The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “The cartridge is nearly forty years old—what sort of gun do you think it was fired from?”

  “I don’t know . . . Again, that’s a job for the lab to determine. I’ve seen older ammo and nine-mill is used in different makes of revolvers and semi-automatics.”

  “Will you be able to get fingerprints off the cartridge?”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, when a gun is fired, the heat created has a destructive effect on any fingerprint evidence. Even unfired bullets are almost impossible to get a print off.”

  “What’s GSR?” she asked, remembering Kingston referring to it.

  “Gunshot residue. A plume of gas and GSR particles is ejected from the barrel of a gun when it’s fired, and the residue gets deposited on the skin and clothing of the person who fired the gun. It can also be found on the clothing of the victim, but that depends on how close they were to the gun when it was fired.”

  “So, the suspect who fired the gun that left these casings will have GSR on them.”

  “Yes, on his clothes for sure, but if he washes his hands and body then it’s gone from his skin. Whenever we arrest any suspects for armed robbery, we always Sellotape their hands for GSR and the lab examines the tapings under a scanning electron microscope to look for GSR as evidence they have fired, handled or been near a gun.”

  “You know a lot about firearms and bullets,” Jane said respectfully.

  “Enough to get me by, but the forensic scientists are the experts. If you fancy it, you can come to the lab with me when I submit the cartridge cases and other evidence for examination. I think you’d find the firearms section really interesting and informative.”

  “I’d like that, thank you.”

  She was warming to Dabs. His helpful, polite manner reminded her of Paul Lawrence.

  “I’ve ordered a tow truck to remove the police car to the lab, then it can be examined for any bullets that may be lodged in it. We need to crack on and photograph the scene, then gather up the cartridge cases before it gets here.”

  Arriving at the bank with the Colonel, Kingston spoke briefly to a uniformed PC and asked where the Securicor guards were. The officer told him they were in the bank manager’s office and the off-duty PC who’d got shot was in the ambulance parked next to the Securicor van. The back doors of the ambulance were open, and Kingston could see one of the crew attending to someone on a stretcher. He thought it strange that someone who’d got shot in the stomach wasn’t rushed to hospital. The Colonel looked around the area where the Securicor van was parked. He saw a small pool of blood near the front of the van and some droplets leading to the back of the ambulance.

  “I’d have expected more blood and guts from a close-range shotgun discharge,” the Colonel said, and noticed something odd. “If that’s your shotgun victim in the ambulance he’s a lucky sod.”

  “What?” Kingston was bemused by the Colonel’s glib remark.

  “Look there, by the blood, there’s a load of rice grains on the pavement.”

  Kingston realized that the shotgun cartridge must have been loaded with rice, as opposed to lead pellets. He stepped up into the ambulance and saw a young man, aged about nineteen, who was clearly still in shock and grimacing with pain while having his stomach and chest wounds cleaned with iodine. Kingston held up his warrant card and introduced himself.

  “I take it you’re the officer who got shot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “PC 642 Richard Beadle, sir. I’m a probationer attached to Edmonton Police Station.”

  “Well, you’re very lucky, Richard. From the looks of it the shotgun cartridges were loaded with rice—which is why you’re still alive. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “I was going to the bank to collect some drachmas I’d ordered for a holiday in Corfu with my girlfriend. I’d just got off the bus and was crossing the road when I saw a masked man holding a sawn-off shotgun at the Securicor driver. I realized a robbery was happening and I thought he was on his own. He hadn’t seen me, so I ran up behind him and tried to get the gun off him.” He paused to take a deep breath as the memory of the moment was making him close to tears. “The next thing I knew he’d knocked me to the ground and was pointing the gun at me. I closed my eyes and begged him not to shoot . . . Then there was a loud bang and I felt something thump hard into my stomach . . . The pain was unbelievable, and I thought I was going to die.” A few tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Did the man with the shotgun say anything?”

  “I don’t know, but when I opened my eyes I saw three masked men getting into a car, which drove off. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to stop the robbery, sir.”

  Kingston put his hand on the officer’s shoulder.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry about, son. What you did was very brave. On the positive side, you’re not dead and can still go to Corfu with your girlfriend.”

  The officer smiled and wiped the tears from his face. Kingston said he would need him to make a written statement before he went on holiday. The officer said he wasn’t going on holiday until Saturday morning and lived at Lea Bridge Road section house, a police dormitory close to the station. Kingston told him he’d get a Flying Squad officer to take the statement from him on Friday morning at the section house.

  “I need to speak to some other witnesses. You take care and have a good holiday,” Kingston said, then he stepped out of the ambulance.

  The Colonel stayed behind to speak to the young officer.

  “Let me give you a bit of advice, son. While I admire your bravery, what you did was stupid. If that gun had been loaded with lead pellets it could have gone off when you tackled the suspect and members of the public may have been injured or killed. The money they stole is immaterial and not worth dying for—so next time think twice before putting your life and other people’s on the line.”

  The officer’s lower lip trembled as he acknowledged the advice he’d been given. The Colonel got his wallet out and tucked a five-pound note into the officer’s trouser pocket.

  “That should get you pissed tonight and numb the pain. Make sure you get a doctor’s sick certificate, then you won’t have to use annual leave for your holiday.” He winked.

  The Colonel joined Kingston by the steps of the bank, where he was speaking to the senior SOCO, who had just arrived. They knew each other of old and Kingston told him about the robbery and what he knew so far. The SOCO said that on the face of it there weren’t many forensic opportunities at the bank scene, as the men wore gloves, and would no doubt dispose of their donkey jackets and overalls, but he’d do his best.

  “I’ll seize the outer clothing from the officer who got shot—there should be a cross-transference of fibers as he struggled with one of the robbers. Have you got someone doing exhibits who I can give the items I seize to?” the SOCO asked.

  “Yeah, WDS Tennison. She’s a bit wet behind the ears when it comes to robbery scenes as she just started with us today,” Kingston told him.

  The SOCO was taken aback. “A woman on the Flying Squad? My God, this integration thing is getting out of hand.”

  “Tell me about it,” Kingston said, and he went into the bank.

  “Who’d she sleep with to get on the squad?” the SOCO asked when Kingston was out of earshot.

  The Colonel shrugged. “Don’t know, but my money’s on Kingston shagging her within a week.”

  The SOCO laughed. “He still got a roving eye then?”

  “More like a roving dick, which rules his brain when it comes to a bit of skirt with big tits.”

  “So where is this Tennison?”

  The SOCO looked into the bank, eager to see what she looked like for himself.

  “Not here, she’s with Dabs Morgan at the crash site.” He stepped towards the bank, then stopped. “We call her Treacle, and believe it or not she’s OK about it.”

  “Really?” The SOCO was unsure.

  “Yeah, she se
ems to have a sense of humor, unlike most plonks.”

  The Colonel walked off with a sly grin the SOCO didn’t see.

  Chapter Four

  Dabs photographed the spent cartridge cases where they’d fallen, at a distance and close up, then left Jane to gather and package them while he photographed the skid marks and blood trail before taking some swabs, which he gave to Jane. As instructed by Dabs, she put the four cartridge cases into small individual plastic containers, then separate exhibits bags. She did the same with the four blood swabs and made a detailed entry in the exhibits book of the items seized, writing a description, date, time and place found.

  “Will these be your exhibits or mine?” Jane asked Dabs when he returned.

  “The squad detective always signs and numbers them as his.” He realized his error. “Or hers . . . Sorry, I meant you need to do that as the exhibits officer.”

  Jane smiled. “It’s all right, I know what you meant.”

  She signed the exhibits bags and put JT/1, 2, 3 and 4 on the ones containing the cartridge cases, and JT/5 to JT/7 for the blood swabs, as the reference numbers.

  “If anyone gets arrested and goes to court, you’ll give evidence about where they were found and what forensics work they were submitted for,” Dabs told her, and he looked back up the road towards the crashed police car. “We won’t know how many bullets are in Juliet 1 until we examine it under cover at the lab.” He moved a few feet into the road. “The man with the handgun stood and fired about here, as the cartridge cases ejected to the right. We need to examine the parked cars on both sides of the road for any stray bullet holes, and check underneath them, as well as in the road, in case any bullets bounced off the police car.”

  “Shall I do one side, while you check the other?” Jane asked.

  “It’s probably better we do it together—as they say, two heads are better than one.”

  Jane appreciated he was politely saying he didn’t want to risk her missing a bullet hole or indentation in one of the cars. They started on the left-hand side and found nothing on, or under, the cars they looked at. They were having the same result on the opposite side of the road until they reached a silver two-door Ford Fiesta hatchback parked nearest to the crash site. Dabs pointed to the tarmac by the front of the vehicle.

  “See the pool of water there . . . ? You notice anything unusual about it?”

  Jane thought his remark odd.

  “No. What’s unusual about a pool of water after it’s been raining?”

  “It’s a rusty brown color, like you sometimes get from a leaky car radiator.”

  She realized what he was thinking. “And if something’s leaking it must have a hole in it.”

  “Exactly, and in this case the hole might have been caused by a bullet.”

  He put on some latex gloves, then took a picture of the Fiesta with the camera he was still carrying over his shoulder.

  Jane looked closely at the front of the car.

  “I can’t see a bullet hole anywhere.”

  He crouched down and put his right index finger between two of the grille slats.

  “That’s because these are wide enough apart for a bullet to pass between without hitting the grille.” He crouched further and looked under the car. “There it is.” He held the camera at ground level and took some photographs.

  Jane crouched down and could see a small cylindrical silver object, which she realized must be a bullet.

  “Looks like it lost velocity when it passed through the radiator, then it hit the engine block and fell to the floor.”

  He got on his hands and knees and started to lower himself to the road to get to the bullet.

  “You’ll get your clothes dirty—shall I look for a stick or something to get it out with?”

  He didn’t stop what he was doing as he lay on the road and reached under the car.

  “No, we never do that, or use tweezers to pick up bullets. The last thing you want to do is mark or damage them in any way.” He picked up the bullet, then stood up and showed it to her. “Although it’s squashed a bit at the top it’s in reasonable condition.” He held the bullet flat in the palm of his hand. “There’s marks on it left by the rifling inside the barrel of the gun.”

  He pointed to some tiny linear marks and asked Jane to put on some latex gloves and hold the bullet, so he could take some close-up photographs of it.

  Jane thought they looked like scratches and asked him what he meant by rifling.

  “A firearms expert would be able to explain it better, but basically every gun barrel is rifled during manufacture. The rifling process creates spiral grooves that run along the barrel and improve a bullet’s accuracy as it rotates during flight. A fired bullet goes out through the barrel and ends up with mirrored markings on it, which match the rifling on the inside of the barrel . . . Am I making sense?”

  “Yes, I think so. The principle sounds the same as striation marks left on bones when a body is cut up,” she said, remembering a case she had had where a body was dismembered with a hacksaw by a dentist.

  “That’s right, if somewhat gruesome. There are several methods used in rifling a barrel, which in turn makes a revolver or semi-automatic unique in its own way.”

  “Like a sort of fingerprint?” she asked.

  He nodded, and she continued.

  “So, if we recover the gun that fired the bullet, the barrel can be examined to see if the rifling marks on the bullet are the same.”

  “Sort of, but not quite like you described. The lab will test fire the suspect gun in water, then compare the test bullet against the ones recovered from the scene of the shooting. If the markings on the test bullet match the suspect ones, then you know you have the gun that was used in the robbery. But even if we don’t recover a gun, the marks on this bullet can help identify the type and model of firearm that was used.”

  “How do they test fire in water?” she asked, imagining someone in a swimming pool firing a gun at a target.

  “You’ll see when you come with me to the lab, so I won’t spoil it by explaining.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small round plastic container in which he placed the damaged bullet. Handing it to Jane, she put it in an exhibits bag, then signed and marked the bag JT/8. She also entered the details in the exhibits book.

  “What about the skid marks—will they be of any use for tire impressions?” she asked.

  “I’ve already photographed them, though they won’t be a lot of use unless we find the car the robbers were in—even then it was probably a nicked or ringed motor. Ideally, we’d need evidence like their fingerprints, or fibers from their clothing inside the vehicle, to physically put them in it.”

  “A young girl I spoke to, who witnessed the incident, said the two men she saw get out of the Cortina wore masks and gloves; they were also dressed the same in donkey jackets and blue coveralls.”

  “That’s your standard outfit for an armed blagger these days. Bank robbers are often forensically aware, having been nicked before, but they’re not as bright as they like to think they are and make mistakes. You only have one crack at examining a scene like this as you can’t seal the street off for ever. If you miss anything of evidential value, no matter how small, it could hinder the investigation.”

  “What about informants? Do you get many cases where someone tells you who’s responsible for an armed robbery?”

  “Sometimes, but I don’t get involved in that side of squad work as I’m just a SOCO. As I see it, criminals grass on each other for a variety of reasons, such as money or to remove a rival. Being a police informant is a highly dangerous occupation which can get you killed.”

  “I’ve never had a registered informant, but sometimes people I arrested told me ‘off the record’ who else was involved to get a reduction in their own sentence at court.”

  “Well, if you want to get on in the Flying Squad you’ll be expected to cultivate informants. A lot of the lads on the squad ha
ve them and their information has led to pavement arrests during the commission of armed robberies.”

  “How does the team feel about the Operation Countryman investigation?”

  Jane knew some Flying Squad officers had been arrested in the investigation into police corruption in London.

  “Thankfully no one at Rigg has been arrested or interviewed on suspicion of corruption by the Sweedy—”

  “Did you say the Sweedy?”

  “Yeah, it’s what the squad guys call the officers on Countryman. They’re all from Hampshire and Dorset, which are rural forces, and the name ‘Sweedy’ comes from the vegetable swede.”

  Jane grinned. “I’ve heard county officers referred to as ‘carrot crunchers,’ but never ‘Sweedy.’ ”

  “The latest I heard was the officer in charge of Countryman is alleging that the investigation is being willfully obstructed by Commissioner McNee and the Director of Public Prosecutions. McNee wants all the Countryman evidence to be passed to the Met and dealt with by its own internal investigation unit, A10.”

  “I’ve been interviewed by the ‘rubber heelers’ myself.”

  She used a police term that had come about because you can’t hear the internal investigation officers coming due to the rubber heels on their shoes.

  Dabs looked surprised. “Have you?”

  “Not for corruption, I hasten to add. One was a case when I was a probationer and the other more recent, when a dentist who murdered four people committed suicide. Thankfully I was only given some words of advice and a slap on the wrist in both cases.”

  “I remember reading about the murders in Peckham Rye about a year ago and the press kept using the headline ‘Murder Mile.’ I couldn’t believe a Harley Street dentist was responsible.”

  “Believe me, neither could I, and the monster evaded a life sentence by killing himself.”

  The tow truck for the police car arrived and Jane watched as Juliet 1 was slowly pulled out of the rubble by a winch cable. The elderly owner of the house stood watching with a solemn expression as more bits of the bay window gave way and fell on the front of the car. Once it was safely extracted, and a safe distance from the house, they cleared the debris from the car. Dabs pointed to a bullet hole in the bonnet. He tried to open it, but was unable to due to the damage from the crash.