The Dirty Dozen
Page 1
Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA and worked with the National Theatre and RDC before becoming a television actress. She then turned to writing—and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows. Her novels have all been international bestsellers.
Her original script for the much-acclaimed Prime Suspect won awards from BAFTA, Emmy, British Broadcasting and Royal Television Society, as well as the 1993 Edgar Allan Poe Award. Lynda has written and produced over 170 hours of international television.
Lynda is one of only three screenwriters to have been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute and was awarded the BAFTA Dennis Potter Best Writer Award in 2000. In 2008, she was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List for services to Literature, Drama and Charity.
If you would like to hear from Lynda, please sign up at www.bit.ly/LyndaLaPlanteClub or you can visit www.lyndalaplante.com for further information. You can also follow Lynda on Facebook and Twitter @LaPlanteLynda.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © La Plante Global Limited, 2019
Cover design by Zaffre Art Department
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Author photograph © Monte Farber
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Typeset by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.
First published in the United States of America in 2019 by Zaffre
Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
80–81
Wimpole Street, London W1G 9RE
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4998-6212-6
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4998-6211-9
For information, contact
251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Readers’ Club
A message from Lynda La Plante . . .
To celebrate the centenary of female officers in the Metropolitan Police Service
Chapter One
It was a rainy and overcast April morning as the brown 1976 Mark 4 Ford Cortina sedan parked up on the offside of Aylmer Road, a few meters down from the junction with Leytonstone High Road. The four men in the vehicle sat in silence as the engine slowly ticked over and the windscreen wipers swept away the rain. The men were dressed in blue coveralls, heavy black donkey jackets and leather driving gloves. The heat from their bodies was making the windows mist up and the musty odor of sweat filled the car. The man in the back opened his window a couple of inches and the two men in the front used their jacket sleeves to wipe the condensation off the windscreen, so they could get a better view of Barclays Bank on the far side of the High Road. The bank manager was holding an umbrella as he opened the large wooden front doors for business at 9:30. Smartly dressed in a three-piece gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and tie, he stood to one side to let two customers in, and looked up the High Road, which was quieter than usual for a Thursday morning due to the bad weather.
As the manager turned and walked back inside, the driver of the Cortina put a cap on and opened the car door. He hadn’t seen the elderly lady pulling a canvas shopping trolley along the pavement, and narrowly missed hitting her with the door. The lady swore at him, but the driver ignored her and pulled the peak of his cap down, before walking towards the bank.
As the old lady moved off, one of the men in the back of the Cortina reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a twelve-bore, double-barreled, sawn-off shotgun. He pushed the unlocking lever to one side to “break” the gun, then placed a cartridge in each chamber. Holding the wooden stock of the gun with one hand, he snapped the barrel closed with a well-practiced upward flick of his wrist, then slid the shotgun into a home-made pocket inside his jacket.
Jane drove up and down Rigg Approach twice, but couldn’t see a police station or blue lamp anywhere. She was becoming frustrated and beginning to wonder if she’d got the right place, as she appeared to be in an industrial estate with a variety of different businesses. She parked her yellow Volkswagen Golf opposite a mobile burger van, and got out to speak to the owner. Pulling her coat up over her head, to protect her hair from the rain, she ran across the road.
“Excuse me, is there a police station near here?” she asked.
“There’s no nick around here, luv. The nearest are Stoke Newington or Hackney—a couple of miles away, but in opposite directions.”
“I know where they are, but I’m looking for the Flying Squad offices, which I was told were in Rigg Approach.”
“The Sweeney work out of that place over there, not a nick,” he said, pointing to a two-storey, gray-brick office building with a flat roof. “I know most of the lads, as they’re regulars at my van. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”
“The DCI. I’ve got an appointment with him.”
“Bill Murphy? That’s his office on the top floor—far right. I don’t think he’s in yet, as he hasn’t been down for his usual bacon and egg roll.”
“Thanks for your help.”
Jane crossed the road and on closer inspection thought the building looked run-down. Although there were large windows on both floors, the ground floor ones all had faded white metal Venetian blinds, which were closed. The metal front door had a numbered push-button entry pad above the handle, and an intercom on the wall beside it. As Jane pressed the button on the intercom, she wondered what the building would be like on the inside.
“How can I help you?” a female voice asked over the intercom.
“I’m WDS Tennison. I’m here to see DCI Murphy.”
“Is he expecting you?” the woman asked, in a haughty manner.
“Yes, he is. I start on the Flying Squad today and was told to report to his office for ten a.m.”
“It’s only 9:30, and he didn’t mention you to me—new officers generally start on Mondays.”
“I’ve been in court all week and . . . Look, I’m getting soaked out here. Can you please open the door or tell me the number for the entry pad?”
The woman sighed. “I suppose so . . . The squad office is on the first floor.”
Jane thought the woman was rude and wondered if she was a detective on the squad or clerical staff. A
s she waited for the electronic lock to be released, she flapped her coat to remove some of the rain. As it was her first day on the Flying Squad, Jane wanted to look good and had worn a blue two-piece skirt suit, white blouse, stockings and black high-heeled shoes. She heard the electronic lock on the door buzz, and leaned forward to open it. Her hand was on the round knob when the door was pulled open with force from the inside, causing Jane to stumble forward. She felt a hand grab her arm tightly, stopping her from falling over.
“You all right, luv?” a deep male voice asked, as the man helped her straighten up.
Jane was dwarfed by the man. She noticed he had a pickaxe handle in his left hand. He was about six foot seven, with wide shoulders and a muscular frame. He had blond hair, blue eyes and boyish looks. He was dressed in a white England rugby shirt with the red rose emblem on the left breast.
“Come on, Bax, I need to get the motor fired up,” the man behind him said in a broad Scottish accent, as he used a pickaxe handle to usher Jane and Bax to one side. He looked to be in his late thirties, and although slightly smaller, at about six foot two, he had a large beer belly.
Bax frowned. “All right, Cam, less haste more speed.”
Jane heard footsteps running down the metal stairs.
A male voice called out, “Right, I’m tooled up, so we’re good to go, Bax. The Guv and the Colonel are booking out their guns and will go in Cam’s car. Teflon is on his way round the front with Dabs in the Triumph for us.”
Jane instantly recognized the voice of Detective Sergeant Stanley, who she had worked with on the “Dip Squad” a few years ago. They had also been involved in the hunt for an active IRA unit that had bombed Covent Garden Tube Station. Stanley had helped to disarm a car bomb and been awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for his bravery.
Jane looked up and saw the short, slim frame of Stanley tucking a police issue .38 revolver into a shoulder holster under his brown leather jacket. He still had his long, dark, straggly hair, but had grown a thick moustache, which on first sight didn’t suit him.
“Hi, Stanley.” Jane waved. She still didn’t know what his Christian name was, as everyone just called him “Stanley.”
“Tennison, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been transferred to the Flying Squad.”
“Have you? That’s news to me.”
“And me,” Bax said.
Jane thought it strange that no one seemed to know about her transfer, and began to wonder if she’d got the right starting day.
“Are you off on a shout?” she asked.
“Yeah, we just got a call from Information Room. There might be a robbery about to go down in Leytonstone. Gotta go, so I’ll catch up with you later.”
Stanley hurried out of the building with Bax.
Jane started to walk up the stairs when two more men appeared, armed with .38 revolvers carried in belt holsters around their waists. The man in front was wearing a blue baseball cap and tight white T-shirt, which accentuated his muscular frame and large biceps. As he hurried down the stairs two at a time, Jane moved quickly to one side to let him pass.
The man behind wasn’t rushing and stopped in front of Jane. He had a chiseled jawline, defined cheekbones and a slightly misshapen nose, which looked like it had been broken in a fight. He wasn’t dressed casually like the others, and wore a tailored slim-fit gray suit and white open-neck shirt. He sniffed and stared at Jane with narrow eyes.
“You Tennison?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, sensing his air of authority.
“I’m DI Kingston. We’re short on the ground today as some of the team are out with the surveillance squad on another job, so you may as well come with us.”
“What, to Leytonstone?”
“No, to a tea party,” he replied, drily.
“DCI Murphy was expecting—”
“He’s not back from Scotland Yard yet, so come on, shift your backside.”
Kingston had the swagger of a confident man and Jane followed him out to the street, where she saw Stanley sitting in the front of a dark green four-door Triumph 2500S, which had a blue magnetic flashing light on top of it. A black man was driving and Bax was in the back, with a diminutive-looking man wearing dark glasses next to him. Behind the Triumph, Cam was in the driver’s seat of a four-door black BMW 525i, again with a flashing light on the roof and its engine running.
“We’re in the Beamer,” Kingston told her.
“Come on, Guv!” the man in the white T-shirt shouted from the back seat of the BMW.
Kingston got in the front passenger seat as Jane ran around the back of the car and got in behind Cam, but there was little room for her legs as the driver’s seat was almost as far back as it would go. No sooner was she in the car than Cam pulled the automatic gearstick to drive, and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The car took off at high speed, causing Jane to jolt backwards, and it felt like someone had pushed her hard in the chest as her back slammed against the seat. As Cam braked at the T-junction, she felt her body lurch forward, but just managed to get her hands on the back of his seat to brace herself before her head hit it. The Colonel had his feet firmly propped up against the front passenger seat and a large London A-Z open on his lap.
“Fastest route is left onto Lea Bridge Road, then right—”
“I’ve worked this manor for years, so I know how to get there, Colonel,” Cam said calmly, and turned the siren on.
Kingston opened the glove box and picked up the radio mike.
“MP from Central 888, receiving, over?”
“Yes, go ahead, Central 888, MP, over,” a male voice replied.
“We are en route with Central 887 to Aylmer Road and the men acting suspiciously near Barclays Bank. Any updates?”
“The vehicle is still in situ. It’s a brown Mark 4 Ford Cortina, 1.6 liter saloon, index plate Sierra Lima Mike 273 Romeo. The vehicle is not reported stolen and may have false plates as the PNC shows a blue Mark 4, 1.6 GL saloon with a registered keeper in Sussex.”
“Can you give me the informant’s details, please?” Kingston got out his pocket notebook and pen.
“Fiona Simpson. She’s the landlady of the Crown public house on the High Road and corner of Aylmer. She lives on the premises and noticed the suspect vehicle parked up with its engine running and wipers on. The driver has left the vehicle and turned right into the High Road, out of sight of the informant. He’s wearing a gray cap, black donkey jacket and blue overalls.”
“Number of other occupants in the Cortina?” Kingston asked.
“The informant can only see the nearside of the vehicle. One male in the front passenger seat and another male behind him, both wearing dark clothing.”
Kingston ran his hand through his hair.
“There could be a robbery about to take place, MP. We and Central 887 are armed gunships. Our ETA is about four minutes, so tell uniform to hold back until we get there.”
“Received and understood . . . we will advise you of any developments . . . MP, over.”
Jane felt uneasy. As it was her first day on the infamous “Sweeney,” she wasn’t sure what was expected of her, especially if DI Kingston was right in thinking an armed robbery was about to take place.
The driver of the Cortina returned to the car.
“She’s coming,” he said, as he got in the car and put on a full-face balaclava, which had a mouth and eye holes cut out.
The two men in the back also put on balaclavas, but the man in the front passenger seat pulled a light brown stocking over his head, which distorted the features of his face. Having adjusted the stocking so it was comfortable, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a Second World War 9mm German Luger, then pulled back the toggle, which loaded a bullet from the magazine into the chamber.
The four men sat and watched as the blue Ford Transit Securicor van pulled up outside the bank. The driver remained in the van while his colleague went to the rear and looked up and down the High Road, bef
ore knocking three times, pausing and then knocking twice.
The passenger from the front of the Cortina and the two men from the back got out of the car and strode with purpose toward the bank. The men knew exactly what they had to do, as everything had been well planned thanks to the information they had received about the cash-in-transit delivery. They knew from experience that robbing the Securicor van should take no more than a minute. As the cash box appeared in the chute at the rear of the van, the three men pounced with military precision.
Jane was beginning to feel nauseous due to the speed Cam was driving and the way he was skidding the car around corners and roundabouts in the rain. She’d been in police pursuits before, but never encountered high-speed driving as dangerous as this.
“This is our new WDS, Jane Tennison,” Kingston told the others, as he lit a cigarette and handed one to the Colonel.
The rim of the Colonel’s cap cast a shadow over his steely eyes and accentuated his high cheekbones and dimpled chin.
“Hello,” Jane said.
“You really been posted to the squad?” the Colonel asked as he lit his cigarette.
“Yes, sir.” She put her hand out to shake his.
He didn’t reciprocate. “Well, you’ve got a bit more essence than most plonks.”
Jane didn’t have a clue what he meant by “essence” and wasn’t sure she should ask.
Kingston laughed. “Gorman’s not an officer—he’s an ex-corporal and just a lowly DC, who thinks you’re better looking than most female officers.”
Jane blushed, embarrassed that the Colonel thought she had “essence.”
“My father was a soldier and served in the Second World War.”
He glared at her as he pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing a globe with a laurel wreath on either side and an anchor at the bottom, with the Latin words Per Mare, Per Terram underneath.
“I’m a Bootneck not a Pongo! I was a Marine Commando in the Royal Navy before I joined the Met. My name’s Ken, but this bunch of knobheads decided to call me the Colonel. The tattoo is the Marines’ insignia and the Latin means ‘By Sea, By Land.’ ”