Edwards pulled the packing tape holding down the flaps of the dusty cardboard box and peered inside. Face up, in a cheap frame, was a photograph of Susie Luna. He took it out and held it up for Moran.
“Pretty little thing . . . Got a rose in her hair . . .”
Moran stared at the photograph, then placed it to one side.
“Right, let’s see what else they’ve got . . .”
Jane had spent a great deal of time on Sunday writing up Marie Allard’s complaints and accusations against DI Moran. She knew that the following morning, she would have to have a serious conversation with a senior officer, as what Marie Allard had told her was a very grave allegation against Moran. If there was any truth in it then there would be some significant repercussions. Peter Allard had accused DI Moran of planting evidence in his rape case, and now he was inferring that he was part of a blackmail scam using a prostitute to collect a lot of money, now up to £1,000.
On Monday morning, Jane was glancing through her file when Gibbs appeared.
“Penny for ’em,” Gibbs said, as he stood by her desk. He looked smarter than usual, wearing a gray suit and white shirt, with a striped tie and loafer shoes.
“I’m sorry, I was miles away.” She looked up at him as he sat on the edge of her desk. “You look very smart.”
“Yeah, well, had to look my best as all the press were there, the tabloids are loving it. I’d say we’ll all be running around like blue-arsed flies when this bitch Harcourt gets to trial . . . Man, is she a piece of work. She was lapping it up in court this morning, while Dawson was on suicide watch last night. He looked pitiful in court. Apparently he was heartbroken as his mother had had his dog put down.”
Jane licked her lips, then made the decision.
“Spence, can I have a private word with you about something? I don’t know who else I can talk to about it, but I really need some guidance.”
He shrugged. “Sure, fire away.”
“Do you mind if we go into your office? It’s just quite, erm, sensitive and I need your advice . . . but I don’t want anything spread around.”
Gibbs cocked his head to one side, then slid off the desk and gestured for her to follow him. His office was smelly and an overflowing ashtray sat in the center of his desk, surrounded by used cups and paper plates.
“Why don’t they clean it up in here? Where’s Edith?”
“She was here earlier, but she had to go over to the comms room. I’m not sure she’d appreciate you thinking of her as a cleaner, Spence.”
“I wasn’t! It’s just that if you want to have a private conversation, she’s got ears on elastic.” He shut the door. By the time he had tossed everything into a waste bin Jane was getting cold feet.
“Right, WDC Tennison, I am all yours.”
“I was going to talk it through with Paul Lawrence but, as you’ve said, he’s very busy . . . and I don’t have enough confirmation to talk to DCI Shepherd.”
“Well, go on, Jane, spill it out . . .”
Jane hesitated, then took a deep breath. Keeping it as succinct and direct as possible, she told him the entire story. Gibbs was rather unnerving as he didn’t interrupt, but laid his head down on top of his hands on his desk.
“And I think I should question this Janet Brown . . . Remember, she was the prostitute who wore the blue rabbit fur coat that Moran gave me to wear when I was being a decoy. I know she has used ‘Angie’ as one of her aliases . . . what do you think?”
There was a short pause before Gibbs slowly lifted his head and looked at her.
“Jesus Christ, Tennison . . . talk about kicking over a hornet’s nest. There’s stuff there that’ll rise up and sting you.”
“But I’m not repeating anything that I haven’t given serious thought to. That’s why I needed to talk it through with someone.”
“Talk it through with someone? Unfortunately, that’s me,” he snapped, and turned away, folding his arms across his chest.
“Right, just let me get this straight . . . I’m going from the fuckin’ beginning so that I get it right. That night after the Marquee Club, I told you to forget about this whore in the blue rabbit fur coat. You pay no attention to my warning about playing solo, and you totally disobey me . . . and that same night you chase after this Janet Brown, or Angie, who’s singing down the phone to Peter Allard’s wife. Is it the Rolling Stones song?”
“I don’t know. I had no intention of following her, but I saw her getting into a taxi and this boy being paid by her—”
“Yes, yes . . . so Janet/Angie goes off in a taxi and you take after the kid?”
Jane nodded. “Yes, exactly. I saw him going into this adult bookshop.”
Gibbs held up his hand.
“Now, you said a guy wearing a cowboy outfit called Stevie ran the shop, together with a big-titted blonde whose name you didn’t hear, and the boy worked in the back room?” Jane opened her mouth to interrupt and he snapped, “No, let me finish.”
He stood up and started pacing around the room.
“What you don’t know is that Stevie Bishop and his wife Ada are virtually the Soho King and Queen of Vice. They have brothels and strip joints all around the red light district. They run the dirtiest sex rackets and are making a fortune. We know that Stevie has big clout with some very senior Metropolitan police officers, and he can buy his way out of any charges . . . I am talking about paying over tens of thousands of pounds . . . and you walk in with your DC card because you just want to speak to some red-haired kid?”
“I had no idea,” Jane said sheepishly.
“No, you very obviously didn’t. I will have to check out if you stepped into a surveillance operation because they will have been royally pissed off if you did. The drug squad are also being brought in as Stevie and Ada are not satisfied with rolling in the money from the whores—they are starting to deal with international drug operations too. But it’ll take a long time to bring down the King of Soho and his dirty grubby wife the Queen of Vice. Right now they are making elephantine fortunes on their dirty book trade, so they lavish big favors on the bent cops . . . and I mean huge favors—cars, cash, holidays abroad . . .”
Jane hesitated and asked nervously if Gibbs was explaining the Soho sex trade business and police involvement because it was possible that DI Moran was behind the blackmail with Janet Brown.
“No I’m bloody not! I am simply warning you about treading into dangerous areas that you know fuck all about. This gap-toothed kid that runs for the whores, we need to snatch and grab him without it looking like we are in any way connected to the police.”
“You’ll help me? Because he has to know where Janet Brown lives, and she is who we need to talk to. Because if she does have this evidence . . .”
Gibbs opened the door.
“I doubt she has, but we need to clear up this shit about DI Moran.” He barged out, leaving Jane to follow.
Gibbs booked out a plain patrol car and he and Jane headed for Soho.
On the way they stopped at a “Hot Tea and Pie” cabin and Gibbs bought them both a sausage roll and a cup of tea. Jane was unsure about being seen eating and drinking in a police car and Gibbs laughed.
“Don’t be dumb, you’re not in uniform, and I’ve had more hot dinners in the front seat of a car than I have at home.”
Gibbs drove erratically, his coffee balanced precariously in the seat divide between them, while he held his sausage roll in a napkin in his right hand. They drove down Wardour Street, then left into Old Compton Street before doing the loop again as they passed numerous strip clubs. They crossed Berwick Street, which was filled with fruit and veg stalls, then into Beak Street and did yet another slow loop around into Shaftesbury Avenue where there was bumper to bumper traffic. Returning to Wardour Street, Jane suddenly spotted the red-haired boy, this time with a very young blonde girl who was carrying a bag of feather boas.
“There he is!” Jane said.
Gibbs stopped the car.
“OK .
. . take over the driving and park up in that wasteland car park opposite the Windmill Theatre, and leave the back passenger door open.”
With his hands dug deep into his overcoat Gibbs got out of the car and took off down Berwick Street. His head was lowered as he gained momentum to walk directly behind the boy, who was laughing and chatting with the blonde girl who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen. They stopped outside “Pretty Pussies” and the girl turned to go inside. As the boy was about to follow Gibbs used his right finger and thumb to snap a tight, painful hold on the nerves in the back of the boy’s scrawny neck.
“You walk quietly along with me, son, or I cuff you and make out you’re my informant and you’re squealin’, and everyone is gonna know . . . I’m a Vice copper, sonny.”
The boy was in agony but he could only shrug his shoulders higher to relieve the pain in his neck. To anyone watching it looked as if Gibbs just had a friendly hand on the kid’s neck. They continued down the road and then took a side turning to come out by the Windmill Theatre’s stage door. Crossing the road, Gibbs could see Jane waiting in the patrol car.
The car park was an old bomb site that had been developed as a parking facility. It wouldn’t be for much longer as all the land in the West End was being used for more and more office and retail building. There was an elderly man sitting on a camping stool outside a crumbling wooden sentry box. In front of him was an upturned wooden wine crate with a tin box for selling day-long parking tickets. When he had glanced toward the open car Jane had shown him her ID and he gestured for her to park by a crumbling brick wall on the far side of what had been a crater. She watched Gibbs walking toward her, guiding the red-haired boy. It looked as if they were simply having a chat. Gibbs was smiling, and then as they reached the rear open passenger door he kept his hold of the boy’s neck with his right hand but took out his handcuffs with his left. He pushed the boy forward, face down, into the back seat and drew his arms up painfully high to cuff his wrists. He kicked out at the boy’s legs as he wriggled and swore and said that if he didn’t pull his knees up he’d slam the door on his ankles and break them.
Jane was not exactly comfortable with Gibbs’s heavy-handedness, but she had seen it all before when they had been at Hackney together. He had the nickname “The Slapper.” But as he was doing her a favor she sat silently watching as he slammed his fist hard into the boy’s head, warning him to stay very quiet. She was now sitting in the passenger seat of the plain patrol car.
“Right, we have Philip Jackson, aged twelve. Lives on the Kenworth Estate, and his mother’s a junkie called Wanda. Have I got this all correct, Philip?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d better not be bullshitting me . . . I know where you work and I’ll come back and beat the living daylights out of you. I could get you locked up and let Stevie and his wife know you’re my informant, so . . .”
“I don’t fuckin’ know nuffink. I just earn a few quid from the girls when I look after their gear backstage. I swear before God, I’m not running drugs.”
Gibbs leaned over the front passenger seat and slapped the boy’s head hard, and he moaned.
“Right, this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask you a few questions and I need you to answer honestly. If you don’t, you’ll be arrested for living off immoral earnings, you’ll be held in the cells overnight to await transportation to a reform school, and this lady here will contact social services to arrest your mother, and any other kids she lets work the strip joints.”
The boy started sniffing and Gibbs slapped him again. He then began asking Philip quietly about Janet Brown, wanting to know where she lived. At first he denied knowing her, but as soon as Gibbs mentioned the name “Angie” it was obvious that he did. Gibbs waited as he muttered that he didn’t know her address as she just worked the strip clubs in the afternoons, and other times at night, and all he did was look after her handbag as the other tarts were known to steal each others’ belongings.
“I need her address, Philip . . .”
“I dunno it! I never been to her pad, honest!”
“So, tell me about the time you picked up a bundle for Angie from the bus stop by the Grosvenor Hotel on Park Lane.”
Philip hesitated, then blurted out that Janet had asked him to come with her one afternoon after she’d done a gig at the “Dirty Girls” and he had got into a taxi with her. He had to get out and go to the bus stop and wait to see an oriental-looking lady. When he saw her put a package into the litter bin and get on the next bus he had to retrieve the package and take it back to Janet in the taxi. He said she gave him a ten pound note, then they took a taxi to Carnaby Street, where he bought some shoes.
“Did she tell you what was in the package?” Gibbs asked.
“No, but I knew it was cash . . . I saw it in the envelope.”
“Did she tell you why she was getting it?”
“No, just that she was owed it by some piece of scum.”
“Where does she live?”
“I dunno! I honest to God don’t know!”
“Does she have a pimp?”
“No . . . well, I never seen one with her. She’s very tough and I just sometimes work for her, but she don’t work for Stevie. He calls her dirty black trash . . . she’s got a weird accent, you know, like it’s a made-up one . . . like American.”
Gibbs sighed, then after a moment he turned and rubbed Philip’s head.
“This is important, son. Do you know if Janet or Angie is used by the CID?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Jane turned to look at the boy, whose face was now pressed down into the back seat.
“Well, does she give a freebee once in a while, to uniforms or detectives? You know anything about that?”
“What you sayin’? She’s a grass, like a tipster?”
Jane wanted to ask the boy a few questions but Gibbs wasn’t allowing her to say a word, and in some ways she felt as if he was protecting Moran, never mentioning his name.
“No, I am asking if she screws around with the Old Bill.”
“No. She don’t talk much. She knows what she wants me to do and I just look after her gear. She’s a got a kid, I know that. He’s brown like her, but I never seen him . . . she had pictures of him in her wallet.”
“How do you know that?”
“Cos she takes it out and counts the money in it, in case I filch any. Like I said, she’s tough and knows the ropes . . . and she don’t mix with the other slags.”
Gibbs climbed out and walked round to the rear passenger door behind Jane. He opened the door and Philip cowered away, but Gibbs just yanked him out by his legs. He unlocked the cuffs and then pushed the boy to stand upright, leaning toward him.
“I’m letting you go, son, but you had better not be lying to me because I will come back to get you.”
Jane looked through the window of the patrol car as Gibbs gripped the boy’s chin, making his mouth purse open like a goldfish. They had words, then the boy scuttled away, passing the sleeping parking attendant who would get more customers later when the shows started their evening performances. Gibbs climbed in beside Jane and started the engine.
“OK, we need to find this bitch. So far Marie Allard’s story that she was being blackmailed pans out, but it could be a load of lies. Or this Angie, or Janet, might have something that could prove Allard was the rapist. I don’t think DI Moran is involved . . . he wouldn’t be that crazy. The kid’s just said that Angie is often around the clubs later when it gets dark . . . she collects the money for the numbers game and takes it over to the big man in Chinatown. So tonight I think we should check out the strip clubs. You up for that?”
Jane didn’t reply. Deep down she began to feel that perhaps Gibbs wanted to keep on trying to trace Janet Brown because he was also unsure about Moran.
“Why don’t we meet back here in a couple of hours and get something to eat until this place hots up? Do you fancy some Italian? Luigi’s is
around the corner from here.”
Moran was sitting in the CID office at Hackney Station. DCs Ashton and Edwards, alongside two other detectives, watched as Moran pinned up the photograph of Susie Luna, which he had taken out of its frame. He proceeded to put up various smaller photographs, some black and white, and numerous Polaroids. He then chalked on the board “Susie Luna—Aged 17, Filipino, Chambermaid/Waitress/Barmaid, Majestic Hotel, Maidstone. Missing since March 15th, 1969.” Two more officers came into the office and perched on the edge of a couple of desks, eager to find out what was going on.
Moran tossed the chalk aside and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Brian here was doing some checks into previous possible assault cases in connection with the Peter Allard case. The reason I’m questioning this is because there have been a few queries from Allard’s defense council about his confession. It might stand firm, I bloody hope it does, but in the meantime Perry Mason here came across this case.”
Moran pointed up to the board.
“Susie Luna, the girl with the rose in her hair. Her body was never found. We have four statements from the officer leading the inquiry . . . Guess who he was questioning?”
“Peter Allard!” Edwards exclaimed.
“Well, I know you know that, you bloody idiot, but these lot didn’t. Allard was living in Maidstone—pin that up, Edwards.”
Moran pointed to a photograph of a two-up, two-down terraced corner house. “Right, we know Allard rented this property with his Filipino wife, who had also worked at the Majestic Hotel and was close friends with the victim, Susie Luna.”
Looking over the information board, Ashton reacted. “Bloody hell! You think Allard killed her?”
“He has a watertight alibi, provided by his wife. He wasn’t arrested because there were three sightings of Susie Luna: on a bus, at a bus stop, and outside a fish and chip shop.”
“So he’s not connected then?” Ashton asked.
“No . . . on the contrary. I think he is connected, and I need to find more evidence that’ll get me authority from the Kent Constabulary to have the garden in Maidstone excavated,” Moran replied.
Hidden Killers Page 34