Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane sighed. She’d only seen the woman in the rabbit fur coat briefly, and from a side-on view. Nevertheless, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She sat at the spare table and started to flick through the pages, each of which had nine photographs. Donaldson sat back up on his stool and continued to read his newspaper.

  Although Jane was frustrated and growing impatient she took her time. After ten minutes she was halfway through the album without seeing anyone she even remotely recognized. It didn’t help that all the pictures were black and white and taken from chest height. It was another five minutes before a picture caught her attention. It wasn’t the dusky faced girl herself, but the coat she was wearing. Jane was almost certain it was the same fur coat she had been given to wear as a decoy, and if it was she wanted to know why and who it belonged to.

  “This one here, number three hundred and twenty-six . . . I think this might be her.”

  Donaldson leaned over his desk to a small notebook that had “TOMS” written on the front of it. He licked his finger and started to turn over the pages.

  “Ah ha, here it is . . . Janet Brown! You ever seen her? She’s the dizzy blonde who does impressions on Who Do You Do. She’s really good, and very funny.”

  Jane was lost. She didn’t have a clue why Donaldson suddenly wanted to talk about TV impressionists. He went over to one of the female index filing trays, pulled it open and after a second or two pulled out an envelope containing some index cards. He placed it on the table in front of Jane and removed the cards.

  “Number three hundred and twenty-six is Janet Brown, but not the impressionist . . . First arrest for soliciting eight years ago, CRO number D72/261.” He flicked the card over. “Aliases Lily, Sugar Susie, Jane, Angie . . . to name but a few.” He stopped reading out the list of aliases and ran his finger down the page.

  “Looks like she’s never used the name Mary Kelly before, and come to think of it I can’t recall a Tom who has. I remember seeing the Ripper crime scene pictures of Mary Kelly in the Black Museum at the Yard . . . her body was horribly mutilated.”

  Jane felt ill at ease. The more she found out about Moran’s involvement in the arrest of the so-called Mary Kelly, the more suspicious she became. She had nothing concrete to go on, but she was determined to dig deeper. Donaldson picked up Brown’s mug shot and tapped it.

  “This may not be the girl you’re looking for . . . as I said, many of them share and use the same names. The best way to confirm someone’s identity is through their fingerprints, as they can be matched to the first sets ever taken on their CRO file at the Yard.”

  Jane already knew about fingerprints. It was as if Donaldson had forgotten that she had nearly two years’ service, but she didn’t want to offend him so just thanked him for the information. She was eager to read Janet Brown’s cards and concentrated on what was in front of her.

  Janet was five feet eight inches tall and weighed 125 pounds. To Jane this indicated she must be a slender woman. Her date of birth was February 20th, 1945, making her twenty-nine. Jane looked at the scrap of paper she had made notes on about Mary Kelly’s arrest. The date of birth was the same. The most recent mug shot of Janet was five months old, having been sent over from West End Central Police Station after she was arrested by a local PC for prostitution in Soho. The picture surprised Jane because she was exceptionally beautiful, with dark skin, dark hair, wide almond shaped eyes, a small neat nose and wide dark lips, which were probably accentuated with lipstick. There was a sullenness to her expression, and the hand that held up the card had long painted nails.

  Janet’s last arrest, in 1972, was for loitering for prostitution in London Fields. It then dawned on her that DC Edwards had said DI Moran used to be on the Clubs and Vice Unit. She looked up at Donaldson.

  “Is Clubs and Vice based at Scotland Yard?”

  “No, they work out of West End Central. Why?”

  “Nothing, I just wondered if they might know of Janet Brown.” But the truth was she was wondering if there was a connection between Moran and Janet Brown from his time with Clubs and Vice.

  Jane sighed. Everything seemed to be going from bad to worse. She noticed that Janet had never served a prison sentence, which she thought was strange due to the number of arrests she had had for soliciting. Jane questioned Donaldson about it, and he shrugged.

  “Could be a soft magistrate, or it’s possible she’s a snout for someone on the Vice Squad and trades details of pimps and johns to avoid prison. If she appeared in court and a good word is put in by the Vice officer she’d probably just get a fine. Paying it off just means turning a few more tricks in one night.”

  “Sounds like a vicious circle,” Jane remarked.

  Donaldson put his arm on her shoulder. “Will you keep your eye on the shop for me while I nip up to the canteen for a couple of sausage rolls and a coffee?”

  Jane nodded and gave Donaldson a warm smile. No sooner had he left the room than he popped his head back round the door.

  “Do you want anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He smiled and jokingly said, “And no sneaking any of my index cards out the room . . . you know it’s against the rules.”

  Jane grabbed the memo pad from Donaldson’s desk and started to make shorthand notes from Janet Brown’s cards. One of the cards gave some details of her background. It stated that she was born in King’s Cross, her mother was English and father an American GI. She had lived in America for part of her life, then returned to London after her mother had died. Jane wished the card had more details about Janet Brown’s life, but she knew that it was normal for only a brief family history to be recorded on a CRO file. What was of interest was the fact that Janet Brown gave her address, when last arrested in Soho, as 86 Graham Road, Hackney.

  Having recorded as much as she could on the memo pad Jane ripped off the pages she’d written on, folded them up and put them in her handbag. She gathered up the cards to put them back in the envelope and on opening it saw a copy of an Incident Report Book, which was used by uniform officers, and had been filled out by PC 489 Grant, who was based at Hackney, but on a different relief to Jane. The IRB was about a “Serious Assault” on August 23, 1974. She also recalled having read the teenager’s statement saying that her rape had occurred on the 23rd, but had not been reported until two days later when she had an emotional breakdown in front of her mother. To Jane it seemed obvious that the same man may have attacked Janet Brown and the teenager. She couldn’t understand how, or why, DI Moran had missed the connection. Jane opened the IRB and started to read it.

  On 8.23.74 I was night duty patrol covering 5 beat. Just after midnight I received a radio call about a drunk woman outside the basement flat of 58 Navarino Road. I attended the scene and the woman had a severely bruised face and what appeared to be a knife wound to her neck and chest. She was semiconscious and did not smell of alcohol. I also noticed that her clothes were in disarray and there was a handbag on the floor next to her. She was wearing a blue fur coat, white top, miniskirt and long boots.

  I asked her what happened but she was incoherent and in a state of shock. I called an ambulance and accompanied her to the Homerton Hospital. She said nothing during the journey. I looked in the handbag to try and identify the woman and found a letter addressed to Miss J. Brown of 86 Graham Road.

  At the hospital she was treated immediately in the emergency area and sedated, thus I was unable to get any information from her. I contacted the Night Duty CID and informed them of a possible GBH/Rape, and that the attending doctor said no one would be able to speak to her until the following morning.

  CID said they would make an entry in their Night Duty Occurrence Book for the DI to see in the morning, and also asked me to make out a crime report sheet on my return to the station. (Major Crime 1324 refers.)

  I left the hospital and returned to Hackney where I checked the collator’s index cards and found a record for a Janet Brown, who from the mug shot was the same woman I escor
ted to the hospital.

  Lifting the mug shot up Jane found two more black and white photographs. One looked as if it had been taken around the same time as the mug shot, but the other photograph was more recent and shocked her. Janet had severe bruises around her eyes and one of them was bulging like a ping pong ball. Her lips were swollen and split. It was very obvious that she had suffered a severe beating. Checking over the dates and times of the various arrests for soliciting there was a brief mention of the assault stating that J. Brown had come into the station to report it, but had later withdrawn the complaint and refused to press charges. She was unable to give a description of the assailant.

  Listed on the crime sheet was a memo from DI Moran stating that the victim refused to substantiate the allegation and had said the injuries were as a result of a fall. “No crime” was then underlined.

  Jane couldn’t believe what she’d just read. She was now convinced that Janet Brown, Mary Kelly and J. Brown were the same woman. Moran must be hiding something, not just from her, but from everyone else in the station. Navarino Road, where the woman was found, was just a stone’s throw from the north end of London Fields.

  Jane was now certain she had been wearing Janet Brown’s rabbit fur coat on the night she was assaulted. She could find no mention of whether or not she was an informer. Even if she was, all informants were usually registered under a false name and a record kept under lock and key in a cabinet by the DCI.

  Donaldson returned and Jane handed him the index cards.

  “She took a severe beating.”

  “Yep, I noticed that . . . But you know these girls risk that happening. A lot of them are out soliciting to pay for their drugs. You arrest them, and in the worst cases they do time in Holloway Prison, but then they get out and go straight back to work. They have these scum pimps who they pay for so-called protection, but a lot of the time it’s those creeps who knock them around.”

  “Do you think Janet has a pimp?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart, maybe . . . Some of them work out of flats over in Mayfair. That’s where the top brass work nowadays. They get customers from the Dorchester Hotel, and some of them even have the cheek to dress up fancy and go into the bars.”

  “Do you think Janet could work in Mayfair?”

  He shook his head and said he doubted it as she was a darkie. Jane was eager to leave and thanked Donaldson again. As she opened the door she turned back.

  “You know, I think you’re one of the best officers here in Hackney . . . You’re always so helpful, and I really appreciate it.”

  “Well, thank you, Tennison . . . nice to know I’m appreciated. But I just do my job. I’ll be retired soon. I loved being a copper out on the beat . . . gets lonely down here. After I got wounded I reckoned I’d be back in civvies, but luckily I was allocated this position.”

  “Wounded?”

  “Yep, got shot by one of the Krays’ gang . . . big shootout.”

  Jane looked horrified and Donaldson laughed.

  “Na, not really . . . tripped over a drainpipe and broke me hip!”

  Later that day, before she was officially on duty, Jane came across DI Moran in the CID office, his Cuban-heeled boots up on the desk, leaning back in his chair and looking at the topless model on page three of The Sun. He was wearing a rather snazzy suit and a colorful tie. DC Edwards was typing at his desk and looked over at her. He almost gave her a warning glance, as he nodded his head toward Moran. Jane knew that Allard had been taken into the Magistrates’ Court and bail had been denied but she still asked, rather tentatively, “How did it go this morning? Good news about the confession, sir . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . I was about to go off duty last night when I was told Allard wanted to speak to me. Next thing I knew he started pouring his heart out about the rape and admitted that he wore a balaclava because his wife said something about some tights of hers going missing.”

  He stood up, tossing the newspaper to one side.

  Jane nodded. Although Moran sounded perfectly plausible she was still dubious and asked what Allard had done with the balaclava. Moran didn’t flinch.

  “He said he threw it in a rubbish bin after the rape.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Listen, I’m busy and can’t stop and chat all day . . . Allard is not the only case I have to deal with. But thanks for all your help and for making the arrest. By the way, Allard also signed the notes you took during the interview after the search and you’ll need to countersign them sometime . . . you’ll find them on my desk.”

  Jane smiled as he hurried past her, and she went into his office to look over his desk. There were numerous files so she had to search through everything to find the notes. Just as she was beginning to sift through them, Sergeant Harris barged into the main room.

  “Good, you’re here . . . take over the front desk, Tennison. I’ve got a drunk down in the cells who’s creating havoc. You know Allard was remanded in custody and his defense solicitor has requested an ‘old style’ committal, which’ll be heard next week. Have you signed the notes from DI Moran?”

  “I haven’t finished working on them yet.”

  “I just need you to sign what’s there.”

  Jane came out of Moran’s office. She leaned on a desk and flicked quickly through the documents until she saw the note slip requesting her signature. She signed it and passed it over to Harris. He took it and jerked his head for her to get to the front desk.

  Jane hurried out as Harris organized the papers and Moran walked back in with a cup of coffee.

  “You get her to sign them?”

  “Yeah, here you go.”

  Harris handed them to Moran, and left. There was a tense atmosphere in the room as Edwards glanced over, not missing anything that had just taken place, but he quickly returned to typing.

  “You got a problem, Brian?”

  “No, guv.”

  “Good, because we don’t have one and we are going to get that piece of karate shit put away for a long stretch.”

  “I hope Jane will be able to handle being questioned in court . . . It’ll be her first time and some of these barristers are lethal.”

  Moran walked into his office, kicking the door open wider with his foot.

  “Give me a break . . . he’s going to plead guilty for a string of assaults as well as the rape. We have his confession, so she might not even be called to the witness box.”

  Edwards said nothing as Moran’s door slammed shut. He hoped it would run that smoothly. He jerked his tie loose and his collar button came off and rolled onto the floor. He knew that if Tennison was called to give evidence he would be too, and just the thought of it brought him out in a sweat.

  Chapter Six

  A week later, Jane paced nervously up and down the police officers’ waiting room at Old Street Magistrates’ Court, going over her notes on the arrest and interviews of Peter Allard. She had given evidence at the Magistrates’ Court during her probation, but they had only been minor offenses for shoplifting, criminal damage and drunk and disorderly where her evidence was straightforward and the defense solicitor asked only a few questions in cross examination. Giving evidence at Crown Court was a different matter.

  On his first appearance at court earlier in the week Allard, he offered a plea of guilty to the indecent assault charges and assault on a police officer. However, when he was told about his client’s initial denial concerning the rape charge and the alleged confession, Allard’s solicitor had requested an old-style committal on the rape alone. On hearing the evidence the magistrate would decide if the case should be committed to the Old Bailey for trial by jury.

  DC Edwards sat quietly, biting his fingernails, while DI Moran read The Sun and drank tea from a polystyrene cup.

  “It’s not as if you’re gripping the rail at the big house, so bloody well sit down and stop worrying, Tennison,” Moran said sternly, then, licking his finger, flicked over to page three as usual and commented on the bre
asts of Jilly Johnson.

  Jane sat down next to DC Edwards and spoke quietly. “What’s he mean by gripping the rail?”

  “Giving evidence at the Old Bailey under a hostile defense barrister,” DC Edwards replied.

  “Allard’s got a barrister representing him today, hasn’t he?” Jane asked apprehensively.

  “Yes, a QC, and by all accounts he’s a bit of an ogre who likes to attack police officers in the witness box.”

  DI Moran closed his newspaper and threw it down on the table next to him.

  “Would you two shut up! The magistrate will have read your statements and you’ll be cross-examined by Allard’s counsel, that’s all . . . it’s no big deal.” He looked at Edwards. “What are you doing? Trying to put the fear of God in her? Allard made the confession to me, so I’m the one who’ll get all the flack, not you!”

  “I was just trying to prepare her, sir.”

  “Oh shut up, Edwards.”

  Moran looked at Jane.

  “You’ll be fine . . . Just stay calm and answer yes or no, three bags full, sir . . . all right?”

  At that moment the door to the waiting room opened and the court usher stuck her head round the door.

  “Right, your case is under way in Court One.”

  Jane jumped up, brushed her uniform down and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” the usher asked.

  “To sit in court,” Jane replied, somewhat confused by the question.

  “I’m sorry but DI Moran is on first. You have to wait in here and not discuss the case with your colleague. I will come and get you when it’s your turn to give evidence.”

  Moran sighed as he stood up.

  “She’s fairly new to all this. You can sit in after you’ve given your evidence, Tennison, but not while another officer is giving evidence—otherwise you’d know the questions that were put to me and the answers I gave, which kind of goes against the course of justice.”