“I understand, sir. But I am also very sure of the fact that his hands were not in his pockets . . . he swiped my hand away from him causing me to stumble and fall backward. It was at that point that I saw him, but only side—”
“I want you to look at a surveillance photograph.” Crowley interrupted.
He opened a drawer and removed a thick photograph album which was marked “Highly Confidential—Special Branch Surveillance,” dated March 1976. He flicked through the album and stopped at a photograph with an exhibit mark on it. He showed Jane this picture, a shot taken at a distance, of two young men standing outside a café. One man was holding his hand up as if to hail a taxi.
Dexter remained silent, smoking and occasionally looking toward Jane. He had very blue eyes, which were hooded and heavily lined, as if he’d spent endless hours in the sun, squinting against the glare.
“Is one of these men the suspect you chased at Covent Garden?” Crowley asked Jane.
Jane carefully examined the photograph, then shook her head.
“I can’t be sure. I didn’t really get a good enough look at him. All I can remember is that he had dark, collar-length hair and he might have had a thin beard or heavy stubble.”
“Think . . . what about his height, and his clothing?”
“Er, he was about 5 foot 8 or 5 foot 10, and he was wearing an overcoat—a type of donkey jacket or laborer’s coat—and dark trousers. The coat might have had a hood, or he wore a top with a hood underneath the overcoat . . . maybe even a woolen hat.”
“Take another look. The man on the right is wearing a dark jacket, has dark hair, and is the right height. Do you think it could have been him?”
Jane took her time looking at the photograph. “I honestly don’t know, sir . . . it might be him, but I can’t honestly say for certain. Neither of the men leap out at me as being people I have seen before.”
Dexter leaned forward, stubbing out his cigar. He turned to Jane.
“You must have had a pretty traumatic experience, Tennison, and you might even be suffering from a mental block. I’ve seen it many times before after people have gone through an event like this.”
He had a soft, cultured voice unlike the brusque and impatient Crowley, who leaned over Jane and snapped the album shut, startling her.
Crowley grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Dexter will take your statement. I’ve got some business to deal with.” He swung his jacket over his shoulder and marched out the office, slamming the door behind him.
“I’m a bit confused. I thought I had already read and checked my statement? Am I now making another one?” asked Jane as she held up the statement Crowley had given her before Dexter arrived.
“That’s your statement for the press conference, but I need to take a full and detailed statement from you. This one’s for the trial, when the suspects are arrested and charged.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry, it’s all been such panic. Have I upset DCI Crowley in some way?”
Dexter smiled at Jane. “Don’t worry about Crowley. He’s obviously under a lot of pressure. His bark is always worse than his bite. Maybe in a couple of days you’ll have a clearer recall and might remember more about the suspect. For now, you’ve done a fantastic job.”
“Did any other witness at the tube station see the suspect?” Jane asked.
“No one else can give a good description, or they’re too frightened to come forward. God forbid that Daphne dies, because we’re depending on her to give us more details.”
“Does Crowley think the man in the photograph is an IRA bomber? If he does, why doesn’t he arrest him?”
Dexter stood up and moved around the desk, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.
“This is in the strictest confidence, Detective Tennison, but it might help you to understand the pressure Crowley is under . . . I’d appreciate it if you kept it between the two of us. That photograph was taken by a Special Branch officer. One of the men in the photo is an IRA informant and the one hailing a taxi is believed to be part of an IRA Active Service Unit, or ASU, who has just arrived on the mainland to initiate a bombing campaign in London.”
“But why hasn’t he been arrested?” Jane asked.
She could see that Dexter was apprehensive about answering. He took his time lighting another cigar.
“Because we don’t know who or where he is yet. We couldn’t risk putting an undercover officer in that café or putting a wire on our informant. Although we had surveillance officers following the black cab they lost the suspect. We don’t know if he sussed that he was being tailed, but later that night our informant was found hanged in his bedsit. It was staged to look like suicide.”
“No wonder Crowley’s under pressure,” Jane responded.
“That’s not the half of it. The shit hit the fan after the our informant’s death, because he’d already passed us information that suggested the IRA were building up a sophisticated and extremely secure network of operatives and logistical teams in the country. He was about to give us details with names, dates, times and places. Some of his contacts are what we call ‘sleepers’ . . . you know, appearing to be good and valued citizens until they’re needed. The informant wanted a whole new identity in another country before giving up everything he knew and Crowley had it all in motion . . . he was just waiting for approval. Anyway, we’ve got nothing now.”
Jane shook her head as Dexter sat behind the desk.
“Commander Gregson got a dressing down from the Home Secretary, and in turn he gave Crowley a bollocking just before the Covent Garden explosion. So it’s obvious why Crowley was hoping you’d recognize the man in the photo. The only positive lead from the photo is that the informant was associated with him and then murdered.”
“I’m sorry, but I literally only saw the man for a second.”
“It’s not your fault. Now, I need to walk you through exactly what happened so I can take your official statement.”
Jane began once again to go through everything she could recall. Dexter glanced up only once, when she was describing finding the small child beneath the body of her mother. He held up his pen every now and then, for her to slow down while he wrote every word, and then nodded his head for her to continue.
“Hang on a second. Can you just go over the description again of the suspect?”
“Well as I’ve said, I didn’t get a good look at him, just his profile. I remember he had dark hair, perhaps stubble on his face, but I can’t really recall his features at all.”
The copious detail of the statement covered page after page, and it took a further hour and a half before it was concluded. Repeatedly Dexter questioned her about the possibility that she might be able to identify the suspect. Jane continued to assert that she doubted that she could, then she surprised Dexter.
“I remember his rucksack.”
“You mean you can describe it?”
“Yes. A gym instructor had one that was similar. It was made of a thick, gray cloth with a brown . . . maybe leather . . . bottom.”
“How come you can remember details of the rucksack but you can’t recall the suspect’s face?”
“I remember the face of the ticket collector and the way he was holding the rucksack before he was blown up and killed.”
Dexter eventually passed over the written statement to Jane, and stood up to stretch his long legs.
“Read it carefully, just in case I’ve missed something. And let me know if you have any questions.”
Dexter paced around the room and lit another cigar. Jane skimmed through the statement as she could sense his impatience. Then he leaned in close, handed her a pen and asked her to sign it. He wore a soft-smelling cologne, which mingled with his cigar smoke but was not in any way offensive. Quite the contrary. Dexter was a very attractive, relaxed man, and Jane noticed his clean, manicured hands.
“How many bomb scenes have you dealt with?” Jane asked as he put the signed statement in a neat pile on Crowley�
�s desk.
“More than I care to think about,” he replied, returning to sit beside her. He gave her a side on look. “You were stationed at Hackney when that explosion happened, weren’t you? That’s one I’ll never forget . . . that terrible scene around the bank vault. What made it a lot harder was the fact that two fellow officers were killed. It was impossible to tell who was who from their charred remains. Once it became clear it wasn’t an IRA job, we withdrew and let the locals deal with the aftermath.”
Although it had been three years ago, Jane had never known what state the bodies had been inside the bank. She still felt emotional whenever she remembered Kath Morgan and Len Bradfield, but it didn’t hurt as much as it had just after the explosion. It was as if the bomb at Covent Garden had helped exorcise some of those demons. More than anything, she now realized that death could result from simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The door banged open as Crowley returned. He handed Jane a signed authorization to work at the Forensics Explosives Laboratory.
“I’ve spoken with the senior scientist at Woolwich Arsenal and they are expecting you at 9am tomorrow morning. Now, you’d better wait in the canteen. I’ll send someone to collect you when the press conference begins.”
Dexter stood up, waiting for her to stand. “It won’t be long, I’ll see you up there in a minute.”
Jane felt as if both Crowley and Dexter were impatient for her to leave. She didn’t know exactly where the lab in Woolwich was, but decided it was best to ask for the details later.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Crowley sat at his desk and nodded to Dexter.
“So, what do you think?” Crowley asked.
“Well I laid it on thick about the IRA cell and trusting her with sensitive information, et cetera, so she must be aware of what scum the IRA are and how important an ID will be.”
“Yeah, well I hope to Christ she doesn’t back down . . . especially after that situation with the Balcombe Street ASU. Their defense barristers are throwing a lot of shit at us and saying that we beat a confession out the wrong guys for the Guildford and Woolwich pub bombs.”
“Shit, give me a break! The politicians and top brass wanted a quick result, and we got it for them. They confessed so the end justified the means.”
“I know that. If the old girl in the hospital croaks, Tennison is all we’ve got to ID the suspect . . . She’ll be our only useful witness.”
“We both know the man in the surveillance photograph is part of the ASU, but we need to keep our fingers crossed that the old lady survives. She’ll be a lot easier to persuade into making a positive ID of our man than Tennison.”
Crowley opened a drawer and took out a file.
“This is WDC Tennison’s police file. She’s a blue-eyed girl, trustworthy. She’s has never been in any trouble . . . plus she has a Commissioner’s Commendation. If we can influence her to make a positive ID on the man in the photo, the case is cut and dried . . . it won’t even matter if he denies it in interview.”
Dexter read through the report as Crowley rocked back in the chair.
“Did she sign her statement?”
“Yep, it’s in front of you.”
“She wasn’t aware of the addition?”
“No, but I doubt she’ll remember if she did or didn’t say it. I deliberately kept it long-winded. I even allowed her to check it over, but she just skimmed through it.”
Crowley picked up the pages and flicked through them, reading. After a while he looked up and smiled, quoting, “‘I think I might recognize him if I saw him again . . .’ Good, that’s good. I hope to Christ she doesn’t challenge it in court. I want you to keep up the Mr. Nice Guy act. Get closer to her, take her out and get her on our side.”
“Okay if I shag her?”
“If your girlfriend doesn’t mind.”
“She’s long gone. How about hypnosis?”
“I’m sure you can get her into bed without resorting to that.”
“Ha ha, very funny. I meant we could use hypnosis to try to trigger a better recollection of the event from her. If it works, we don’t need to manipulate her into saying what we want.”
“Let’s see how we go with the artist’s impression.”
Crowley looked at his watch, and then back to Dexter. He waved his hand in front of his face.
“Jesus, those filthy cigars stink! I’m going to get a call any minute about the press conference. Give the hospital a ring and see how the old girl is.”
Dexter shrugged and handed back Jane’s police file. Crowley flicked through it while Dexter put in a call to the hospital to inquire about Daphne. He was relieved to be told that she was still alive, although she hadn’t woken from the coma. The hospital had now identified her from a handbag found in the debris at Covent Garden Station. It contained her pension book with a library identification card and some photographs. Her name was Daphne Millbank, a widow aged 75, but they hadn’t yet been unable to contact any living relatives.
Dexter informed Crowley, who picked up the phone dialed an internal number, and waited before it was connected.
“Is the artist’s sketch of the suspected bomber ready? I need it before the press conference . . .” He put the phone down.
“They’re bringing a copy up now,” he told Dexter. “Go buy Tennison a coffee in the canteen . . . sweet talk her out of any nerves. I’ll come up to get you both when it’s time for the press conference.”
There was a knock on the door. A uniformed officer entered and handed Crowley a large manila envelope. As the officer left, Crowley looked at Dexter and tapped the envelope on his hand.
“This will lead us to the man we want. We get him and we’ll get the whole ASU.”
Dexter didn’t look so confident. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“Like you said, Dexter . . . the end will justify the means.”
Chapter Seven
Dexter joined Jane in the canteen. He tried to reassure her but she was apprehensive, constantly looking toward the double doors, waiting for Crowley to call her to the press conference.
“You’ve got the press statement, the one Crowley made out for you?” he asked, trying to cheer her up. “Maybe just skim over it, so that you feel confident. And put some more sugar in your coffee. It’ll give you an energy boost.”
Jane added two heaped spoons of sugar to the milky coffee, and stirred it.
“There’ll be a lot of press and cameras in there, but don’t be nervous. You want to make the public understand the carnage at the scene, just like you did when I took down your full statement, all right?”
He gently patted her shoulder, taking a sneaky look toward the canteen entrance.
“Okay, he’s here.”
Crowley gestured for them to follow him, disappearing back out of the doors as Dexter and Jane both got up from the table.
“I need the loo . . .” Jane said.
“There’s a gents’ off the canteen corridor. I’ll stand guard outside for you.” Dexter drew her chair back as she picked up her bag and the statement.
Half way down the corridor they stopped for her to pop into the gents. She went into one of the cubicles alongside the urinals and locked the door behind her. She felt as if she was going to be sick, and had to take deep breaths.
Crowley went to the conference room. While Dexter waited outside the toilet for Jane he was approached by DCI Church.
“Where is she?” Church asked.
“Taking a leak.”
“For a moment there I thought she might have got cold feet and left.”
“No, she’s up for it and remarkably calm under the circumstances.”
“Look, I’ve asked one of my team to be at her flat to look out for her tonight. He can stay until we know how this is going to play out. It may be a good idea to organize an armed SPG unit to sit outside her address and make sure she gets to and from work safely.”
Dexter nodded. “SPG’s a good
idea.”
“We’ll also have to check out her family,” Church added. “I’ve got her parents’ address, and she has a sister who’s married, living elsewhere.”
As Jane came out of the gents’ they both turned to her and smiled. It was obvious that they had been talking about her, and Church departed as soon as they saw her.
“Let’s go,” Dexter said, taking her arm.
Crowley was waiting in the ante room with Commander Gregson, who was now dressed in full uniform. Dexter wished Jane luck, and then walked out.
“Be prepared, Tennison . . . there’s a room full of journalists and a lot of cameras, but I’ll be right by your side,” Commander Gregson said, checking his watch. “We don’t want to keep them waiting any longer.”
Jane followed the Commander and Crowley out of the ante room and through the double doors that lead into the conference room. Despite Gregson’s warning, she was unprepared for the frenzy of camera flashes as they all went off in unison, creating a strobe light effect that made her feel quite dizzy.
The large room was crowded with journalists armed with notebooks and small portable cassette recorders, as well as a television crew. The three officers made their way to a raised platform, upon which stood a long table with three chairs placed behind it. The Commander sat in the middle with Crowley to his left and Jane on his right. She focused on placing her statement on the table in front of her and tried to stop shaking.
The buzz in the room quieted as the Commander slowly rose to his feet and spoke in a loud, clear voice.
“I’d like to thank you all for attending this press conference. As a result of yesterday’s callous bombing carried out by the IRA at Covent Garden tube station, five people were killed. There are also several people still in the hospital on the critical list with life-threating injuries. Many of the survivors will be scarred both mentally and physically for life. I want to make it clear to the press and public that the IRA have lied: a police officer was in no way responsible for causing the detonation of the bomb at Covent Garden. It was the merciless act of a cowardly IRA bomber, who, fearing arrest by a brave police officer, set the bomb off without warning.”
Good Friday Page 9
