Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane smiled. “Yes, sir, I’ll just tap it.”

  “Good. I asked Spence to come over as he knew DC Ashton before he got hitched—poor sod—said he was on an assignment at the Marquee Club. Haw haw! If his band are playing they’ll empty the place.”

  At that point there was a very loud cheer as the team were impatient for the “smash and grab.” By this time DC Ashton, who had obviously had more than his fair share of free drinks, was wearing a white hat with a bobble on top. Hanging around his neck was a huge sugared dummy that one of the other officers had bought from the market fair.

  “Quiet, everybody!” Moran yelled. “As everyone knows, we’ve all chipped in for the amazing contents of our donkey. And the first person to attempt to smash it open is DC Donaldson.”

  Yet again Moran, now clearly inebriated, whispered loudly, “Don’t hit it too hard!”

  This encouraged everyone to cheer, in unison, “Tap, tap, tap . . . Tap, tap, tap . . .”

  As each officer used their truncheons one after the other, Moran encouraged Jane to use his truncheon to attempt to break it open. Jane was terrified that she might hit it too hard.

  As she raised Moran’s truncheon DC Edwards yelled, “Go on, Tennison, hit it like you hit that rapist!”

  Jane had a momentary flashback of how she had struck Peter Allard and almost unintentionally she drew her right hand back and walloped the donkey, which by now had a very bedraggled leg and tail. She had meant to aim for the head, but accidentally hit the belly. There was a massive “Whoooaaa” as a large split appeared. Jane was mortified that the contents were about to come spilling out, as Moran yelled, “Give the truncheon to the new Daddy!”

  Jane quickly passed the truncheon to Ashton. There was a loud cheer of encouragement as he took a full swing and hit the target dead center. The donkey burst open, and instead of the usual array of sweets out fell all the cash contributed by his colleagues.

  Jane felt quite emotional as she watched the young detective, almost in tears, as he realized how much everyone had given to support him.

  It was now coming up to ten o’clock and the party was beginning to wind down. Jane thought she would take the opportunity to go to the Marquee Club as so far she had only been able to question a member of staff in the daytime. Moran noticed that she was getting ready to leave.

  “Are you off now, Jane? You got me quite worried there, when you took that swing at the donkey. I thought you were going to bust it wide open!”

  Jane couldn’t work Moran out. One moment he seemed so affable and obviously well liked, and was clearly a very generous man. But there was just something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and she wasn’t sure that she could entirely trust him. As she turned away Moran took her elbow and leaned in close.

  “I hear you were asking Donaldson about a missing file? Take my advice, Tennison—don’t meddle, or ever question anything I’ve done . . . I’ll always get to hear about it. Trust me, we’re going to put Allard away for a long time.”

  Jane was about to think of something to say, but he turned away, the opportunity gone. She saw him go to Donaldson and say something in his ear; both of them turned to look at Jane as she left the pub. Jane took a bus to Regent Street and walked along Oxford Street, looking into the lit-up windows of all the big stores. She wasn’t that interested in fashion and crossed over Oxford Street toward Wardour Street. There were groups of young teenagers standing smoking outside the Marquee Club. There were posters for music groups pinned up outside, and the big crowds had not yet arrived to see the main band playing that evening.

  Jane showed her warrant card to gain entrance and walked down the stairs into the club and bar area. It was busier than she had anticipated and there was a band tuning up on the small stage. She felt and looked out of place and was beginning to think she shouldn’t have even considered being there on her own. She was relieved to see DI Spencer Gibbs sitting on a stool at the bar. He looked very disheveled and was wearing tight leather trousers and a stained T-shirt under a dirty denim jacket.

  “Hey there.”

  Jane moved closer and was shocked when he turned toward her and appeared to be very drunk.

  “I was just going to do a bit of a catch-up and ask about the report—”

  She didn’t have the chance to finish as he lurched forward off his stool and made a grab for her arm.

  “Let’s go . . .” he slurred, and gripped her elbow tightly, maneuvering her roughly through a group of drinkers. Jane didn’t argue as Gibbs was really pushing her forward and up the stairs, his hand deep into her back as they passed lines of clubbers coming down the stairs. When they got outside she turned on him.

  “There was no need to do that.”

  Gibbs straightened up, took hold of her arm again and hurried her along the street.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said, dragging her arm free.

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me, Tennison . . . I’m down there acting as a piss artist and you come in sticking out like a sore thumb with copper written all over you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m doing undercover, trying to track down the bastard that uses a razor to cut the straps of women’s handbags. He should have had a go at yours . . . it’s a police issue shoulder bag! What the hell were you doing, and who told you to work the club tonight?”

  “I meant to get a new bag,” she replied sheepishly, not mentioning that she had showed her warrant card to get in.

  “Terrific.”

  “I’m sorry, I just saw that there had been further reports . . .”

  “Christ,” he muttered, and then looked up and down the road.

  “You want a coffee? I can’t go back in for a while now.”

  Jane nodded and they headed back into Oxford Street, then left into Poland Street and left again into D’Arblay Street to a small cappuccino bar. It was rather seedy with a shelf counter and high stools, and Jane sat with her back to a wall, unseen from the wide window onto the street. Gibbs bought two cappuccinos and joined her. He opened three packs of brown sugar, heaping them onto the froth in his cup, then used a spoon to stir it before tapping it against the saucer.

  “We reckon whoever is nicking all the gear might move up a notch and use his razor on one of the chicks’ faces, as reports are coming in that the attacks are getting nastier. He’s probably a junkie needing money fast cos he’s now working the clubs as well as out on the street, but he’s an amateur. We got professional pickpockets around here, some work in gangs—like the South Americans.”

  Jane sipped the frothy coffee, and apologized again.

  “Listen, I won’t say anything about this tonight, Jane, but you need to sharpen up and get into line. You’re in CID now and you don’t go batting solo. Do you think I would stay in a club on my own? I’ve got two other guys outside bloody backing me up.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just at a loose end. I went over to Hackney to see if there was any update on the rape case but they are still waiting for a trial date.”

  “What rape case?”

  “It’s just an old case, pretty straightforward.”

  Gibbs lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He gave a brief glance around, took out a hip flask, unscrewed the cap and tipped a measure into his half-full cup.

  “Can I tell you something?” Jane asked quietly.

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t know if you know this, but I was used as a decoy. And, well, I’ve just got this feeling that something’s not quite adding up and I’m not sure what to do about it. I wore a blue rabbit fur coat that belonged to a prostitute called Janet Brown.”

  Jane continued telling him about seeing Janet Brown’s file in the Collator’s Office, and that it had subsequently disappeared. She went on to describe how she had seen her exit one of the strip clubs the last time she had been in Wardour Street, but she didn’t get the opportunity to talk to her. Gibbs didn’t look at her as she explained about her concerns
regarding the knife and the signed confession Peter Allard had made, and how tough it had been in court.

  “I don’t know if he did the rape he is accused of.”

  Gibbs turned and looked at her, shaking his head. “Wait . . . wait, I’m trying to follow you, darlin’, but you get attacked and smacked in the mouth by this guy, who has admitted the sexual assaults?”

  “Yes, but not the rape.”

  “Did he also admit to the assault on you?”

  “Eventually, yes he did, and when it happened he said that he was holding a knife to my throat, and I managed to kick him off me. Then DI Moran and DC Edwards arrested him. He swore that he didn’t mean to attack me and I got his elbow in my mouth, which caused my lip to split and bleed. But he maintained that it was only because he was trying to escape arrest.”

  Gibbs gave a sarcastic laugh.

  “I didn’t see the knife, and then DI Moran produced it as evidence, and next the signed confession.”

  “What the hell is your problem, Jane?”

  “It’s just that a few things don’t add up . . . I mean, do you think Moran would plant evidence?”

  “What?”

  “For the rape?”

  Gibbs leaned back. “Do you give a shit? Or, more to the point, do you care?”

  “Yes I do, because the rape will be a far longer sentence and if he is innocent—”

  “Innocent? Christ, Jane, are you out of your mind? What the hell are you doing wasting time even contemplating whether there was any kind of subversive activity? Did he or didn’t he have a knife—it’s just bullshitting and I hope the bastard goes away for as long as possible. I would say that is Moran’s only interest. He’s a good cop, and a tough one who worked Clubs and Vice for years. Moran’s sticking his neck out as he said he found the knife and didn’t involve any other officers. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve only just got your foot into the CID, so mind your business.”

  Jane looked away as Gibbs took out his hip flask again and emptied the contents into the remainder of his coffee.

  “I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of Paul Lawrence. What’s he doing?”

  “Well, he was very supportive when I queried the non-suspicious death.”

  “Oh, you queried it, did you? Well, aren’t you just a busy know-all? Let me give you another word of warning—don’t go behind DCI Shepherd’s back either. He has a mean streak: although he might appear to be a quiet, affable type, he’s got a steel core and he goes by the book. If you start encouraging Paul Lawrence to work outside his forensic duties—”

  Jane interrupted. “I haven’t done that!”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. You’ve got him working on this non-sus death as a possible murder because of evidence you are digging up. Let me tell you, you dig up anything and you give it to the team . . . that includes me.”

  “I just haven’t discussed certain things because Paul said we needed further evidence . . .”

  “We? We needed further evidence? Listen to yourself! And what’s Paul Lawrence ‘Forensic Detective’ investigating on your say so?”

  “It’s not my ‘say so.’ He just agreed with me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jane! Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve been telling you? You have to stop this and not drag Paul into something that could get him into deep trouble.”

  “Well, for your information I am not ‘dragging’ him anywhere. Maybe you don’t know as much about him as you think you do. In reality he is fed up with forensic science and spending most of his time in a laboratory checking out fingerprints and toxicology reports. He’s told me he wants to become a more integral part of the CID.”

  “Did he also tell you about how he’s been coping?”

  Jane looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Lawrence almost had a nervous breakdown, although I don’t know if you can ever really have an ‘almost’ breakdown . . . Unlike me, he stayed on at Hackney after Bradfield and Kath died. I got out, and I got help. Lawrence didn’t. So let me tell you, behind that floppy hair of his and his tweed suit, Mr. Affability has been tormenting himself—”

  Jane interrupted him, becoming very defensive. “He’s talked about that to me, that he’s apportioned some of the blame to himself about what happened. I think every one of us has felt guilty in some way.”

  “Guilty? I don’t feel guilty. I was having the best time of my life. I’ve never known such an adrenalin buzz . . . there’s nothing like catching blaggers red-handed, and this wasn’t for a couple of Rolex watches, this was big time. So I’ve never felt any guilt. I had the horror. I heard Len say to Kath what a great moment it was. I saw the way she looked up at him . . . she was so proud, and he was as steady as a rock. Then . . . boom . . . they were gone. I had their blood and brains splattered all over me. I’m not guilty, Jane, I’m damaged.”

  Gibbs stopped himself, knocked back his coffee, his legs jumping again. He stood up. “OK, I’m out of here. I’m going back to the club to do the job I’ve been ordered to do. Why don’t you get off home?”

  Jane gave a rueful smile and thanked him for the coffee. “I’ll finish my drink first, Spence.” She watched him leave from the window of the café. He didn’t look back at her but headed along the street toward Wardour Street. She wasn’t bothered about finishing the cold cappuccino, she just didn’t want to walk with him. She waited until he was out of sight then left the café, and walked down Wardour Street in the opposite direction to Gibbs toward Shaftesbury Avenue.

  As she walked south she passed numerous lowlife and bouncers standing outside seedy strip clubs with thudding music. The street was filling up with clubbers, mainly groups of young guys drinking from beer cans and laughing loudly. Jane kept to the edge of the pavement and only glanced toward the club she had seen Janet Brown leave. The same muscle-bound thuggish bouncer was bellowing out “Live girls,” but after her dressing down from Gibbs Jane had no intention of even attempting to see if Janet Brown was working there.

  Blinking arrows pointed to a side turning leading to Berwick Street, and opposite were two strip clubs. It was déjà vu because hurrying out from one of them was Janet Brown, wearing the rabbit fur coat. Jane had to wait for the traffic to move before she could cross the road and hurry toward her. She saw her with a young boy who was getting out of a taxi. Janet handed the boy something and then to Jane’s disappointment got into the taxi before she even got close. The boy was still standing outside the dirty plastic strip curtains at the open doorway to “Sexy Slave Dancers.”

  He was wearing filthy jeans, worn gym shoes and an oversized man’s jacket, and he had short dirty red hair surrounding a grimy face. The closer Jane got to him it became clear he was even younger than she had thought.

  “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “What-d-ya-want?” he said through gapped teeth.

  “I need to talk to the woman I just saw you with, in the blue fur coat.”

  “She gone to work.” He turned as if to walk away.

  “Is it a club?”

  He glared at Jane. “What you want to know fer?”

  “Please . . . I really need to talk to her.”

  “You’re fuckin’ filth, aintcha? Well, piss off.”

  He did a duck to pass Jane and she caught his sleeve.

  “Just a minute . . .”

  He was too fast and was off, heading in the direction of Berwick Street. During the day this was filled with market stalls, but at night there were numerous sleazy strip clubs, doors opening up for the rooms above and the call girls were out in force. Jane followed and was able to see the boy entering one of the small stores selling girlie magazines. A sign was stuck to the dirty window, saying “ADULT LITERATURE.” Inside were racks of glossy porn magazines with just a counter, shelves and a till. On one shelf there were what purported to be 8mm Disney films, but in reality the boxes contained hardcore porn imported from Amsterdam.

  There was a red lightbulb making t
he dingy shopfront glow with a reddish tinge. A woman was stacking books and shoving them into piles beneath the counter. She had bleached blonde hair and two glittering clips either side of her head. Her face was plastered with thick makeup and outlines over the edge of her lips in a bright orange red. As Jane walked in the woman stuck out her chest. She wore a tight knitted sweater with crochet flowers.

  “Yes, love? If you’re after the lesbian section it’s on the shelf behind you.”

  She smelt of powerful, sickly sweet perfume. Jane showed her warrant card, which didn’t seem to faze the woman at all.

  “Listen, we paid out this week, darlin’, so don’t try it on with me. I got a lot of work to do and I am not interested in havin’ the female touch, if you know what I mean.”

  “I just wanted to ask that young boy something. I’m not here for any other reason.”

  “I don’t know him . . . never saw anyone comin’ in.” She lit a cigarette.

  “I just saw him walk in,” Jane said firmly.

  “Well, maybe he just walked out the back way. I dunno . . . I’m busy, love, doing the inventory.”

  “What’s through there?”

  “Just a back room for the storage. But, lovey, if you want to start snoopin’ around in here you’ll need a warrant. Like I said, we paid up.”

  Two girls walked in and passed directly behind Jane, entering the door she had seen the red-haired boy go through. The blonde woman ignored Jane as she continued checking over paperbacks and stacking them below the counter.

  “I would just like to talk to the boy, please.”

  Unseen by Jane, the blonde pressed a bell beneath the counter. Next minute banging into the small shop via the same door came a pot-bellied man wearing a black suede fringed cowboy jacket, with a silver cowboy buckle over his expansive waist and baggy green cords.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he said angrily.

  “She just walked in, Stevie. Shows me her warrant card and wants to go out back to talk to Ginger.”

  “What the fuck do you want, darlin’, because we already have an arrangement and we don’t like Old Bill standing in full view of the effin’ winder.”