Jane left Stanley making himself another cup of tea, and went to run her bath. She completely submerged her body in the perfumed, bubbly water, then surfaced and washed her hair. After a long while she thought she should perhaps get out and make up the spare bed, but when she emerged wearing a dressing gown, with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, Stanley was already in the spare room.
“Oh, I was going to put some sheets on the bed.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll just lie on top of the cover. I’m in working gear and don’t want to mess up the bed. You just carry on as if I wasn’t here, and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Okay . . . just help yourself to another cup of tea if you want one.”
“Ta. Goodnight then.”
“Goodnight, Stanley. I’m sorry, I don’t know your Christian name.”
“Nobody ever uses it. I just go by Stanley.”
Jane checked the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, and Stanley had washed up the cups and the plates, which were now drying on the draining board. She closed her bedroom door and dried her hair. There was no doubt that she felt much safer with Stanley being in the flat. She was just about to climb into bed when the phone rang, so she hurried out to the small hallway to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” a woman replied. “I’m answering your advertisement about a room to let.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m sorry to call late, but I work locally and would be very interested in viewing the room.”
“Could you give me a contact number where I can reach you?”
“Yes, I suppose my work place would be the best number as I’m there all day. I work in Madame Tussaud’s.”
“Oh, well, this area would be convenient for you . . . but let me call you tomorrow.”
“Is the room still available to rent? I have to move out of the place that I’m currently living in.”
“Yes, the room’s still available. Can I take your name and date of birth please?” Jane asked.
“Yes, of course . . . I’m Pearl Radcliff, born October 25th, 1951. I have my previous rental details as well as references from where I’ve stayed previously.”
Jane wrote down Pearl’s details and a phone number. She apologized that she couldn’t arrange a viewing straightaway as she was unsure what her availability was, but said that she would call her back as soon as she knew.
“Oh, is there any chance I could come by tomorrow evening, after I finish work?”
Jane hesitated, then agreed that she would call her back when she returned from work later, to let her know if it was convenient.
“Who was that?” Stanley asked, standing in the doorway of the spare bedroom.
“It was in response to an advert I put in the local newsagents. I want to rent out the room you’re sleeping in.”
“Are you sure that’s wise with everything that’s going on at the moment?”
“I need a lodger to help pay the mortgage. Besides, I don’t see why I should change my plans because of what’s happened.”
“Well, it’s up to you. Bit small, isn’t it? How much are you charging?”
“Why? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of moving in. I’m only letting it out to a female.”
Stanley shrugged and pointed to the phone. “You make sure you check their background and get a good wad up front, as well as a deposit. You know you need to have it all vetted, as well as fill in a form at the Met? You’d be surprised how many people rent somewhere and have no intention of paying rent, or of ever moving out. I once let out a room to a photographer who paid two month’s rent in advance . . . Eighteen months later he hadn’t paid another penny, so I threw him out the window by the scruff of his neck, followed by his cameras. So if you get a dodgy lodger you know who to contact . . . I’ll sort it.” He patted his chest, unintentionally revealing a holster and weapon by his left armpit.
“Really? How do you go about doing that?”
“It’s called the ‘Ways and Means Act.’ Getting somethin’ done without sticking to the rules.”
“Thanks for the advice, Stanley . . . Goodnight.”
As soon as her bedroom door was closed Stanley went over to the small hall table and glanced at the notepad. He saw the name “Pearl Radcliff” and the date of birth. Returning to the spare room, he jotted down the details. He’d do a precautionary check in case Jane didn’t follow the Mets rules. Then he lay on the bed, smoking.
Jane was oblivious to the fact that, throughout the night, Stanley checked the flat over every hour, even going down to the front door and back up the stairs. He only had a couple of hours sleep and had used the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and washed his hands and face by the time Jane surfaced.
“Good morning! I’ve made a cup of tea and some toast for you. I’ve had mine.”
“Gosh, thank you. I might change my mind about having only a female flatmate . . . you’re very domesticated.”
Stanley smiled and told her he was just going out to fetch some newspapers, giving Jane time to have her breakfast and get dressed. She handed him her front door key and he left.
Stanley crossed the road and headed into the newsagents. He bought a selection of papers before returning to the flat. He didn’t go back up to the top floor, but sat on the stairs looking at the front page and inside coverage of the press conference. One of the headlines read “Brave Met Detective Stared Death in the Face,” and under it was a picture of Jane and the artist’s impression of the suspect. All the papers had similar headlines and articles about how she “stood up to” or “tried to arrest” the bomber, along with pictures of Jane, some at the Covent Garden explosion and others at the press conference. It concerned Stanley that the Bomb Squad’s eagerness to trace the suspect now meant Jane could be easily recognized. After he had accompanied her to Woolwich he would talk to DCI Church again about the likelihood of retaliation from the IRA, as the articles made it clear that Jane could identify the bomber.
Jane was dressed and ready by the time Stanley returned. Letting himself in with her key, he put the newspapers into his holdall and then stood in the narrow hall, ready to go. Jane was wearing an old skirt and a worn jacket with a polo necked sweater. She also had on a pair of old hiking boots.
“I was told not to wear anything decent as I’ll be sifting through the debris brought in from Covent Garden,” Jane explained, as she caught him staring at her boots. “I want to drive there.”
“Right, we should get a move on. It’ll take a good hour to get over to the unit. We’ll have to go through the Blackwall Tunnel but as we’re in good time we should miss the traffic.”
They left Jane’s flat and walked some distance down Melcombe Street before stopping beside Jane’s VW. Stanley put out his hand to stop her opening the door. Only once he had checked beneath it and walked all around the car did he give her clearance to get in.
“You’ve not registered this vehicle with us at the office?” he asked.
“I’ve only had it a few weeks. I mostly just use it at weekends, and will probably park it near my parents’ flat.”
“That sounds sensible, since we get our tube fares paid anyway. It’s a nice car . . . although yellow’s not my color, a bit on the bright side. I’ve never been in one of these. What did it cost?”
“It was second hand . . . my dad got it for me at a good price. Now, do you want to map read? There’s an A–Z in the glove compartment.”
Jane was impressed by Stanley’s street knowledge, although his delivery left something to be desired as he often shouted out instructions at the last minute, not giving her enough time to indicate. She was not yet a proficient driver and he made her jump more than once as he swore and became annoyed when she missed a turning. He took her though back streets to avoid the congestion in central London, but as they neared the Blackwall Tunnel the cars were already bumper to bumper. By the time they entered the tunnel their progress was very slow. Stanley leaned back and went to sleep, snoring loudly, as J
ane drove on, realizing that even with an early start she was going to be late for her first day.
By the time they left the tunnel Stanley had woken up and barked another instruction as they arrived at an ornate brownstone building. A security barrier was in position and after seeing their warrant cards the MOD police officer pointed to the guard house and told them to book themselves and their vehicle in. They were issued with personal passes and a car pass. The estate was big and they drove over to the Royal Armament Research and Development Establishment, where the Forensics Explosives Lab was based.
They parked the car and after Jane had been authorized to access the lab, Stanley left, telling her that he would be at the Dip Squad base at Vine Street if she needed him. He disappeared before she could thank him, and she felt rather nervous. Not only was she late, but she was about to start working in a totally different environment to the offices she was used to at Hackney and Bow Street. As she entered the main lab she saw several white-coated forensic scientists at work on long trestle tables. Jane was relieved to see DS Lawrence, whom she knew from working on other cases. He seemed pleased to see her and walked toward her smiling.
“Hi Jane, I was only told this morning that you’d be coming. You need to go see the head scientist first and he’ll brief you on what you’ll be doing here. His office is down the corridor on the left. And don’t worry if you hear gunfire or explosions—they test the stuff out on the waste land. Maybe we can catch up at lunchtime in the canteen.”
The head scientist was stern-faced as he took down her details and made her sign a non-disclosure form about working at the explosives lab. He appeared displeased at having her foisted onto the team, as she had no forensic qualifications. However, he knew the reasons for her being there and eventually told her to go and see the MOD police sergeant at a large hangar style building with a corrugated roof at the rear of the premises.
As Jane entered the building she could see a group of men and two women at work sifting through numbered dustbins filled with debris which she realized must be from the Covent Garden bomb site. Most of them were dressed in industrial style buff boiler suits, although a few were wearing white laboratory coats. Some of them were also wearing masks to protect themselves from the dust particles that permeated the room like a morning mist haze. There were numbered white ground sheets on the floor and numbered sheets covering trestle tables. Next to each ground sheet was a large numbered bin bag.
“You WDC Tennison?” a gruff-voiced man asked her bluntly.
Jane read the tag on his boiler suit breast pocket—MOD SGT—and produced her pass and warrant card to introduce herself. The sergeant went over to a metal cabinet and took out a boiler suit that he threw to Jane, followed by long rubber gloves and a mask. He explained that the staff in the boiler suits were police officers, and those in lab coats were forensic scientists. As Jane put it on the sergeant told her she would be sifting through the debris for bomb shards and other material. Jane said that she didn’t know exactly what bomb shards looked like. Irritated by her comment the sergeant shook his head and told her that was why the scientists were in the hangar.
“Your job is to sift through the contents of a bin using your hands and the sieves provided. As you can see, each dustbin is zone numbered and corresponds to an area at the bomb site from which the debris was collected. Put any fabric you find into the same numbered bin bag. Large fragments of metal on the same numbered ground sheet, and ditto with the small bits on the trestle table so the experts can examine them and decide what is potential evidence. Grab a clipboard and exhibits book from the cabinet and start on bin eight.”
It was after midday when DS Lawrence arrived with the head scientist. Due to the constant sifting Jane was now filthy with brick dust, which had even got into her hair. The mask hadn’t been much use; her mouth was dry and her nostrils itched from the dust. Lawrence came and looked at the debris she had sifted through and laid out on the ground sheet and trestle table. She had found a few large fragments of metal, a small buckle still attached to a thin piece of leather strap, two bits of coiled wire with metal on one end and the tattered bloody remnants of a man’s shoe, the toecap of which had a small shard of metal stuck in it. As Jane listed each item in the exhibits book, along with detailed descriptions, Lawrence looked closely at the smaller items she had placed on the trestle table. She could tell from the look on his face that something had intrigued him.
“Do you think they could be important?” Jane asked.
“Well, from the size of them, that leather strap and buckle look like they could be from a rucksack fastener. The small pieces of metal are also interesting . . . What location was this stuff recovered from?”
“Zone 8,” she told him.
Lawrence looked at the clipboard he was holding, which contained details of each zone that debris had been swept up from. He tapped the clipboard then asked the head scientist to come over.
“Zone 8 was near the seat of the explosion,” he explained. As the scientist closely examined the wire and small pieces of metal, Lawrence added, “He’s an expert in identifying bomb fragments and examining debris for traces of nitroglycerine.”
The scientist used a magnifying glass to look more closely at the small metal fragments and wire.
“Who found these?”
“I did, sir . . . are they important?”
“Good spot, young lady. I’d say the wire and bit of metal attached to it are from a detonator. I need to look at some other stuff from zone 4, so bag these pieces up separately and I’ll sign your exhibits book so I can carry out a further examination and explosives residue test in the lab.”
As the scientist walked off, Jane turned to Lawrence. “I didn’t have a clue what they were when I saw them.”
Lawrence smiled. “To be honest it’s not my field of expertise, so I wasn’t sure either. The same scientist you just spoke with attended the post mortems and found other bomb fragments embedded in the ticket guard’s body. It was tragic that he died that way, but the items recovered from his body could offer up vital clues about the origin of the parts used to make the bomb.”
Jane didn’t need to ask what state his body was in, as she’d seen it for herself at the scene. She added the details to the exhibits book and packaged the items separately for the scientist before placing them on a trolley with other items of importance.
Jane accompanied Lawrence as he pushed the trolley laden with exhibits across to the chemistry lab in the main building opposite. As they walked along the corridor Jane looked through the small window into a side room. She could see that the room was filled with heavily blood stained clothing, and that many items were bomb damaged, shredded and burned. They were labeled and pegged up on clothes lines, pools of dripping blood had gathered on the plastic sheets below from when they were initially hung up to dry. Lawrence explained that there were large heaters in the room to dry the clothes and remnants before they were examined. The awful state of the clothes and the blood-stained baby blanket, which she recognized, were evidence of the horrific injuries many of the victims must have suffered.
Jane made her way to the ladies’ to wash her hands and face. It was hard to get rid of the gritty powder on her clothes and even though she had been wearing gloves she could feel dust underneath her nails. Lawrence was waiting for her in the corridor to lead her up a flight of stairs to the canteen.
Lawrence sat down beside Jane as they placed their trays onto one of the dining tables. Jane was having meat loaf with vegetables, and they both had coffee. Lawrence seemed on edge, sipping only a few spoons of his soup before pushing it aside.
“You know, I wanted to be brought onto this case but it is so time-consuming, and some of the equipment here is archaic. I just read an FBI article on gas-chromatography and mass spectrometry testing. The Yanks have developed a QUADRUPOLE capillary column GC-MS. It’s an analytical work horse for breaking molecules into ionized fragments using their mass-to-charge ratio. Mind you, they don’t
have the talented and highly trained forensic experts that we have.”
Jane laughed. “Like you, you mean?”
Lawrence shrugged. “I’m not blowing my own trumpet but interpreting and finding the clues at murder scenes is my forte. Here, we already know that people were killed by a bomb; it’s tedious work sifting stuff by hand, not to mention using eye verification for minute bits of a bomb.”
Lawrence’s frustration was obvious. As he was talking Jane spotted DS Dexter, who was in the line of officers waiting to be served hot food. He was wearing a checked shirt, casual fawn trousers and his tie was hanging loose. He was laughing with one of the canteen servers and on turning around with his tray he saw Jane, smiled and headed toward her table.
“Hello there!” he said. “I meant to catch you in the lab but I was nabbed by Crowley who was having a fit about someone who had parked a VW in a scientist’s reserved parking bay and didn’t have a permit displayed . . . probably one of the wooden tops assisting in the debris hangar.”
Jane blushed and jumped up.
“You haven’t finished your lunch!” Dexter said, surprised.
“I’ll be right back . . . just forgotten something.” She rushed out, looking flustered.
Dexter dumped his tray down on the table and patted Lawrence on the shoulder. “Hey, my man, how’re you doing?”
“Been at it all morning, taking scrapings of blood and fiber lifts off smashed bricks, in between piecing together sections of body parts over at the Westminster Mortuary, so I’ve not got too much of a spring in my step, actually. Have a seat.” Lawrence buttered his crackers and loaded them with cheese.
Dexter’s eyes rested on Jane’s empty seat. “She’s very attractive, our new colleague . . . You worked with her before, Paul? Or has your legendary charm enticed her to dine with you today?”
“We were both at Hackney and then Bow Street. Nobody else was talking to her, so I brought her up for lunch. How come you know her?”
Good Friday Page 11
