Tennison

by Lynda La Plante

  The police had been intercepting and checking any mail to his home address. As a result they had discovered the cash and jewellery he had sent to his wife to enable her to join him in Spain when he found a place to live. The police had let the mail through and his wife hadn’t declared she’d received stolen goods so they had arrested her. Mitcham was promised that the charges against his wife would be dropped, his kids wouldn’t end up in care, and he would get a reduced sentence if he co-operated. It was an offer he was in no position to refuse.

  Danny told them the full story, and also agreed to give Queen’s Evidence against Clifford Bentley, who had so far refused to say anything.

  After the bodies and body parts had been removed from the bank, DS Lawrence and his forensic team had spent days at the location trying to ascertain exactly what had caused the explosion. They knew from the hole in the steel vault floor that the suspects must have been using an oxyacetylene torch, but as it was not in the café it was likely that it had been blown to pieces and become mixed up with all the other debris from the vault. Every piece of metal was eventually gathered up in dustbins and it was a painstaking task at the lab sifting through it all and putting the oxygen and acetylene tanks back together. The answer came after Paul Lawrence had meticulously rebuilt the remains of the acetylene tank pressure gauge and discovered the dial was stuck on 30psi. He knew that the gauge must have been on 30psi at the moment of explosion, and that acetylene, being an extremely unstable gas, was dangerously explosive at pressures above 15psi. Lawrence concluded that John Bentley naively thought that turning up the pressure would increase the heat intensity and speed up cutting the safe open. The explosion was inevitable and unavoidable, and tragically happened at exactly the wrong moment for the officers who, as a result, were killed or injured.

  Due to the intense political and press interest concerning the deaths of two police officers, and the severe injuries to others including the bank manager, the rubber heelers from A10 were called in as a matter of course to carry out an internal investigation. They had been told to look at all the information DCI Bradfield had acted on, and decide whether it was reliable and correct. The big question was whether he could have reasonably foreseen that dangerous and volatile cutting equipment needed to be used to get into the vault, in which case the suspects should have been arrested as soon as they broke into the vault.

  For once it was an investigation that the A10 officers did not relish and they deliberately cut corners, especially as there was not one officer on the team who did not stand by the decisions made by the deceased DCI Leonard Bradfield, whose actions had also been given the green light and were supported by DCS Metcalf. Everyone knew that it would be wrong to tarnish the good name of a highly respected and much admired man like Bradfield, who had acted in good faith and done what he believed to be right at the time. Even the Commissioner himself recognized this fact by later recommending both DCI Bradfield and WPC Morgan for a posthumously awarded Queen’s Police Medal for an ‘exhibition of conspicuous devotion to duty’.

  Jane was working on the front desk when Harris came in and told her that Metcalf wanted to see her.

  ‘Why? What does he want?’ she asked, worried she was going to be reprimanded, or worse made a scapegoat.

  ‘Search me, but get a move on – he doesn’t like to be left waiting.’

  The bank robbery investigation was being led by DCS Metcalf who had to compile an in-depth report detailing the full extent of the tragedy that surrounded Operation Hawk. Jane had escaped being questioned by A10, but an interview with Metcalf was worse. She headed to the office that Bradfield had previously occupied, refusing to remember the last time she’d seen him behind that very desk.

  Metcalf was flicking through a thick file as she sat down opposite him, waiting nervously and wondering why he had called her in.

  ‘Now, I have it formally noted by the late DCI Bradfield that you recognized the deceased John Bentley’s voice from a recording made by a young boy called Ashley Brennan. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I went to Brennan’s home address and—’

  ‘I am aware of how you came to be in possession of the tape,’ he interrupted, and continued to read through the file.

  ‘Initially you had been helping Bentley’s mother after an asthma attack, correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jane said, realizing it was best to keep her answers brief.

  ‘That was very commendable and thoughtful of you, and somewhat fortunate for DCI Bradfield and the commencement of Operation Hawk,’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that as I was just doing my job.’

  ‘Nevertheless you apparently stuck to your guns when it was suggested that you may have been mistaken about it being John Bentley’s voice.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I like to see WPCs on probation proving to be confident, and being able to recall someone’s voice after only a few brief moments is quite exceptional.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Jane said, feeling he was being overindulgent and wondering why.

  He flicked to another page in the file and looked her in the eye before continuing.

  ‘DCI Bradfield quite rightly set up surveillance on the Bentley family and your observation about the voice on the tape proved to be correct. As the team indexer you were also responsible for typing up all the officers’ reports, including those made by DCI Bradfield and DS Gibbs?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I was wondering, were you ever aware of, or privy to, a report that was allegedly made by DS Gibbs concerning dangerous-gas tanks used for cutting metal, which he saw in the basement of the café?’

  Jane realized he was asking her a leading question and hoped she was about to give the answer he wanted to hear.

  ‘No, sir,’ she lied without a flinch or blink.

  He gave her a satisfied smile. ‘Good, I was obviously misinformed. I’m not keen to take this matter further as I suspected it was a malicious rumour. Thankfully you have confirmed that for me, but please keep it between us.’

  He glanced up and closed the file, then gave a short nod as he stood up to shake her hand.

  ‘I am confident that you have a good career ahead of you, WPC Tennison. I have taken note of your professionalism and will happily give you a personal recommendation should you wish to apply for CID at the end of your probation.’

  As she left the room Jane now knew for certain that an internal cover-up had been going on. She did recall writing up a report regarding the concerns raised about the gas tanks by DS Gibbs, and knew that it would now have been removed from the case file and destroyed. Metcalf was obviously worried that Bradfield’s failure to contemplate the risks in Operation Hawk had resulted in the carnage and loss of life that followed the explosion, but that would have been an embarrassment for him and the police force as a whole.

  Metcalf had obviously seen her as a weak link, but her meeting with him was yet another learning curve. Whether or not she approved didn’t matter, she was in no position to question the outcome Metcalf and the top brass desired, not if she valued her future career. She smiled to herself and thought Kath would also have kept silent.

  It was somehow a relief that when she returned to the front desk, Sergeant Harris was his usual blunt self. Pointedly he looked at his wristwatch.

  ’I’ll excuse you for not being back here on time, but then of course you were with the top brass. Everything go well with Metcalf?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge, he mentioned . . . ’

  He stood straight and wagged his finger.

  ‘Don’t want to know. Life goes on, Tennison, that’s all you’ve got to know.’

  There seemed to be no way anyone would ever talk about what had happened on that terrible day. No one wanted to show their feelings. Jane found it impossible to share her deep pain, and that was the way it would remain.

  THE AFTERMATH

  Kath’s parents had requested a small personal funeral which was
attended by some of the officers she had worked with at the station. They all wore their best uniforms and white gloves, with the detectives in smart suits, white shirts and black ties. It had been a quiet, simple, but moving service and many present had openly cried as Kath had been such a well-liked officer. Jane had forced herself to remain in control of her emotions, but when the organist played ‘Nights In White Satin’ as the service ended, she nearly broke down. She remembered laughing with Kath as she joined in singing the song with Gibbs outside the men’s shower room. She also recalled how Kath had joked with Spencer about playing the same song at her funeral. Seeing Gibbs standing straight-backed, his face etched with pain, Jane knew he was remembering her too. Kath would be hard to forget. Jane had learned so much from her and knew she would always remember her warmth and compassion.

  After the service, DS Gibbs introduced Jane to a tall, attractive woman who had been very distressed throughout the funeral service, openly weeping. Gibbs confused Jane as he had referred to the woman as Kath’s partner.

  ‘She spoke very warmly of you, Jane. It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘She was a good friend, I will miss her.’

  ‘Yes, she was a very special woman.’

  Kath had never mentioned her partner and it was some time before Jane realized what their relationship had been. It dawned on her just how little she had really known about Kath’s private life. She now realized Kath’s jovial remarks about good-looking men had been a necessary front to hide her sexuality, from an all too often sexist and homophobic police force.

  Gibbs picked up Jane’s puzzled expression although she had covered it quickly.

  ‘So now you know. I loved that woman, and if she wanted her private life kept that way, that was her business, but there’s one thing I want sorted. The lipstick on the dummy’s gob, when I had to do the first-aid crap, it was bloody Kath, wasn’t it?’

  Jane felt the tears welling up and she nodded.

  ‘I knew it . . . Christ, I am going to miss her.’

  ‘Me too, she was getting you back for the Vicks-up-the-nose joke at the post-mortem.’

  He turned away, because like Jane, he was near to tears.

  Bradfield’s funeral was organized by his widow and Spencer Gibbs. She had chosen the hymns and readings and he had spent hours preparing the eulogy he had been asked, and was honoured, to give. Sergeant Harris and other uniform officers of all ranks lined the streets and as the funeral cortège passed they stood to attention and saluted in their pristine white gloves. Many mourners came from the stations that Bradfield had worked at during his career as well as members of the public, some who didn’t even know him, yet who wanted to pay their respects. Every aisle and pew inside the church was full and officers stood shoulder to shoulder at the back of the church. Bradfield’s coffin was draped in the Metropolitan Police flag and his colleagues, led by DS Gibbs and DS Paul Lawrence, carried the coffin to the altar.

  Jane could feel the pit of her stomach twisting as she saw, following behind the coffin, a pretty blonde-haired woman in her late thirties. She was holding the hands of a little boy and girl who walked beside her. Bradfield’s widow wore a well-cut black coat and a wide-brimmed black straw hat that hid her face. The little boy had his father’s red curly hair and the girl had long blonde plaits. They were both dressed in smart clothes and coats, white socks and black patent-leather shoes.

  Jane had felt humiliation when she had been told by Bradfield that she was off the team and should go home, and had been deeply hurt when he had said there was no future in their relationship. She had subsequently felt a huge sense of betrayal when she had discovered, after his death, that he was married with children. Now, standing amongst so many police officers, some of whom she had worked with, all Jane could think of was how foolish she had been. How immature and stupid she had been not to have even considered that he was married. He never wore a wedding ring, so she naively assumed he lived in the section house, and she had never seen a photograph on his desk of his wife or children. She wondered why Kath hadn’t told her Bradfield was married. Perhaps in some way she had tried to warn her, or perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to jeopardize her position on the team. Either way, Jane harboured no bad feelings for her friend. She had just never thought to ask if he was married, but now she felt used. He had drawn her to him and made love to her, and she had been infatuated, believing at the time they could have had something special together. She had loved and admired him, but it had been a hard lesson. From now on she felt determined to keep a tight hold on her emotions, and never be drawn into another relationship with a serving police officer. The tragedy had not made her want to quit the force, but a change of direction was something she needed if she wanted to move on in her career. She thought about DCS Metcalf’s encouraging words and decided she would take him up on his offer of a personal recommendation to become a trainee detective on completion of her probation. After all, he owed her that for her loyalty.

  Jane stood upright and faced forwards, holding up the order of service. The choir began to sing ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd, I Shall Not Want’. She tried hard, but just couldn’t get the words out and was unaware that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She made no sound as her heart poured out with sorrow. Midway through the hymn Sergeant Harris, who was standing next to her, pulled out a white folded handkerchief from his pocket, which he quietly and unobtrusively passed to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and wiped her eyes.

  Later as they stood in the graveyard and watched Bradfield’s coffin being lowered into the ground, the police officers present all saluted. As the vicar read out the words of the Committal, ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ Bradfield’s widow and two children wept. The children each threw a white rose onto the coffin and then hugged their mother. Jane shed no more tears, but stared straight ahead and gave no indication of how deeply his death had affected her . . . that he’d broken a little piece of her heart.

  Turn the page to discover more about

  Jane Tennison and why she became a WPC

  NEW DAY – NEW CHALLENGE

  While she was a pupil at the Paddington and Maida Vale High School for Girls, Jane Tennison excelled in all subjects. She was also a gifted athlete, representing the first team at hockey and winning events in both track and field on sports days, which courted the admiration of her fellow pupils. Although she made friends easily, Jane’s reserved personality set her apart somewhat from the other girls. The usual classroom gossip about boys and teenage fixations with film stars and fashion magazines left her irritated; she much preferred to read books by Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway and the Brontë sisters.

  Jane’s parents were caring and loving. The family lived in a smart flat in Maida Vale, and she had been given a good, solid upbringing in middle-class surroundings. Jane’s younger sister, Pamela, was the complete opposite of her – prettier, fashion-conscious, with scores of friends and very popular with the boys. Pam was bright but lazy and lacking motivation; she had left school when she was sixteen, with poor O-level grades and no real ambition in life. Eventually she found a junior position at the local hair salon where she washed hair, swept up and made hot drinks. Her only real aim in life was to meet someone reasonably well off, get married and have kids.

  When Jane left school at eighteen, her parents had hoped that she would go on to university, obtain a good degree and become a teacher. However, Jane didn’t fancy student life, or more studying, so decided to take a year off. When her father, who had his own small accounting business, invited her to work for him as a secretary, she readily accepted. She settled in well, worked hard and was an asset to the company, even attending some evening classes at the Central London Polytechnic. After a year had passed Jane decided that she was happy where she was, to the delight of her father, who hoped to leave the company in his elder daughter’s capable hands when he retired.

  A year later Jane felt that she needed to do something more challe
nging with her life than working in an office. She didn’t say anything to her parents as the last thing she wanted to do was upset them, especially her father to whom she was very close. She couldn’t remember the exact moment when she considered a change in her career path, but she knew that it stemmed from an article she had read in the newspaper about the Metropolitan Police and how the role of women within the organisation was changing. Women were finally allowed to join Mounted Branch, Traffic Units and even become dog handlers. The article also stated that A4 Women Branch, the all-female Police unit, was soon to be disbanded, with female officers being fully integrated on all shifts and in every department. Jane couldn’t put her finger on why the article had influenced her so much. She wasn’t a feminist, it wasn’t ‘a calling’, but rather an opportunity to pursue a career where she could stand on her own two feet and do something rewarding.

  Jane would always remember the evening in early June, 1972, as she sat with her family around the dinner table, listening to Pamela harp on about how her days of doing menial tasks at the salon would soon be over. She was about to be trained as a stylist.

  ‘Well done, dear, you’re progressing up the ladder,’ Mrs Tennison said enthusiastically before turning to Jane. ‘And what about you, Jane, any more thoughts about going to university and becoming a teacher . . . or will you be waiting another year?’

  ‘I’m too old for university now, Mum, and I’ve never wanted to be a teacher.’

  ‘It’s all well and good working for your father, but you should have some ambition like Pam,’ was her mother’s immediate response.

  It was now or never, Jane thought, as she took a deep breath and put down her knife and fork.