Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

  Bradfield went over everything calmly and succinctly, detailing all the new information and evidence. The DCS remained tight-lipped and listened with his head slightly lowered, making it difficult to gauge whether or not he was going to sanction ‘Operation Hawk’. Metcalf looked over all the reports himself to make sure Bradfield was not exaggerating his case. Eventually he pulled at his nose, sniffed and slowly laid down the papers before getting up and pacing around the room deep in thought, leaving Bradfield still wondering what his decision would be. He stood by the window looking down onto the street below and eventually turned to face Bradfield.

  ‘You’ve got a green light, Len, but on one condition – I don’t want individual arrests made for a conspiracy to rob the bank. I don’t want a cock-up like that Lloyds Bank job where they never got the ringleader . . . I want those bastards caught on the job, inside, shovels in hand, while their lookout is in position as well. You nick them all together and the case is strong. Plus one or two of them might turn Queen’s Evidence against each other, especially the Greek as he seems likely to talk.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It was always my intention to get them all bang to rights on the plot, and I’m very grateful you agree,’ Bradfield said as he stood up and shook Metcalf’s hand.

  ‘You haul in whatever extra manpower you need. Do whatever is necessary, but don’t jump the gun as this will be a big press plus for the Met if you succeed.’

  Bradfield had to take deep breaths to control his excitement. This could be a major step forward in his career and he was not about to mess it up.

  ‘I’ve still got surveillance on all the suspected team, so if there is any movement to or from their individual addresses we’ll be on it right away.’

  ‘Good. I know your station CID people are helping out with the surveillance, but wherever possible get it done by the unit from the Yard. They’re much more experienced and blend in with the surroundings more easily.’

  As soon as Metcalf had left the station Bradfield was eager to sort out suitable observation points in Great Eastern Street, and then hold a briefing for Operation Hawk. The incident room was buzzing, and Jane was disappointed when Sergeant Harris came in and said that due to abstractions he was now two officers short on early turn and he needed Jane to go out in uniform and direct traffic by the Eastway underpass tunnel, where a major RTA had occurred and a driver had been killed, then come back and man the front desk.

  Kath, overhearing and seeing Jane’s crestfallen face, went up to Harris and asked to have a word.

  ‘Sarge, if it wasn’t for WPC Tennison we would never have identified the targets for this operation. It’s the biggest robbery case we’ve ever worked on at this station so she deserves to be part of Operation Hawk. Besides, why can’t you ask for an officer from another nick to assist?’

  ‘I make the decisions about staffing, not you, Morgan.’

  ‘Actually, DCI Bradfield does when it comes to a CID operation, so maybe you should ask him,’ Kath said, gesturing to the door as she saw him enter the room.

  ‘Ask me what?’ Bradfield said, putting the reports back in the desk tray.

  Harris started to explain his position but Bradfield didn’t even let him finish.

  ‘DCS Metcalf has authorized Operation Hawk and stated I can have whoever I want on MY team.’

  Harris was annoyed. ‘I assisted DS Gibbs at the café last night. Tennison is a uniform officer, not a detective, and as such I need her to cover the front desk.’

  Bradfield glared at him. ‘WPC Tennison is part of my investigation whether you like it or not! I signed off your overtime last night out of the CID budget, and gave you four hours extra as compensation, but if you like I can soon put a pen through it.’

  A disgruntled Harris had no option but to back off. Bradfield gave a smile and wink to Jane before returning to his office.

  ‘Thank you, Kath,’ Jane said quietly.

  ‘Forget it. Harris obviously helped out last night not just for the overtime. I reckon he thought he could use it to get you off the team and back in uniform to spite you. He’s a sly bastard who plays Mr Nice with ulterior motives so watch him like a hawk.’

  They both laughed at the pun. Kath said she had to go to a meeting with the lady who owned the shoe shop next to Silas’s café.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit risky? Silas might see you and suspect you’re police.’

  ‘No flies on me, darlin’ – I arranged to meet her at her flat above her other shop in St John’s Wood. Catch ya later.’

  Hebe Ide’s flat was above her boutique shoe shop in St John’s Wood High Street. It was small but elegant with very expensively priced shoes – way out of Kath’s price range – in the window display. The shop’s exterior and interior were very different from those of Hebe’s other shop next to Silas’s café in Shoreditch.

  Hebe Ide was a very well-endowed woman in her forties, with heavy make-up and bleached blonde hair worn in a chignon. She was smoking and wearing a floral satin padded housecoat when she opened the door. Kath showed her warrant card, introduced herself, and was led up a narrow staircase. Following behind Hebe she couldn’t help but notice her very shapely legs, but didn’t much like the gold mule slippers she wore.

  The hall was lined with model-like pictures of Hebe, and Kath thought she looked rather like a cross between Diana Dors and the 1960s songstress Yana. As they passed the photographs Hebe stopped and tapped one with her red-varnished fingernail.

  ‘I used to be in show business. In fact I was named after a character in an opera. Do you know Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kath replied. She’d heard of it, but never been to the opera in her life.

  ‘In the opera Hebe is the first cousin of Sir Joseph Porter, First Lord of the Admiralty, and my surname Ide originates from a village of the same name in Devonshire.’

  ‘How interesting. They’re lovely pictures. I was just thinking how much you remind me of Yana,’ Kath said, trying to get the subject onto something she knew.

  ‘I met her a few times. She did the lot, modelling, acting and singing. “Climb Up The Wall” was her best song for me. She was so sexy and wore fantastic gowns that floated out at the back like a mermaid’s tail, all sequinned and so tight it was a wonder she could breathe, let alone sing.’

  Hebe led Kath into a chic drawing room with thick piled carpet and a velvet settee with matching chairs. More photographs of Hebe adorned the walls. The fireplace was art deco with a mantelpiece above laden with silver-framed pictures of Hebe.

  ‘I gave up show business when I got married, but I still miss it, especially since my Arnie passed away. The shoe shops were his, been in his family for years, and now I run the business, no children, other than my little Poochie Poo,’ Hebe said, stubbing out her cigarette before picking up a tiny white fluffy poodle from the settee and kissing it.

  At first Kath hadn’t noticed the dog, which was now licking Hebe’s face repeatedly. It hadn’t moved an inch or made a sound when they’d entered the room and Kath, thinking it was a cushion, had almost sat on it.

  ‘So how can Poochie and I help you?’ Hebe asked, once again kissing the dog who responded with more licks to her face.

  ‘I’m here concerning your shop in Great Eastern Street and—’

  ‘Bloody council have decided to demolish the whole row for development. I use it mostly for storage now as I have a Sunday stall at Petticoat Lane Market. The cheaper shoes sell like hot cakes there, but I don’t know where I’m going to store all the stock when Hackney Council kicks me out. I’ve got a small green van I park up in the yard there, but I can’t keep the shoes in it because some little buggers will only break in and steal the lot.’ She put the dog down, got up, pulled a cigarette from a small silver case and lit it.

  Kath was about to speak but Hebe was off again.

  ‘I’m not doing good business . . . there’s no real passing trade since they demolished the houses and built that monstrosity of a
car park. It’s so bloody tall it blocks the sunlight into the shop and now the place smells damp and looks dowdy. Who knows, maybe it’ll be a blessing in disguise when they close me down.’ She sighed and took a long drag of her cigarette.

  Kath had been briefed by Gibbs about what she should say, but it was almost impossible to get a word in edgeways.

  ‘The car park is part of the reason I’m here,’ she said.

  ‘Have the other shopkeepers complained to you about it as well? I rarely see or speak to them now. I only open up on odd days and pop in early Sunday morning to get stock. Arnie and me lived in the flat above the Shoreditch shop when we first got married. Horrible place – the smell of the curries from next door used to come through and stink our shop out.’

  ‘I thought it was a hardware shop next door?’ Kath remarked.

  ‘It is, but the home cooking of the Pakis stank, not to mention the smell from the fat Greek’s café as well. Anyway, after Arnie passed away I rented the flat out until recently. The tenants were more trouble than they were worth, always complaining that this or that didn’t work. We bought this place and opened the shop downstairs. It’s much more upmarket round here. I shouldn’t say it, but the truth is I sell the same shoes for a much higher price and no one who buys a pair bats an eyelid.’

  Kath leaned forwards. ‘Please, Mrs Ide, I don’t wish to appear rude but I have to get back to the station soon.’

  ‘You should have said . . . anyway, how can I help you?’

  ‘Well, a high number of quality cars have been stolen from the multistorey car park recently and we think it’s a professional gang who steal to order, change the plates and sell the vehicles on.’

  ‘I thought there was an attendant in a kiosk during the day?’

  Kath had to think quickly and lied. ‘We think he’s part of the gang. If you are agreeable we’d like to put a surveillance team in the upstairs of your shop for a few days as it’s directly opposite the car park. Hopefully that way we can catch them all.’

  ‘Oh I see. Will you need me there?’

  ‘No, not at all. Your property will be treated with respect and securely locked when the officers leave.’

  Hebe inhaled, and then, deep in thought, perched on the arm of the chair by her poodle.

  ‘Yes I’m agreeable. I’m hardly there and the shop is not worth opening really, and I guess my van will be safe while your lot are there,’ she said, removing a set of keys from her handbag and handing them to Kath who thanked her.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Kath replied.

  ‘Well, obviously with the police using the shop I can’t open, so I wondered if there will be any form of compensation for loss of my earnings?’

  Kath was flummoxed and didn’t know what to say, but she replied that she’d ask her DCI.

  Whilst Kath was visiting Hebe Ide, DS Gibbs and another detective were at the multistorey car park hoping to find out what sort of view it gave and if there were any signs that someone had been camping out up there at night.

  During the day there was a so-called security guard manning the exit. He wasn’t very helpful and said that as it was a Saturday hardly anyone used the car park, so it was only open 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. He grumbled that it was a waste of time him being there but as he got time-and-a-half pay it was worth it.

  Once the guard had stopped complaining, Gibbs and DC Hudson, posing as business executives, asked if company cars could be left overnight. He said that it was up to them, but as there was no security on duty anyone could come and go from the car park during the night. He moaned about winos and junkies using the ground-floor stairwell to sleep in and told them the stench of urine was overpowering. He didn’t bother showing the officers around, claiming he had arthritis and couldn’t walk up the slopes or stairwell and the lift was out of action. Hudson drove the unmarked police car from floor to floor. When they reached the top they were in two minds about getting out as the wind was howling, and it was freezing cold. Gibbs pulled rank so young DC Hudson begrudgingly got out of the car and had a good look round before returning.

  ‘You find anything interesting?’ Gibbs asked as Hudson got back in the car.

  ‘You get a fantastic view of all the surrounding streets and shops, right across Shoreditch and the City as well. I could even see St Paul’s and the Post Office Tower – wish I’d brought me camera.’

  ‘I meant anything interesting to the investigation, you dope, Hudson.’

  Hudson opened his hand. ‘Over there, the bit where you can see the café clearly, I found these discarded cannabis roaches and the faintest trace of what look like wheelchair marks in the grit. There’s some discarded chocolate-bar wrappers and an empty tin of Shandy Bass as well.’

  Gibbs sighed. ‘Bloody well go and get ’em then, they may give us some fingerprints.’

  Hudson pulled up his duffle-coat collar, climbed out of the car again and did as he was asked.

  Leaving their vehicle in the car park while they went to look for a suitable observation point to monitor the front of the café, Gibbs and Hudson walked casually along the road on the opposite side, and stopped by an old two-storey block of terraced flats. They were council-owned, run-down and the lower floor was boarded up with a notice stating that the building was soon to be demolished. They went round the back via an alleyway and headed up the rear concrete staircase that led to the top-floor corridor. The top-floor flats were all boarded up, except one which was still obviously occupied as outside there were a couple of well-cared-for pot plants and a small washing line with some cotton knee-length lady’s knickers hanging from them. The net curtains were clean, and even the front door looked freshly painted.

  Ignoring Hudson’s suggestion that they remove the boarding from an empty flat, Gibbs shook his head and knocked on the door. ‘You’ve a lot to learn, son. They’re old lady’s knickers on the line. Using her place will be warm, with plenty of tea, coffee and biscuits, while we watch the café.’

  The door was inched open and, as Gibbs had guessed, an elderly lady in her eighties was standing in front of them holding a mop.

  ‘I been livin’ here thirty years and I’ve told ya a hundred times I ain’t bloody leavin’ – now piss off,’ she shouted, and pushed the wet mop into Gibbs’s chest.

  ‘She obviously thinks we’re council officials,’ Hudson said with a smile.

  Gibbs produced his warrant card and introduced himself. The old lady put down the mop, apologized and invited them in asking if they’d like a cup of tea and a biscuit. Gibbs smiled smugly at Hudson.

  Jane was taking the names, warrant numbers, ranks and departments of all the new officers arriving in the incident room when a tall gaunt man in a black raincoat walked in carrying a large black box with a handle. Jane thought he looked rather lost and asked for his details for the team list. He told her he was clerical staff from Hounslow and had come for a meeting with his brother-in-law DS Spencer Gibbs.

  As Jane wrote down his details she explained that DS Gibbs was out on enquiries but should be back soon, and told him that he could wait in the office or the canteen. He said the office would be fine, plonked his large box on the floor and sat down as DS Gibbs walked in carrying a tape recorder from the property store.

  ‘Frank! How ya doin? Thanks for coming over,’ Gibbs said.

  Frank stood up, said hello and they shook hands.

  ‘Have you got the equipment?’

  Frank nodded and pointed to the black box. ‘Yeah, it’s heavy and I’m still an amateur when it comes to using it. But I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  ‘The guvnor’s in his office and looking forward to meeting you,’ Gibbs said and Frank followed him to Bradfield’s office with his equipment.

  After being introduced to Frank, Bradfield cleared a space on his desk for Frank to set up his Citizens Band radio. Gibbs put the tape recorder down next to the radio and also handed Frank a copy of Ashley Brennan’s notes which listed the
times and frequencies of the suspect conversations. Frank was twiddling with a dial when he looked up nervously at Bradfield.

  ‘I know it’s illegal, but I only bought it for a bit of fun off a Yank I know, to listen to airport control at Heathrow as I’m into planes.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Frank. No one’s going to prosecute you as you’re doing us a favour,’ Bradfield said, in an effort to reassure him.

  Frank nervously twiddled away with the frequency control, but all he was picking up was hissing static. He kept on repeating that he was just an amateur and would do his best, but it might take a while for him to link the wavelengths.

  ‘You might have been better getting that Ashley chap to help you,’ Frank said.

  ‘He’s too much of a geek and he said he’d lost contact. He rambles on in radio jargon, but if you need to call him for some advice then—’

  Suddenly the radio began to whistle and the sound of a voice saying ‘Over’ could be heard.

  ‘Oh, hang on, looks like I’ve got something,’ Frank said excitedly.

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t tell me Bentley’s in the café right now?’ Gibbs remarked.

  Bradfield waved his hand indicating for them to be quiet and leant over Frank to get closer to the CB so that he could listen.

  Two Eighty-four from Golf Hotel receiving, over, they heard over the CB.

  ‘Is that their call sign?’ Frank asked, and Gibbs said the voice sounded familiar.

  They then heard another voice reply. Yes, Two Eighty-four receiving, over.

  Can you return to the station to man the front desk as bloody Bradfield won’t release Tennison . . . over.

  ‘That’s fucking Harris talking to a PC!’ Bradfield exclaimed.

  ‘You’ve tuned into the station-radio frequency, Frank,’ a deflated Gibbs told him.

  Bradfield was not pleased and took Gibbs to one side.

  ‘We should get the bloke who picked up the radio transmissions on the Lloyds job – he seemed to know what he was doing.’