Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘You never know who’s watching and listening, love. The more you learn the better you’ll become at the job. You know what they say . . . knowledge is brains . . . ’

  ‘I think you mean power, Kath.’

  ‘Whatever, I’ve been to two of his lectures, and believe me he knows his stuff.’

  ‘I have to give this form to Sergeant Harris first and I doubt he’ll recommend me. He hates the fact women are integrated now and can do the same jobs as the men.’

  Kath snorted. ‘Integrated, my arse! The blokes still get paid more. Anyway, stuff Harris. Take it straight up to Bradfield now, he can only say yes or no. I’ll keep one eye on the counter and I’ll tell Harris you nipped to the loo if he comes back.’

  Jane was nervous of DCI Bradfield. His impatient manner was intimidating and although Kath insisted he had a kinder side, Jane was yet to see it. Looking towards his closed office door she wondered if perhaps her timing, due to the murder investigation, was not great. Suddenly the door swung open and Bradfield walked out. He was well over six foot tall, handsome and raw-boned, with red curly hair, and as usual had a cigarette dangling between his lips. He looked smart in his neatly pressed dark grey suit with shiny black polished brogues.

  It was now or never, she thought to herself. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘What?’ he snapped impatiently.

  ‘Could I possibly have a word?’

  ‘It’d better be quick because I’m starving and about to get a sandwich from the canteen,’ he said, causing a lump of ash to fall from the cigarette still in his mouth.

  Jane had a sudden thought. ‘I’d be happy to get that if you’re busy, sir. In the meantime I wonder if you could read and approve my application to attend Dr Harker’s forensic science lecture.’

  He clicked his fingers twice for her to hand the form over, which she did. He had just started to read it when one of his detectives, Constable Mike Hudson, came running up the stairs with a look of excitement on his face and his CID notebook in his hand.

  ‘Got a possible, guv! Young girl aged seventeen, a patient at the Homerton Hospital Drug Dependency Unit – she matches the description of our victim. Her details are in here, as well as her boyfriend’s.’

  Bradfield looked enthused as Hudson handed over his notebook. He had a quick look and handed it back. ‘Good work, son. I want every available detective in the incident room for a meeting in ten minutes.’

  Bradfield grabbed a pen from the detective’s breast pocket and signed Jane’s application without reading it any further and passed it to her with a smile.

  ‘Pay attention at the lecture. Harker is the best scientist in the forensic labs.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray attached to the wall.

  ‘Don’t bother with the sandwich – I’ve got no time to eat it now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Jane said, as she looked at his signature on the application form with a beaming smile.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Right everyone, listen up,’ Bradfield said assertively as he strode into the incident room, which was a hive of activity.

  ‘Thanks to DC Hudson we have a possible name and some background details for our victim. Julie Ann Maynard, aged seventeen. Criminal records show one arrest and previous conviction for prostitution earlier this year. She was a heroin addict, as is her boyfriend Eddie Phillips, aged nineteen, both patients at the Homerton Drug Dependency Unit. When was their last attendance, Hudson?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, sir, and neither of them have turned up for their appointments since.’

  Bradfield frowned. ‘She’s seventeen, a junkie, and the hospital didn’t bother to report her missing? Did you ask them why, Hudson?’

  ‘The hospital said they attended the drug unit on a voluntary basis and assumed that Julie Ann and Eddie had decided to just up and leave.’

  Bradfield lit a cigarette. ‘Did they have addresses for them?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the same one for both Eddie and Julie Ann.’ Hudson nervously flicked through his notebook.

  ‘Which was?’ Bradfield asked impatiently.

  ‘Uh, it was . . . 32 Edgar House on the Pembridge, sir.’

  ‘It’s important Eddie is traced and arrested for questioning without delay.’ Bradfield gestured towards Detective Sergeant Gibbs.

  ‘Spencer, you and two detectives go to Edgar House after the meeting. Kick the door in, search it and nick Eddie Phillips if he’s there. If he ain’t, get a surveillance unit to keep an eye on the address in case he returns.’

  ‘Yes, guvnor, be a pleasure, and I take it you will be authorizing any overtime we may just happen to incur?’

  Bradfield smiled and nodded. ‘Even if it means you have to work through the night, Spence. We have to consider Eddie Phillips might have been Julie Ann’s pimp and maybe murdered her after an argument over money. He may even be on the run by now, so, Sally, I want Phillips’ name and description circulated via the teleprinter to all police stations across London and—’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sally the indexer said, frantically taking notes as Bradfield continued.

  ‘Circulate Julie Ann Maynard’s details as well. I want an address for her parents, or any next of kin, asap, so that a formal identification can be made at the mortuary.’ Sally nodded.

  ‘Right, get out there, keep knocking on doors and asking questions on and around the Kingsmead. Hold off on the Pembridge until DS Gibbs searches Edgar House and hopefully brings in the little shit Eddie Phillips.’

  DS Spencer Gibbs was a tough and often unruly officer, tall and gaunt with thick, brushed-back hair on top of his head and an almost crew cut to the sides. He had a keen eye for fashion and when off duty liked to wear skinny trousers and winkle-picker shoes, which Kath Morgan loved to tease him about. Gibbs enjoyed being part of a rock band, but his commitment and loyalty to his day job made him a popular member of the team.

  Gibbs went to 32 Edgar House accompanied by two young DCs, Ashton and Edwards. They were all wearing heavy raincoats due to the continuing downpour. The young officers were surprised to find the address was a boarded-up squat. Gibbs wasn’t.

  ‘It’s what you’d expect from junkies – they sleep rough cos no one’s stupid enough to take ’em in. Nip back to the car, Edwards, and get a couple of torches out the kit bag in the boot.’

  Gibbs found a loose piece of wood on the landing and used it to prise open enough of the boarded-up door to the squat so he and his colleagues could get in.

  ‘Are you following all this Watergate and President Nixon stuff on the news, Sarge?’

  ‘No!’ Gibbs answered tersely as he led the way inside, shining his torch around the rooms and booting old drinks crates out of his way. The place stank of urine and dirty blankets, and amidst the numerous crushed cans of lager and broken bottles of cider, torn sleeping bags lay beside rotting food. They searched the bedrooms where used hypodermic needles littered the bare boards. Gibbs swore and kicked out at the disgusting mess and then straightened, gesturing for them to keep quiet. They could hear shrieks and laughs coming from the stairwell outside. Gibbs went out the front door onto the landing and picked up the bit of wood he’d used earlier.

  Eddie Phillips was walking up the stairs with his friend Billy Myers. The two nineteen-year-olds looked manky: they both had dirty long hair and wore filthy stained T-shirts, flared jeans and Cuban-heeled boots. Gibbs and the two DCs approached them. They resembled three thugs with their coat collars turned up and Gibbs swung the stick like a golf club as he shouted.

  ‘Which one o’ you is Eddie Phillips?’

  Billy looked terrified and pointed to Eddie who tried to make a run for it, but Gibbs was quick on his feet and caught him by his hair, then kicked his legs from under him. Eddie cowered as he lay on the floor and Gibbs pushed the piece of wood into his chest.

  ‘We found your girlfriend, Eddie, but she looks a lot worse than you do!’

  Jane sat by herself in the canteen eating a cheese and mushroom omelette
. The canteen was buzzing and everyone was talking about the murder investigation, including the four detectives at the table opposite her, who she couldn’t help overhearing. One said how frustrating it was that they still hadn’t been able to locate Julie Ann Maynard’s family, but now that her boyfriend had been brought in for questioning the case might be solved quicker than expected. She listened intently as Edwards, who’d accompanied DS Gibbs, described the arrest and then what had happened in the CID car on the way back to the station.

  ‘Gibbs gave him a good dig in the ribs and forced him to look at a picture of the dead girl’s body. The little wanker burst into tears and said it was Julie Ann but her real surname was Collins.’

  ‘Why’d she use a false name?’ the youngest detective asked.

  His colleague slapped him across the back of the head. ‘Because she’s a tom, thicko, and they use false names if they get arrested for soliciting.’

  The detective rubbed his head. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Not really, but you could see he was bricking it. Gibbs tried to get him to cough, but he was such a blubbering emotional wreck that we couldn’t get anything out of him.’

  DC Edwards then gave his opinion. ‘Bradfield’s taken Phillips to his office for an interview with him and DS Gibbs. If he did it, believe me those two will break him.’

  ‘Or fit him up,’ his colleague said, and they all burst into laughter.

  Having finished her meal Jane started to hurry down the stairs: Harris wanted her back on the duty desk, probably so he could return to the snooker room. But, hearing raised voices, she stopped on the first floor by DCI Bradfield’s office. She moved a bit closer to his door to listen and could hear a person she presumed to be Eddie Phillips sobbing profusely.

  ‘Don’t bloody lie to me, son,’ Bradfield shouted.

  ‘I swear on my life I’m not lying,’ came the response.

  ‘You bloody well are – we both know you strangled her to death.’

  ‘No . . . No, I would never hurt Julie Ann, I loved her.’

  ‘That’s it, that’s why you killed her, because you loved her.’

  Eddie was snivelling. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘You found out she was getting shagged for money and drugs and you didn’t like it. You had a fit of jealous rage and squeezed the life out of her.’

  In floods of tears Eddie still protested his innocence. Then there was the sound of a hand banging repeatedly on a desk, followed by the gravelly toned voice of DS Spencer Gibbs.

  ‘Stop lying! It’ll be a lot easier for you if you tell us the truth.’

  ‘I am, I am! The last time I saw her she was getting into a red car . . . a Jaguar, I think, and it looked newish. I was high on heroin so it’s hard to remember.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you see Julie Ann getting into a fucking red Jaguar, Eddie?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘The last time I saw her.’

  ‘When was that, Eddie?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Bradfield’s calmer voice took over.

  ‘Come on now, son, you are saying that the last time you saw Julie Ann she was getting into a red Jaguar.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I’ve not seen her since then, I swear before God.’

  ‘So when exactly was it?’

  ‘I dunno, maybe a week or so ago. I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Keep lying and you’ll find a slap round the head might help you remember,’ Gibbs said.

  Jane hurried back to the front office. Harris was his usual miserable self, accusing her of taking her time on her refreshment break, when she’d actually only had half an hour. He said that he would be in the sergeants’ room writing up some reports. It irritated her that he was so lazy, but she was pleased that he would be out of her hair for a while.

  Another hour passed and Jane only had a couple of incidents to deal with. Then she saw DCI Bradfield and DS Gibbs taking Eddie Phillips into the custody area. He was thin and scrawny and it was clear his heroin addiction had taken a toll on his body. He looked much older than nineteen. His face was covered in red scars and his shoulder-length black hair was dirty and matted.

  A few minutes later Bradfield came out of the charge room and strode towards her. Jane started to stand to attention and winced as she felt her tights catch on the rough wooden handle of the desk drawer.

  ‘You ever been on a bereavement visit?’

  She swallowed and coughed.

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘Obviously not. My lads have their work cut out here, so get your skates on – you’re coming with me to see the dead girl’s family. The address is 48 Church Mount, Hampstead Garden Suburb. You know how to read an A–Z street map, I take it?’

  She didn’t dare tell him that she had only recently passed her driving test, and had only used an A–Z to find her way on her beats in Hackney. She used public transport to get around London itself, as it was free for police officers.

  ‘I need to tell Sergeant Harris, sir. He said I had to cover the front office until end of duty.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him. Now get a move on, WPC . . .?’

  ‘Tennison, sir, Jane Tennison.’

  Bradfield left and Jane went into the comms room. She checked her tights, only to find that the snag had turned into a ladder.

  ‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it, this is the second pair in a week. Those ruddy desks need sandpapering. Look – I’ve got a ladder on the knee now!’

  Kath smiled. ‘Like I said, Jane, it always happens to you, don’t it?’

  Pulling her skirt down in the hope the ladder wouldn’t show, Jane booked out a personal radio and asked Kath for directions, which she quickly jotted down in her notebook. She hurried to the ladies’ locker room, grabbed her uniform jacket and hat and went upstairs to Bradfield’s office, only to be told by DS Gibbs that he was waiting for her in the rear yard.

  ‘Get a move on, he’s waiting.’

  She was heading across the yard when she heard Bradfield’s voice and saw him standing by the snooker room, holding the door open and remonstrating with Sergeant Harris.

  ‘Covering the duty desk and front counter is your problem, Harris, not mine. As the DCI and your superior officer, I decide who I take with me, not you.’

  He slammed the door shut and as Jane walked past she saw Harris glare at her through the window. Bradfield was wearing a long black raincoat with the collar turned up. She could see that he had shaved and changed his shirt to meet the victim’s parents. The sooner they had the dead girl formally identified the faster they could move on to issuing press releases and appealing to the public for information.

  Bradfield got into the driving seat of an unmarked red Hillman Hunter CID car. As Jane got into the passenger seat he threw an A–Z street map onto her lap, which she thought was rather rude of him.

  ‘Christ, I hate death notices, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I guarantee it won’t be pleasant, never is. When we get there, you stay quiet, but if the mother has a meltdown take her to the kitchen, or wherever, so I can chat to the father in private. Right, which way?’ he snapped as he started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay. He was such a big man his shoulder almost touched hers when he changed gear and drove out of the yard at speed.

  Jane had her notebook open beside the A–Z. ‘Dalston Lane, Balls Pond Road, Holloway Road, Archway Road and er . . . it’s off Aylmer Road.’

  ‘Good knowledge. You must be a London girl.’

  ‘Maida Vale, sir.’

  ‘Posh place,’ he remarked.

  It was a nerve-wracking drive as Bradfield hurtled down the streets and swore profusely at every red light. The rain was still pouring down, making it difficult for Jane to see the road signs and street names through the windscreen wipers. The car didn’t have ‘blues and twos’, just a tinny-sounding bell, which she had to keep pressing so they could get t
hrough the heavy traffic and red lights. Clinging on to the handle of her passenger door she found it hard to concentrate enough to locate their destination, and now it was dark she had to use her pocket torch to see the street map.

  ‘Are we on the right bloody road?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘Yes, sir, left here into Winnington Road, then right, and the address is the next left . . . Oh sorry, it was first right you wanted.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, get it together.’ Jane took a deep breath and tried not to react to Bradfield’s brash manner.

  ‘Sorry, sir, it was the first right.’

  Bradfield did a fast three-point turn and at last they found Church Mount. He slowed his pace as they approached number 48 and peered from the car window.

  He jerked on the handbrake. ‘Looks very upmarket . . . if I’ve been given the wrong fucking address somebody’s head is going to roll.’

  He got out of the car then leaned back in, clicking his fingers.

  ‘Envelope . . . back seat, grab it for me.’

  Whilst reaching over to the back seat Jane felt the ladder in her tights split open even further. She got out and hurried to join the DCI as he walked up the path, lighting the way with her pocket torch. Bradfield coughed repeatedly and straightened his tie before taking a deep breath and ringing the doorbell. There was the sound of a dog barking from somewhere in the house. He waited briefly and then rang the bell again. Lights came on in the hall, and through one of the glass panels beside the front door a man peered out.

  Bradfield already had his black warrant card in his hand and held it up. The door was unlocked and opened by a tall, hawk-nosed man, his thinning hair standing up on end.

  ‘Mr Collins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good evening. I’m DCI Leonard Bradfield and this is WPC Tennison. Do you mind if we come in, sir?’

  The door opened wider, revealing Mr Collins wearing pyjamas under a thick dressing gown, and slippers.

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk, sir?’

  George Collins closed the front door behind them, as a pale-faced woman, also wearing nightclothes and with her hair in clips, came from the lounge.