Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

  She felt very shy sitting alone and no one appeared in any way interested in making her acquaintance. Jane perused the menu, which had a choice of starters, mains and desserts, all of which were appealing. Ten minutes had passed when she saw a large black lady dressed in a Met Police catering outfit come out of the kitchen swing door. Jane raised her hand and the woman, who looked to be West Indian and in her fifties, walked over with a big smile.

  ‘Yes, dear, what can I do fer yer?’ she asked in a friendly way.

  ‘Could I order the shepherd’s pie with mixed veg, please?’

  The woman started to laugh loudly. The sound was so infectious and happy Jane felt herself grinning and wanting to laugh herself.

  ‘I can tell you is new here, ain’t ya, sweetheart?’ the woman said. She picked up a pencil and small order pad on the side of the table that Jane hadn’t noticed. Still smiling she explained you had to write down what you wanted, along with your shoulder number or name, and hand it in at the serving hatch next to the kitchen door. When it was ready they’d shout out.

  ‘Tell yer what, dear, seein’ as it’s yer first day, I’ll take yer order, but yer can fetch it yerself when it’s ready.’

  After a delicious lunch, much better than the food at the station, Jane felt a bit more settled and cheerful. She returned to her room, where she stuck up her Janis Joplin poster and cleaned her teeth. She got out her police instruction manual to do some studying for her next continuation training exam and lay on her bed resting her head on her arm. She turned to the chapter on the Vagrancy Act of 1824 about ‘street beggars’, which she had to learn ‘parrot fashion’.

  It felt strange because other than Hendon she had never lived anywhere else but with her parents. Her old alarm clock’s loud tick had never really bothered her until now, so she shoved it inside the bedside-cabinet drawer and turned on her little Zephyr radio. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep.

  She woke with a start to the sound of doors banging and loud voices coming from the corridor. She sat bolt upright and looking at her watch was surprised that she had slept for nearly four hours as it was 6 p.m.

  Wondering what was happening she peeked out of her door and saw two women chatting. They had large rollers in their hair and were wearing dressing gowns and holding drawstring plastic cosmetic bags. She decided she’d have a relaxing hot bath, get changed and then go and see what was on TV.

  The bathroom had four toilets, two bath cubicles and two showers with white plastic curtains. As Jane entered a very tall woman in a shower hat, a towel wrapped round her, emerged from a bath cubicle.

  ‘Hi, if you’re wanting a bath the water’s not that hot at the moment, so I’d give it another half-hour or so to warm up. Or you could have a quick shower.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll wait and have a hot bath later.’ Jane smiled.

  ‘I’m Sarah Redhead and fairly new here myself – been here five months. I worked in Luton for four years before I transferred to the Met. I’m based at Leytonstone, what about you?’ She had rather a cut-glass, high-pitched voice and a forceful personality.

  Jane introduced herself and said she worked up the road at Hackney Station.

  ‘My God, you’ll be in the thick of it. I’ve heard this is a rough area with some pretty ghastly, nasty villains,’ Sarah remarked loudly.

  ‘I’m still a probationer so I haven’t really come across them yet.’

  Sarah started to walk off then stopped and turned back. ‘There’s a pub over the road we all use called the Warburton Arms. There’s a few of us meeting up there at half eight and you’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘That would be nice – thanks,’ Jane said, but she wasn’t sure if she’d actually go.

  ‘Good, I’ll meet you downstairs by the warden’s desk at half eight. Okey-dokey?’

  By the time Jane returned both baths were being used and she had to wait for over fifteen minutes before a girl wearing looped earrings came out. Jane recognized her from the Harker lecture, but the girl hurried past whilst draping her bath towel around her.

  ‘Hi, I was at the Dr Harker lecture. You were there, weren’t you?’ Jane said.

  The girl stopped and looked at Jane. ‘Oh, yes, sorry, yeah. I had a terrible hangover that day . . . It went on for ever, didn’t it?’

  Jane gave a smile, not wanting to say that she had enjoyed it, but the door banged shut before she could say anything else.

  The water was tepid and Jane suspected most of the hot had been used up by the other two girls. It reminded Jane of home and how her sister Pam would sometimes hog the bath and hot water. She found it a bit distasteful that the girl she had recognized had not wiped around the rim of the bath and from the occupied one came a loud voice singing Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound Dog’, very badly and out of tune.

  Jane washed her hair in case she decided to go to the pub. Having got out of the bath she wrapped a towel round her hair and waited for the bath to empty before using her soapy-water remains to carefully clean it. Wearing her towelling dressing gown, she returned to her room and realized she’d forgotten to pack her hairdryer. She sat on the bed and rubbed her hair vigorously to dry it off and then combed it out. Because it was long enough to reach just below her shoulders it would be a while before it was dry.

  Still unsure whether or not to go out she picked up her instruction manual, but feeling fidgety she soon put it aside and decided she would meet Sarah after all. The thought of a lonely night in didn’t appeal. When her hair was almost dry she put on a little make-up, jeans and a T-shirt, but reprimanded herself again as she had packed only her work shoes. She looked at herself: the shoes with the jeans were not suitable so she put on her old ballet-style velvet slippers and grabbed a small purse for her room keys and money.

  Sarah was waiting by the warden’s desk and wearing a patchwork coat with bright yellow flared trousers. As they walked over to the pub together Sarah told Jane that because the pub was a regular haunt for police officers the landlord Ron would often have a ‘lock-in’, closing all the curtains and continuing to serve well after hours because he knew he wouldn’t get busted.

  ‘He’s a friendly old goat. Sometimes we stay that late he goes upstairs to bed and lets us help ourselves.’

  ‘You drink for free?’ Jane asked, thinking it was tantamount to stealing.

  ‘Good God, no. We leave the money for our drinks on the till, along with a few pence extra for his hospitality. Last one out locks the door and shoves the key through the letterbox. You get a few bad ’uns in here, though mostly they’ve got form for petty crime, like a bit of thieving, handling nicked goods and the like, but they’re no problem and use the separate public bar.’

  Jane followed Sarah as they entered the saloon bar of the pub which was reasonably busy and a tad noisy for Jane’s liking. A few people were sitting on stools at the bar chatting, some on the long velvet cushioned seating around small wooden tables, and a couple of young men were playing bar billiards in the corner.

  Jane didn’t have a clue which of them were police officers as everyone was dressed in plain clothes.

  ‘Hard to tell who’s police,’ she remarked to Sarah.

  ‘Blokes are easy – short hair and a bulge in their pants.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Jane said, wondering what on earth she was inferring.

  Sarah laughed as she walked up to the bar. ‘Trousers . . . back pocket . . . it’s where they keep their warrant cards, and the detectives have long hair and the bulge in the front,’ she said and laughed at her own crude innuendo.

  ‘What yer havin’, Sarah?’ Ron the landlord asked her in a strong Cockney accent. He had a large pot belly and thick dark hair in a quiff and his forehead was covered in beads of sweat. The top buttons of his shirt were undone revealing a chunky gold neck chain that bit into his flabby skin.

  ‘G and T with ice and lemon. What’ll you have, Joyce?’

  ‘It’s Jane actually and an orange juice is fine, thanks.’

&nb
sp; ‘Do you like white wine?’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘She’ll have a dry white, Ron,’ Sarah told him and turned back to Jane. ‘It might be a bit on the warm side but it’s palatable.’

  Sarah looked around the pub, and two women drinking in the far corner waved to her; they were with two men who both had long hair. Jane recognized one of them: he was the detective inspector at Hackney, but he wasn’t on the murder team as he had to oversee the day to day crime investigations.

  ‘Hey, how yer doing?’ Sarah bellowed across the bar as she picked up her drink and went over to join them while Jane sat on a stool and waited for her wine.

  ‘You want ice?’ Ron asked, holding up her glass of wine.

  She nodded and noticed how dirty his hands were as he plopped in two large ice cubes.

  Jane looked over at Sarah, who was in deep conversation with her friends, and didn’t know whether or not they’d mind her joining them. She felt uncomfortable as she sipped her wine and now wished she hadn’t come to the pub.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t WPC Tennison.’

  Recognizing the voice she turned sharply to see DCI Bradfield leaning on the bar beside her.

  ‘Hey, Ron, give us a large one,’ he said, holding up a £1 note.

  ‘Can you not see I’m already serving someone, so get your own, Len, and there’s ice under the counter.’

  Bradfield lifted the counter flap, went behind the bar and helped himself to a double Scotch before picking up a bottle of white wine. From his slightly slurred speech, glazed eyes and cheesy grin Jane could tell he’d had a few already.

  ‘Want a top-up?’ he asked, tilting the bottle towards her glass.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he replied and filled her glass to the brim.

  She sat on a bar stool and watched as he slapped two £1 notes down next to the till and shouted to Ron that he was going to have another large one. He lifted his glass, said ‘Cheers’ and knocked it back in one before helping himself to the next.

  ‘So, Tennison, tell me what you are doing in this dive.’

  She sipped her wine. ‘I’ve just moved in across the road and it’s—’

  The DI she’d recognized interrupted her as he asked Bradfield, who was still behind the bar, for a pint of bitter, one lager, two whisky chasers and three G and Ts. Ron said to serve him as he had to pop down the cellar to change the lager barrel. As Bradfield placed the gin and tonics on the bar the DI said to have one for himself, so he got another double Scotch.

  ‘How’s the murder inquiry going, guv?’ the DI asked, handing him the money.

  Bradfield leaned on the counter. ‘Every time I think we’re near to a result it’s back to square one and the Chief Super’s on my back. Right now it’s depressing as well as time-consuming, in fact I wished I’d never copped the bloody job, and call me Len when we’re off duty.’

  Jane felt awkward as Bradfield had made no effort to introduce her. She listened as the DI told Bradfield that a bloke from the local Horne Brothers men’s clothing warehouse had been in earlier.

  ‘He’s got a new line of two- and three-piece pinstripes coming in, Italian made, top quality, and he’s allowed to give a discount to Old Bill. You interested?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bradfield slurred, now very unsteady on his feet.

  ‘We’re all getting one; as good as anything you’d pick up in Savile Row apparently.’

  ‘How much are they?’ Bradfield asked.

  ‘They’d normally be thirty-five but eighteen cash to us.’

  ‘Go on then, put me on the list.’

  ‘Mannie Charles is doing the alterations so give me your exact measurements at work tomorrow,’ he said and took the girls’ drinks over to them.

  The DI returned to the bar with his colleague who stood the other side of Jane.

  ‘So who’s your girlfriend, Len?’ he said as he put his arm around her.

  ‘WPC Jane Tennison, a probationer who’s filling in as my squad indexer, and I’ve warned her to stay clear of reprobates like you two.’

  ‘What you drinkin’, darlin?’ the DI asked.

  Jane felt ill at ease as he still had his arm around her but before she could say anything Bradfield took the cork out of the bottle and topped her glass up again.

  She felt even more awkward as the two men drew up stools to sit either side of her, and proceeded to flirt and pat her knees. Bradfield moved away from the bar to go and join the men playing bar billiards. The more uncomfortable she felt, the more they leered and made suggestions about how she could get satisfaction with either or both of them and asked if she had ever had a threesome. She wasn’t sure if they were being serious or just teasing her for their own sordid gratification.

  Sarah appeared at the bar. ‘Get off her, you leery wankers. Just cos your stupid chat-up lines won’t work with me and the girls there’s no need to start on her.’

  They laughed and Sarah took hold of Jane’s arm pulling her from the stool. ‘Come on over to our table, Janet, it’s safer there. We’re thinking about going for a curry – want to join us?’

  ‘It’s Jane, and thank you but I am going back to the—’

  ‘Rubbish, come on, it’s just down the road.’

  ‘No really, I’ve work in the morning and I’m very tired.’

  Sarah shrugged and went back to her girlfriends as both men followed her and said they would like to go for a curry as well.

  Ron rang the last-orders bell to get everyone’s attention. ‘Right, that’s it, you lot. I’m knackered so I’m off to me bed. If you want something help yourself and leave the money by the till, all tips gratefully accepted. Oh and if you’re doing afters someone draw the curtains.’

  Jane couldn’t wait to get out and hesitated only to say goodnight to Bradfield, but he was no longer by the billiard table or anywhere in the pub.

  Exiting the premises Jane heard the sound of retching from the side alley and saw Bradfield leaning forward, his hands on his knees, and being sick. He looked terrible, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his tie loose, and he was wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  He peered at her.

  ‘No I’m bloody not,’ he said, straightening up, but he looked very unsteady.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  ‘No, just leave me be.’

  She was embarrassed and had turned to walk away when she heard him retching again and being violently sick.

  ‘Do you want me to get you some water?’

  He rested a hand against the wall, sweating and dabbing at his face with the handkerchief.

  He moved towards her. ‘Just had too much to drink, that’s all,’ he slurred, and bumped into the wall. ‘I need to get to bed.’

  She moved closer, and he gave a boyish shake of his head.

  ‘Be all right in a minute.’

  ‘Here, lean on me and I’ll help you walk over the road and get the warden to call a cab for you.’

  ‘No need for the cab, I’m staying there,’ he said and slowly lurched forward. She caught him, almost buckling under his weight.

  She put her arm around his waist to help support him across the road. He was really very unsteady, and they zigzagged to the other side before he took a deep breath and tried to straighten up.

  ‘Sorry about this, been knocking it back since lunchtime.’

  They got to the entrance, and he made an attempt to stand without her assistance, but he almost fell over so she propped him up against the wall.

  ‘Take a few more deep breaths.’

  ‘What?’

  He gasped and breathed heavily through his nose and then fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette pack. She had to help him take one out and put it in his mouth, then digging into his pocket he mumbled that he couldn’t find his lighter and asked her for one.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke.’

  ‘’S’OK, got it.’

 
His hand wavered as he tried to light the cigarette so she took the silver flip-top Zippo lighter from him, which after a few seconds she mastered and was able to hold the lit flame to his cigarette. He took deep drags, his hand shaking from the alcohol.

  ‘God, the state of me . . . you go on in and I’ll make my own way . . . ’

  He didn’t finish the sentence and she was afraid he was going to slide down the wall. She took his arm and again helped him to stand upright, the strong smell of sick making her turn her head away.

  ‘Sometimes, Tennison, it all gets to me . . . People think it’s just another dead junkie tart, so why give a shit what happened to her. Thing is she was just a kid who lost her way thanks to scum like O’Duncie and Big Daddy. Sometimes I think it’s only the likes of us who really care, do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, quietly touched by his words.

  ‘Emotions never make sense – even her own father beat the shit out of her, yet he loved her. It’s caused by pain, terrible, gut-wrenching pain.’

  She nodded, and he took a few more drags of his cigarette before he tossed it aside. He didn’t ask her to help him, she just slipped her arm around him as they headed into the section house. He was not as unsteady but she was afraid that if she didn’t hold on to him he might fall over.

  Bradfield somehow managed to walk straight as they went through the reception area into the lifts and he told her he was on the second floor. As they got out of the lift he insisted that he was perfectly capable of finding his own room, thanked her for helping him and gave her a hug.

  Jane heard the sound of someone deliberately clearing their throat behind her and turned to see the section house sergeant.