The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “It’s a crime-ridden shithole and the last place on earth where you’d want to be on your own. It’s commonly known as ‘the Farm’—because it’s full of animals.”

  “Its reputation’s so bad that many people who are offered a council flat on the Broadwater refuse it, and there’s loads of existing tenants queuing up to get moved off,” Teflon added.

  “I’ll take a portable radio with me,” Jane said.

  Cam shook his head. “They don’t work on the landings or inside flats as the concrete’s so thick. Teflon’s right, there’s no way you can go there on your own. Mind you, he’d be putting his neck on the line more than any of us down there if they knew he was Old Bill.”

  She looked at Teflon. “Why would it be worse for you?”

  “There’s a lot of black criminals on the estate who see me as a traitor for joining the police.”

  “I’m happy to go with Jane,” Cam said.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Teflon said firmly.

  “What are you three planning?” Kingston asked as he approached them.

  “Tennison was thinking of going down the Broadwater Farm on her own.”

  “Then she needs her head tested.” Kingston looked at Jane. “Is it something to do with that action DCI Murphy gave you?”

  Jane nodded. “Yes, the informant Miss Wilson lives on the estate.”

  Kingston shook his head. “I was the DI at Tottenham before I came here and believe me it’s rare for anyone on the Broadwater to help the police. We tried to arrest a suspect for stabbing a police officer and they threw a full beer barrel down on the car from one of the walkways. We were lucky it landed on the bonnet and not the roof or it could have killed us.”

  “Did they get the people responsible?” Jane asked.

  “No, the walkways are like rat runs and they all disappeared, and of course no one saw a thing.”

  “Murphy’s out of order if he knew where he was sending her and didn’t say to take backup,” Teflon said darkly.

  “He may not have seen the address,” Kingston suggested, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Is it OK if we go with Jane?” Teflon asked Kingston.

  “I’m ordering you to go with her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Colonel and Baxter parked up outside Frank Braun’s address in Tottenham. The large three-bedroom, 1930s-built, semi-detached house was on Mount Pleasant Road, a quiet residential road. The Colonel pointed out to Baxter that the upstairs bedroom curtains were closed, suggesting someone was in, then pressed the doorbell. After nearly a minute there was no reply, so he pressed it again and stepped back to see if the curtains moved.

  “They’re taking their time. Should I climb over the side fence and cover the back?” Baxter asked.

  The Colonel shook his head. “If this Braun bloke is involved in the robbery and made a false stolen vehicle claim he’ll front us out . . . Hang on, someone’s opening the curtain.”

  A bleary-eyed, bare-chested man in his late thirties pulled back the curtain and opened the window.

  “If you’re selling something I’m not interested!” he shouted.

  “You Frank Braun?” the Colonel asked.

  “I might be—who are you?”

  The Colonel held up his warrant card.

  “I’m DC Gorman and this is DC Baxter. We’d like to speak to you about the ’76 Mark 4 Cortina you reported stolen.”

  “You found it?” Mr. Braun asked, looking pleased.

  “Yes, but I’d rather we talk about it inside,” the Colonel replied.

  Braun put on a dressing gown, went downstairs and let the two detectives in.

  “You from Tottenham CID?” Braun asked as they followed him into the living room.

  “No, the Flying Squad,” the Colonel replied.

  Braun sighed. “Don’t tell me the car was used in a robbery?”

  “What made you jump to that conclusion?” the Colonel asked.

  “Nothing, it just seems obvious as you lot investigate armed robberies.”

  The Colonel nodded. “Very perceptive—you assumed right, Mr. Braun. Have you seen the news about the armed robbery on a security van in Leytonstone yesterday?”

  “No, I haven’t—”

  The Colonel smirked. “And there was me thinking you might know all about it.”

  Braun could tell they were taking the mickey.

  “Have you found my Cortina or not?” he asked bluntly.

  “Four armed men used your car to rob a bank yesterday, then torched it to destroy any forensic evidence.”

  “Is the car a write-off?” Braun asked.

  “It was totally burnt out, so you won’t be driving it again,” the Colonel said.

  Braun sighed. “There goes my no claims bonus.”

  “You don’t seem very upset that your motor’s a write-off,” Baxter remarked.

  He shrugged. “There’s not a lot I can do about it now, is there?”

  “How many keys do you have for the vehicle?” the Colonel asked.

  “Just one . . . and no doubt you’d like to see it.”

  He walked over to a side cabinet and, opening a drawer, he removed the key.

  “Lose the other one, did you?” the Colonel asked.

  Braun frowned as he handed the key to the Colonel.

  “As it happens, yes, and I haven’t bothered to get a replacement—though it’s clearly not worth doing so now, is it?”

  “How and where did you lose the key?” Baxter asked.

  “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen—”

  Baxter interrupted. “Of course it was—no doubt by a pickpocket and you didn’t feel a thing.”

  Braun opened his eyes wide. “That’s right! Was that a wild guess or can you read minds?”

  The Colonel took a step towards him. “It’s not in your interest to be flippant with us, Mr. Braun.”

  Braun folded his arms. “Are you threatening to arrest me?”

  “We can continue this conversation here or down at the station—the choice is yours,” Baxter said.

  Braun glared at him. “If you’d had the decency to let me finish, I was going to tell you my wife was at the Coolbury nightclub with some friends when her handbag was stolen. And before you ask, she reported it to the police and gave them a list of everything that was in the bag—including the car keys.”

  “Where’s the Coolbury?” Baxter asked as he got out his pocket notebook to write the location down.

  “In Tottenham High Road near the junction with White Hart Lane—a lot of the Spurs players use it.”

  “Well, I doubt one of them would nick a handbag.” Baxter smirked.

  “I’d like you to tell me exactly why you’re both here, because I’m sensing it’s not just to tell me my car was found,” Braun demanded.

  The Colonel looked him in the eye. “We had a vehicle examiner go over what was left of your car. In his expert opinion nothing was forced into the ignition barrel to start the vehicle and it wasn’t hot-wired either, which means—” He paused to let Braun answer.

  “A key was used to start it . . . and you think I might be involved in some way.”

  “Are you, Mr. Braun?” the Colonel asked.

  “No, I’m not. The car was stolen from outside my house while I was on holiday in Mauritius with my wife. My neighbor noticed it was gone, but he didn’t realize it had been stolen.”

  “All sounds a bit fishy to me,” Baxter remarked.

  “Do I look like someone who’d be involved in a bank robbery?”

  The Colonel grinned. “Believe me, they come in all shapes and sizes—”

  “This is ridiculous, I’ve got a holiday booking receipt and a dated Mauritian entry stamp in my passport.”

  He walked towards the cabinet to get them.

  “It’s OK, I don’t doubt you were on holiday, but who’s to say the theft of the key and being on holiday isn’t a set up alibi?” the Colonel suggested.

  Braun was struggling to rem
ain calm. “I can put up with you calling me a liar—but don’t you dare insinuate my wife is!”

  “Where were you yesterday morning?” Baxter asked.

  “What time did this robbery occur?”

  “About 9:45,” Baxter said.

  “I was at work until eleven o’clock Thursday morning, then drove home and didn’t get back here until about half past. You can check it out with my work colleagues—”

  “You got two cars then?” Baxter asked.

  “Yeah, my wife used the Cortina mostly, for shopping and running the kids to and from school.”

  “What’s your other car?” Baxter asked.

  “A BMW 323i, which I now keep in the garage, for obvious reasons.”

  “Then what’s your wife using now?” the Colonel asked.

  “My car if I’m not using it, and public transport if I am.”

  “What do you do for a living?” the Colonel asked.

  “I’m in the London Fire Brigade, as a senior fire investigator based in the West End. I’m night shift this week and was called out to a residential arson at two o’clock Thursday morning. Someone poured petrol through a letterbox, thankfully no one was hurt, and I worked the scene with a scientist and one of your lab liaison sergeants.”

  “Who was the sergeant?” Baxter asked, ready to write the name down.

  “Paul Lawrence. I’ve worked a few arson scenes with him before and socialized with him at forensic conferences.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were a fireman earlier?” the Colonel asked.

  “I would have done if you’d asked, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with why you came to see me.”

  “Well, it certainly puts things in a different light. Was there anything in your wife’s handbag with your address on it?”

  “She didn’t think so at the time, but it’s possible. Our bloody house keys were in her handbag as well, so I had to have the front door locks changed—which wasn’t cheap.”

  “Can I have a look at the vehicle registration certificate for the previous keeper?”

  “I bought it off the station officer on Red Watch at Soho where I work. Mick Goddard—he lives in Romford.”

  Braun got the document from a drawer in the kitchen and gave it to Baxter, who wrote down Goddard’s details in his pocket notebook.

  “Look, my car was obviously started with a key, but from personal experience in dealing with burnt-out cars I have known cases where a different, but similar, key has been used to start a stolen car.”

  “It’s possible that’s what happened, and I’ll discuss it with the traffic officer who examined your car,” the Colonel said.

  “Can you tell me where the car is now? I’ll need to inform the insurance company.”

  “It’s at the Met lab in Lambeth undergoing examination. You know where that is?” Baxter replied.

  “We submit our fire investigation exhibits there for examination, so yes, I know where it is.”

  “Give them a ring and they’ll let you know when they’ll be finished with it,” Baxter suggested.

  The Colonel shook Braun’s hand. “Thanks for your assistance. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m sure you understand we have a job to do.”

  “It’s OK, no harm done.”

  “Just for our records, what’s your wife’s name and occupation, please?”

  “Elizabeth—she’s an assistant teacher at a local school.”

  Baxter made a note in his pocket notebook, then tore out a page with his details and the office number on it and handed it to Braun.

  “If there’s anything else you think of that might be of help to our investigation, then ring us on this number.”

  As they got into the unmarked police car, Baxter, who was driving, turned to the Colonel.

  “What do you reckon about Braun?”

  “He’s dodgy. It wasn’t that long ago the brigade got pissed off about the Edmund-Davies report recommending a forty-five percent pay rise for police and they went on strike wanting more money.”

  Baxter laughed. “I remember that. Each nick had to have a dedicated fire patrol car and the army were called in to attend fires—it was a shambles. But what’s that got to do with him being dodgy?”

  “Yeah, well, they only got a ten percent rise—their pay and pensions are shit so a lot of them moonlight to earn more money.”

  “You think he’s moonlighting as a criminal?”

  “The theft of his wife’s handbag might be legit, but he could have given his spare key to the robbers and made sure they nicked the car while he was on holiday.”

  “You reckon?” Baxter said skeptically.

  The Colonel looked at Baxter as if he were a fool. “Braun’s got a nice three-bedroom semi and a BMW 323i, which happens to be the most expensive model in the range—it only came out last year—plus he can afford a holiday in Mauritius. Think about it, Bax. He’d have to do a lot more than a bit of honest moonlighting to afford all that on a fucking fireman’s wage.”

  “His wife might have a good job.”

  “Don’t you listen? He said she was an assistant teacher. They get paid a pittance—probably not even half of what he does. For my money, Mr. Frank Braun’s a wrong ’un and we need to do a bit more digging. Let’s go to Tottenham nick and check out the crime report about the theft of Mrs. Braun’s handbag.”

  The Broadwater Farm estate had 1,063 homes consisting of one-, two- and three-bed flats and duplexes, in twelve blocks named after Second World War airfields. Aside from Tangmere House, there were eight other six-storey blocks, adjoined by a lower four-storey duplex block and two 19-storey towers. They housed 3,400 people from different ethnic backgrounds, with a substantial black population, whose relationship with the police was one of mutual hostility and mistrust.

  Cam parked the unmarked squad car by Tangmere House.

  “I’ll bet you have to use the stairs to get to number 68.”

  “You reckon the lifts will be out of order then?” Jane asked.

  “Either that or full of piss and shit—so you’ll definitely be using the stairs, but I can guarantee they won’t smell much better. If you aren’t back here in half an hour, I’m calling in the cavalry.”

  “If 68 is on this side facing you, I’ll wave out of the window to say we’re in the premises and fine,” Teflon said.

  Jane and Teflon got out of the car and went through the ground-floor communal door into the lobby, which smelt like a sewer. The walls were covered in abusive graffiti, the lift door was stuck open and inside was a pool of urine. Jane had to put her hand over her mouth and nose to stop herself gagging.

  “Looks like it’s the stairs. After you, madam.”

  Teflon opened the door, and another waft of stale urine assaulted them.

  “This place is worse than I imagined. How can people live in this filth?” Jane remarked.

  As they trudged up to the fifth floor, two young white men walked past them and Jane heard one say “white slag” as he passed them on the stairs. She stopped to challenge him, and Teflon nudged her in the back with his hand.

  “Ignore them and keep going,” he whispered.

  “He just called me a white slag!”

  “Only because you’re with me and he thinks we’re an item. It ain’t a good idea to start an argument in here—besides, I’ve clocked his face and won’t forget it next time I see him out on the street.”

  “The racist mentality of some people sickens me.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said with a shrug. “If it had been two black guys passing they’d probably have paid me a compliment about you.”

  “What would they have said?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  They reached the fifth-floor landing and Jane knocked on the door of number 68, which was in good condition and had a clean brown coir mat in front of it. They waited, but there was no reply. She knocked again and still there was no answer.

  “Looks like there’s
no one in.”

  “Put a note through the letterbox with your details on and ask Miss Wilson to contact you,” Teflon suggested.

  “I should have thought to check the electoral register at Tottenham nick before coming here to see if Emma Wilson is listed as the occupant. Maybe we should knock on the neighbor’s door and ask if they know who lives here.”

  Teflon agreed, and Jane knocked on the neighbor’s door. It had some boot marks on the front and a couple of crowbar marks on the door frame by the Yale lock.

  “Who is it?” a female voice asked in a wheezy North London accent, which was overtaken by a bout of coughing.

  “It’s the police. We just wanted to have a quick word with you about your neighbor—”

  “I don’t know nothing about any of me neighbors, so clear off and leave me alone,” she demanded.

  “We can show you our police warrant cards if you’re worried about who we are,” Teflon said.

  After a couple of seconds, they heard the Chubb and Yale locks being undone. The door opened a few inches and Jane could see it was on a chain guard. A short, grey-haired white woman in her late fifties, wearing thick-lensed black-framed glasses, peered through the gap with a lit cigarette in her mouth.

  “Let me see them cards close up.” She coughed again as Teflon held up his warrant card. “That ain’t close enough.”

  He moved his card closer and she peered at it.

  “How do I know that’s real?”

  “I can assure you it is, Mrs—?”

  She coughed again and took a deep breath. “You don’t look like police to me.” She glared at Teflon.

  It was obvious to Jane that the woman’s distrust was based on the color of Teflon’s skin. She stepped forward and held her warrant card by the gap in the door.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Tennison and this is DC Johnson. We were just wondering if a Miss Emma Wilson lives at number 68.”

  “She might do—why ya wanna know?”

  “She reported a crime and we’re investigating it, but we’re not sure if we have the right address for her,” Teflon said.

  The woman coughed a few times and looked at Jane. “He’s a bit grumpy, ain’t he?”

  Jane smiled, saying nothing.

  “I don’t know her very well, but Emma lives at 68, and she’s probably at work if she ain’t in.”