“I’m third in from the left on the back row,” he said without looking up.
“How old were you then?”
“Sixteen. The club was at the old Territorial Army drill hall back then, but it’s moved since and now called the Waltham Forest Amateur Boxing Club. The photo to the left was when I won the Lafone police middleweight boxing championships. I was nineteen then and just joined the job.” He was clearly proud of his achievements. “Do you like boxing?”
“I’ve only ever seen it on TV when I lived at home as my dad sometimes watched it, though he was more into wrestling.”
“That’s all fake, boxing is the real thing. You get hit hard sometimes—as you can see from the shape of this. It’s been broke a few times,” he said, tapping a finger to his nose.
Although his nose was slightly crooked, Jane thought it gave him a rugged appearance and didn’t spoil his good looks at all.
“Do you still box?”
“Not in proper bouts, but I occasionally pop down to the Waltham Forest club to help out with the kids and do a bit of sparring.”
“You live over that way then?”
“Born and raised in Chingford, but I live in Woodford now. What about you, Jane?”
“I’ve got a flat in Marylebone.”
“Marylebone, very posh,” he said with a grin.
“It’s just a small one-bedroom flat, but I’m looking to move somewhere slightly bigger with a garden.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Not really.”
“Well, as long it’s within twenty-five miles of Charing Cross you’re entitled to the police housing allowance.”
“I wouldn’t be able to afford a place of my own if it wasn’t for the housing allowance,” Jane remarked as she sat down.
“Crack on with the house-to-house for now. I was a bit hasty this morning about that seventeen-year-old girl who witnessed the shooting of the police car—what was her name again?”
“Abby Jones. I’ve got a gut feeling she may have seen a bit more than she said.”
“I know she’s an adult as far as the law’s concerned, but when you speak to her again I’d suggest you have her mother or father present to avoid any allegations that we tried to force her to be a witness or put words in her mouth.”
“I was going to see her over the weekend, like you suggested in the office meeting, probably Sunday if that’s OK.” She smiled, recalling his change of tune when Murphy said Abby needed to be seen again.
“If you want to work Sunday it can’t be for overtime—only a day off in lieu. You can do a couple of hours overtime this evening on the house-to-house, then head off home.”
“Should I not come back to the office?”
“No, it’s OK. I’ve told the others there’s no need to but ring the office just in case anything important has come up that needs to be dealt with tonight. Other than that, it’s a nine o’clock start tomorrow.”
“I could get the statement from the landlady, Fiona Simpson, if you like. I met her earlier when—”
“I heard you were at the pub,” he interrupted. “I’d already spoken to Mrs. Simpson, so what were you doing there?”
“I hadn’t seen the scene of the robbery and wanted to familiarize myself with it. I spoke to Mrs. Simpson as I knew she’d seen where the stolen Cortina had parked up just before the robbery and I wanted to check the vicinity for any dropped bullets or—”
He frowned. “The senior SOCO who attended the bank scene did all that and nothing of interest was found. Next time speak to me first. Mrs. Simpson is our best chance of identifying the getaway driver—if we can identify him that might then lead us to the rest of the team. These men are dangerous and Mrs. Simpson’s safety is crucial to the investigation. I’ve told her to tell no one that she saw the driver. I don’t want her getting cold feet by putting her under any more police pressure right now, so I’ll deal with her statement.”
“I understand, sir. Will you be getting a statement from the old lady as well?” Jane asked.
Kingston looked puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”
“Betty, the old lady with the hunched shoulders who witnessed the robbery. Fiona Simpson implied you’d spoken to her.”
“Unfortunately, she’s a bit senile and not very reliable, so I decided it wasn’t worth getting a statement off her. Considering it’s your first day and you were shoved in at the deep end, you’ve done well,” he said, changing the subject.
“Thanks, but I don’t think DCI Murphy and the rest of the team share your viewpoint.”
“My advice is to carry on as you’ve started and don’t let them get to you.”
Jane felt she could be open with him and part of her wanted to gauge his opinion further.
“That’s not so easy when you’ve been told you’re nothing more than an experiment—”
“Look, if you’re worried about the team finding out, don’t be. I for one won’t say anything and I can assure you neither will DCI Murphy, otherwise he’d have everyone on his back wanting to know what’s going on. The Flying Squad has always been a male bastion, but sooner or later that was going to change and some feathers were going to get ruffled. There are guys on the team who will test your mettle, the same as they would with a new male officer on the squad, and the banter can be pretty full on at times—but like I just said, don’t let them get to you and if you’re not sure about something, just ask.”
Jane knew that what he was saying made sense and it made her feel more relaxed about being the “treacle” on the Flying Squad.
Kingston handed her the house-to-house folder.
“I’ve got a shedload of paperwork and reports to do, so unless there’s something you want to ask about the investigation, I need to crack on.”
Returning to her desk, Jane noticed a typewriter on it along with some handwritten statements and officers’ reports. She picked up the reports, which were written by the Colonel, DS Stanley and DC Baxter. The office was empty apart from Katie, who was updating the incident board with the information gleaned from the earlier meeting. Jane put the reports back in each of the officers’ in trays on their desks and the statements on Katie’s.
Katie turned around. “What are you doing?”
Jane walked back to her desk. “DI Kingston told me that squad officers are expected to type up their own reports. Unfortunately I can’t help you with the statements as I’ve got to go out and make some important house-to-house enquiries.”
“Well, you could do them when you get back.”
Jane jotted down the office phone number on the back of the house-to-house folder, then picked up her raincoat and small shoulder bag.
“I won’t be coming back to the office tonight. I’ll be heading straight home when I’ve finished with the house-to-house.”
“You have to come back here to book off duty.”
“DI Kingston said it would be fine to ring in before I go home. Have a nice evening and I’ll see you in the morning.”
As Jane left the office, an irate Katie stormed into Kingston’s office.
“Tennison has just dumped all the typing back on my desk and walked out the door—she had the cheek to say you said she didn’t have to do it!”
Kingston stood up and gently held her by both arms.
“I did, but—”
“Why are you being so nice and obliging to her?”
“Just calm down and let me explain. I told her to continue the house-to-house this evening for a reason—”
“Well, it’d better be a good one.”
“Everyone’s out of the office on enquiries and Murphy will be leaving at six for a commendation ceremony at the Yard, which means we’ll be alone.”
He slid his hands onto her backside and pulled her tight against his body.
“That is a good reason.”
She smiled, stretching up to kiss him.
Chapter Ten
Jane knocked on the door of flat 40 Edgar House an
d looked at her pocket notebook to check the name of the owner. The door was opened by a woman in her late sixties, wearing a floral kitchen apron over a white blouse and grey skirt with slippers on her feet.
“Helen Clarke?”
“Blimey, you’re quick off the mark—I only rang you a few hours ago,” she said, looking pleased.
“We haven’t spoken before, Mrs. Clarke,” Jane said, confused.
“Haven’t we? Who are you then?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison,” she replied, holding up her warrant card.
Helen looked embarrassed. “Silly me, I thought you were from the insurance company about the fire in our garage.”
Jane smiled. “As it happens I would like to speak to you about the garage fire—”
“An officer whose name I can’t remember already spoke to me earlier about it, dear.”
“That was ADC Murray.”
Helen looked confused. “He told me he was a detective.”
“He works with me—he’s a driver on the Flying Squad and helps us with our enquiries.”
“What’s the Flying Squad?”
“We investigate bank robberies. I’m here in connection with one that occurred at Barclays Bank in Leytonstone this morning.”
“I don’t know anything about any bank robberies, dear,” she said, looking worried.
“Did ADC Murray not tell you why he was asking about your garage?”
“He said the garages had been set alight and ours had been badly damaged and the police were investigating it as a possible arson. He wondered if our car was in the garage and I told him my daughter has it. When I left the flat to go and see my husband in hospital I saw the fire brigade and police next to a burnt-out car. I thought it might be some of them hooligan kids from the estate down the road who’d done it—they come up here breaking into the flats and stealing stuff from cars.”
Jane realized that Murray probably hadn’t wanted to stress Helen unduly, so he didn’t mention the possible connection to the armed robbery, but she decided it was time to be honest with her.
“It wasn’t kids who did this, Mrs. Clarke. We have reason to believe a getaway car used in the bank robbery was dumped in your garage and set alight with petrol.”
“I honestly don’t know anything about a bank robbery or the fire,” Helen said, looking more distressed.
“I don’t think for one minute that you do, Mrs. Clarke, but knowing a bit more about your garage, and anyone who used it, might help the investigation.”
Helen opened the door. “You’d better come in then. I just boiled the kettle—would you like some tea?”
Jane said she would and followed Helen into the kitchen, which was the first room to the left of the ground floor two-bedroom duplex. The small kitchen was spotless, and three silver containers marked coffee, tea and sugar were neatly laid out next to a round Swan electric kettle. Helen made a pot of tea and used a small strainer to catch the leaves as she poured the tea into two bone china cups. She let Jane pour her own milk while she got some custard cream and Bourbon biscuits out of a round floral decorated tin and placed them neatly on a side plate.
“Your officer Murray likes his biscuits and ate a plateful himself,” Helen remarked with a smile.
Jane carried the two teas as she followed Helen through to the living room at the end of the short hallway.
“Excuse the mess, I haven’t had a chance to hoover and dust in here today.”
Helen opened the door to the living room, which in fact was just as neat and tidy as the kitchen. The room was bright, with white painted Anaglypta wallpaper, a light brown carpet and a cream-colored three-seater settee with matching armchair. The electric fire was on and the room was warm and cozy. On the mantelpiece above the fire there were pictures of Helen with a man, whom Jane assumed to be her husband. There was a family picture next to it with a couple in their thirties and a young boy and girl, as well as individual pictures of the children and a man in his early twenties.
“What lovely pictures,” Jane commented as she looked at them.
“That’s my husband Ronald with me. The picture next to it is our daughter June, her husband and their eight-year-old twins.” She picked up the picture of the young man. “This is our son Robert—he died some years ago after a motorcycle accident.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Helen took a moment to compose herself.
“Me and Ronald didn’t like him riding motorbikes, but he was headstrong and loved biking. He used to go out for long day trips with his friends—they were all safety conscious and wore the proper leather clothes and crash helmets, even though you didn’t have to back then. He was going to Brighton for the day when someone pulled out in front of him and he came off his bike. There was hardly a mark on him, but he suffered a bad brain injury and died two days later in the hospital.”
Jane could see how upset Helen was getting and tried to move the conversation forward.
“Do you know if your husband kept the garage locked?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t, but I can ask him tomorrow morning when I visit him at the hospital.”
“It would be helpful if you could, then I can ring you in the afternoon.”
“I don’t have a phone, but my neighbors do and I’m sure they’d let me call you, or there’s a phone box down the road I can use.”
“Whatever’s easiest for you.”
Jane wrote down the office number on a back page of her pocket notebook and handed it to Helen, who put it in her apron pocket. Jane looked at the house-to-house form for number 40.
“My uniform colleague noted that you have lived here for six months and haven’t been using the garage as your husband can’t drive due to his eyesight problems.”
“That’s right, Ronald suffers from cataracts, so he gave the car to our daughter to use until his eyesight’s better.”
“Do you know who used the garage before you?”
“I assume it was the lady who owned the flat before us. When we were buying the place the estate agent said there was a garage with it.”
“Do you know her name or have a forwarding address for her?”
“We never met her. As I recall, the estate agent said her name was Mrs. Smith. She’d been terminally ill in a hospice and after her death the flat was sold by one of her relatives.”
“Do you know the name or address of the relative?”
“No, but after we moved in we had some mail delivered for a Mrs. Elizabeth Smith. We didn’t have a forwarding address for any relatives and the neighbors couldn’t help, so I gave it to the postman and told him the previous resident had died. I doubt Mrs. Smith had much use for a garage if she was terminally ill. Do help yourself to a biscuit, dear.”
“That’s a good point, though she might have rented it out. Do you know the details of the estate agents who dealt with the sale of the flat?” Jane picked up a Bourbon and took a bite.
“I think it was Petty something . . . I can’t remember the full details as my husband always dealt with them. Mind you, I’m sure he kept the sales brochure.” Helen got up and rummaged around in the side cabinet drawer. “Ah, here it is,” she said, waving it in the air.
She handed it to Jane, who noted that Petty, Son and Prestwich had their offices in Woodbine Place, Wanstead.
“I was told the flats were owned by a housing association and most of the residents were tenants.”
“Most of them are, but I expect Mrs. Smith bought hers under a ‘Right to Buy’ scheme. We were very lucky that it was up for sale—but for her illness I doubt we’d be here now.”
Jane nodded. “How many keys for the garage did your husband have?”
Helen got up and walked over to the side cabinet, where she picked up a Winston Churchill Toby jug and tipped out two small keys onto the palm of her hand.
“Just the two.”
She held them up for Jane to see.
“May I have a quick look?”
&nb
sp; Helen handed Jane the keys and she could see that although they were both silver, one looked more tarnished than the other.
“Did the estate agents give you both these keys when you moved in?”
“No, just one of them. Ronald said it’s always best to have a spare key and asked me to take it down the hardware shop and get a spare one cut—the shiny one’s the new one.”
Jane wondered if the previous owner of the flat had also had two garage keys and had given one to someone else.
“Do you know if your neighbors were friendly with Mrs. Smith?”
“I’ve never really spoken to them about her, but I got the impression she was quite frail and kept herself to herself.”
“OK, that’s all for now, Mrs. Clarke. Thanks for your assistance and I hope your husband makes a speedy recovery.”
Jane finished her biscuit and took a last sip of her tea.
“Thank you, dear. I’ll remember to ask Ronald your questions, and like I said I’ll ring you after I’ve visited him in hospital.”
After leaving Helen Clarke’s flat, Jane spoke briefly to both neighbors. One couple said they had moved in just after Mrs. Smith was admitted to the hospice, just over a year ago, and had never met her. The other couple said they had lived next to Elizabeth Smith for five years, had never been in her flat, and only occasionally spoke to her by way of saying hello, and she often ignored them or just nodded. As far as they knew Mrs. Smith was in her mid-seventies, a widow, though there was a man in his mid- to late forties who sometimes visited her, and it could well have been her son or other close relation. The neighbors didn’t even realize she had owned garage 29.
It seemed to Jane that Elizabeth Smith had been a bit of a loner and not very sociable. She hoped contacting the estate agents who dealt with the sale of her flat might reveal more about who she left the property to in her will and thereby help to trace her extended family. It was also possible they might know more about the garage, and if anyone was using it prior to the sale of the property.
The Dirty Dozen Page 13
