Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane gave a small nod of recognition to Ashton, a pale freckle-faced twenty-eight-year-old who had recently married. Like many of the CID officers, he had also been on Bradfield’s team.

  Moran smiled at Jane reassuringly. “Not many Toms are working the patch after what’s been happening, but with less foot traffic we can tail you more easily.”

  Arriving at London Fields’ west side entrance Moran told Jane to follow the path past the outdoor pool and hang around there for a while, “as if touting for business.” They would park up in a suitable vantage point to watch her, and after ten to fifteen minutes she was to follow the central path through the park to the south entrance at Lansdowne Drive, then turn back on herself and walk through the park to the north entrance at Richmond Road. Moran said that if nothing had happened within the next hour or so she could jump back in the obo van to have a hot coffee, before repeating the route through the Fields.

  From the front of the obo van DC Ashton called out that it was all clear. Moran checked the rear, then opened the back door to let Jane out, telling her that rather than looking for punters she should let them come to her.

  The cold outside air mixed with Jane’s nerves and she felt a shudder down her spine as she started to walk toward the Lido. She raised her left hand to her mouth and pressed the transmitter button on the mic.

  “Gold to Silver receiving, over,” she said, without at first realizing her nervous error.

  “You’re Silver, and yes, Gold is receiving . . . Over.”

  Jane could have kicked herself and responded, “Silver received.”

  Moran was joined in the obo van by the young and relatively inexperienced Detective Constable Brian Edwards. Edwards was a rawboned six-footer with thick dark curly hair, and usually looked as if he had just fallen out of bed. Tonight, however, both men were dressed in dark turtleneck sweaters and black trousers. Moran wore a black leather jacket and Edwards a black bomber jacket. It was too dark to use the spy holes and they had a better view looking out of the rear window, which had a reflective foil-like sheet on it so no one could see in.

  London Fields was virtually desolate. There was hardly anyone about and nobody who could be described as acting in a suspicious manner. Jane kept on walking. By now she was feeling very tired and cold when over the radio came Moran’s voice.

  “Gold to Silver, white male, late sixties coming toward you, approach with caution.”

  Jane tensed as he moved closer, she took a deep breath, and felt the adrenalin rush of nerves. She could smell the alcohol as the man weaved and tottered toward her.

  “Which way to the Cat and Mutton, my darling one?” he slurred.

  In the obo van Moran became alert and told Edwards to stand by.

  “I’m sorry, mate, I dunno,” Jane said in a dreadful attempt at a cockney accent as she passed him.

  “False alarm,” Moran muttered. “He’s pissed out of his head. I’m beginning to think this is a waste of everyone’s time.”

  He opened a can of beer and lit a cigarette while Edwards had a cup of coffee from his flask and ate his sandwich.

  It was now just after 10 p.m. and Jane made her way along the tarmac path, past the Lido yet again. She was struggling to walk in the thigh length boots that were by now really hurting her feet and had given her a blister on her right heel. But she had to keep up appearances, even though she was continually having to adjust her hot pants as they rode up her thighs. The cold night air penetrated through the frilly cheesecloth shirt that was tied tightly round her waist.

  Jane couldn’t believe that she hadn’t even come across a “legitimate prostitute” having sex up against a tree, or a park bench, as she had seen before when out on uniform patrol. But she realized that the fact that there were no prostitutes about was actually in her favor. It meant she avoided any angry confrontations with local Toms questioning what a new girl was doing on their patch. Jane knew that an angry prostitute, or worse still a drunk prostitute, could be a real handful to deal with.

  She carried on walking along the path, the pain from the blister getting worse, when she was suddenly aware of someone approaching quickly behind her. She gripped the radio mic in her hand, ready to press the talk button if she needed to. She could hear the sound of deep breathing and panting coming nearer. Jane’s heart was pounding as she turned her head slightly, to look over her left shoulder, and saw the figure of a man in a hooded black tracksuit within inches of her. She had a sudden urge to scream but controlled herself as he jogged on past her.

  Jane felt an incredible sense of relief as she looked to her left along Martello Street, on the east side of London Fields. In the distance, she could see the obo van moving slowly with its lights out. She was really glad she hadn’t jumped the gun and radioed in for assistance, and taking a deep breath she walked on. The fact that neither Moran nor Edwards had radioed her about the jogger made her wonder how visible she was to them.

  Jane’s heart was still beating faster than usual. As she passed under a large tree she was startled by some conkers falling from the branches of the chestnut tree above her. Relieved, Jane smiled, but then she heard a much heavier thud behind her. Before she could turn around a black leather-gloved hand was clamped over her mouth while the other hand grabbed her round the chest, pinning her left arm to her side. The sudden attack caused the mic in her left hand to fall loose from the sleeve of the rabbit fur jacket, and dangle like a kid’s glove on a string.

  Jane’s assailant groped and squeezed at her right breast with his left hand and started to drag her backward toward the covered entrance of the Lido. Jane struggled to break free and desperately tried to look over her shoulder toward where she had last seen the obo van. She attempted to scream, but the leather-gloved hand tightened around her mouth. A man’s voice whispered harshly in her ear.

  “I’ve got a knife . . . so keep your mouth shut, you fucking thieving whore . . . or I’ll cut your throat wide open this time.”

  Jane nodded vigorously to indicate that she understood, and the leather-gloved hand relaxed its pressure slightly. Jane then realized that he couldn’t be holding a knife as there was one hand over her mouth and the other was groping her breast. Her instinct took over and she opened her mouth wide and bit down as hard as she could on the gloved hand. As the assailant released his grip Jane screamed loudly and spun around quickly to confront her attacker. The man had a stocking over his head, making him unrecognizable, and he was wearing a black roll-neck sweater and black trousers. Jane understood exactly what he was intending to do to her when she saw his erect penis sticking out of his unzipped trousers.

  In an instant Jane kicked her attacker hard in the groin. She pulled the truncheon free from inside her sleeve and hit him on the side of the head with all her strength, knocking him to the ground. The force of the impact against his skull made her lose her grip on the truncheon, causing it to fly out of her hand and onto the grass a few feet away.

  Enraged, the assailant was growling and moving slowly. Like a bear about to make its final move on its prey he gradually stood up, the growling getting louder and louder as spittle foamed through the stocking mask. Jane managed to retrieve the radio mic, and pressing the transmitter screamed, “Urgent Assistance!” and yelled at the top of her voice that she was a police officer. The attacker, as if confused by the revelation, froze momentarily before turning to run. Jane lunged at him, grabbing his right shoulder from behind. In his desperate effort to escape, the assailant elbowed her in the mouth causing her lip to split and bleed. He started to run, and although Jane was determined to give chase she knew she’d never be able to catch him in the boots she was wearing.

  Suddenly she saw DI Moran and DC Edwards running at speed toward the assailant and together they tackled him hard from behind, knocking him heavily to the ground. As he tried to get up Moran pulled his head back by his hair and smashed his face down onto the pathway, causing his nose to split and bleed profusely. The two detectives then pinned him to the gr
ound, pulled his hands behind his back and DC Edwards handcuffed him.

  Jane felt a mixture of fear and relief as she heard the two-tone sirens of the police cars making their way to the Fields. Moran spoke into his portable radio.

  “All units from Gold, stand down. Suspect has been arrested and WPC Tennison is safe and well. We only require a uniform van for the prisoner to be taken to the station.”

  “You were supposed to be covering my back! Where the hell were you?” Jane shouted.

  Moran calmed her down, explaining that their view from the obo van had become partially blocked as Jane had passed between some large trees.

  “It wasn’t until we heard you scream that we realized something was wrong. I mean, where on earth did he come from? It’s as if he appeared from nowhere.”

  Jane’s hand was trembling as she pointed to the chestnut tree. “Up there . . . he must have been up there, and jumped down. He grabbed me from behind, covered my mouth with his hand and said he’d cut my throat if I screamed. I couldn’t get to the radio transmitter or shout for help until I bit him and he let me go.”

  The attacker now started shouting that he’d done nothing wrong, earning him a well-aimed kick in the side of his ribs from DI Moran. He pulled the stocking up off his head revealing a man in his early thirties, clean shaven and with neatly cut hair.

  Moran looked at Jane as he put the stocking in a plastic bag. “He’s your arrest, Tennison, so go ahead and caution him.”

  Jane licked at her split lip, tasting the blood as she spoke. “I’m arresting you for an indecent and serious assault on a police officer. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”

  “I’ve done fuck all! That bitch suddenly attacked me and started screaming . . . Look at my head!”

  Moran gave him another kick in the ribs to silence him. He pulled the attacker up from the ground and noticed with disgust that the man’s now flaccid penis was hanging out of his trousers. He glanced at Jane who glared straight back at him. By now her fear had been replaced by the buzz of adrenalin from making an arrest.

  “Don’t look at me—I’m not putting that thing back in his trousers!”

  Moran laughed, surprised by her ability to make a joke after what she had been subjected to. DC Edwards roughly zipped up the assailant’s fly, and hauled him away screeching in agony.

  The prisoner was placed in the back of the police van, flanked by two officers and with DC Edwards sitting opposite him. DI Moran drove Jane back to the station in the obo van, and asked her to go over everything that happened and what her assailant had said.

  She was still energized as she repeated how she had been attacked from behind and how he had threatened to cut her throat.

  “I bit down on his hand as hard as I could so he released his hold.”

  “Good girl . . . sorry you had to go through that, but you did well. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her heart was beating rapidly and she suddenly felt unable to stop shaking. Taking a few deep breaths she managed to calm herself down, forcing back the feelings of fear. In some ways she was more concerned that DI Moran might notice she had been panic stricken.

  He had noticed and gave her a sidelong glance. As he concentrated on the road ahead he spoke quietly.

  “You know, at some stage in our careers we’ve all had the guts kicked out of us. I don’t mean literally of course . . . but once you’ve had to face that fear and been able to deal with it, the next time isn’t nearly as bad. It’s not just the adrenalin rush that helps you get through something like tonight, but the satisfaction that you caught the bastard.”

  Jane had not expected Moran to be so understanding. She smiled bravely and even attempted to make a joke.

  “You been dressed up as a Tom to make an arrest, have you, sir?”

  He chuckled, shaking his head.

  “I never put a bad guy away that didn’t deserve it, that’s all you’ve got to know about me, Tennison.”

  Back at the station Jane asked to be excused so she could sort out her split lip. Moran nodded, instructing DC Edwards to find the duty officer. Jane went to the ladies’, then after washing her hands she inspected her cut lip in the mirror. It wasn’t as swollen as she thought it would be, but she knew it would take at least a week or so before it healed. That meant not visiting her parents for a while. She put on some makeup and lipstick to conceal the cut, and thought about what Moran had said to her. She was more confident that she had handled the situation well under extreme pressure, but there had been a moment when she had really feared for her life. When the stocking had been removed from her attacker’s head she had been surprised to see that he was actually quite a good-looking man, and not the ugly, vicious person she had envisaged.

  Jane thought about taking off her wig, but decided against it as it made her feel even more like an undercover officer working with the CID.

  As she stared at herself in the mirror above the cracked washbasin, it triggered another memory. She was in the washroom standing by Kath Morgan as she was getting ready to go on her first plain-clothed assignment; she had been so excited and eager to catch a burglar robbing old-age pensioners. Kath had been such a feisty woman, not afraid of anyone or anything, and regaled everyone by describing how she had brought the burglar down with a rugby tackle. She had been laughing in the incident room as she told everyone how she had grabbed him by his hair and discovered that he was in fact wearing a Marc Bolan-style wig. She missed Kath—Jane was the only woman at Hackney, apart from clerical staff. As she left the washroom she noticed that there was a laminated “LADIES TOILET” sign on the door. Smiling, she remembered the notice that Kath had handwritten and pinned to the door, which some of the male officers had then adorned with phallic cartoon drawings. A proper sign would have pleased Kath.

  Jane headed down the corridor toward the small B Relief tea kitchen that officers used when the canteen was closed. She had a key to the cupboard for the tea bags and tins of instant coffee, which was kept locked as the contents were always disappearing. Her head ached and she was hunting for a bottle of aspirin when DC Edwards hurried toward her.

  “You’d better get back to the charge room . . . I’ve got to go and find Sergeant Harris . . . he was supposed to be there ages ago. The guv is getting so fed up he wants to shove a snooker cue up his backside if he doesn’t appear soon.”

  “That’s where you’ll find him, he’s usually in there having a game. If you like I can go and find him?”

  “No . . . no . . . it’s fine, I’ll do it. A couple of uniforms are with the prisoner and he’s handcuffed, so he’s not going anywhere. But DI Moran has gone walkabout as well.”

  Edwards ran his fingers through his mop of unruly hair. His arms seemed too long, even for his size. He had always had a disheveled appearance. Sergeant Harris had complained about his untidiness on several occasions and Jane had even overheard him asking Edwards why his trousers never had a crease in them. The following day poor Edwards had turned up for work with the burnt imprint of an iron on his flared trousers.

  Jane continued along the corridor into the B kitchen annex. Unlocking the cupboard she pulled out a bottle of aspirin and filled a glass of water from the tap.

  Edwards banged on the door.

  “OK, I tracked him down . . . see you in the charge room. Hey . . . I couldn’t have a couple of those aspirin, could I? I’ve got a terrible headache.”

  Jane handed him a glass of water and watched as he tipped four aspirin into his palm. She noticed that his hand was shaking.

  “Are you all right, Brian?”

  Edwards swallowed all four tablets in one mouthful and gulped down the rest of the water.

  “Yeah, I’m fine . . . It’s just that DI Moran makes me nervous. You know it wasn’t my fault that bastard got you tonight. He clipped me one . . . I’m sorry you were put through that, Jane.”

  She gave him a friendly pat o
n the shoulder as he left and said she would see him in the charge room. She poured a fresh glass of water and took two aspirin, sipping the remains of the water before she rinsed the glass under the hot water and left it on the draining board.

  Jane had been alone for a few minutes with the handcuffed prisoner when Sergeant Harris walked in, clearly irritated at being dragged away from his game of snooker.

  “Where’s Moran? I thought he was in charge of things?”

  “He just went out to look for you.”

  “Well, he obviously didn’t look hard enough, did he?” Harris replied sarcastically, sitting behind the charge desk. He took out a large custody sheet from the drawer, clipped it to a board, and removed a pen from his top pocket, as DC Edwards walked in.

  “Right, who’s the arresting officer and what are the facts?”

  At that moment Harris took a second look at Jane, causing him to shake his head in disbelief.

  “What on earth do you think you look like, Tennison?”

  Jane gave him a cheeky grin. “A prostitute on the game, Sarge. I thought you’d know that . . .”

  Edwards laughed but Harris was not amused. DI Moran walked into the room just as Harris chastised Jane for what he felt was as an impudent comment.

  “Don’t get funny with me, Tennison . . . I’ve got your final probationer’s report to do in the next couple of weeks.” He turned to Moran. “Ah, good, you’ve decided to join us . . .”

  “As it happens, Harris, I needed a leak, which is a much more pleasurable experience than talking to you. Now, can we get on with booking the prisoner in?”

  Harris grunted but he knew he was pushing his luck with Moran who, although much younger than him, was senior in rank. Harris asked for the facts of the arrest and Moran asked Jane to recount what had happened.