Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sarge,’ Jane said.

  ‘Yeah, neither did Kath, but I’ll find out, I’ll bloody find out.’

  ‘What was he talking about?’ Harris asked.

  Jane shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant.’

  DS Gibbs went to speak with Bradfield while Kath booked Boyle in at the station. Bradfield had moved fast after Kath had explained about the money and a paddy wagon had been sent to Brixton Prison to collect Boyle and bring him back to the station. Boyle had asked Gibbs, who was accompanying him, why he was being taken back to Hackney and Gibbs had replied that there were more break-ins they needed to speak to him about.

  ‘He was really edgy and sweating. I made up a couple of addresses and he said he’d broken in and nicked money from them. Kath Morgan was spot on. He’s definitely hiding something if he’s confessing to crimes that don’t exist.’

  ‘Who’s his brief?’ Bradfield asked.

  ‘Like last time, doesn’t want one. Might change his mind when he finds out why he’s really here.’

  ‘Fuck him if he does. I’ll get the files together, you bring Boyle up and tell Kath Morgan she can sit in on the interview with you and me.’

  Ten minutes later Gibbs and Kath brought Boyle into Bradfield’s office, sat him down and removed his handcuffs. He was unshaven, his face covered in acne, and nasty boils were visible on his neck above the prison-issue shirt. Bradfield got up and stood beside Boyle, placing a photograph of Julie Ann down on the table in front of him.

  ‘Do you recognize this woman?’ Bradfield asked quietly, leaning over so his face was close to Boyle’s.

  Boyle didn’t answer.

  ‘Kenneth Boyle, I am arresting you for the murder of Julie Ann Collins. You are not obliged to say anything, but what you say may be given in evidence.’

  Boyle wiped his sweaty brow with his nicotine-stained fingers and was about to say something when Bradfield interrupted him.

  ‘You refused a solicitor when DS Gibbs asked if you wanted one so don’t even think about changing your mind or I’ll write your confession myself.’

  Bradfield opened his desk drawer and put a plastic property bag containing bundles of bank-wrapped £1, £5 and £10 notes on the table. When asked Boyle admitted they were some of the notes recovered from his home and said that he’d stolen them from a pensioner.

  ‘Well, Kenny, I’ve had the notes checked for the murdered girl’s fingerprints, and guess what – they’re on some of them. One print is right next to yours. So if you know what’s good for you I suggest you tell me exactly how they came to be in your possession?’

  Boyle refused to look at Bradfield and shuffled his feet.

  ‘Erm yeah, I did meet her and she give me the money, right? She told me to get her some heroin, I mean what I said was I could score for her, right?’

  ‘Right! So who’s your dealer, Kenneth?’

  ‘Er well, I dunno his name, but I seen him passing gear on the streets, right? I mean I dunno where he lives, that’s the God’s truth, sir.’

  Kath crossed her legs as she watched the repellent Boyle attempt to lie his way out of anything to do with the murder. Bradfield concentrated on his notebook, tapping it with his pencil.

  ‘I mean on my mother’s life, the last time I saw her was after she give me the money. She said to meet up with her outside the hospital, well, I couldn’t find this dealer so I went to tell her and she never showed up.’

  Bradfield nodded his head and then picked up a pencil sharpener and began to twist his pencil round and round in it.

  Kath was fascinated by how Bradfield deliberately changed his attitude towards Boyle, making it appear he believed him, encouraging him by accepting his story, and constantly nodding his head saying he understood how difficult it would be for Boyle to name his dealers.

  ‘Right, that’s right, but I swear before God that’s what I intended doing, scoring drugs for her.’

  ‘Yeah, I understand. I mean she was just a common little slag. She’d open her legs for drugs, right?’

  ‘Yeah, she fucked anyone, even the blacks. She was a tart all right.’

  Bradfield paused then spoke quietly. ‘But she wouldn’t screw you, would she?’ he asked without any trace of emotion.

  It was as if Bradfield had hit a raw nerve as Boyle pursed his lips.

  ‘Yeah, I mean she was a slag, right? And she got this posh way of talkin’, lookin’ down on me.’

  ‘That must have really pissed you off.’

  Boyle nodded, and then Bradfield slowly pushed the photograph of Julie Ann closer.

  ‘She deserved what she got.’

  Kath watched as there was a glance between Bradfield and Gibbs, who had so far not spoken. Gibbs now leaned forwards, jabbing Boyle with his finger.

  ‘She’d fuck anyone else but you, because you are a stinking little no-good thief. She told you to piss off, you got riled and decided you were gonna show this slag that nobody like her could refuse you and you made a grab for her . . . ’

  Bradfield patted Gibbs’s arm and he sat back. ‘Easy, Spence, that wasn’t how it happened, was it, Kenneth? Yes, you put your hands up for nicking from pensioners, and you owned up to the Magistrate. But this was different: she was lovely and you knew what she was, but that didn’t matter, did it?’

  ‘I don’t go out with toms,’ Boyle said, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh come on, Kenneth, you liked her – and you’d got money now, all that cash you nicked. Did you offer to pay her?’ Bradfield asked, and moved Julie Ann’s photograph closer.

  Gibbs leaned forwards again. ‘Shit, you were gonna pay to screw her and she still turned you down? That must have fucked your head, cos you knew she was a slag, knew everyone else was getting it.’

  ‘No.’ Boyle‘s face twisted.

  Bradfield slid in his next question. ‘When did you know about the money she had? I don’t believe she’d give you cash for drugs as she already had her own dealer.’

  Boyle was so thick he couldn’t see how Bradfield and Gibbs were playing with his head and there was a hideous pause as Boyle stared at the floor and constantly scratched his raw acne.

  He wouldn’t look up. ‘She dropped her purse and—’

  ‘Oh I see, she dropped her purse and you picked it up?’

  Gibbs cut in. ‘You ripped her blouse open and pulled off her bra so you could fondle her tits, but she resisted and you went ape and strangled her with her own bra.’

  Still Boyle said nothing, but from the look of self-pity on his face Bradfield knew he and Spencer Gibbs had got it right about what happened in the kids’ adventure playground. Gibbs replaced the picture of Julie Ann before she started taking drugs with the one of her body at the playground.

  ‘That’s what you did to her, you murdered her and then stole her money. Look at the photograph, see her eyes and tongue? Remember them bulging out as you squeezed the life out of her, can you? LOOK AT IT!’ he shouted.

  Boyle swiped at the table, and the photographs slid onto the floor as he started crying.

  Bradfield leant over and patted Boyle’s back. ‘Come on, now, son, calm down. Take us through what happened, Kenneth. You’ll feel better once you get it off your chest. Just tell us what happened because I know you never meant to hurt her.’

  Bradfield waited as Gibbs collected the photographs and stacked them like a pack of cards.

  ‘You got a tissue, WPC Morgan?’

  Kath delved into her pocket and passed over a clean tissue. Bradfield handed it to Kenneth who blew his nose and then began to knead the sodden tissue.

  ‘It was night-time and I saw her on a swing in the kids’ playground by the Kingsmead Estate. I went over to her, she stopped and looked me up and down and I told her I’d seen her around lots of times, even talked to her once, but she ignored me and said to go away. I tried to talk to her more and was being nice but then she told me to piss off as she was waiting for someone. But I guessed it was for a pun
ter so I said I had money to pay her for sex and she laughed at me. She got off the swing and started to walk away so I touched her shoulder and asked her to stay. Next thing I knew she turned round and spat at me, she gobbed at me right in my face. She dropped her bag and bent over to pick it up and I dunno, I just went crazy – dragged her to the ground and got on top of her.’ He started crying again.

  ‘I know it must be horrible for you to recall it all, son, but you’re doing well and it’s almost over, so keep going,’ Bradfield said, urging him to confess.

  ‘Oh Christ, I dunno how it happened. I put one hand over her mouth then ripped her shirt open and pulled at her bra which came undone, then she bit my hand and when I pulled it away from her mouth she started to scream. I was scared someone would hear her and in a panic I put the bra round her neck and shit, I didn’t mean it, but I kept on pulling it tighter and tighter . . . ’

  He sobbed, using his hands to show how he had pulled the bra, crossing his wrists as it tightened round her neck, and then tightened it in a knot.

  ‘I got scared and ran off with her bag. It wasn’t for the money, I swear before God it wasn’t for the money. I didn’t know how much she had until I got home.’

  Jane went to the ladies’ locker room to hang up her uniform jacket before going off duty. She saw an upset-looking Kath sitting on a bench and hesitated before going over to ask if she was all right.

  ‘Yeah, Kenneth Boyle just confessed to killing Julie Ann. It was so sickening listening to him go over it all. He’s being charged now by DS Gibbs and will appear at the Magistrates’ Court in the morning. It’s weird, I just want to cry. But I tell you, Bradfield’s a cool bastard. Just as I thought he was feeling sorry for the pathetic little shit, he laid it on him that he also killed the kid she was expecting. His voice was harsh and you could tell he loathed Boyle. Gibbs is the same, they kind of do a double act, but they got him to admit everything, no big drama it was just . . . ’ She sighed. ‘It wasn’t making me feel good, which I honestly believed it would, you know, getting closure, but all I could really think of was what a waste of life. Anyway this time he won’t get banged up for months, he’ll be there for twenty-five years at least.’

  Back in her room at the section house Jane couldn’t stop thinking about what Kath had said about the waste of life. By the time she had got undressed and was ready to take a shower, she didn’t feel like having anything to eat, or God forbid, going to the pub or sitting in one of the TV rooms.

  Lying down on her bed, she found herself thinking of Bradfield and his remark ‘Chance would be a fine thing’. Did he mean that he expected an approach by him to be rejected? She curled up and tucked her hands under her chin. At the beginning of the investigation she hadn’t been impressed by his manner but now she knew she was infatuated and even in awe of him. Over and over again she had been surprised by him: the time she had seen him gently touch the dead girl’s foot, his kindness at the Collinses’ house before he knew about their daughter’s beating, how, drunk outside the pub, he’d told her that he felt as if they were the only ones who cared.

  She remembered, too, all the odd things he had said to her, unsure if they were complimentary or not. She curled up tighter because now, lying alone in her room, she had to admit to herself that she hoped that he did like her.

  Give me just a little bit of your heart now, baby . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Crossing the station yard to prepare for the early shift parade at 6 a.m., Jane was startled to see a disgruntled Sergeant Harris carrying a large black bin bag.

  ‘Morning, Sergeant,’ she said overbrightly.

  ‘Bradfield’s lot had a big booze-up in the CID office last night. The cleaner was refusing to deal with the mess until I offered to help, so I’ve had to schlep out these ruddy beer cans and bottles. Christ only knows how much they all put away, but I heard someone had to carry WPC Morgan to a taxi.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, it’s done. You can go out on foot patrol today, seven beat covering Shoreditch on the far end of the ground.’

  ‘Can I get a panda car to drop me off?’ Jane was surprised, yet pleased that Harris was letting her out on patrol for once.

  ‘No, bloody well walk or get a bus. There’s an outstanding call from last night on that beat so get the details from the control room.’

  Jane spoke with the PC who was manning the phones and radios. It transpired the call had come in at midnight, but as it was very busy no one was available to attend and the disgruntled caller was told someone would visit him in the morning. The PC handed Jane a copy of the message and said the night-shift operator had told him the caller had some information about a possible robbery. Jane asked why the CID weren’t dealing with it and the PC said the caller had a squeaky voice and sounded ‘a sandwich short of a picnic’. Jane guessed it was the same person Harris had put the phone down on the day before. She looked at the caller’s details. His name was Ashley Brennan and he lived in Hoxton Street. Gathering up her things, she booked out a Storno radio and put it in her handbag before heading off to catch the bus.

  There was a faint drizzle and Jane was wearing her police-issue cape to keep herself dry. She laughed as she recalled the night shift on patrol when she and Kath had eaten fish and chips under their capes so no one could see.

  She reached the terraced row of new, expensive-looking flats, and checked she had the correct address before pressing the buzzer for the Brennan flat. She waited a while and, when there was no answer, pressed again. A distorted female voice asked if she was delivering groceries. Jane gave her name and rank, then there was a crackle and whistling sound. Unsure if she had been heard she was about to repeat herself when the door clicked open.

  Jane walked up the four flights of carpeted stairs and took a few moments to get her breath back before knocking on the door. She noticed there was a mezuzah screwed to the doorframe. The front door was opened by a small, overweight woman in her mid-forties wearing a floral blouse and grey pleated skirt with pink slippers.

  ‘Mrs Brennan?’ Jane asked, guessing she was Ashley’s mother.

  The woman gave her a quizzical, confused look. ‘Thought you were our grocery boy. I was expecting an early delivery.’

  ‘Mrs Brennan?’ Jane asked again.

  The woman pressed her finger to her right ear and Jane heard a high-pitched whistling sound.

  ‘I’m very deaf, what do you want?’

  Realizing that she was wearing a hearing aid, Jane spoke loudly and slowly.

  ‘I am WPC Jane Tennison from Hackney Police Station and I’d like to speak to Ashley Brennan.’

  Mrs Brennan called out Ashley’s name and said that a policewoman was here to see him, but there was no reply. She let Jane into the comfortable-looking flat. She knocked on a closed door.

  ‘Ashley, come out of your room – there’s a policewoman here who wants to talk to you.’

  ‘ABOUT TIME, LET HER IN.’

  ‘She is in, dear.’

  ‘I MEAN IN MY ROOM.’

  Jane recognized the squeaky voice coming from the room as the one from the previous morning’s phone call. Mrs Brennan opened the door and gestured for Jane to go in.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with her?’

  ‘No,’ Ashley said.

  Jane eased past Mrs Brennan, who was pressing her hearing aid and causing it to whistle again.

  ‘I’m expecting some groceries.’

  ‘Go away, Mother.’

  ‘He doesn’t have many visitors. Is it about my disabled parking?’

  ‘GO AWAY, MOTHER.’

  Ashley Brennan was sitting at a large wooden desk on a specially adapted swivel chair, which had a head rest, thick padded arms and an extra wide-cushioned seat. He was obese – at least twenty stone – and had a huge protruding stomach and thick fat arms, but tiny feminine hands. His size made him look much older than Jane suspected he actually was. He wore a cotton T-shirt and baggy tracksuit trousers, and as h
e swivelled round to face Jane she noticed he had small feet encased in embroidered slippers.

  On the desk there was a telephone, filing tray, jeweller’s-type magnifying glass, tweezers, soldering iron and bits and pieces of wire lying around next to an electrical circuit board of some sort. Behind him, on top of a long wooden cabinet, there were two reel-to-reel tape-recording machines and two large pieces of electrical equipment with numerous dials and yellow-coloured arrow meters. Jane suspected they were radios of some sort, but only because they were attached to a large aerial hanging out of the window.

  ‘She’s as deaf as a post,’ he said.

  Ashley had a yarmulke perched on the back of his head and his hair was thick and dark, parted to one side and oiled flat, but rather strangely he had a handsome face with dark eyes and a small nose.

  ‘I’d like to see your identification, please.’

  ‘But I’m in uniform.’

  ‘You can never be too careful.’

  Jane opened her shoulder bag and handed him her warrant card which he inspected and handed back. He invited her to pull over the chair that was next to his single bed and said she could use one of his pillows as a cushion.

  She declined the offer of the pillow, picked up the chair, and sat opposite him.

  ‘I have to say it’s about time someone took me seriously. I have called so many times, and to all the local stations. I was thinking about calling Scotland Yard or writing an official complaint to the Commissioner about it.’

  She sat poised with her notebook and pencil ready, assuring him that as a police officer and employee of the Commissioner she was there in an official capacity and would treat anything he told her seriously.

  ‘Before we start can I just have your full name, age and date of birth for the record, please, Ashley?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Ashley, no middle names, and my surname is Brennan. Aged twenty and born 20.6.52.’

  ‘You’re nearly twenty-one then,’ Jane remarked.

  He opened his desk drawer and took out a large diary then swivelled round in his chair and pointed to the radio equipment.