Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  The prosecution asked why, as innocent as he professed to be, he was wearing a stocking mask and Allard bowed his head.

  “Because I am a foolish, stupid man. I was desperate for some kind of satisfaction, and I am deeply sorry.”

  The jury filed out as DC Edwards approached Moran and passed him an envelope. He ripped it open and then leaned back, closing his eyes. Jane was sitting directly behind him and he turned to face her whispering, “We just got confirmation . . . Susie Luna’s dental records match the body found at Allard’s house. We bloody got him!”

  The jury returned half an hour later. The foreman handed the judge the result and there was a palpable tension in the courtroom. When the judge read out the verdict there was an audible murmur from everyone present. Peter Allard was found not guilty of rape and, as he had pleaded, guilty of the assaults. As he had already spent time in prison on remand he was released and free to leave the court.

  Allard walked out into the marble reception area of the Old Bailey. He was smiling as he shook the hand of his barrister. It was extraordinary and it felt as if he was in total denial about the second knife attack on Jane and Janet Brown, and the brutal assault of the young boy Ginger. But he suddenly straightened and looked afraid, his eyes like a trapped animal.

  DI Moran was clearly enjoying the moment, and he made a point of having WDC Tennison by his side. He looked across at Jane.

  “He’s yours, Tennison . . . it’s your arrest.”

  They approached Allard and Jane’s voice echoed around the old courthouse reception.

  “Peter Allard, I am arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Susie Luna. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”

  It was as if everyone was caught in time, moving in slow motion as Allard stepped back. But an officer had already moved in behind him. Moran handcuffed him, then stepped to stand beside him as Jane moved to walk on the other side. As DI Moran and WDC Tennison escorted Allard out of the court, the press photographers suddenly realized that something very newsworthy was happening, and the flash bulbs began popping as the cameras clicked in quick succession.

  Allard was still handcuffed as he was pushed into the waiting police van and the caged doors locked behind him. When the doors slammed shut he let out a howl like a wolf.

  Jane and Moran got into a patrol car together. She had expected him to show some kind of emotional exuberance but instead he was quiet. He eventually turned toward her.

  “It’s over. I’m going to give you a nudge for a commendation, because you’ve shown persistence and good team work as a trainee CID Detective . . . surprising for . . .”

  She was about to thank him when he added, “. . . a young woman.”

  Jane laughed. It was a backhanded compliment but she was now more determined than ever to move up the ranks in this, her chosen career.

  Want to find out what happened to WPC Jane Tennison?

  Turn the page for an extract of Lynda La Plante’s

  Good Friday

  Prologue

  In March 1976, Jane Tennison successfully completed her 10-week CID course at Hendon and returned to Bow Street, while awaiting a transfer to another station as a fully-fledged detective constable. She was still under the strict watchful eye of DCI Shepherd, nicknamed “Timex” due to his almost obsessive time-keeping schedules. DI Gibbs had frequently not seen eye-to-eye with DCI Shepherd, and he had been posted away from Bow Street. Jane hadn’t heard from him, and wasn’t sure whether he had managed to curtail his excessive drinking.

  It wasn’t long before Jane’s posting as a DC came through and to her dismay she was offered a place at Hackney. She requested a private discussion with Shepherd to ask if she could remain at Bow Street. Although she knew that he could be tricky and controlling she never the less admired his tenacity.

  Shepherd knew, intuitively, the reason behind Jane’s appeal. Several officers who had been stationed at Hackney at the time of the abortive Bank raid, which had tragically killed DCI Leonard Bradfield and WPC Kath Morgan, had been transferred. Jane gave no reason for her request, but encouraged by her previous performance at Bow Street DCI Shepherd agreed that she could return there.

  Jane was in a catch-22 situation. Although Shepherd had agreed for her to remain with the CID at Bow Street, he gave her very little opportunity to prove herself and she was becoming increasingly frustrated. She was due to attend a court appearance for a drunk driver. Usually this kind of case would have been handled by a uniformed officer, but Jane had been driving an unmarked CID car when the drunk driver had driven straight into the back of it. He had been belligerent and quite abusive.

  On arriving at the court she was annoyed to find that there was a backlog of cases being heard, so she went to get herself a coffee. As she headed back to the waiting room she was almost sent flying by a DC bounding through the door.

  “God, I’m sorry,” said DC Brian Edwards, then, recognizing, her gave a wide smile.

  “Jane! It’s good to see you!”

  “Hello Brian. You got a case here this morning as well?”

  “Yeah, Flying Squad job. Committal hearing on a three-hander for armed robbery.”

  “You’re on the Flying Squad?” Jane tried to hide her surprise. Edwards was young, and almost as inexperienced as she was.

  “Yeah, it’s completely changed my life. The blokes on the squad are a great bunch of guys. We work all over London investigating armed robberies. The adrenalin buzz when you nick an armed blagger on the pavement is incredible.”

  “Congratulations! I must say, you look good.”

  Edwards had always been rather untidy and scruffy looking, with his thick curly hair worn long, and his shirt always hanging out of his trousers. Now he was wearing a trendy leather jacket, a white t-shirt, and dark trousers with side zipper boots.

  “Are there any women on the Flying Squad?” Jane asked.

  “No way. I doubt they’d ever bring in a woman. It’s tough work, Jane, and we get results.” Before she could respond to his arrogance and chauvinism, Edwards glanced at his watch, “So, what’re you here for?”

  “Just a traffic offense. a drunk bloke rammed into me while I was driving the CID car.”

  Edwards laughed. He turned to look over at two men dressed in similar clothing to him, as one gestured for him to join them.

  “See y’around,” Edwards said, as he sauntered over to them.

  By the time Jane got to the CID office three hours later she was in a foul mood. Edith, the CID’s clerical officer, who had worked alongside Jane since she started at Bow Street, smiled warmly when she saw her.

  “Everything go all right in court?”

  “Yes. Guilty, banned for two years and a hefty fine. When you think how much paperwork I had to do to get him into court . . . He wore a smart suit and tie and said it was out of character, blah, blah . . . Considering the lip he gave me, he got off lightly.”

  “Well, you’ve got a load of shoplifting crime sheets on your desk from DCI Shepherd. There’s been a slew of clothes nicked from Oxford Street stores today.”

  “Shoplifters? That’s a uniform crime investigation, not CID!”

  “Not when they all happened within an hour of each other. Shepherd reckons it’s an organized gang who sell the stolen goods on market stalls.”

  “Well that sounds a lot more interesting than the stuff I usually investigate.”

  Edith sipped her tea. “He wants you to get statements from all the shops, and an inventory of exactly what was stolen, along with the value.”

  “Oh my God,” Jane muttered.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” Edith retorted, resuming her typing.

  Jane began to sift through the crime sheets and statements on her own desk. “I met DC Brian Edwards at court. Remember him from the Susie Luna murder?” Edith looked blank. “The rapist, Peter Allard? He got a life sentence, and—”

  “Oh yes, I remember. long ti
me ago, now . . . Over a year . . .”

  “Edwards is on the Flying Squad now.”

  “Really?”

  “He said they never take women on the Squad.”

  “Well, I doubt any decent woman would want to be on it.” Edith’s tone sharpened. “They’re a bunch of chauvinistic bastards! Ever since that TV series came out, ‘The Professionals,’ they act like they’re film stars, the lot of them, think they’re God’s gift . . . There’ve been a lot of unpleasant rumors about corruption, too, but far be it from me to name names . . .”

  Jane processed the Oxford Street reports for the rest of the day, drawing up charts of the shops, times of the thefts and a description of the suspects. She then filed everything methodically, just as DCI Shepherd liked, but she was finished by three thirty. She sat drumming her fingers on her empty desk and at four o’clock decided she would approach DCI Shepherd. It was ridiculous that she was sitting around when she was now qualified to investigate more serious cases.

  She knocked on his office door and waited.

  “Come in.”

  Jane walked in and stood by his desk. Shepherd gave her a cursory glance.

  “What is it, Tennison?” Shepherd’s pale blue eyes and boyish looks belied not only his age but also his professionalism.

  “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Yes, of course. Sit down.”

  She drew a chair up in front of his desk.

  “I don’t feel that my time here is being utilized properly. I’ve gained a lot of experience since I’ve been here, and I know that you are aware of my participation in previous cases—like the apparently non-suspicious death that resulted in two murder convictions.”

  Shepherd didn’t answer right away. He paused for a moment, then picked up his fountain pen, unscrewed the top, examined the nib, then slowly screwed it back together. “Yes, of course, I am aware of the case you are referring to . . . Katrina Harcourt and . . . er, Barry Dawson . . . correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I was also part of the investigation of the rapist Peter Allard when the body of Susie Luna was discovered, and—”

  “Yes, Tennison, I’m more than aware of those investigations, and the part you played in them. But I don’t see why you’re bringing them up now, all these months later?”

  “Sir, I’m grateful that you agreed for me to return to Bow Street but now that I’ve passed my CID course and been made detective I’m concerned that my training is not being used to its full potential.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. I was wondering if there was any possibility that I could apply for a transfer to the Flying Squad?”

  Shepherd laughed. “Tennison, with your length of service and experience there is absolutely no possibility of your being transferred to the Flying Squad. You are welcome to apply but I doubt the application would be taken seriously. But let me think about what you’ve said and we can talk in due course about some possible alternatives.”

  Edith was getting ready to leave when Jane walked in to the CID office and sat down at her desk, in a glum mood.

  “I’m off home now,” Edith said.

  “Edith, do you think DCI Shepherd’s got it in for me? He keeps his distance from me, and I get all the dross. I’m investigating dead-end crimes that none of the other detectives are allocated. I know that he was very complimentary to me, and agreed for me to return to Bow Street . . .”

  “As I keep on telling you Jane, the Met really don’t like giving women the kudos they deserve. They’re old-school, and Shepherd is as well . . . although he maintains that he’s a forward thinker, in my opinion he plays by the rules—and those rules don’t include female detectives.”

  On returning to the section house Jane sat on her bed, feeling thoroughly depressed. She had been thinking of moving out and renting a flat of her own now she was earning a sufficient salary. She had saved a considerable amount living at the section house. The time was right for her to be independent.

  Later that evening she called her parents and told her father that she was contemplating moving. Mr. Tennison encouraged her to think about buying rather than renting. He even offered to help by paying the deposit, saying that in the long run it would be much better for her to own a flat and pay a mortgage, as it would be an investment.

  Jane’s morale was boosted. If she couldn’t improve her working schedules at Bow Street she could at least change her personal life style, and be more independent.

  DCI Shepherd didn’t approach Jane after their meeting, so she carried on working on the low-level investigations she had been assigned to. She was disappointed, but at least she now had another focus, spending her days off looking at possible flats. She was unsure how she was going to manage financially, as she had only just bought a second-hand VW Golf. However, Jane’s father actively encouraged her and produced a list of areas that he felt would be suitable.

  “I don’t want to jump the gun, Daddy. This is really going to stretch my wages . . . so far I haven’t seen anywhere suitable.”

  “It takes time dear, and you won’t be jumping the gun. I’ll look into everything with you. If we find a place that needs fixing up you can call on your brother in law, Tony, to help with the carpentry, and I can do the decorating.”

  Mrs. Tennison was not quite as enthusiastic and was anxious about Jane moving into a flat on her own and taking on such responsibility. She had even suggested that Jane might want to go back and live at home with them again. She constantly worried about Jane and felt that, if she wasn’t living at home, it was safer for her to be in secure accommodation like the section house, along with other police officers.

  “It sometimes feel’s like I imagine a school dormitory, would be, Mum, with no privacy . . . and I hate the communal bathrooms. I really want to find my own place.”

  “Well, in my opinion if you get your own place there’ll be no incentive for you to meet someone, get married and set up a home together. Just like Pam and Tony did.”

  After years of being compared to her sister, Jane had learned not to argue with her mother, or to listen to her opinions. Mrs. Tennison was still unable to cope with Jane’s career choice, and would far rather that she had been more like Pam and had chosen a safe “homely” job. She had always been prone to anxiety, and if she had known of the horrors that Jane had been subjected to during her training and at her various attachments since then, she would be even more neurotic.

  On her days off Jane and her father scoured the estate agents’ windows viewed endless properties and made arrangements for a mortgage. She had a file of estate agents’ particulars and spent her breaks in the canteen having coffee and sifting through them all. Edith, was very supportive of Jane buying her own flat, although she was quick to dismiss one property after another as being too far out of the West End, or in an unsatisfactory area. Edith owned her own small terraced house in Hackney but constantly complained that the neighborhood was going downhill and that it was not a good investment for her future. Her elderly mother suffered from dementia and she was dependent on social welfare carers to be able to look after her. Jane had once asked Edith if she had considered placing her mother into a care home.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it! She might be the bane of my life but she’s my mother . . . even though she often doesn’t know who I am, and she’s a constant worry, but when she is lucid it makes it worthwhile. I’m sure if you were ever in the same situation Jane, you would do the same.”

  Jane nodded in agreement, although the thought of losing one or other of her parents and having to care for them by herself was too much to even contemplate.

  As she was pondering, DCI Shepherd summoned her into his office.

  “Detective Tennison, I have been giving your request for a transfer some serious thought. You are, as I have said to you before, far too inexperienced a detective to join an elite squad like ‘the Sweeny.’ But they have a sub-division known as the ‘Dip Squad’ . . . if you do well there it could be a stepping stone
toward the Flying Squad. They’re quite keen for a female to join them, and I can get you up on an attachment, if their DCI agrees.”

  “What exactly is the Dip Squad, sir?”

  “Well, they deal with professional pickpockets . . . there’s shed loads of them descending in force from overseas, most notably Italy, Chile and Colombia. The Dip Squad are working right now with teams along Oxford Street, Regent’s Street and Piccadilly, as well as teams covering underground stations at Victoria, Embankment and Oxford Circus. So, how does that sound to you?”

  Jane wasn’t at all sure, but at the same time if this might be a possible route to the more glamorous Flying Squad then she knew she should accept.

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Shepherd stood up, dismissing her. “Good. I’ll let you know as soon as I get confirmation.”

  Jane was beaming when she went back into the CID room and Edith swiveled around to look at her.

  “I may be transferred to the Dip Squad.”

  Edith shrugged and turned back to face her typewriter. “Rather you than me, dear . . . it’s a dreadful, dirty little office and they don’t even have any clerical staff. Oh, by the way, I meant to show you this.”

  Edith handed her an advert from The Job, the Met’s official newspaper.

  “I think it sounds really interesting . . . an ex-clerical worker based in Scotland Yard is offering her flat for sale. Good location, just off Baker street, a minute from the Underground. It’s got . . . two bedrooms, and I think it’s a very reasonable price.”

  Jane jotted down the information. As she was off duty that afternoon she arranged to go and see the flat in Melcombe Street. She walked the short distance from Baker Street underground station, and liked the location as it was so close to Regents Park. Melcombe Street was a small turning, with a row of shops on one side and narrow three-story houses opposite. There was no front garden as they were built back from the pavement, but the houses were white washed and looked well kept. The door to number 33 was freshly painted with a row of brass bells on one side. She rang the bell for the top flat and waited.