The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  Before leaving she popped in to see Pam.

  “You OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m off to work now, so make yourself at home. There’s bacon and eggs in the fridge and cereal in the cupboard.” She leaned forward and kissed Nathan, and then Pam’s cheek. “You can invite Tony over here if you want to have a heart-to-heart.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll go home. It would be better under our own roof . . . for Nathan as well.”

  “Forgiveness is never easy, but I know you’ll work things out. Tony’s a good man and he loves you both dearly.”

  “I know, and I love him.”

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  Jane started to leave the room.

  “I love you as well, Jane. I know I can be a silly cow at times, but I really appreciate what you’ve done for Tony and the advice you’ve given us.”

  “That’s what sisters do, Pam—they help each other through thick and thin.”

  It was a fresh, sunny spring morning as Jane parked her car in a back street near Brick Lane, famous for its array of Jewish, Bangladeshi and Indian restaurants and its Sunday flea market. As she crossed Bethnal Green Road she saw the Colonel walking towards her, and couldn’t help letting out a big yawn.

  “You look like you’ve been up all night,” he remarked.

  “I have,” she replied, yawning again.

  “Then a nice hot coffee and a salt beef bagel is what you need to wake you up.”

  “I’ve got to be back at Rigg for nine to meet Teflon and take Fiona Simpson up to the Yard.”

  “It’s only half seven—we’ve got plenty of time.”

  “All right then. I haven’t had a salt beef bagel in ages, and a black coffee wouldn’t go amiss.”

  As they walked down Brick Lane, some vendors were still setting up their stalls with second-hand goods and putting price tags on them. As they approached the busy Jewish cafe, the smell of salt beef filled the air. They found a free table in the corner.

  “My treat,” he said, and went to the counter.

  Jane saw him get a brown envelope out of his pocket and tear it open. He removed two ten-pound notes, handed one to the waitress, and put the other in his wallet. As he did so, she remembered Murphy saying he’d authorized twenty pounds out of the informants’ fund for the Colonel’s “snout.”

  “There you go.” He put her food and drink down on the table.

  “Can you tell me anything about the informant we’re going to meet?”

  “His name’s Gentleman Jim, he’s done time for armed robbery and now he’s out he sells antiques in the flea market,” he said brusquely.

  “Why’s he called Gentleman Jim?”

  The Colonel laughed. “ ’Cause he was always polite when he robbed a bank.” He put on a posh voice. “ ‘Please don’t press the alarm, and I’d be very grateful if you’d be so kind as to put the money in the bag.’ Then, having scared the shit out of the bank staff with a gun, he’d say ‘Toodle pip’ before leaving.”

  “What were the rest of the gang like?”

  “Jim was always a lone blagger; figured he wasn’t going to be grassed on if he did things by himself.”

  “Is he meeting us here?”

  “No, he runs a stall further down the lane.”

  “So how does it work on the squad with informants?”

  “You give them a nickname and you have to register them with Murphy and fill in a report for secure filing every time you have a meet.”

  “And what about paying them?”

  “Fill in a payment request form and give it to Kingston, who then gets Murphy to check it. If he approves it, Kingston can give you the money out of the office safe. If you get good info that results in a conviction, the snout gets a big wedge out of any reward fund.”

  Jane wondered to herself if the money the Colonel had in the envelope was meant for Gentleman Jim.

  “You can’t beat a good salt beef bagel.”

  He took a large bite of his second one.

  “Do you think Jim might know something about the Leytonstone job?”

  “Well, we ain’t here to buy an antique clock from him. You don’t half ask a lot of questions, Jane.”

  “Well, you’re supposed to be the teacher.”

  “Then just watch and learn when I speak to Jim.”

  Brick Lane was fuller now, with people who had come out early to try and grab a bargain. As they walked down the lane the Colonel stopped at some stalls and enquired about the merchandise or picked things up to have a look at them, trying to appear like a normal punter. He stopped at a stall and picked up a doll dressed in an old-fashioned sailor’s outfit, with a ring in one ear and realistic features. The stallholder was an overweight, elderly balding gentleman with a thick moustache, who smelt strongly of stale sweat. He wore a white shirt, grey pinstripe trousers and a black waistcoat with a pocket watch.

  “Is sir interested in the doll?”

  “I might be. What sort of doll is it?”

  “It’s German, known as a bisque head, made circa 1875 from bisque porcelain,” he said in a posh voice. “The matt finish gives it a rather lifelike look, don’t you think?”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty pounds—but if it’s for your good lady I’d be prepared to drop the price to forty-five.” He smiled at Jane.

  “Fuck off, Jim—I bet you’ve got a box full of replicas in the back of your van.”

  He shrugged. “I gotta make a fucking living, Colonel.”

  “This is Jane. I’m teaching her the ropes.”

  “I’d listen to every word he says, my dear—if only to see what rubbish he talks.” He sneered.

  The Colonel took a five-pound note out of his pocket and held it towards Jim.

  “You know anything about the Leytonstone job on Thursday just gone?”

  “Not for a fiver I don’t. A score is my going rate.”

  “The Guv’nor cut the funds down. I’ll give you another five out of my own pocket if it’s worth it.” He took another note out of his wallet.

  Jim sighed. “It’ll have to do for now, I suppose.”

  He went to take the money and the Colonel pulled it back from his grasp.

  “Info first, my friend.”

  Jim sighed, then spoke softly. “Rumor ’as it a big Irish UDA guy who recently came over ’ere is involved. ’E’s got a reputation for being a fuckin’ nutter.”

  Jane noticed that Jim’s accent had suddenly become proper cockney.

  “Age?” the Colonel asked.

  “Late twenties, early thirties.”

  “Was his name—?” Jane began.

  The Colonel cut her off abruptly, “I’ll ask the questions! What’s your source?” he asked Jim.

  “Pub talk. The paddy was pissed and gobbing off to a mate about turning over a Securicor van.”

  “What pub was it?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Colonel—if your mob start snoopin’ aroun’ in there, I’m brown bread.”

  “This paddy say anything else?”

  “Only that ’e was managin’ a snooker ’all in North London.”

  The Colonel didn’t react to any of the information. He paused, waiting for Jim to say more, then handed him the two five-pound notes.

  “Keep digging, Jim. You find out any more, you know where to reach me.”

  “Make it a twenty next time an’ I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It’s up to the Guv’nor—and keep your nose clean on this one.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows and spoke in a posh voice.

  “Good Lord, Colonel . . . Why would an upstanding gentleman like me want to partake in criminal activities?”

  “Because you’re greedy and got sticky fingers.”

  Jim shrugged. “To each his own, my friend.”

  As they walked back up the market the Colonel said nothing.

  “Looks like Jim’s talking about Aidan O’Reilly and the Bruce Grove Snooker Hall.”r />
  The Colonel stopped and looked at Jane.

  “Don’t ever give a snout information like names or they may lead you on. Let them do the talking and never tell them if they’re right or wrong. You run them—it can never be the other way around or they end up tapping you for information.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. I noticed his accent changed during the conversation.”

  “The posh thing is all an act. He used it when he was robbing banks, to fool the victims and police. He started again when he got into the antiques business, where it’s good for selling dodgy gear to naive punters.”

  “He seemed to know his stuff.”

  “Self-taught from books while he did a five stretch in the Scrubs. I’ll see you back at the nick,” he said as they reached Bethnal Green Road.

  Jane thought about the money the Colonel had given Gentleman Jim for his information. If the twenty pounds in the envelope was from the informants’ fund, it seemed he had pocketed a tenner of it for himself and the “extra” fiver from his own wallet wasn’t in fact his. She sighed. It wasn’t significant in the greater scheme of things, but it was still theft of the Commissioner’s money.

  Jane had parked her car and was walking towards the squad building when she saw Teflon rush out of the front entrance with car keys in his hand.

  “Kingston said Fiona Simpson is willing to attend albums, so we may as well go straight to the pub to collect her.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Cam said Murphy’s on his way in and he’s in a rage.”

  “What about this time?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t anything to do with the Jones family.

  “Who knows?” Teflon shrugged as they both got in the unmarked police car. “How’d it go with the Colonel’s informant?” he asked, doing up his seatbelt.

  Jane smiled. “He’s quite a character. I think he might be on to something with O’Reilly.”

  “Take my advice—let the Colonel deal with his informants on his own.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because his snouts often tread a fine line between giving an officer information about a crime and participating in it.”

  Jane thought back to the Colonel telling Gentleman Jim to “keep your nose clean on this one,” and decided it might be best to change the subject.

  “How was Kingston this morning?”

  “I dunno, he’s asleep in his office. He called me from a payphone last night—it sounded like he was in a pub and had had a few. Probably drowning his sorrows with the Colonel as usual.”

  “I was with the Colonel earlier and he didn’t appear to have a hangover.”

  “The Colonel can drink more than the lot of us put together and still be sober.”

  “Kingston’s not doing himself any favors by going on the piss and getting home late.”

  “That’s his problem, not ours. Sorry I snapped at you yesterday; you were only doing what you felt was right.”

  “I was wrong, and I don’t blame you for telling me—in fact, it gave me a wake-up call. I’m going to speak to Murphy after we’ve been to the Yard and tell him what happened.”

  “I’ll do it with you if you want.”

  “It was my screw-up, not yours.”

  “I could have refused to drive you there.”

  “I’d have gone on my own anyway.”

  “Well, I’m not going to blab to anyone in the office about it.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Jane repeatedly rang the doorbell at the lounge bar entrance to the Crown pub in Leytonstone High Road, but there was no answer. She checked her watch—it was just after 8:30 a.m.—then she went to the saloon bar entrance and knocked on the door, but still there was no answer. She stepped back into the street to look up at Fiona Simpson’s flat above the pub; the curtains were open but there was no sign of movement. There was a high brick wall, with a thick wooden door leading to the beer garden and rear of the pub. It was locked. She looked through the window and could see the lights were on inside, before returning to the unmarked police car. She tapped on the driver’s window.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve rung the doorbell and banged on the door but there’s no answer.”

  “Maybe she had a late night and she’s still sleeping it off.”

  “It doesn’t look like the place has been cleaned up—there’s dirty glasses and unemptied ashtrays on the bar.”

  Teflon called the office on the radio and asked Cam to phone the pub.

  “Tell Fiona Simpson we’re waiting outside for her.”

  Jane went back over to the lounge bar door and listened to the phone ringing for nearly a minute.

  “Cam said there’s no answer—maybe she’s locked up and gone out already.”

  “Kingston gave me the impression she wasn’t afraid to be a witness. Do you reckon you can get over that wall into the beer garden and check the back door?” Jane asked.

  “Piece of cake.”

  With a run and a jump he was up and over the wall.

  “Bugger off or I’m callin’ the police on you two!” a shrill female voice shouted.

  Jane turned and saw a frail elderly woman with a hunched back, clutching a copy of the News of the World.

  She got her warrant card out.

  “It’s all right, Betty, we are the police.”

  Betty tilted her head and her eyes narrowed.

  “Then why’s that darkie jumpin’ over the wall?”

  “He’s my colleague; we’ve come to see Fiona. She wasn’t answering our calls and we think her front doorbell may be broken, so now we’re trying the back door.”

  “Right, fair enough, but you can’t be too careful these days, you know.”

  “You’re quite right, Betty.”

  “Is it about the robbery? I saw it as well, you know.”

  “Yes, I heard you tell Fiona about the gun going off and the young man lying on the pavement.”

  Jane nodded, watching for Teflon to come back over the wall.

  “One of ’em bastards nearly knocked me for six before they robbed the van. When’s one of your lot gonna come and see me about it?”

  “Sorry, Betty, what did you say?”

  “I said, when’s one of your lot gonna come . . . Never mind, luv, you obviously ain’t interested in what I gotta say.”

  She started to walk off.

  Jane grasped the gist of what she’d said.

  “Did you say one of them knocked you over?”

  “I said nearly. As a police officer you should pay more attention, you know. I was walkin’ up the road when this bloke opens a car door and nearly ’it’s me bad ’ip. After the robbery Fi told me she saw it ’appen and ’e was the one who drove the car.”

  “Has no one from the investigation been to see you?”

  Betty frowned and shook her head. “Not a soul.”

  Jane glanced across the road and saw Teflon inside the lounge bar, opening the door. She got her pocket notebook and pen out.

  “What’s your address, Betty? I’ll come and see you later, probably this afternoon sometime.”

  “15 Dacre Road—it’s down there on the right. Don’t come between five and six as the Antiques Roadshow is on and I don’t like to miss that.”

  She limped off.

  Jane recalled wanting to speak to Betty on the Thursday afternoon, when she first met her, but not bothering as Fiona said DI Kingston was dealing with her. From what Betty had just said it seemed he hadn’t spoken to her, which didn’t make sense as Kingston had told her Betty was “a bit senile and not very reliable,” and in his opinion it wasn’t worth getting a statement from her. She had no reason to doubt Kingston. As she watched Betty limp down the road, she wondered if she had dementia and had forgotten about the whole thing. Or maybe she just liked the attention and wanted to talk to another policeman.

  “We need to get the local CID down here.”

  Teflon sprinted towards the car.

 
“What’s happened?” Jane asked, hard on his heels.

  “The back door was open, and the keys were in it. There’s a woman at the bottom of the cellar and blood on the floor—looks like she fell backwards and hit her head on the concrete.”

  “Have you called an ambulance?”

  “No, she’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I checked for a pulse. I’m assuming it’s Fiona Simpson.”

  He opened the car door and picked up the radio.

  “Call a divisional surgeon to pronounce life extinct and a lab liaison sergeant as well—ask for Paul Lawrence to attend, if he’s on call,” Jane told him.

  “I was going to get the local lads to deal with it.”

  Jane shook her head. “Locals can hold the scene until a lab sarge gets here—they know more about suspicious death scenes than a divisional SOCO or CID ever do.”

  “You reckon it’s suspicious?”

  “Paul taught me to treat every unexplained death scene as a possible murder—we don’t know yet whether she fell or was pushed. I’m just going to take a quick look and see if there’s anything that needs urgent preservation for forensics.”

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her shoulder bag.

  “You always carry those around with you?”

  “Yep, a couple of pairs at least. If you go around touching things at a scene without them, you could destroy or contaminate potential evidence. If the locals turn up before I’m back, you tell them to stay out of the pub.”

  Jane stood at the top of the short flight of steep stone steps leading to the cellar and crouched down. The light was on and she could see the dead woman’s face, her eyes wide open as if frozen with fear. A two-foot pool of blood surrounded her head and the outer few inches of the pool had congealed, indicating to Jane that Fiona had lain there motionless for some time. She looked closely at the steps and the carpet in the hallway leading to the cellar, but there was no sign of any blood trail or droplets. She made notes in her pocket notebook of her observations, and the fact that the cellar light switch was in the hallway by the cellar door. Then she checked the saloon bar door, which was bolted shut, top and bottom, as was the public door to the beer garden. There were dirty beer glasses on the tables and bars, and no sign of any disturbance to indicate a struggle might have taken place.