Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  “Thank you, Daddy, I am very proud.”

  “I know, if Pam has a girl let’s call her Jane!”

  “Oh no!” Pam objected. “Plain Jane? No. I think she should be called Tiffany.”

  “You don’t want to call a baby girl after a lampshade!” Jane’s mother said, horrified.

  “A Tiffany shade, Mother, is of great value.”

  As usual Jane saw her sister dominating the conversation and stealing her limelight. “What about Victoria?” She might as well add her own two pennies worth, she thought, smiling as she sipped her champagne.

  Chapter Eight

  Jane looked around at the flushed faces of her colleagues. They were squashed into the saloon bar of the Warburton Arms, which was full of people celebrating the weekend. She’d just finished her last shift at Hackney before starting at Bow Street on Monday and was heading out of the station door when Harris accosted her. “Didn’t think we’d let you leave without saying goodbye, did you, love?” Blushing, Jane had been escorted to the pub across the road and now all the team were there. They had passed an envelope around to fund an open bar, with Ron the landlord monitoring the cash flow. He had provided sandwiches, sausage rolls and packets of crisps on the counter, alongside bottles of red and white wine. Everyone congratulated Jane and wished her well, especially DI Moran who had obviously been drinking more than his fair share. His tie was pulled loose under his open shirt collar, and he had one arm around DC Edwards’s shoulders, who was also looking rather drunk.

  “Well, you’re going to be up against it at Bow Street, Tennison . . . everything is on high alert after the IRA bomb in Guildford today. You better be careful in the West End too, with it being close to Covent Garden Market, where you get a lot of scum, and drop-ins from any of the Met officers going to the courts. Who’s the DCI there?”

  Jane shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Well, it’s always good to have a change of scenery, but it depends on who’s the guv, you know . . . You can get a lot of flack. If you want my advice, and you can take it or leave it, but . . .”

  He used two fingers to point to his eyes, and then directed them to Jane’s.

  “Keep your eyes open, listen and learn, and above all . . . remember . . .” Moran seemed to lose track of what he was saying, as Edwards propped him up.

  “Just remember . . . keep your nose clean, right, Brian?”

  “Yes, guv.”

  Jane had drunk more of Ron’s lukewarm white wine than usual. Sergeant Harris was also getting into the swing of it and insisted on passing Jane a drink and taking over the conversation. He clinked her glass so hard it almost shattered.

  “Congratulashuns!” he slurred, downing his entire glass and placing it back on the bar. “So you’ll be stationed at Bow Street . . . Here’s something I bet you didn’t know . . . Sherlock Holmes wrote about the station in his story ‘The Man with the Harelip’ . . . no, that’s not right . . . it was ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’ . . . I don’t usually come to these dos but I felt on this occasion I should as, I have to admit, I’m proud of you, Tennison . . . You’ve handled yourself very well under extreme circumshtances . . . Have another drink . . .”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.” Jane held up her still half full glass.

  “Yes, you are fine, but you know, we’ve all been marked . . . every one of us . . . doesn’t matter how long ago, it’s inside . . . and you come in here like always and you see youngsters like you moving on, but they’re like ghosts . . . You keep expecting to see Kath Morgan with her G and T putting money in the juke box, and Len Bradfield over at the billiard table slapping a fiver down . . . he was a bloody useless player.”

  Harris picked up another glass of wine.

  “Sorry . . . don’t want to put a dampener on things . . . like I said, it was some time ago now, and I don’t usually make an appearance at these leaving drinks . . . They’re mostly just an excuse for everyone to get pissed . . . have you got a drink?”

  “I’m all right, Sarge. I’m glad to have this opportunity to thank you for all your help while I’ve been here.”

  He cocked his head to one side, then he suddenly leaned forward and gave her a dry kiss on her cheek.

  “Maybe I know more than you ever realized . . . you handled yourself well, considering how close you were to Bradfield.”

  Jane flushed and was suddenly eager to leave, not wanting to discuss her relationship.

  Harris said quietly, “We all have secrets, some best kept that way. I have one that I’ve never let be known.”

  Jane couldn’t help herself. “You, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, but you keep this to yourself. I’m part of a ballroom formation team, and we’ve got a good chance of being in the finals at Blackpool . . . Old Time waltz is my specialty.”

  Jane was completely taken aback as he gave her a sweeping gesture with his arm and stumbled backward, bumping into Edwards. Moran suddenly stepped in beside Jane and reached for a glass of wine. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and leaned closer to her, keeping his voice low.

  “We’ll get a few more drinks down him and if the right music’s on the juke box he dances, and we all have a good laugh! He never remembers in the morning . . . when he’s had too much to drink he always gives away his ballroom dancing secret.”

  Moran gave Jane a lopsided smile but his expression was serious.

  “Everyone has secrets, don’t they, Jane?”

  Jane was uneasy, not about the increasingly drunk Harris, but about the way in which Moran had looked at her when he had said “everyone has secrets.” Did they all know about her relationship with Bradfield, her secret? Did they make derogatory remarks about it and gossip about her being a one-night stand after he had sent her off the case? Jane was blushing profusely and just wanted to leave.

  “So, we’re going to have a snooker game and get down to some serious drinking . . . are you up for it?” Moran asked.

  “Actually, I think I should just go back to the section house and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Jane turned to put her glass on the bar and thank Ron. The envelope funds had now all been spent, and the plates of food were empty. Pints of beer were being lined up and numerous officers from the station were crowding the bar.

  “I’ll walk you over there. It’s late, and this is a dodgy area at night.”

  Moran held her elbow and guided her through the crowds. As they reached the pub’s double doors Jane insisted that she was more than capable of walking back by herself. Moran pushed one door open and leaned in toward her.

  “I just want to straighten something out. You seemed a bit tense after the court hearing . . . is anything bothering you? If it is, just spit it out so we can clear the air. Do you have a problem, Tennison?” Moran cocked his head to one side, exhaling a lungful of cigarette smoke. Jane hesitated, then shook her head. She didn’t feel that this was either the time or place to discuss her reservations, and Moran was too close for comfort. He appeared to have sobered up and his deep, piercing eyes were making her feel nervous.

  “No, sir . . . no problem.”

  “Good. I have masses of cases coming in, but we’ll be seeing each other when the Allard trial kicks off. In the meantime I’ll give your thanks to everyone.”

  She gave him a small smile, doubting whether anyone would have actually missed her leaving the pub. The festive atmosphere inside had become rather raucous.

  “Goodbye then, Tennison, and good luck . . . Detective Constable . . .”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jane walked down the pavement to cross over the road to the section house. When she turned back to the pub Moran was still watching her. He tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped it out with the heel of his Cuban boot. Perhaps he was aware of her infatuation with Bradfield, and maybe even knew that she had slept with him. But it didn’t really matter now; she was moving on and away from Hackney.

  Chapter Nine

&nbs
p; Jane had spent Sunday tidying her room, changing the bed linen and generally preparing for her new job at Bow Street. She had meant to allow herself plenty of time on Monday morning but her alarm didn’t go off. She dressed hurriedly, glad that she had taken the time to lay out her new suit and blouse the previous night, and was on her way within fifteen minutes.

  Remembering her father’s instructions, she took the Underground to Covent Garden, which was just a short walk from Bow Street. She passed the Royal Opera House, with its beautiful white pillars and marble steps, having picked up her pace to cut across from the big fruit and vegetable market. The wonderful heady scent from the huge array of flower stalls was enough to lift anyone’s senses, but Jane was just intent on reaching Bow Street Station as quickly as possible as delays on the Underground meant she was running late.

  As she waited to cross the busy road she looked at the station building. It didn’t remind her of Hackney, but it was of the same era—the heavy station doors with the iron blue lamp above them. No wonder Conan Doyle used it in his story—it looked like a very intimidating Victorian building.

  Jane hurried in through the main entrance. Inside it was a similar layout to her old station. There was the reception desk with the wooden counter, and a flap that could be lifted to allow officers to pass in and out, and very worn red leather chairs lined one wall.

  The desk sergeant was terse and suggested that, as she was late, she should go directly to be introduced to her DCI and wouldn’t have time to be shown around. He didn’t introduce himself, or give her the chance to ask if she could use the ladies’ cloakroom to tidy herself up. Instead he banged up the counter flap and gestured for her to follow him. He strode ahead through the annex room, and then along a stone tiled corridor. Jane struggled to keep up as she desperately tried to tuck stray strands of hair back into place and make herself presentable. She was still carrying her raincoat and shoulder bag as they climbed a small flight of stone stairs onto the first-floor landing. Numerous offices led off the corridor and she could hear the sound of telephones ringing and the officers manning the comms room radioing out to the patrol cars. She might be in the glamorous West End now but the inside of a police station remained the same wherever you were. The familiarity was reassuring and Jane was comforted by the faded, yellowing walls and the vast array of posters. They reached the DCI’s office and the duty sergeant turned to face her. Jane asked if he could just give her a moment to tidy her hair but he seemed totally uninterested. He held out his hand for her raincoat as he knocked on the DCI’s door.

  “I don’t usually do this . . . show you to his office. But you’re late and . . . There’s a WDC Jane Tennison to see you, sir.”

  Jane glanced at the plaque on the door: “DCI P SHEPHERD.”

  “Come in.” The voice was quiet and authoritative.

  Jane entered the DCI’s office. She was surprised to find that Shepherd was a diminutive and unassuming man. He was about five foot eight with a very pallid complexion and an unlined, boyish face. He had thick wavy hair that was parted to one side, with short sideburns, giving him an even more youthful appearance. His desk and walls were adorned with pictures of his wife and teenaged kids, with not one police photo, badge or crest. Before he could say a word there was another knock on the door and the sergeant ushered in DI Spencer Gibbs.

  Shepherd introduced the two of them to one another. Jane was surprised that Gibbs barely reacted as he explained to the DCI that they already knew each other from Hackney. She was shocked by his gaunt appearance and slightly offended by his refusal to look at her. They both drew up chairs to sit in front of Shepherd’s desk.

  “Jane, I am sure you know that after a long period of sick leave, followed by light duties at NSY, Gibbs was recently promoted to DI and sent here to Bow Street. I am obviously aware that you must have both had a very emotional period after the explosion that killed DCI Len Bradfield and WPC Kath Morgan. However, I feel sure that, although the experience will have left an indelible scar, it was more than eighteen months ago. Time is a great healer and I trust that you can now both concentrate on your future here at Bow Street and that working together will not be a problem.”

  Jane noticed Gibbs tense up at the mention of the explosion, and saw him grip the side of the chair seat with both hands. It was still very raw for them both and Jane, unlike Gibbs, had remained at Hackney where the two of them had been based at the time of the incident. In many ways she agreed with what Shepherd had said about time being a great healer, but she knew instinctively that perhaps she had coped far better than Gibbs.

  After a brief talk about what DCI Shepherd expected, and how he encouraged his officers to be a team and always share information, he asked DI Gibbs to show Jane to the CID office and introduce her to the CID clerk, Edith, who would allocate her a desk. Jane and Gibbs both replaced their chairs, shook the DCI’s hand and left his office.

  As soon as the door closed behind them Gibbs gave Jane a sidelong glance, gesturing for her to follow him. He was even thinner than she remembered and his hair still stood up like a wire brush. He was wearing a smart suit with a thin tie, a fashionable small-collared shirt, with the cuffs a bit short over his skinny wrists and long tapering fingers. He was also wearing rather smart shoes with tassels and moved like a dancer as if he was about to spin round to face her on his heels.

  “How’s your rock band?”

  “We broke up.” He changed the subject. “You look very smart and ready for business.”

  “Thank you . . . you look very dapper yourself.”

  “Dapper?”

  “I like your shoes.”

  He looked down at his feet, and then back up at her.

  “I ordered this suit from Mannie Charles . . . d’you remember him?”

  “Not really.”

  “He was the tailor who was selling all the hooky suits to the CID. We all ordered them, and found out later they were nicked from Horne Brothers’ warehouse and the labels were switched. We’d all got them made to measure and paid up front . . . he delivered them after . . .”

  Gibbs turned away, pulling at the knot in his tie.

  “Kath Morgan had one made, and the guv . . . he’d wanted this flashy lining, with six buttons on the breast . . . old Sergeant Harris took it cos he was the only man as tall as Len. I didn’t know what to do with it, and Harris said, you know the way he was, ‘I’ll have that,’ and it was still in the plastic wrapping. Anyway, I reckon when he saw the striped silk lining he knew he’d never wear it . . .”

  Gibbs turned on his heels before Jane could reply. She followed him as he headed down the corridor and a few uniform officers passed them. Jane asked him how he was, but he ignored her. She continued speaking.

  “I understand how you must feel about Bradfield and Kath . . . I think everyone has found it really difficult.”

  Gibbs came to an abrupt stop and spun to face her.

  “No, you don’t know how I feel . . . It just threw me a bit to see you. I’ve got to go. The ladies’ locker room is straight ahead and the CID room, DCI’s and DI’s rooms are all on this floor. See you later.”

  Gibbs strode off, then paused to turn back.

  “The duty sergeant, Eric Fuller, is a bit of a pompous prat and just like old Sergeant Harris—but a foot shorter!”

  Jane found her way to the ladies’ locker room. She was surprised at the number of lockers that had been allocated. There were obviously more female staff members than there had been at Hackney Station. She took the key from locker 12, placed her handbag inside, and hung her jacket on the relevant hook. She then quickly tidied up her hair and made her way to the CID office.

  The door was halfway along the corridor, and the room itself was far larger than the cramped and dated office at Hackney. Not that this office had any modern equipment, but it was much lighter and the desks were newer. She remembered the embarrassing incidents when she had snagged her stockings on the wooden desks at Hackney, and hoped she wouldn’t be doing t
he same in this office.

  The two clerical women on the far side of the room were busily typing reports. The matriarch of the office was a very solid, stout woman with small round spectacles and had her gray hair in a tight bun. She rose to her feet, removed her spectacles and in a very loud voice asked, “Are you WDC Jane Tennison?”

  “Yes,” Jane replied nervously.

  “I am Edith Pickard, a former policewoman. I never liked being thrown in at the deep end with integration . . . I preferred the specialist role in the women’s force, which I’ve now worked in for many years. I was very disillusioned as I was only ever given a day’s warning that I was to be assigned to full shift duties with the men.”

  Jane was puzzled as to why Edith needed to tell her all of this.

  “I am very pleased to meet you.” Jane extended her hand.

  Edith gripped her hand and shook it vigorously.

  “I’ve allocated you a desk at the back. You’ll be the only WDC here at Bow Street. We have twelve male detectives and two detective sergeants.”

  Jane made her way toward the empty desk, which had a rather dilapidated-looking office chair with one wheel missing. There was a wilting pot plant on the desk.

  Edith patted the sleeve of her mauve jumper.

  “I’ve always had a tinge of regret that I left the force, and I have to admit that I am a tad jealous that such a young girl has been assigned to us . . . But I’m sure we will get along very well. The two ladies on the far side are Gillian Thomas and Irene Marsden, both diligent and hard-working clerks. With a DCI like Shepherd we all have to keep on our toes. Right, let me explain the functioning of the office and the shifts. The CID duty book is kept in that drawer, and the crime book in that drawer.”

  Jane looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway. Edith glanced over.

  “Good morning, sir. I was just introducing young Jane Tennison here to the workings of our office, and how you like to keep it very ship-shape.”

  DCI Shepherd gave her a wan smile.