The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane went into the beer garden through the private rear door to look at the gate in the wall. It had a Yale lock, which could only be opened from the inside by turning the oblong knob. She made some notes before removing the set of keys from the private back-door Chubb lock, which she put in an empty plastic coin bag she found next to the till.

  She went to speak to Teflon, who was talking with a PC. Jane asked the officer to man the lounge bar door and not let anyone in without her permission, and to record the names and times any authorized persons entered and left the premises.

  “Is it Fiona Simpson?” Teflon asked.

  “Yes. Did you have to unbolt the lounge bar door to get out?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem?”

  “It seems she’d locked up the lounge and saloon bar doors before she died, but she left the back door open, which makes me wonder if someone other than Fiona opened the back door to leave via the beer garden.” She held up the coin bag with the keys in it. “With a bit of luck, we might get a fingerprint off the Chubb key or Yale lock on the garden door. Was the cellar light on or off when you found her?”

  “On. You reckon she was murdered?”

  “It’s too early to say for sure, but it’s something we have to consider.”

  “Well, if she was, and it’s connected to the robbery, then maybe the driver of the getaway car saw her looking out of the upstairs window at him.”

  “Could be. Anyway, it’s all speculation until forensics examines the scene.”

  Teflon nodded. “Local CID and div surgeon are on their way, along with DS Paul Lawrence. I told Cam what I’d found, and he said he’d inform Murphy. I’ll let him know it’s Fiona Simpson.”

  “I’m just going to pop down the road and speak to that old lady again. She said she’s a regular at the pub, so she might know who was working behind the bar with Fiona Simpson last night. I don’t want anyone else entering that scene before Paul—not even the divisional surgeon.”

  Jane knocked on the door of Betty’s 1930s, brick-built, one-bedroom terraced house.

  “I wasn’t expectin’ you until later, dear. Come on in, make yourself at ’ome. You wanna cup of Rosie Lee?”

  “No thanks, Betty.” Jane smiled at the cockney rhyming slang for tea.

  She followed Betty into the small living room, which was stifling, with a three-bar electric fire on and the window closed.

  “Sorry about the cold, luv, but I ain’t got central ’eating—I can turn the fire up if ya like.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Jane looked around the room. It had two armchairs and an old side cabinet with various black and white, and color, family photos arranged on it. In the corner of the room there was a small dining table, on top of which there was a half-completed jigsaw depicting a shallow river, with a man driving his horses and cart through it.

  It looked familiar.

  “What’s the jigsaw you’re doing, Betty?”

  “Don’t know, I just liked the picture on the box, so I bought it. Me ’ip’s ’urtin’, luv, so I needs to sit down.”

  She lowered herself gingerly into an armchair.

  “Are jigsaws your hobby?” Jane asked, picking up the box lid. Of course, she thought: The Hay Wain, by Constable.

  “Pretty much since me Albert died. We used to like goin’ out to the countryside on the train when ’e was alive; now ’e’s gone the jigsaws remind me. I don’t get out much as me ’ips are so bad . . . Doing jigsaws ’elps keep me mind tickin’ over and brings back ’appy memories. I got loads of ’em in me cabinet there.”

  “You said no one had been round to take a statement off you about the robbery—?”

  “Not a dicky bird, luv. The only person who spoke to me about it was Fi, cause she seen the driver as well, like.”

  “Did she tell you she’d made a statement?”

  “I don’t know about a statement, but she did say she’d spoken to a detective and ’e might want to speak to me.”

  “Did she say who the detective was?”

  Betty paused. “It was King, I think.”

  “Could it have been Kingston?”

  She pointed a finger. “That’s the name. Fi said ’e was a nice chap and told ’er not to tell anyone that she saw the driver’s face. She said I should keep schtum about it as well.”

  “And have you?”

  “On me life, sweetheart, I ain’t told a soul,” Betty replied firmly.

  “What happened when the driver opened the car door?”

  “I was on me way to get some bits an’ bobs from the shops an’ the bastard nearly knocked me off me effin’ feet when ’e was getting out of ’is car. Brown, it was. The car . . . I told him to mind what ’e was doin’ an’ use ’is bloody eyes, but ’e just pulled ’is cap down an’ walked off. I called ’im a rude word, but ’e still ignored me.” She looked angry.

  Jane asked her to describe the man, and she confirmed the details they already had: the newsboy cap, sideburns and ruddy cheeks.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Me ’ips is bad but me eyes ain’t—an’ I got a good memory for faces.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “When I came out of the shops the robbery was takin’ place. I nearly had an ’eart attack when the gun went off an’ that poor lad fell to the ground. Then quick as you like the brown motor pulls up an’ the three robbers jump in an’ piss off. The driver was wearin’ a balaclava this time, but I know it had to be the same bloke in the cap, because of what Fi told me.”

  “When did you last see Fiona?” Jane asked.

  “Yesterday evening at six, when I popped in for my usual two bottles of Mackeson.”

  “Did she have anyone helping her behind the bar, Betty?”

  “No, she was on her own . . . has something happened to Fiona?”

  Jane took a deep breath, crouched down beside Betty and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you Fiona is dead.”

  Betty started to rock back and forth, her eyes open wide with disbelief.

  “No, no, not my Fi, she can’t be dead . . . It’s gotta be a mistake.”

  “I’m so sorry, Betty, but we’re sure.”

  She squeezed Jane’s hand and started to cry.

  “Oh my poor, poor Fi . . . She was like a daughter to me . . . What ’appened?”

  “It looks like she fell down the cellar stairs and hit her head on the floor.”

  Jane did her best to comfort her, then once she’d stopped crying she made her a cup of tea.

  “Is there a neighbor you’d like to come and sit with you for a bit?”

  “No thanks, luv, I’d rather be on me own right now,” Betty said with a sniff.

  She shuffled over to the dining table, where she sat down and started doing The Hay Wain jigsaw without another word.

  Jane walked back to the pub with a heavy heart, but also feeling puzzled. It was abundantly clear Betty was far from being senile, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why Kingston had dismissed her as a credible witness. When she got to the car, Teflon was talking to a young man. Teflon turned to Jane.

  “This is DC Reid, early turn CID from Leytonstone. The divisional surgeon’s pronounced life extinct to Paul Lawrence, who’s in the pub, and Murphy is on his way. Did Betty say who was working behind the bar?”

  “She was on her own when Betty saw her at six. Poor thing’s absolutely heartbroken about Fiona’s death. I’ll go and have a word with Paul.”

  “I filled him in about our investigation and Simpson being a witness. He said he’s looking forward to seeing his young protégée.”

  Jane stood at the top of the cellar stairs and could see Lawrence, with his back to her, crouched down over Fiona’s body and bending her arm at the elbow joint, testing for rigor mortis.

  “How’s it going, Paul?”

  “Hello, Jane.” He gently released Fiona’s arm.

  “Can I come dow
n?”

  He grinned up at her. “Of course you can.” He opened his arms as she came towards him and they shared a tight hug. “How’s life as the first female on the Flying Squad?”

  “Well, I’ve only been on it since Thursday, but I think it’s going to take some time before they accept me as one of ‘the Dirty Dozen.’ ”

  “ ‘The Dirty Dozen’—what’s that all about?”

  “I won’t bore you, but some of them have the mentality of a child at times.”

  “You’ll win them round, you always do.”

  “I’m not so sure this time. What was the state of rigor?”

  “She’s cold and stiff. Considering she’d probably have closed the pub between eleven and twelve last night, the rigor fits with her being dead eight to ten hours.”

  “Any signs she was pushed down the stairs?”

  Jane went over her earlier observations with Paul about the cellar light being off, the locked doors and the beer garden gate. She then showed him the set of keys.

  “I didn’t have an exhibits bag so I had to put them in this coin bag; whoever last used the Chubb key on the back door might have left their prints on it.”

  “Good thinking.”

  He pulled out an exhibits bag from his pocket and dropped them in.

  “I’m worried her death might be connected to our robbery?”

  “Why?”

  “Just a gut feeling at the moment. If I’m right, there are only two ways our suspects could know she was a witness—one, the getaway driver saw her looking at him, or two, someone told them.”

  Paul tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you implying you’ve got a leak on the squad?”

  Jane sighed. “I don’t know, Paul, but there are one or two things that don’t add up. Then again, I could be jumping to conclusions and seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “That sounds familiar,” he remarked with a grin. “You’ve already observed there’s no sign of any struggle or assault in the bar or hallway area leading to the cellar. It’s the same down here, and there are no broken bottles, which means she wasn’t carrying anything up or down the stairs at the time. There are quite a few footprints, but they could be from any number of people who’ve been down here recently. From the blood pooling and position of her body, I’d say she fell backwards and smashed her skull on the ground.”

  “Do you think she could have been pushed?”

  “I can’t say. There’s no bruising on her face or lower arms to suggest she was punched or grabbed, but the post mortem might reveal bruising on her chest or shoulders, which could be consistent with being pushed.”

  Paul went over to the beer barrels and gently lifted each one an inch or two off the ground. He said nothing as he walked upstairs.

  “What are you doing?” Jane asked, following him.

  In the lounge bar he picked up a clean beer glass and handed it to her.

  “Pour me a pint of Heineken, please.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You should know by now there’s always a method in my madness.”

  She held the glass under the spout and pulled the tap forward. At first there was the sound of air, then a few small foamy splutters of beer coughed their way out of the spout, followed by a large sputter, which hit the beer already in the glass. It splashed back up and almost over Jane.

  Paul smiled. “As I thought. The Heineken barrel in the cellar is a fresh one and hasn’t been run through the pipes to ensure an uninterrupted flow of lager from the keg to the glass.”

  “What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Murphy shouted.

  An embarrassed Jane quickly put the glass on the counter, wishing the ground would open and swallow her up. But Paul knew Murphy of old.

  “Good morning, sir. I’m demonstrating to Sergeant Tennison that Fiona Simpson most likely changed a beer barrel just before her death.”

  “What are you talking about, Lawrence?”

  “It’s not a great revelation, but it could be relevant to her time of death.”

  “Get to the point and don’t give me all the Sherlock Holmes shit!”

  “Someone changed the Heineken barrel and it hasn’t been used, until now. It would explain why Fiona Simpson went down the cellar, but not if she fell or was pushed on her way back up.”

  “Show me the body,” Murphy said.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Lawrence showed Murphy the body and repeated his and Jane’s observations.

  “The bottom line is you don’t know how she died?” Murphy asked, leading the way back up to the bar.

  “Correct. However, my advice would be to secure the scene, remove the body to the mortuary and have a post mortem this afternoon. If the pathologist finds any sign of a struggle, or contentious injuries, then the coroner will decide if a suspicious death or murder investigation is required.”

  “OK, arrange for the PM and finish what you need to do here.”

  “Will you be attending?” Lawrence asked.

  “No.”

  “May I?” Jane asked.

  Murphy glared at her. “Not unless you’d like an instant transfer back to division.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “The Flying Squad don’t deal with suspicious deaths or murder. Division can deal with it and inform me of the PM result.”

  “But one of our suspects might have pushed her.”

  “Right now, you’re pushing me to the limit, Tennison. I had the duty inspector on the phone to me at home last night, about a Mr. Jones who made an official complaint about you and Teflon interviewing his daughter without his permission.”

  “She’s seventeen, and legally an adult.”

  “I don’t give a toss what age she is—I specifically told you not to speak to her and you disobeyed me. I want you and Teflon to go back to the office right now.”

  He marched off, and Lawrence could tell Jane felt she’d been deliberately humiliated in front of him.

  “Ignore him, Jane, he’s always been an overbearing twat.”

  Jane sighed heavily. “He’s been on my case since day one and is determined to get rid of me. He told me I was only transferred to the squad as an experiment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Is it OK to ring you at home this evening?”

  “You know you can call me any time, day or night. But the best way to shove two fingers up at Murphy is to do what you do best—and that’s being a damn good detective.”

  “I’m trying, Paul. Believe me, I’m trying.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jane was still preoccupied by Murphy’s dressing-down as Teflon drove back to Rigg Approach.

  “That’s what he must have been raging about when he spoke to Cam this morning.”

  “Murphy bent my ear before he spoke to you in the pub.”

  “I hope you told him it was my fault.”

  “I told him you were right about Abby Jones lying, then repeated what she told us at her house—that the gunman wasn’t wearing a mask and had a cut to his head.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “I think I hit a nerve. He asked me if I thought Abby would be able to identify him. I said I was almost certain she could, but her father pressured her to lie and say she couldn’t.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “Just that he’d speak to the pair of us later. I think he’s just testing your mettle to see if you’re up to the job. Murphy told me Jones attended the station wanting to make an official complaint, which suggests the duty officer persuaded him not to and we’ll be given words of advice.”

  “He might still make a formal complaint.”

  “So what? It’s not a sacking offence. Worst we can get is a slap on the wrist and a caution for disobeying him, which means it’s the end of the matter.”

  “I’m not so sure he’ll do that with me—”

  “Nah, I backed you up. He c
an’t treat us any differently.”

  “Thanks for your support, it means a lot to me.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what we do on the squad—we watch each other’s backs.”

  Now that Jane could feel a mutual respect growing between her and Teflon, she wondered if she should tell him about her conversation with Betty, and how Kingston had dismissed her as an unreliable witness. Stranger still was the fact he’d never mentioned Betty’s evidence in any of the office meetings. She looked out of the passenger window, sighed to herself and decided not to say anything to him, worrying that all it might accomplish would be to damage the bond that was forming between them if she were to question Kingston’s integrity. Which meant she either had to keep her suspicions to herself or confront Kingston about it face to face.

  Murphy sat at his desk writing a misdemeanor caution in their pocket notebooks, while Jane and Teflon stood to attention. Jane felt like she was back at school, standing in front of the headmistress and being told off for her bad behavior in class. Teflon gave her a side-on glance and a “told you so” smile. She tried not to smile back in case Murphy looked up.

  “Next time I won’t be so lenient.” He handed back their pocket notebooks. “You’re lucky the Leytonstone duty officer persuaded Mr. Jones not to make a full-blown complaint. I suggest you find out what he drinks and buy him a bottle . . . each!”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  “Type up a detailed report of your conversation with Abby Jones and her father, then file it as no further action.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Jane said, “but I wondered if this would be a convenient time to tell you about our visit to the Wilson sisters yesterday?”

  “Was the result as bad as the Joneses?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

  “To be honest . . . yes and no,” Jane admitted.

  “Let’s hear it then.”

  Jane gave him a summary of what she’d learned about the twins.

  “Bloody hell, those girls have had a tragic life,” Murphy remarked.

  “I think the reason they’ve managed to come through it is because they have each other,” Jane said. “Would you like me to make some enquiries about the uncle?” she added.