The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “What was the result?” she asked eagerly.

  “Inconclusive, I’m afraid. She died from an acute subdural hematoma.”

  “In layman’s terms, please.”

  “When her head hit the concrete, it cracked her skull open and probably knocked her out. But it also ruptured a vein, which then filled the brain with blood and ultimately led to her death. If she’d got immediate treatment, she might have survived.”

  “Was she pushed?”

  “There’s no bruising on her body to support that conclusion—”

  “But she could have been?”

  “Yes. I found some footprints in the men’s toilets—”

  “How on earth is that going to help? Dozens of people must have been in there.”

  “Christ, you can be impatient at times, Jane. The prints were on the cubicle toilet seat, which I don’t believe you need to stand on to have a crap.”

  Jane could suddenly see it.

  “Oh my God, someone must have been hiding in there when she locked up.”

  “It’s possible. They look like trainer marks, but I can’t say when they got there, plus someone might have stood on the seat to fix the cistern. I’ve removed the seat and I’ll take it back to the lab for a closer examination.”

  “What about the Chubb key? Do you think you’ll get a print off it?”

  “I’m going to try a new technique using superglue.”

  “Superglue? How does that work?”

  “I’ll put the keys in a glass tank next to a tray with some superglue in it. Heating the glue makes it vaporize and releases fumes into the container. The vapors adhere to any fingerprints, making them visible, then I can enhance them by using dyes or powders. However, it’s a bit of a slow process and can take a day or two.”

  “Fingers crossed you get something, and it’s not Fiona Simpson’s print.”

  Jane thanked Paul and ended the call. As she got ready for bed, the image of a man hiding in the toilets, calmly waiting until his victim was alone, wouldn’t leave her mind, and she wasn’t sure if she would sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  All the observation points were operational by 6 a.m.: OP1 was the newsagent’s in Bruce Grove, manned by Bax; OP2 was George Ripley’s house, the entrance to which was being watched by a CROPS officer from a hide in the field opposite; OP3 was Tommy Ripley’s flat, being watched by Stanley in an OBO van; OP4 was GR Motors, being manned by Teflon; and OP5 was Aidan O’Reilly’s flat, being manned by CO11. Each OP also had three CO11 surveillance officers ready to do foot follows, and two unmarked vehicles nearby with officers ready to tail the suspects’ cars. Motorcycle surveillance officers were also parked up near the Ripleys’ addresses.

  Kingston and the Colonel were carrying revolvers and parked up at Tottenham Police Station, with firearms officers from D11 in two unmarked cars, ready to pounce on the suspects if they committed a robbery. Murphy was with Cam at Rigg Approach controlling the operation. Their call sign was “Gold.” George Ripley was Target 1, Tommy Ripley Target 2, Aidan O’Reilly Target 3 and Graham Smith Target 4. If the suspect believed to be Carl was seen he would be Target 5, and the man in the camel hair coat Target 6.

  Jane parked her car in a back street away from the cafe.

  Nick opened the door when she arrived. “Buongiorno, officer Tennison.”

  “Buongiorno, Nick. I think it would be best if you called me Jane.”

  “OK, Jane. You wanna cappuccino?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Bene, you gonna make it on the machine, and I watch you.”

  “Straight in at the deep end, eh? I’ve never used an espresso machine, but I’ll give it a go.”

  “You better learn quick, cause we open in an hour.” He handed her a short-waist black apron with pockets in it for a pen and order pad. “I tell you how to make the cappuccino.”

  Under Nick’s guidance she poured some cold milk into a metal steaming pitcher, then held it under the tip of the steaming wand on the espresso machine and turned the dial, releasing the steam.

  “Not too much or you burn the milk.”

  She turned the steamer off, and with a little help from Nick made a single shot of espresso, which she poured into a large cup. She picked up the steamed milk and went to pour it into the cup.

  “Aspettare, aspettare, you have to give it a tap first. You tap the bottom of the pitcher on the counter to bring the foam to the top.”

  She finished making the cappuccino and Nick took a swallow.

  “Molto buona . . . Is good.”

  “Would you like me to do any cooking?”

  “No, il cucinare is my job—you just take and serve the orders.”

  Nick spent the next half hour going over the menu, then showed Jane how the till worked and where everything was kept.

  “Any problem you just ask me, but from what I see so far you are very good.”

  Everyone on the surveillance team was maintaining radio silence as they waited for the suspects to appear. It was 8:30 a.m. when the CROPS officer’s voice was heard over the radio.

  “All units from OP2, Target 1 has left premises in gold Mercedes 450SL convertible, index plate X-ray Papa Echo 264 Sierra. Vehicle has turned left towards junction with Abridge Road.”

  “OP1 from Central five two, we have eyeball on Target 1 vehicle and ready to follow,” the detective said.

  There was another period of radio silence, until one of the CO11 officers watching Aidan O’Reilly’s flat piped up.

  “All units from OP5, Target 3 has left premises and is waiting at bus stop on north side of the road. Officers on foot have eyeball and are following.”

  It wasn’t long before Stanley, in an OBO van at Chingford, came on the air.

  “Target 2 in red Mini, X-ray Lima Oscar 67 Romeo, being driven by IC1 female. Now in Hatch Lane heading towards roundabout.”

  “Central solo six four has eyeball,” the plain clothes motorcycle officer said as he started to follow the Mini.

  “OP 4 to Gold, receiving, over?” Teflon said.

  “Go ahead, OP 4,” Cam replied.

  “IC1 male matching Target 4’s description opening garage at premises opposite OP 4. His vehicle is a dark blue Mark 3 Capri Ghia, plate Victor Hotel Kilo 499 Tango.”

  He started to take some photographs with a zoom lens camera. Cam did a vehicle check on the PNC as he listened.

  “Vehicle’s shown as registered to Target 4,” he told Teflon.

  Murphy was standing next to Cam.

  “Good, all our main targets are on the move. Looks like Maria Fernandez is driving Tommy Ripley to work.”

  “The Mini is registered to her at Tommy’s Hatch Lane address. Jane said a witness at Edgar House saw a man matching George Ripley’s description driving a gold Mercedes,” Cam reminded him.

  Murphy picked up the radio. “All units from Gold . . . Female driving mini will be Target 7.” He turned to Cam. “Let’s hope the Ripley brothers are going to the Bluebird.”

  Nearly half an hour passed before Bax spoke on the radio and Dabs started taking photographs.

  “All units from OP1, the Mini has parked around the back of the snooker hall and Targets 2, 3 and 7 have just gone in . . . Stand by—” He paused as the gold Mercedes drove around the back of the hall. “Target 1 has just turned up and driven into the car park.” He waited, then watched as George Ripley appeared. “All units, Target 1 has entered the hall.”

  As soon as Bax had finished, Teflon had an update from OP4 regarding the suspect Carl.

  “An IC1 male matching Target 5’s description has just turned up at garage driving a white Ford Transit van, plate Oscar Mike Echo 547 November.”

  Cam did a PNC check and spoke to Teflon.

  “The vehicle is registered to the garage—Gold said to assume the driver is Target 5 for now.”

  “Received,” Teflon replied.

  Jane had just finished clearing and wiping down a table when Rachel came in and sat dow
n.

  Nick gave her a wave and whispered to Jane, “She a sordomuto—you have to give her the pad and she write down what she want.”

  Jane thought it was funny that he was whispering, then went over to Rachel and handed her the pen and notepad. Rachel wrote down what she wanted and handed the pad back to Jane, who, without thinking, started to read out her order of a bacon and egg sandwich for Rachel to lip-read it was correct. Rachel looked at her, wide-eyed, and started to tap her ears and mouth, indicating she couldn’t hear or speak. Jane tore the order off the pad and handed it to Nick, who shook his head.

  “I just tell you she deaf and you talk to her when she no can understand what you a say.”

  Jane felt herself reddening. “Sorry, I won’t do it again.”

  As Jane gave Rachel her cup of tea, the cafe door opened and the Ripley brothers walked in. Glancing around, she was instantly struck by the likeness to the drawings Rachel had done of them. George was wearing a green waxed Barbour jacket just like the one Rita Brown had described, and a blue open-neck shirt with gray slacks. Tommy was dressed in a black turtleneck jumper, black trousers and wearing the gold boxing gloves pendant Rachel had spoken about. Jane was surprised how normal they looked. It was hard to imagine them carrying shotguns and threatening people, though George did walk with a confident swagger. Tommy, by contrast, shuffled along meekly behind him.

  A young man sitting at their usual table by the wall moved when he saw them. Jane felt nervous but, knowing she had to appear calm and natural, took a deep breath and went to take their order.

  “Good morning, gentleman, what can I get you?”

  “Bloody hell, makes a change to see a pretty face serving up in here, darlin’,” Tommy said.

  She smiled. “Thanks . . . darlin’.”

  Tommy winked. “My pleasure.”

  George laughed. “A bit of sass as well. You having the full English?” His brother nodded. “Same for me, and two coffees.”

  “Cappuccinos, latte or—”

  “None of that shit—just normal with milk.”

  As Jane took their order over to Nick, she thought George was ill-mannered as he never once said “please” or “thank you.” She noted that, like the Securicor guard had mentioned, George had a gravelly voice and brown eyes.

  While making their coffees she glanced over and could see them leaning towards each other, as if discussing something in private. She looked over at Rachel, who had a hardback novel open on the tabletop and was writing in a notebook as if making notes for an essay, while looking out of the corner of her eye to try and lip-read what George was saying.

  When the Ripleys’ full Englishes were ready she took the food over to them.

  “I like your boxing gloves pendant,” she said as she put the plate down in front of Tommy.

  “It’s eighteen carat gold and worth a few bob,” he boasted.

  “Did you win it in a fight?”

  He laughed. “No, me girlfriend Maria bought it for me. We just won tin cups or a belt when I was boxing.”

  “My dad did a bit of boxing.”

  “Where was his club?” Tommy asked.

  “Above the Thomas A Becket pub in the Old Kent Road,” she said, remembering it from when she worked in the CID at Peckham.

  He looked impressed. “That’s a well-known club—it’s produced some famous boxers. Henry Cooper trained there six days a week for fourteen years, and Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier sparred there.”

  “My dad wasn’t that good. He told me he spent more time on the canvas than on his feet.”

  Tommy laughed. “I know the feeling. My old club produced a few amateur champions, but I wasn’t one of them.”

  “Where was your club?” she asked.

  “Chingford, at the TA drill hall.”

  She felt her stomach churn as she remembered the photograph of Kingston in his office, with CHINGFORD AMATEUR BOXING CLUB 1958 on it, and him telling her the club was at the Territorial Army drill hall.

  “Get us some more brown sauce, darlin’, this ’un’s empty,” George said, handing her the bottle.

  Teflon watched as Carl got in the Transit van and a plume of black smoke spluttered out of the exhaust as he started the engine.

  “All units from OP 4, Target 5 is on the move in white Transit van.”

  “Received by Central five six, we will follow with a solo.”

  A few minutes later Bax was on the radio.

  “Target 5 parking Transit outside hall and out on foot towards cafe.”

  George looked out of the window and spoke with a mouthful of sausage.

  “We better change the subject. Carl’s on his way.”

  “Have you never thought about getting him on a job?” Tommy asked.

  “Nah, he’s a fucking mummy’s boy.”

  George took a mouthful of coffee to wash his food down.

  “Why you always so hard on him?”

  “Cause he’s a retard and ain’t from my loins.”

  “It’s not his fault he’s backward,” Tommy said, looking serious.

  George’s eyes narrowed. “What you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, forget it—”

  “Come on, spit it out—don’t be a wimp like Carl,” he said aggressively.

  “The boy’s the way he is because you knocked him about.”

  George shrugged. “Weren’t my fault he tripped and cracked his skull.” He looked over at Jane, who was behind the counter plating up some food. He snapped his fingers. “Bring us another coffee, luv.”

  Jane tried hard to keep a pleasant smile on her face as she put a spoonful of coffee in a clean cup, then saw Carl walk into the cafe wearing blue coveralls. He looked exactly as Rachel had described him: in his late twenties, extremely handsome, with sea-blue eyes and long wavy blond hair.

  “You found a bird for the wedding yet after that tart gave you the boot?” George asked as Carl joined them.

  “Not yet—”

  “Well, you better do cause I’ve got to fork out the dosh for two hundred meals and I ain’t having an empty seat in the marquee because of you.”

  Jane put George’s coffee on the table.

  “What can I get you?” she asked Carl.

  “A decent woman would be good,” George said with a deep guttural laugh. “Come to think of it, gorgeous, what you doing this Saturday?”

  Carl looked embarrassed.

  Jane felt like telling him it was none of his business, but instead said, “I don’t know yet. Why?”

  “You fancy going to a wedding with him?” George pointed his knife at Carl.

  “But we haven’t even met,” Jane replied.

  “Another rejection, son. You’d probably get a yes from a poofter, though, with hair like yours.”

  He smiled nastily, then lit a cigar with a gold Dunhill gas lighter with the initials GR on it.

  Jane felt sorry for Carl, who looked hurt by George’s gibes. He sounded totally dejected as he ordered a coffee and sausage sandwich.

  “He’s got errands to run, so he ain’t got time for food,” George said, taking a large wedge of cash out of his pocket and a piece of notepaper. “I want ya to go down the builder’s merchants and get some stuff for Smudge.”

  He handed Carl the note and some cash. Carl pocketed them and then got up to go to the toilet.

  Jane picked up the dirty plates from the table and took them to the sink behind the counter. Rachel came up to the counter to pay for her food and Jane handed her the bill. She had a folded five-pound note in her hand, which she passed to Jane, along with a few bits of notepaper, which Jane slipped into her pocket under the counter.

  She was wiping down a table when Carl came out of the toilet and approached her.

  “I’m sorry about my stepfather—he likes to think he’s funny, but he isn’t.”

  “It’s all right, you’ve no need to apologize.”

  “I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”

  “And what would
that be?”

  “Would you come to my stepsister’s wedding with me?” he asked awkwardly.

  For a moment she was lost for words.

  “Sorry, I’m being stupid. Of course you’re not going to say yes—you don’t know me from Adam.”

  He started to walk off. Her first instinct was to let him go. After all, it was a pretty odd thing to do—to invite someone to a wedding you’d only just met. She wondered if he was a bit simple, or just determined to prove George wrong, but then she quickly thought what a great opportunity this could be to help the team identify other associates of the Ripley brothers.

  “Go on, then. I love a good wedding. Where is it?”

  His face lit up.

  “All Saint’s Church in Chigwell at three o’clock on Saturday, then the reception’s in a marquee at my stepdad’s house just up the road.” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Jane.”

  “I’m Carl. Would you like to go for a drink before Saturday? Then we could actually get to know each other a bit. Give you a chance to duck out of the wedding if you decide you don’t fancy coming with me,” he added with a grin that Jane could see hid a touch of sadness.

  “That sounds like a good idea. OK.”

  “Do you have a number I can call you on?”

  “Er . . . I don’t have a phone—but I could meet you outside the Empire Ballroom in Leicester Square, say tonight at 7:30.”

  “That’d be great—I’ll see you then,” he said, beaming.

  As he left the cafe Jane wondered what Murphy would say when she told him.

  “Hey, Jane, what you doing?” Nick called out, interrupting her thoughts. “These dirty plates won’t clean themselves.”

  “Can I just nip to the toilet?”

  “Mamma mia! Go on then.”

  She closed the toilet door, then got Rachel’s notes out of her pocket.

  M1 asked M2 if he had sorted the driver out for Saturday and M2 nodded. He also asked M2 if his man had spoken with the woman. I don’t know what M2 said, but M1 looked angry and said, “He was only supposed to put the frighteners on her.” Then he spoke about someone called Carl and said he was a retarded wimp.