The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “Do you know when she’s likely to be home?” Teflon asked.

  “When she gets back from work,” the woman replied, deadpan.

  “And what time would that be?”

  She ignored him and directed her answer to Jane. “How should I know . . . ? I don’t watch her comings and goings.”

  “Do you by any chance know where she works?” Jane asked.

  “I seen her at the Co-op department store in the High Street.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said.

  “You found out who tried to break into my flat yet?”

  The old woman pointed to the crowbar marks on the door frame.

  Jane shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that, but—”

  “Didn’t think so!”

  She closed the door smartly and relocked it.

  “I thought the way she treated you was obnoxious,” Jane remarked as they walked towards the stairwell.

  “She probably thinks it was a black person who tried to break into her flat. She’s not going to trust a black policeman to catch him, I guess. You just have to ignore it.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to ignore it.”

  “It depends on the situation—dealing with a witness and making an arrest are very different. If you want to keep a witness on side, you need to be nice to them whether you like it or not. When you’re nicking someone you control them—whether they like it or not.” He grinned.

  “Well, at least we found out where Emma works and I can go to the Co-op this afternoon.”

  He pointed to the damage on the old woman’s door.

  “Bit strange this flat and most of the others have boot and crowbar marks on them . . . but there’s not a mark on number 68”

  Jane hadn’t noticed. “Maybe it did and it’s a replacement door.”

  “From the lack of detail in the report the duty sergeant didn’t seem that enthusiastic about what Emma Wilson had to say. This whole thing about her hearing men in a cafe talking about a robbery is beginning to sound like a load of crap to me.”

  “It could be—but the only way I’m going to find out is by speaking to her face to face today, or Murphy will be on my back again,” said Jane with a sigh.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cam dropped Jane off by her car and left with Teflon to get the PCs’ statement. She was looking in her A-Z when she saw a woman pushing a pram along the pavement and asked her if she knew whereabouts in the High Road the Co-op department store was. The woman said it was at the north end, near Tottenham Hotspur’s football ground, which was about a mile away. Unsure what the parking restrictions in the High Road would be, and as it was a reasonably nice day and not too cold, she decided to walk.

  The High Road Co-op was a three-storey art deco-style Edwardian department store with a white rendered facade and a prominent square corner tower with Tuscan-style pillars. On the base of the tower there was a square panel with the Co-op logo of intertwined letters: “LCS” for the London Co-operative Society and “1930,” signifying the year it opened.

  Jane asked a female employee where the manager’s office was. She said he was on holiday and escorted her to the undermanager’s office on the ground floor. He was in his mid-thirties, tall, dark-haired and slim, with a neatly trimmed black moustache, and wore a dark shiny charcoal-colored two-piece suit, white shirt and black Windsor knot tie. He reminded Jane of someone out of a new wave pop band. He had a pleasant smile, was well spoken and said his name was Jeffery Dobbs. She introduced herself and he shook her hand with a firm grip.

  “Does a Miss Emma Wilson work here?”

  “Emma’s not in trouble, is she?” he asked.

  “No, she reported an incident to Tottenham CID that I’m investigating.”

  “Is it those kids shouting abuse and throwing food again?” he asked, frowning.

  “Yes,” Jane said quickly. She didn’t want to reveal she was investigating an armed robbery.

  “The youth of today have no respect for anyone, or anything—they make me sick to the stomach, the way they behave. That Broadwater Farm is a terrible place to live. I know Emma regrets ever moving there. When she first told me about the abuse, I helped her draft some letters to the council requesting a move, but to no avail.”

  “It’s to your credit that you care for your employees’ well-being, Mr. Dobbs. Can you tell me which department Emma works in, please?” she asked, eager not to waste any more time.

  “Drapery. It’s like a home from home for Emma—she makes all her own clothes.” He looked at an employee work chart on the wall. “She will be at lunch just now in the staff canteen.” He opened the door. “If you’d like to follow me, officer, I’ll take you upstairs. Emma’s quite reserved and tends not to socialize with the other ladies, but she has a heart of gold. It’s unusual for her to complain about anything, and I can only imagine that she reported this latest abuse because she was at breaking point. Actually, come to think of it, now the police are involved I should write another letter to the council. Perhaps they might finally listen and move them off the Broadwater.”

  As they climbed the stairs, Jane suspected she might have dug a hole for herself by lying to him about why she’d come to see Emma.

  “It’s probably best to speak to Emma first and see if that’s what she wants you to do.”

  “Good point, I’ll speak to her later.”

  There were several employees in the canteen, chatting and laughing while eating their lunch. The women were all dressed in white frilled blouses and black skirts, and the men wore dark suits, white shirts and ties. Jane noticed a woman in her fifties sitting alone in the corner of the room reading a book.

  “Is that Emma over there?” she asked.

  “No, that’s her over there, putting her dirty plate and cutlery on the trolley.”

  He nodded towards a woman with her back to them. She was dressed like the other employees and had shiny black hair neatly tied up in a bun.

  He raised his voice. “Miss Wilson, could I have a word, please?”

  Emma turned around and Jane was surprised to see a young woman of about her age, not the middle-aged woman she’d imagined. Although she only wore a little make-up her olive skin had a soft glow, which made her lips stand out. She had a slight Mediterranean appearance, with an hourglass figure, petite nose and brown doe eyes.

  “Yes, Mr. Dobbs?” she asked with an engaging smile as she walked over.

  “Let’s go sit over there, shall we . . . ? Away from prying ears.” Dobbs pointed to a table in the far corner.

  Jane spoke first in a soft and reassuring manner.

  “Hi, Emma, I’m Jane Tennison from the CID. I went to your flat earlier but as there was no one in I spoke to a neighbor who told me you work here. I wanted to speak to you about the crime report you made at Tottenham Police Station.”

  “Yes, certainly . . . Pleased to meet you.” Emma put out her hand and Jane shook it.

  Dobbs sat back and got a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, offering one to Jane. She wanted to be alone with Emma and didn’t fancy plumes of cigarette smoke billowing around while they spoke.

  “No thanks—I would love a cup of coffee though. Would you like one, Emma?”

  “A cup of tea would be nice, thank you,” she replied.

  Dobbs put the cigarettes back in his pocket as Jane opened her shoulder bag, but Dobbs said he’d get the drinks and asked Jane if she would like anything to eat. She looked over at the counter, saw some teacakes on a plate inside a glass dome cover and asked if she could have one with some butter and jam on it.

  As Dobbs got up and left the table, Emma leaned towards Jane and whispered, “Does Mr. Dobbs know why I went to the police station the other night?”

  “Do you want him to?”

  She shook her head. “No, my sister told me not to tell anyone other than the police for now.”

  Jane decided it was best to be honest.

  “He was concerned about why
I wanted to speak to you and mentioned you’d suffered verbal abuse from some local kids who also threw food at you. I told him a little lie and said it was about that—but he now thinks it’s happened again.”

  Emma looked concerned. “Do you think I should tell him the truth?”

  “That’s up to you, but for now I think it’s best we keep it between the two of us and stick to the verbal abuse story.”

  Emma nodded. “I understand, officer.”

  “Please, call me Jane. Have you actually reported the abuse incidents to the police?”

  “Um, no, we were worried if we did the police would have to speak to the boys and it would only make things worse for us.”

  Dobbs returned with the food and drinks.

  “I got you a teacake as well, Emma, and I’ve just arranged for someone to cover for you in drapery, so there’s no need to rush.”

  He sat down and took a sip of his coffee.

  Jane got out her pocket notebook and pen and put them on the table, wondering how best to get rid of Dobbs.

  Before she could say anything, Emma gave him a forlorn look, then leaned towards him and whispered, “I don’t wish to appear rude, Mr. Dobbs, but the officer wants me to tell her about the disgusting language the boys used when they abused us, which as a woman I’d rather not repeat in your presence . . . if you don’t mind.”

  “I totally understand, Emma. I’ll leave you to discuss it with Sergeant Tennison.” He stood up.

  She looked up at him and spoke softly. “Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Dobbs.”

  He smiled, put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me, Emma. Perhaps the two of us can draft another letter to the council about the ongoing abuse.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dobbs,” she said, and he left.

  Jane wondered from their body language if there was more than just a working relationship between them. She was also surprised at how naturally Emma had lied to him.

  Jane smiled. “I don’t think Mr. Dobbs will be too pleased when he finds out I lied to him—and neither will my boss if he reports me,” she said, and sipped her tea.

  “I believe you told the duty sergeant you heard some men in a cafe talking about a robbery.”

  Emma dabbed the cake crumbs from her lips with a napkin.

  “No, it was my sister Rachel.”

  Jane was confused. “Your sister spoke to the sergeant?”

  “No, she didn’t want to go into the station, so I spoke to him about what happened in the cafe. I’ve never been in the cafe—Rachel was, and the men were sitting a couple of tables away from her.”

  “Then they must have been talking loudly if she heard what they were saying in a busy cafe?”

  Jane was beginning to wonder if Emma was confused about what had happened, or even making things up to get some attention.

  “Rachel didn’t actually hear what was said—she saw what was said.”

  Jane put her pen down and sat back in her chair.

  “I’m finding this a bit confusing, Emma. Did you tell the duty sergeant you were there on behalf of your sister?”

  “In a way, yes. I told him Rachel is deaf and she thought she saw some men talking about a robbery in a cafe. I assumed he’d passed it on, but clearly not.”

  Suddenly Jane understood. “Your sister can lip-read.”

  Emma looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

  “Yes, but only me and a few close friends know—including you, now.”

  Jane was pleased that Emma was confiding in her.

  “Thank you for telling me. But I will have to tell my boss if it turns out to be connected to our investigation.”

  “That’s OK, she’ll have no problem with police officers knowing.”

  “Why doesn’t Rachel like to tell people she can lip-read?”

  “She reckons the big advantage of people not knowing is it allows her to judge their personalities when they realize she is deaf.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She can lip-read their rude comments about her deafness.”

  “I bet she feels like giving them a piece of her mind when that happens.”

  Emma frowned. “She would if she could, but she can’t speak.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s not your fault. Life would be easier for the deaf if more people learned to use sign language. That’s the way Rachel and I mostly communicate, apart from leaving little notes for each other—especially after we’ve had an argument.”

  “What did you tell the uniform sergeant when you spoke to him yesterday?”

  “I spoke to him on Tuesday evening after work.”

  “Are you sure about that? The information sheet I was given said you were at the station yesterday evening.”

  Emma shook her head. “I know it was Tuesday evening. Rachel told me about the men in the cafe on Monday evening after I got home from work.”

  “What exactly happened at the station?”

  “Rachel didn’t want to go in and waited outside. The sergeant at the front counter asked how he could help me. I told him my sister was in a cafe on Bruce Grove on Monday morning and saw two men talking and she thought it was about robbing a van. He asked what I meant by ‘saw’ and I told him she was deaf. He gave me a funny look and said there was no CID on duty who dealt with robberies.”

  Jane knew there would have been at least two detectives minimum on late turn CID duties, but what annoyed her even more was the fact that the information sheet had nothing on it about Rachel being deaf or a van being robbed.

  “Did you tell him Rachel could lip-read?”

  “I was about to, but his desk phone rang, and he said he had to answer it. He handed me a police notepad and pen and said to write down my name and address, which I did while he was on the phone.”

  “And he didn’t speak to you in more detail after he finished his phone call?”

  “No, he just picked up the notepad and said he’d pass the information on to CID and they would get in touch with me, and then he just walked off, so I left.”

  Jane was infuriated by the duty sergeant’s attitude. He could have got someone from the CID office in the station to speak to her, but clearly couldn’t be bothered and had just sat on it. She wondered if he’d then heard about the robbery on the security van in Leytonstone on Thursday, and decided to pass Emma’s information on to cover his back in case it was connected. He’d either lied about the date Emma attended the station when he spoke to Katie, or deliberately didn’t mention it and Katie had just assumed it was the same evening as the robbery.

  “Can you tell me the name and address of the cafe and what time Rachel was in on Monday?” Jane asked, ready to write the details down.

  “It’s called the Bluebird and it’s in Bruce Grove, near the Royal Mail sorting office where she works.”

  “And what did the men say to each other about robbing a van?”

  “Rachel could only lip-read what one of them was saying as the other man was sitting with his back to her. She has a very retentive memory, but I can’t remember everything she told me in detail now. When we discussed it that evening, she wrote everything down in a notebook she always carries with her in case she needs to have a conversation with someone who can’t sign.”

  “Did Rachel write down a description of the men?”

  “I don’t think so. She said she often sees them in there, but she doesn’t like to sit near them.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because one of them smokes a big stinky cigar and it puts her off her food.”

  Jane tried not to get too excited, knowing that what Emma was saying was merely second-hand information.

  “Did Rachel think these men were planning a robbery or had already committed one?”

  “From what she told me it sounded like they were planning one.”

  “What exactly did Rachel say that made you think that
?”

  “She said the one whose lips she could see was moving things round the table and talking as if they represented people and a van. She also thought he said the word ‘robbed.’ ”

  Trying to play devil’s advocate, Jane wondered if the man could have been saying the name Rob instead of “robbery,” but the details were definitely beginning to mount up, particularly as the getaway car had been stolen in Tottenham.

  “Did Rachel say anything else about these two men?”

  Emma thought about it. “She said they looked similar.”

  Jane nodded. “Anything else?”

  “She thought one of them might be connected to the snooker or bingo hall in Bruce Grove.”

  “Are they next door to each other?”

  “No, they’re in one building, which was originally a cinema. They converted the downstairs for bingo and the upstairs for snooker.”

  “Why did she think one of the men was connected to the premises?”

  “You can see the building from the cafe and Rachel said she’d seen him coming and going from there when she was in the cafe.”

  “What hours does Rachel work in the sorting office?”

  “Six a.m. to two p.m.”

  Jane looked at her watch and saw it was 1:15 p.m.

  “What Rachel lip-read on Monday could be connected to a robbery I’m investigating.”

  Emma looked worried. “Do you think the men Rachel saw in the cafe are the robbers?”

  “It’s possible, but I can’t be certain until I speak to her in detail about what she was able to lip-read at the time. My car is parked up near the sorting office. If you are agreeable, we could meet Rachel outside and go to Tottenham Police Station, where I can speak to her in private and you could do the sign language for us. Would you be happy to do that?”

  Emma nodded but she looked apprehensive. “OK . . . if Mr. Dobbs will let me go early.”

  “I’m sure he will, and I’ll stick to the verbal abuse and kids throwing food story for now. Do you think Rachel would be willing to make an official statement and attend an identity parade if necessary?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t sure about me going to the police. She was worried they would find out who she was and where she works due to her Post Office uniform. That’s why she wouldn’t come into the station with me. I told her they could be planning a robbery and the right thing to do was tell the police. If she hadn’t agreed I wouldn’t have gone to the station, though I think she was actually relieved when no one contacted us.”