The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  The Colonel continued to look at the poster, admiring his handiwork.

  “Get a move on, Stanley, Tennison will be here soon.”

  Jane handed Dabs the bag of exhibits, then removed her photo from the file. As she crept up behind the Colonel she could see a 40in. by 30in. film poster for the 1967 movie, The Dirty Dozen. The poster depicted twelve men in army fatigues charging forward in a V formation, with machine guns blazing. Jane knew the film was considered a classic, full of Hollywood stars of the day like Lee Marvin and Charles Bronson. In the top left corner of the poster, in capital letters, were the words DAMN THEM OR PRAISE THEM . . . YOU’LL NEVER FORGET THE DIRTY DOZEN and added on a bit of paper underneath was OR TREACLE TENNISON.

  “There you go,” Jane said and stuck the photograph under her name. The Colonel was visibly startled.

  “Where’d you come from?” he asked, red-faced, and some of the detectives couldn’t help laughing at his embarrassment.

  “And there was us thinking you were a rough, tough Marine,” DC Baxter said.

  “You must have shit yourself when the enemy crept up on you,” Teflon grinned.

  The Colonel glared at Teflon as everyone laughed, then turned to Jane with a smirk.

  “It’s just me and the lads having a bit of fun—”

  “To be honest, DC Gorman, I was expecting a more traditional initiation ceremony, like cling film or fingerprint ink on the ladies’ toilet seat. But this poster is so much more revealing . . .” She paused.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “It shows you think you’re a big Hollywood movie star, not a lowly copper working in a dingy office in Leytonstone.”

  Some of the detectives chuckled.

  “I’ll take the photo down if you’re that bothered about it,” he snapped, reaching to remove it.

  Jane put a hand on his arm.

  “If it makes you happy, leave it there. Now let me try and guess which one of the Dirty Dozen you are.” She deliberately paused to make out she was studying the poster and thinking about it. “I’m leaning towards the character Charles Bronson played—but I can’t remember his name—”

  She paused again, knowing the Colonel would answer.

  “Wladislaw,” he said smugly, clearly pleased she thought he was like Bronson.

  “No, not him, it’s another character I was thinking of.”

  “Who?”

  “Wasn’t one of them a bigot nicknamed Maggott?”

  Teflon laughed. “Right on, Sarge, he was played by Telly Savalas. Ya man was bald like de Colonel,” he said in a comic Caribbean accent.

  “Shut up, Teflon—no one asked for your opinion.” The Colonel scowled.

  Teflon shook his head and tutted. “You like to dish it out, Colonel, but you can’t take it, can you?”

  “Not when it’s you,” the Colonel said coldly.

  “What do you mean by that?” Teflon said, taking a step towards the Colonel to front him out.

  The animosity between the two detectives was palpable, and Jane was about to step between them, but Stanley beat her to it and held his hands up to keep them apart.

  “Right, fun’s over. We’ve got a fucking robbery to investigate, where some of our own were nearly killed—so stop pissing about and get on with your work,” he said in a firm voice.

  As the detectives returned to their desks, Stanley took Jane to one side.

  “It was only a bit of fun, the Colonel didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, we all have nicknames and take the piss out of each other, it helps relieve the pressure.”

  “I don’t mind a bit of fun or banter, but if I’m honest it felt a bit demeaning, especially as I’ve already told the Colonel I don’t like being called Treacle.”

  “I didn’t know that—”

  “And if you did would you have stopped him?”

  “Treacle’s not a demeaning term, Jane, it’s just cockney rhyming slang—treacle tart . . . sweetheart.”

  “I know where it comes from, Stanley, but I’d expect to hear my mother or father use it—not a junior officer in what was clearly a derogatory manner. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to be called Sarge or Sergeant when I’m on duty—do you?”

  “Well, I’ve always accepted being called Stanley—”

  “That’s your choice—besides, I heard people call you Sarge when we worked on the Covent Garden bombing.”

  “That was different from working on this squad—”

  “So, it’s all right to refer to the DI and DCI by their Christian or nicknames, then?” Jane asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

  “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Well, what are you saying?”

  “That you might want to calm down a bit. I don’t mind if you give as good as you get, but that’s because I’ve worked with you before. For now just soak up the mickey-taking and ease yourself in gently.”

  “Oh, I see, because I’m a female I’m the one who should be submissive. I thought this was the Flying Squad—not a gentlemen’s club.”

  “I’ve given you my advice, Jane, so take it or—”

  “I’ll leave it, Stanley, and make my own decisions, thank you.”

  As Stanley returned to his desk, a woman came out of one of the offices at the far end of the room carrying some case folders. She was in her mid-thirties, five feet seven inches tall, with a slim waist and good-sized bust, and walked with an air of authority. Her long dark shiny hair hung down her back and she was smartly dressed in a white blouse, black pencil skirt and high heels. She put the folder on the desk next to Jane’s police file.

  “Hi, you must be Katie. I’m Jane Tennison.” She smiled as she raised her hand to greet her.

  She looked Jane up and down condescendingly.

  “Yes, I know, I’ve seen your police file,” she replied, without a smile.

  Jane wasn’t going to put up with Katie looking down her nose at her.

  “So have the rest of the office by the looks of it,” she retorted, glancing towards her file on Katie’s desk.

  “DCI Murphy gave me your file earlier to enter your personal details in our squad address book. I’m not responsible for the behavior of the rest of the team.”

  Jane sensed Katie knew about the addition of “Treacle Tennison” to The Dirty Dozen poster but decided not to pursue it.

  “Is DCI Murphy in his office?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes, it’s the one on the left I just came out of. DI Kingston’s is next to it.”

  “I’ll just nip to the ladies’ and freshen up. I’ve been helping Dabs and got a bit dirty.”

  “Yes, I did notice,” Katie said with a frown. “DCI Murphy doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so I wouldn’t take too long if I were you.”

  “Which desk is mine?” Jane asked, wondering why Katie was being so cold and unfriendly.

  “That one over there.”

  She pointed to a single desk in the corner of the room, next to another one on which there was a large police radio, a teleprinter and a computer for doing vehicle and name checks.

  Although the squad room wasn’t as large as the CID offices Jane had worked in before, she noticed that all the other desks, apart from Katie’s, were organized in two groups of four and abutted each other. Stanley was seated in one group, with DC Baxter, DC Gorman and ADC Murray, and in the other group there was only Teflon and three empty desks, which were clearly in use as they had filing trays full of paperwork and case files on them. She knew that some of the team were out on another case but thought, as the only other DS on the team, she would have been given a desk with the others. She wondered if she had deliberately been put on her own to ostracize her.

  She put her coat on the rack by the door and looked around the room. The large wall behind Katie’s desk was covered with artists’ impressions of robbery suspects, wanted posters and mugshots, as well as an array of surveillance and robbery crime scene photographs. There was also a large wallcha
rt of the date, time and venue of all the cases they were currently investigating, and in the corner next to it there was a flip chart easel.

  On the left-hand wall there was a large map of the north-east London area that the Rigg Approach Flying Squad team covered; it ran from Tower Hamlets in the East End to Enfield, Chigwell in Essex and Upminster, which was an area of nearly a hundred square miles. The map was covered with red, yellow and green pins, which, according to the handwritten guide beside it, signified where armed robberies on banks, building societies, betting shops and cash-in-transit vehicles had taken place. Jane was struck by the fact that the clear majority were red pins, which signified that firearms had been discharged, as opposed to yellow pins, which meant they hadn’t. Green pins, of which there were about half a dozen, meant someone had been shot. On the right side of the room there were several filing cabinets for case files and bookshelves with box files and clip folders relating to ongoing investigations. Jane recalled Dabs saying that Katie was fussy when it came to office tidiness, and could see that everything was laid out neatly and well labelled, making it clear what was contained in everything on display.

  The squad room, like the rest of the building, was painted a bland green and the carpet was cheap, thin and worn, but there was plenty of natural light entering through a row of large windows that looked out on to the front and rear of the building. The desks were old wooden ones with a locking drawer and side lockers, and each officer had some filing trays full of folders and paperwork.

  She went to the ladies’ toilet, brushed her hair and tied it back, then using some damp tissues she managed to get some of the soot streaks off her jacket and skirt. She tried to get one of the marks off her white blouse, but it smudged and ended up looking worse, so she buttoned up her jacket to hide them. Her mouth felt dry and she went to the small kitchen area to get a glass of water, where she found Teflon making some toast and coffee. He was a handsome man in his early thirties, five feet ten inches tall, with short Afro hair and a smooth complexion. Although dressed casually in dark grey slacks and a blue and white striped shirt, his clothes accentuated his slim body and he looked smart.

  “Would you like a coffee?” he asked, with a friendly smile that was very welcome.

  She smiled back. “No thanks, a glass of water’s fine, please. I’m Jane Tennison, we actually haven’t met yet.”

  She put her hand out and he shook it with a firm grip.

  He poured her a glass of water.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m DC Lloyd Johnson, or Teflon as the team like to call me.”

  “Do you mind being called Teflon?” she asked cautiously, unsure if “Teflon” was a reference to the color of his skin. She knew that life as a black police officer could be tough, and sometimes it was easier to just deny the existence of racism if you wanted to be accepted by your white colleagues.

  He looked surprised. “You think they call me Teflon ’cause I’m black?”

  She blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any offence—”

  He laughed. “None taken. It’s because I was chasing a robbery suspect with a pickaxe handle and it slipped out of me hands when I swung it at him.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t get the analogy—”

  “It’s not that complicated. Teflon is non-stick, you see?”

  “OK, so nothing to do with your color.”

  He grinned. “If it was about me color I’d hit them with a bloody pickaxe handle.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Katie looked in.

  “DCI Murphy is wondering where you are. Get a move on as he wants to speak to you right now.”

  Jane knew she was going to have to do something about Katie’s manner, but it wasn’t the time or place.

  And besides, Katie had walked off before Jane could think of a suitable retort.

  “Is Katie like that with everyone?”

  Lloyd nodded. “Pretty much, unless you’re inspector rank or above. She’s probably jealous of you,” he said, pouring hot water into his cup.

  “Jealous of me—what on earth for?”

  “KP likes attention, and being the only woman in the office, apart from the cleaner, she gets plenty of it—especially from DI Kingston. Now you’re on the scene she’s got some competition.”

  “I can assure you I’m not an attention-seeker. I’ve also learned from experience not to mix business with pleasure,” she added wryly. She finished her water, swilled the glass under the tap and put it on the draining board. “I’d better get a move on, then, before Katie gives me a detention.”

  Lloyd chuckled as he put some sugar in his coffee.

  “Just be careful what you say around her as it will get straight back to Kingston and Murphy. And don’t let the Colonel niggle you. He likes a bit of confrontation and winding people up—but he doesn’t like it when he’s the butt of the joke.”

  “There was certainly a bit of tension between the two of you earlier,” she remarked.

  “I got a lot of stick when I first came on the squad a year ago, especially as I was the first black officer to join the team, but I treated it as banter and gave back as good as I got—that way it didn’t bother me. The Colonel and me don’t always see eye to eye, but he knows not to push things too far—and he’s a good man to have on your side in a dodgy situation.”

  “From the size of him and his Marines background I don’t doubt that,” she said as she opened the kitchen door.

  “Nice to meet you, Sarge. Now you’re on the squad I won’t be the odd one out any more,” he said with a cheeky grin and a wink.

  Jane knew there were not enough black and ethnic minority officers in the force. She had certainly never worked in uniform or the CID alongside a black officer. She was also aware that despite efforts to encourage black people to join the police force, the response had been poor. Many in the Afro-Caribbean community believed, with reason, that if they joined the police they would be subjected to racism within the force as well as opposition and hostility from friends, relatives and members of the community.

  She would like to have chatted more with Lloyd and wondered when he said Katie liked attention, “especially from Kingston,” if he was implying that something was going on between the two of them. She’d noticed that Kingston wore a wedding ring and Katie didn’t have any rings on her left hand, but realized it was none of her business if they were in a relationship. She’d made a big mistake as a probationer when she’d had an affair with a married DCI, followed by a disastrous relationship with a self-centered bomb squad officer. Since then she’d vowed not to get involved with another police officer ever again.

  Jane knocked on DCI Murphy’s office door and a gruff voice shouted, “Come in!”

  She quickly brushed herself down and entered the room. DCI Murphy was sitting behind a wooden desk, which had a green leather inlay and was twice the size of any in the squad room. The walls were covered with green and white damask-style flock paper and lined with photographs relating to Murphy’s police career, from his joining class at training school, CID and senior officer’s courses, as well as some from the three times he had served on the Flying Squad. Several framed Commissioner’s commendations he had received for bravery and detective ability were also on the wall. A picture of his wife and teenage twin daughters took pride of place on his desk, next to several different types of ball-shaped paperweights, which he liked to collect. Like the squad room, his office was bathed in daylight streaming through the large windows.

  DI Kingston was sitting opposite Murphy, and both men were smoking and sipping on whisky from crystal tumblers. Murphy was a burly-looking man with a mop of swept-back ginger hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was smartly dressed in a dark blue three-piece pinstripe suit, white shirt and dark blue tie with the Flying Squad eagle printed on it. Although Jane had never met DCI Murphy before she had gleaned a little about him from her former boss at Peckham, DCI Nick Moran, who was a pal of Murphy’s and had approved her application for the Flying Squad. Accordi
ng to Moran, Murphy was a man “married to the job,” who didn’t suffer fools gladly and, having served on the Flying Squad at all ranks, was respected by his colleagues and feared by many in the criminal underworld.

  “I was about to send out a search party for you!” He frowned as he sipped his whisky.

  “Sorry I’m late, sir.”

  Kingston finished his drink, said, “Thanks, Bill” and left the room, without acknowledging Jane’s presence, let alone introducing her to Murphy. It left her with an uneasy feeling.

  Murphy looked at his watch. “It’s half past three and I’ve had to delay the office meeting because you’re late—five and a half hours late, to be precise.”

  “You weren’t here when I first arrived, sir, and DI Kingston told me to go with him to the robbery in Leytonstone. Then I was dealing with the scene where the police car crashed and the burnt-out car—”

  “That’s obvious from the soot on your blouse. I’ll let it go this time, but in future if you have a meeting with me I expect you to be there on the dot—or waiting for me if I’m running late. Take a seat.”

  She sat down opposite him while he topped up his glass from the whisky bottle, then screwed the cap back on and put the bottle in his desk drawer.

  “Do you know much about the Flying Squad?”

  He took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair.

  Jane thought for a moment. “It was formed in 1919 in response to growing concern about organized crime in London and the unit’s original twelve detectives could pursue criminals into any police division area, hence the nickname ‘the Flying Squad.’ Over the years, the unit became primarily involved in preventing and investigating armed robbery and organized crime. Currently there are four squad offices in London, based here, Barnes, Finchley and Tower Bridge.”

  Murphy yawned. “Ten out of ten if you were writing a history essay, Tennison, but what I meant was do you know what we do on a daily basis?”