Miller left Jane to finish wrapping up the ends as he went back on duty. Jane waited impatiently for the undertakers to arrive.
Several hours later, feeling tired and emotionally drained, Jane left the mortuary having booked in the body and been told to prepare a report for the coroner. As she left through the rear yard, she saw DS Paul Lawrence, the lab liaison sergeant, outside smoking with a cup of tea. She didn’t approach him immediately, wanting a few moments to prepare herself as her heart beat rapidly. She had this reaction almost every time she saw him, since he had been the one to tell her that neither Kath nor Bradfield had survived the explosion.
Lawrence glanced up and saw her. He took in the strained look on her face.
“Hi there . . . Are you coping all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Please don’t give me the spaniel eyes.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve moved on, Paul, and I really don’t want to talk about what happened,” she said sharply.
“Um, spaniels have brown eyes . . . mine are blue. I was told you got a thrashing from some bastard when you were acting as a decoy?”
“Oh, sorry . . . yes. I’m sort of recovered from that. I thought you were referring to what happened at Hackney.”
“I doubt if any of us will ever be able to fully recover from that nightmare. You know what Sergeant Harris always says? ‘They were marked,’ and you either come through to the other side of it, or you lose it.” Seeing her stricken face he changed the subject.
“I heard you were at the scene of an accidental death as well? Never pleasant . . . I think I’m due to do a forensic search at the victim’s flat. I’ve been dealing with a PM from a homosexual murder in Knightsbridge. I’m getting sick and tired of being shuffled from one station to the next, and spending hours in the lab. What are you doing here?”
“I brought the body in with the undertakers. PC May, who was on duty, was really rather unpleasant and abrupt . . . He told me that I needed to type up a sudden death report. I also need to get a reel of film developed at the chemist, with photos of the scene on it.”
Lawrence looked puzzled and asked why she was taking scene pictures to the chemists and not the lab. Jane explained that there had been no photographer available at the death scene, so she’d used a camera she found at the flat. Lawrence laughed.
“Listen, when I’m finished at the mortuary I’ll be walking back over Lambeth Bridge to the Met lab so I’ll take the film to the photographic branch for development.”
“Oh, thank you.” Jane handed him the roll of film.
“I’ll contact you at Bow Street when they’re ready.”
“I’m sorry if I sounded rude earlier. I didn’t mean to. I’ve been on this case all day and I’m exhausted. Do you think I could make out the report first thing in the morning? DS Gibbs said he would walk me through it, but he’s gone off duty.”
Lawrence shrugged. He finished his tea, dropped his cigarette end into the dregs and threw the polystyrene cup into the bin.
“Look out for Gibbs. He took Bradfield’s death badly . . . Had a bit of a meltdown. His attachment at Bow Street, and working under DCI Shepherd, will be very different for him. Shepherd’s a ‘go by the rules’ and ‘get off home’ time watcher. He won’t tolerate Gibbs’s old ways.”
Jane smiled and nodded, as Lawrence patted her arm.
“Good to see you, Jane. As you were on the non-suspicious death and I’ve just been called back to do a forensic search, I presume that it’s conclusive?”
“Well, I’m not too sure exactly what the next step is. Her husband, Barry Dawson, mentioned that she had been very anxious and had been feeling unwell.”
“Did you find any medication at the flat?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, you should maybe check that out. If you like I can be over there tomorrow, when I have some free time.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.”
As he walked off Jane felt relieved that Lawrence would be at the flat the next day. Right now she just wanted to get back to her room at the section house and have a long bath. She needed to cleanse herself from the grime and the terrible smells in the Dawsons’ flat, as well as the experience of having to lift the body out of the bath. She looked at the bloody water stains on the cuffs of her shirt and shuddered. She thought of the body and changed her mind—she’d have a shower instead.
Marie Allard had just put her children to bed and was making herself an omelet and a cup of tea when the phone rang. Her heart started racing every time the phone rang at this hour. She knew it would not be her mother-in-law and, as she had arranged with her husband that he would call from prison mid-morning, after the children had been taken to school, she knew it couldn’t be him either.
Marie went into the hall toward the ringing phone. She slowly picked up the receiver and took deep breaths as she heard the coins drop and knew who the caller was.
“Hello?” she said, nervously.
It was the same horrible sing-song voice again, coming through the receiver quietly at first. Marie began to shake as the voice got louder.
“Angie, Angie . . .”
“Leave me alone! I paid you . . . I did what you asked . . . just leave me alone!”
“Can’t do that. I want another five hundred. Unless you want him to be put away for rape. Same procedure . . . get off the bus, put the envelope into the rubbish bin and get on the next bus. Need it by Tuesday . . . you got the time to get the money.”
Marie was in tears as the caller hung up. She replaced the receiver, then ran into the kitchen as she remembered she had left the pan with the butter on the gas ring ready to cook her omelet. It was burned and smoking and she hurled it into the sink. She couldn’t eat anything now, and felt the bile come up from her stomach as she retched. Since Peter’s arrest she had lost a lot of weight, and she had been unable to sleep. She knew deep down that she had to tell someone what was going on but she was scared. She was even afraid to mention it to Peter when he called. He always sounded so depressed and often broke down weeping because he missed the children. He constantly told her how much he loved her, and how sorry he was for all the distress he was putting her through. He protested that he was innocent and had been fitted up by the police. He also told her repeatedly that she must not blame herself, and her inability to be intimate, for his behavior. It did, stupidly, make her feel that it was her fault. As they only ever had a few minutes for each call she hadn’t told him about this “Angie” person and the blackmail, but she knew she would have to soon as she couldn’t cope anymore. The constant questioning in her mind never stopped. She did blame herself and the guilt was consuming her.
Her mother-in-law had succeeded in finding a driver to rent Peter’s cab and give her a cut of his takings, so there was some money coming in. But paying off this “Angie” was eating into their savings. Sitting in her immaculate kitchen, filled with the smell of burnt butter, Marie didn’t even have the energy to wash the pan. She closed her eyes, telling herself over and over that she should go to the police. She had to tell someone, but what if this “Angie” did have evidence to prove Peter had committed a rape? She doubted that she would be able to cope or face the consequences.
Marie went upstairs, checked that the children were sleeping and then undressed and cleaned her teeth.
She hadn’t washed her hair or worn makeup for days. She crawled into bed and curled up into a ball. But she couldn’t sleep as all she could hear playing over and over in her mind was that raucous voice screaming, “Angie, Angie, Angie, Angie . . .”
Chapter Ten
Jane arrived at Bow Street, refreshed and on time but feeling slightly nervous. She had to write up a coroner’s report, which she had never done before, and she was worried she would make a mistake. On entering the building she found Gibbs coming out of his office carrying a cup of coffee. He was very obviously in need of a shave and a clean shirt, and Jane was unsure whether he had come into wor
k early, or if he had in fact been there all night. Gibbs beamed at her.
“Morning, Tennison! I see you have replaced the official uniform with something a little more glamorous . . . the navy suit and crisp white shirt suit you well.”
“Thank you. I’ve got to do a coroner’s report and I could really do with a bit of guidance.”
He made a point of looking at his watch.
“. . . if you have the time?” Jane added.
“For you, WDC Tennison, I always have time.”
Jane couldn’t tell if Gibbs was being serious or sarcastic. However, he took her through exactly what was required. They recorded the date the body was found, Monday, October 7th, and that it had been reported by the victim’s husband, Barry Dawson. They also recorded the doctor’s notes and as she typed up the report Gibbs sat on the edge of her desk, making sure everything had been done properly.
“You’ve got to make two copies: one for the coroner and one for records. Then get it over there ASAP as they’ll want to do the PM at the mortuary. Although as far as I can make out it’s all done and dusted.”
Edith marched in, looking as though she was in a foul temper.
Gibbs opened his arms wide and grinned at her.
“Good God, Edith, you grow more lovely every day!”
“And you look as if you’ve had another night on the tiles. Go and have a shave before DCI Shepherd sees you looking like that.”
Gibbs laughed and walked out.
Edith thumped her briefcase down on the desk, opened it up and took out her sandwiches and flask.
“Is everything all right, Edith?” Jane asked.
“No, it is not. I’ve had problems with my mother. The carer was late . . . She’s such a dope of a girl, but Mother can’t be left on her own as she has dementia. It’s very difficult making sure she doesn’t wander off. I have had to put child gates at the top of the stairs as she’s very adept at sneaking out of the house, often only in her nightdress. One time she was stark naked!”
“That sounds very stressful. Has she been suffering for a long time?”
Edith muttered, “Too long.”
Jane handed Edith the copies of her report and folded the top sheet into an envelope to take it over to the Coroner’s Office.
“I’m just going up to the canteen for breakfast—can I get you a cup of tea, Edith?”
“No, thank you, I bring my own,” said Edith, indicating the Thermos. “I like to get everything sorted before the others get here.”
Jane nodded then she hurried out, losing her bearings slightly before heading up the stone stairs to the third floor. As it was still early she didn’t have to queue, so she picked up a tray and got a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and toast, and a cup of coffee. As she turned to make her way toward the rows of Formica-topped tables she saw Gibbs sitting at the far side, finishing his breakfast.
“Do you mind if I join you, Spence?” she asked, and he shrugged.
Jane sat down opposite him and noticed that most of his eggs and bacon were untouched as he lit a cigarette and pushed the plate away.
“I just spoke to DS Lawrence . . . he said he wasn’t too happy about some of the photographs from the Dawsons’ flat. He said he was going over there, and asked if you could leave the keys with the duty sergeant so that he can collect them,” Spence said, putting the lighter back in his pocket.
“I don’t mind going over there to meet him.”
“Fine, but when you’ve finished with him go and find out when they’re doing the PM on Dawson’s wife.”
“Are you going to take a statement from him?” Jane asked.
“If you want to do it, go ahead. We might as well get the case closed, and move on to something else.”
Jane started to eat her scrambled eggs and felt the table shaking from Gibbs’s foot constantly twitching beneath it. He looked around the canteen, then back at Jane as she pushed her unfinished plate aside. The toast was soggy and the eggs were overdone.
“Shall I also check out St. Thomas’ Hospital, where Barry Dawson works?”
“Why?” Gibbs snapped.
She shrugged. “It’s just that he said he left work because his wife didn’t answer the phone and he was concerned, so he came home . . .”
“Well, I doubt you’ll need to go there if it’s a non-sus death. Any reason to think he was lying?”
“There were a few things at his flat that didn’t quite add up. For example, the little girl’s high chair had her drinking bottle and bowl of cereal on it, untouched. Yet the neighbor who found Mrs. Dawson said the baby was sleeping in her playpen.”
Gibbs leaned on his elbows. “So?”
“Well, if Barry Dawson found his wife in the bath when he got home, why didn’t he call 999 instead of going to a neighbor? And why didn’t he pick up his daughter?”
“Come on . . . He finds his wife dead in the bath, freaks out and runs next door. The guy was totally emotionally drained, and if his daughter was asleep why wake her up? Listen, Jane, if you don’t mind me saying so, don’t start digging around trying to find something untoward. The Doc confirmed accidental non-suspicious death.”
Gibbs pushed his chair back.
“I’m going to get a shave . . . beady-eyed Edith doesn’t miss a trick. A word of warning about her: you start nosing around about a case that’s not your business—that’s out of order. She’s known as ‘Cop Out’ because she left the force to be chained to a typewriter. And she’s all over DCI Shepherd like a rash.”
Jane didn’t reply as he walked out of the canteen. He was obviously impatient to get on to another case. She finished her coffee and carried her dirty dishes to the counter, tipping her cutlery into the tub of soapy water.
At the Coroner’s Office she was told that, as yet, no PM had been organized for that morning. Jane decided she would go to the mother-in-law’s address in Rotherhithe to get a statement from Barry Dawson as she needed details regarding the time he had returned home and found his wife.
She also wanted to ask a few more personal questions regarding his relationship with Shirley, to see if there was anything that gave further indication of exactly how the “accident” had occurred. Something didn’t feel quite right, whatever Spencer said.
Jane gave the details of her whereabouts to the duty sergeant, then caught a bus. It was almost ten o’clock when she arrived at 15 Allcott Road. It was a rather rundown area with council houses that had small, mostly paved, front gardens strewn with bicycles, and motorbikes parked up alongside the rubbish bins. Number 15 had a chipped blue door with an empty milk crate standing next to the doormat.
Jane rang the bell and waited. There was the sound of a dog barking loudly, which Jane presumed was the one taken from the Dawsons’ flat. Rita opened the front door, still wearing a dressing gown and slippers, and holding the dog back by its collar. She pursed her lips in irritation on seeing Jane.
“I’ve only just fed Heidi . . . She’s been crabby all night long and has had me up and down. But come on in and I’ll get Barry down . . . he’s still in bed. Down, Buster, good dog.”
Mrs. Dawson restrained the dog as Jane nervously followed her inside into an immaculate, lino-covered hallway with flowery wallpaper. Mrs. Dawson gestured toward a door leading into a lounge.
“Go on in, and he’ll be with you. I’ll put Buster out in the back yard. Do you want a cup of anything?”
“No, thank you.”
“What’s your name, dear, I’ve forgotten?”
“I’m WDC Jane Tennison.”
Mrs. Dawson nodded and closed the door. The room was spotless, with a large, overstuffed sofa and chairs and a coffee table in front of a big fake coal electric fire. On the mantelpiece were numerous photographs of the little girl, Heidi, and a few wedding pictures of Barry and Shirley. Jane sat on the comfortable easy chair and opened her notebook, waiting for Barry. She heard Mrs. Dawson calling him, and the dog started barking again. Then there was the sound of someone hurrying
down the stairs.
“Did you call the hospital? I don’t want you losing your job.”
“Yes, I’ve called them. Can I have a cup of tea, Mum?”
“I’ll bring one in for you. I’m not going into the school today so I’ll give Heidi a bath.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
Jane turned to the door as Barry walked in. He was wearing a clean pressed denim shirt and jeans with loafer shoes but no socks. It was obvious that he had just bathed as his wet hair was combed back from his face and he smelt of some kind of lemon soap. Jane stood up and Barry shook her hand.
“Sorry to keep you waiting . . . I didn’t get much sleep. I don’t know what I would do without Mum.”
Jane sat back down and Barry stood for a moment, deciding where he should sit, then went over and sat in the center of the sofa.
“I heard your mother saying she wasn’t going into school—is she a teacher?”
“No, she’s a cleaner at the local primary school, and does the kids’ lunches as well. She’s always worked, even when my dad was alive. He passed away a few years ago. He was a hard grafter and ran a small garage repair yard, and Mum sold it on to his partner. She could have moved out from here but all her friends are local, and if it wasn’t for her we’d never have been able to get the deposit for our flat. She also helps out with the mortgage.”
“Oh, so you own the top-floor flat?”
“Yes. The one below us was rented, then the landlord got rid of the tenants and now he’s doing it up to sell it. The couple on the ground floor also own theirs.”
“What about the basement?”
“That’s just full of junk and I think he’s going to do that up as well. He manages the property and he’s supposed to keep the communal areas painted and carpeted but hasn’t done anything since we moved in despite charging us maintenance. The roof has problems as well, but he’s a typical shark landlord.”
Jane made a few notes, more interested in putting Barry at his ease as he constantly kept looking over at the photographs, then turned back to face her.
“My mum only works part time, doing the lunches, and she can probably take Heidi with her. I don’t know what I’d do without her . . . She’s going to see about a local nursery school that takes them at Heidi’s age. Shirley was going to start looking into it . . .” Barry turned away, close to tears.
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