbs or if she wanted to find out if he had a girlfriend. Either way, Jane couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
When the band took their break, Tamara went off to the loo again and Gibbs took the opportunity to speak with Jo.
He looked anxious. “Hi, Jo. I wasn’t expecting you. I didn’t think rock music was your kind of thing.”
She stepped closer, rubbing her body against his. “I thought I’d come and see how well you performed … outside the bedroom,” she said with a brazen smile.
Jane saw Tamara approaching from behind and looked forward to seeing how Gibbs dealt with the situation.
“Hi again, Jane. Are you enjoying the show?” Tamara asked, looking the picture of innocence.
“Yes, thanks, Tamara. Your voice is terrific,” Jane said enthusiastically.
Jo Hastings frowned. “She’s all right, but you should do more solos, Spencer. Can you sing ‘Kiss You All Over’ for me?” she added with a suggestive smile.
“I’m sorry, love, I don’t know that song,” Gibbs said, as if he didn’t know her.
Jo leant forward and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll play it for you later, then,” she said in a seductive voice.
“Who the fuck’s the geriatric?” Tamara hissed, glaring at Gibbs.
Gibbs shrugged, as if he had no idea. “Come on, we need to get back on stage.” He grabbed her by the hand, but she pulled away.
“Are you screwing this trollop?” Tamara asked loudly.
The people nearby turned and stared, wondering what the commotion was about. Gibbs looked as if he wished the ground beneath his feet would open and swallow him. He knew Jo was a streetwise London girl with a sharp tongue who wouldn’t put up with being insulted like that. But to his and Jane’s surprise, Jo remained calm and collected.
“My, my, the schoolgirl doesn’t realize you prefer older women. Well, you run along back to the classroom, darling, while I educate Spencer in the finer things of life.”
Jane stepped back, waiting for it all to kick off. But Tamara wasn’t the fighting sort; she seemed more of a daddy’s girl who got what she wanted by looking upset and turning on the tears.
Suddenly Tamara slapped Gibbs hard across the face. “It’s over, Gibbsey. I never want to see you again,” she shouted, pushing her way out of the pub.
Jo glared at Gibbs and slapped his other cheek. “I hope that hurts as well. If you’d been up front about having a girlfriend, it wouldn’t have been a problem. It’s lying about it that pisses me off.” She followed Tamara out of the pub.
Jane wasn’t sure if Gibbs’ cheeks were redder from the slaps or the sheer embarrassment. She looked at him sadly and shook her head.
“For someone who reckons he knows how to handle women, I’d say you just killed two birds with one stone.”
Gibbs forced a smile. “Well, as Doris Day said, ‘Que sera, sera’ Now, if you’ll excuse me, Jane, my fans await.”
He jumped up on the stage and announced that, due to an unforeseen incident, Tamara had to leave in a hurry, but the band would play on.
Soon he was back in his element, singing and playing guitar solos, which brought a rapturous roar of approval from the audience. Jane found herself singing along with the crowd and even having a dance with her colleagues.
When Edwards got a bit drunk and started coming onto her, Jane had to tell him firmly to “back off,” hoping he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
“This next song is for a good friend of mine,” Gibbs announced, winking at Jane.
Jane hoped to God he wasn’t going to break into a romantic song, but quickly realized she should have known better when Gibbs began singing Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy.”
Jane laughed along with the crowd, feeling more relaxed than she had in ages.
Chapter Twenty
Jane had a long lie-in on the Saturday morning and didn’t get up until ten o’clock. After a filling breakfast of Weetabix, followed by a chunky bacon and egg sandwich, with percolated coffee, she felt re-energized, but decided she wouldn’t think about the investigation or look at her notebook for the whole day. She set about cleaning the flat and doing her washing and ironing. The household chores always gave her a feeling of independence, as her mother had done everything for her when she’d lived at
home.
The flat tidy and gleaming, she spent the afternoon lazing on the settee, watching the weepy Lease of Life, starring Robert Donat and Kay Walsh, about the vicar of a small Yorkshire parish who is dying from cancer. It was early evening when the film finished. Happily wiping the tears from her eyes, Jane switched off the TV and went to her bedroom. Opening her wardrobe, she looked for something suitable to wear for dinner with Paul Lawrence. She knew it was informal and looked for something smart but casual. She eventually decided on a white shirt, light brown sleeveless pullover, matching gabardine knee-length skirt, skin-color tights and brown leather shoes with a braid trim. She had a shower, then dried her hair and put on some hair spray. Before leaving, she picked up the dental journal for Paul to have a look at.
En route to Paul’s, Jane stopped at an off-licence. She asked the cashier for a nice red wine to go with beef Wellington and he recommended a Cabernet Sauvignon. It was the most she’d ever paid for a bottle of wine, so she hoped Paul appreciated it.
The journey to Paul’s 1930s semi-detached two-bedroom house in Fulham didn’t take long. She rang the doorbell and Paul, wearing an apron, welcomed her with a hug and kiss on the cheek. She handed him the wine.
“You look gorgeous, Jane, and thanks for this.” He looked at the wine. “Cabernet Sauvignon … Perfect choice.”
Jane just smiled, not wanting to look stupid by admitting she’d never tasted it before.
“Come on through while I finish making supper. I changed my mind about the beef Wellington, actually. Do you like Spanish paella?”
“Yes, I love it,” Jane fibbed, having no idea what it was.
“I first tried it in Benidorm on holiday. The fish one’s all right, but I’m cooking a chicken one tonight. The magic ingredient is saffron, apparently.”
“Sounds lovely,” Jane said. As she walked through the living room, she remarked how modern it looked with its stone fireplace, orange leather sofa, matching armchairs and ottoman, a light brown shag pile carpet and wood paneled walls.
“I rented the last place I had in Sussex Mews from an aunt. The University of London’s Bedford College were expanding their campus and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. I had to mortgage myself up to the hilt for this place, but I like it here.”
In the kitchen, Paul opened Jane’s bottle of wine, poured her a glass and one for himself. Whilst he cooked, Jane recounted what happened to Spencer Gibbs at the pub gig.
“I wish I’d been there,” Paul laughed. “But Gibbs better hope Andrew Hastings doesn’t find out. Or he may get more than a slap from him—” He was interrupted by the doorbell.
He was stirring the paella at a crucial moment, so Jane went to open the door. A man in his mid-thirties, wearing a black winter coat, was standing in the porch, holding a bunch of flowers.
“Jane Tennison?” he asked, and she nodded. “These are for you.” He handed her the flowers.
Jane couldn’t believe Paul had gone to the effort of surprising her with a flower delivery.
He came into the hallway. “Everything OK?”
“Thank you for the flowers, Paul. They’re beautiful. Do you have any loose change?”
Paul and the man at the door burst out laughing.
Jane gave Paul a bemused look. “What’s so funny?”
The man stepped into the hallway and closed the front door.
“This is Stuart, my friend. I invited him to dinner so you could meet him,” Paul explained.
“I feel like a right fool.” Jane blushed.
The three of them chatted in the kitchen as Paul put the finishing touches to the paella. Stuart explained that he was a jewelry designer for Dunhill and Paul showed her the elegant cufflinks he was wearing, which were a Christmas present from Stuart. Jane instantly warmed to him, feeling he shared many of Paul’s endearing qualities.
“Excuse me while I nip to the loo,” Stuart said.
“What are you thinking?” Paul asked Jane.
“Nothing,” Jane replied, wondering to herself.
“What do you think of Stuart?”
“He seems lovely. An absolute gentleman, like you.”
“He’s more than that—he’s my partner. We’re in a relationship.”
Jane nodded. “I thought so, but wasn’t totally sure. I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position by asking anything that might seem offensive.”
Paul gave her a relieved smile. “I wanted to tell you after we’d visited the Golden Lion. I was angry about the homophobic remarks Edwards and the others were coming out with at the office meeting. I know they think it’s just a joke, but I don’t, and it’s impossible for me to say anything without raising suspicion.”
“People like Edwards are idiots and best ignored.”
“You’re a good friend and take people as you find them, Jane. That’s why I decided to tell you about Stuart. I wish there were more police officers as understanding as you.”
Jane knew that not all police officers were homophobic, but knew it would be many years yet before the force as a whole was truly accepting of gay men and women.
She went over to Paul and gave him a big hug. “Whatever happens I will always be on your side, Paul.”
As if on cue, Stuart returned to the kitchen. “If I didn’t know you better, Paul Lawrence, I’d be jealous.”
Jane let go of Paul and gave Stuart a hug. “I’m pleased for both of you. You’re clearly meant for each other.”
During dinner, Paul asked Jane how her side of the investigation was going. She told him about her visit to social services, the result of their interview with Simon Matthews and her suspicions about David Simmonds.
“It’s clear Simmonds didn’t sexually assault Simon, but there’s things about him that just don’t add up. He’s not very forthcoming, for some reason. He never told me he knew Sybil Hastings, or that she was a patient of his, or about his dental practice in Peckham. I think Helen Matthews was his cleaner there as well.”
“Have you told Moran all this?” Paul asked.
“No—or the result of the social services interview. He’s already given me a dressing-down about jumping to conclusions without supportive evidence. There’s still some questions I’d like to ask Simmonds, but Moran would probably tell me to back off.”
“If I were you I’d sit down and go over everything you’ve got with a fine-tooth comb, and then see what you can find out about his past.”
“I’ve brought a dental journal with an article about him. I was going to leave it for you to read.”
“I’ll have a look now—while you and Stuart do the washing up.” He smiled.
“Very crafty!” Jane grinned.
Jane did the washing whilst Stuart dried.
“Paul and I have such a good relationship, but his erratic working hours mean we don’t get to see each other as much as we’d like.” Stuart sighed.
Jane nodded sympathetically. “Paul’s highly respected for his forensic work. He’s always in demand to attend murder crime scenes, often in preference to his fellow lab liaison sergeants.”
“I appreciate he has a difficult job and unsociable working hours—I’m just grateful he puts our relationship first whenever he can.”
Paul came into the kitchen brandishing the magazine. “Very informative. However, it does leave me wondering if Simmonds is hiding something from you.”
“The few lines about him being in the army are interesting. It was a long time ago now, though,” Jane added.
“I worked with the Army SIB on a murder at the Royal Artillery base in Woolwich a year ago.”
“What’s SIB?” Stuart asked.
“Specialist Investigation Branch,” Paul explained. “I still have a few contacts at SIB, Jane. I could make some discreet enquiries about Simmonds’ army career if you wanted?”
“Oh, that would be fantastic, thank you. I’ve brought my notebook with me. I was wondering if—”
Paul’s red Trimphone rang before Jane could a
sk him if he would look over her notes of the investigation to see if he felt there was anything she’d missed or should follow up.
“That better not be work,” Paul said with a frown as he got up to answer it.
After a moment, she heard Paul telling the caller politely but firmly that he was not the on-call lab liaison sergeant. But instead of putting the phone down, he continued to listen, his expression changing from annoyance to concentration.
“Bloody hell! Are there any other parts nearby? Give me the location.” Paul grabbed a pen and paper and started writing. “I’ll be with you shortly. Make sure the area is totally sealed off. Tennison’s here with me. I’ll let her know and we’ll meet you there.”
He put the phone down and turned to Jane. “That was Edwards. Someone walking his dog in Peckham Rye Park found a human forearm by the piles of rubbish.”
“Oh my God. Please don’t let it be connected to our cases.”
Lawrence was already shrugging on his overcoat. “It could be a coincidence, but Peckham is becoming a favorite place to dump dead bodies.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jane had never driven at such high speed as she followed behind Lawrence, who had a police siren and blue lights on his car. There was a three-quarter moon and no clouds, so visibility when they arrived at Peckham Rye Park was not bad, but it was bitterly cold. The area was crawling with police officers, who were tying blue crime scene tape from tree to tree to stop public access.
“It’s like an eerie mist,” said Jane, looking out across the park.
“As the food decays, the bin bags produce bacteria and molds, which in turn produce heat, which creates steam, and this is the mist effect,” explained Lawrence, picking his way across the grass.
Edwards was blowing on his hands to keep them warm when he spotted them. He nodded and started to lead them over to the center of activity. A putrid smell emanated from the steaming pile of rubbish at least six feet high that ran along the edge of the park.
Murder Mile Page 24
