“Well, she sounds like the perfect candidate to me.”
“I suppose so. I said I would call her tomorrow to give her my answer.”
“You don’t sound very sure. If there’s anything you don’t feel comfortable about then keep on seeing more girls. You should always go with your gut instinct.”
“I will. Thank you for all your advice, Daddy . . . I appreciate it.”
“That’s what I’m here for, darling, and I love you. I’ll call you soon.”
Jane replaced the receiver. Her father was right. She was feeling strangely nervous, and put it down to the fact that she had hardly eaten at lunch and had only had a cup of tea with Pearl. But she didn’t feel hungry, just uneasy. She was not usually so incapable of making decisions and, as her father had said, Pearl did seem perfect. She felt unsure for some reason, but couldn’t think why.
Jane went into the bathroom and cleaned her teeth, then splashed cold water over her face and looked at her reflection in the mirror as she patted it dry with a soft white towel. She looked very pale and had dark circles beneath her eyes. The terrible sense of panic overwhelmed her without any warning. Her heart started racing, and felt as if it would burst through her chest. She was struggling to breath properly and started gasping for air, as if someone was squeezing her lungs too tightly. She slowly slipped onto her knees and grasped the edge of the wash basin. The sound of her own hysterical sobbing frightened her. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her head filled with the screams of the injured and images of the bomb blast: her hand on the terrorist suspect’s sleeve, his half-turned face, tying the tourniquet around the old lady’s shattered leg, the blood, the dust . . . and then the awful sight of the naked and vulnerable Regina tied down to a bed.
Every recollection felt like heavy blows to her body, and Jane curled up and wrapped her arms around herself to try to keep the images out. But they wouldn’t stop, and she was scared. She even had visions of Stanley on her staircase, the drive through the Blackwall Tunnel, and her yellow VW parked in the wrong space. Everything merged into a terrible, constant nightmare. Then there was the face of Pearl Radcliff, with her short hair and green beret, as if she was the epicenter to the nightmare.
Suddenly she had a flashback to the moment she saw the bomber, then the image quickly changed, replaced by the man in the surveillance photo, both images flickering in and out of her head like a blinding strobe light. The two men were completely different in appearance. In a rush of fear, she thought she could recognize the bomber if she saw him again.
Jane had no idea how long she had been sobbing for, and by the time she had calmed down enough to get to her feet she was drained and totally exhausted. Her whole body ached and she moved slowly out of the bathroom toward her bedroom. She had to keep her hand on the wall to steady herself as it felt as though she was going to fall again. Eventually she made it to her bed and lay face down. She was afraid to close her eyes in case the images returned. She was no longer sobbing, but tears were cascading down her face. Gradually the terror subsided.
The horror of everything she had experienced had hit her with full force. She had been in denial, never allowing herself to show her fears and she now understood the cost of holding it together all day, and at the press conference. Anger drowned out the fear. Crowley had used her. She wanted to know why.
Chapter Nine
Jane had only had two hours sleep when her alarm woke her. After the torment of the previous night she felt strangely calm. She dressed quickly and applied some foundation and rouge to her face, then decided to mascara her eye lashes and use a little brown eye shadow. She wore one of her smartest and most expensive suits, over a white clerical collar shirt with starched cuffs. It was only seven thirty but she hoped she would miss the heavy traffic she’d encountered the previous morning with DS Stanley.
Before leaving, Jane put in a call to DCI Crowley at the Yard, but was told he had gone directly to Woolwich from home and wasn’t expected at the Yard until later. She then tried to call DCI Church. He wasn’t in the Dip Squad office but Stanley took the call. He sounded his usual groggy self and Jane was certain he had more than likely slept the night in the office again.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, but I wanted to ask a favor. I need a criminal records check on the girl who wants to rent a room in my flat. Her name’s—”
“Pearl Radcliff. I’ve done it, she’s clean, no record.”
It took a second or two to sink in before Jane realized the obvious. “You’ve been snooping round my flat, Stanley. How dare you!”
“I was only thinking of you, Jane. Besides, you’d have had to check her out anyway . . .”
“That’s not the point, Stanley, it’s my flat, my belongings, and—”
“Ok, it won’t happen again.”
“Too right it won’t, because I don’t want you coming round to my flat anymore.” Jane put the phone down, seething.
She had miscalculated her travel time again, because if anything the traffic was even worse than yesterday. Her hopes of catching DCI Crowley before he returned to the Yard were looking slim, and she wondered if she should have gone straight to the hospital to see Daphne. By the time she had parked in the allocated area for assistant laboratory staff, it was after nine. She was pleased to see Crowley’s car still there, but vowed that from now on she would take public transport rather than drive.
Jane showed her ID pass again and was allowed entry to the lab floor. She then proceeded toward the small offices, hoping to find Crowley there. A clerical worker was just coming out as Jane approached. She told Jane that DCI Crowley was in the canteen having breakfast, but as Jane approached the lifts and the doors opened Crowley stepped out holding a paper plate of sausages and a bread roll, with a mug of coffee in the other hand.
“Morning, sir.”
He gave her a surly glance, and would have walked past her if she hadn’t asked for a few moments of his time.
“You told me to go to St. Thomas’ this morning, sir, to interview—”
“Yes, yes, I know. So what are you doing here?”
Jane followed him along the corridor to his office, and held the door open for him as he had his hands full.
“Well, I needed to know what name Daphne would now be under as I assume, for security purposes, she wouldn’t be using her own name.”
“There’s an armed guard by her room. Her full name is Daphne Millbank. She’s registered under the name ‘Patient C’ and I am sure it is obvious that there will be no ID on her door. She has come out of her coma but is still very weak. I checked this morning and they said she’s quite coherent, so the sooner you get there to speak with her, the better.”
After her flashback, Jane was certain that the man in the surveillance photo and artist’s sketch wasn’t the man she had seen at Covent Garden. She realized that if Daphne said the same she’d have further proof she was right.
“I have a copy of the artist’s sketch of the suspect,” she said. “I’ll show it to Daphne and see if she recognizes him.”
“I’d rather one of my team did that, as her description of the suspect is critical to the investigation. It needs an experienced bomb squad officer to go over the finer facial details. You just deal with her version of events and what she saw.”
Crowley carefully placed his sausages inside the roll, then opened a packet of HP sauce and squirted the contents over the sausages.
“I understand Church spoke to my father,” Jane said. “Could I ask what protection is in place for my parents?”
“It’s all in hand, Tennison. So far there’s been only an ominous silence from the terrorists, and it is quite possible the suspect and his cohorts have gone to ground. It remains for you to be extremely vigilant and, as I ordered yesterday, you should to go to the hospital and talk to the other witness.”
“Yes, sir. I’m then due to go to Covent Garden with DS Dexter, so should I return to work here afterward?”
&nbs
p; “Yes. Is there anything else, Tennison?”
“No, sir.”
Jane left Crowley’s office. As she was walking past the lab, DS Lawrence approached her.
“Looking a bit smart for a day’s work out in the rubble?” he said.
“I’m going to St. Thomas’, to interview the lady who saw the suspect.”
He nodded, then moved closer. “Is everything all right with you?”
“Yes. Why, does it look as if it isn’t?”
“No, to the contrary, you look terrific. Will you be coming back later?”
“Yes, but not until this afternoon.”
“See you then.”
Lawrence walked off, leaving Jane feeling a bit tetchy. She was getting irritated with everyone checking up on her and asking how she was. Blackwall Tunnel was just as bad as it had been earlier in the morning, and the City was bumper to bumper with rush-hour traffic. By the time Jane reached St. Thomas’ Hospital it was nearly 11am. She made her way up to the ward and approached the nursing bay where she showed her ID and asked if Nurse Mitchell was on duty.
A stout nurse at the desk looked her up and down before telling her he was accompanying a patient to theater.
“Oh. I’m really here to see a patient. She’s under the name of Patient C.”
The nurse checked Jane’s ID again, then gestured for Jane to walk ahead of her. In contrast to the last time she had been here, the atmosphere was now strangely quiet and eerie. The dark green lino floors, the strong smell of disinfectant, combined with the almost echoing silence, all made Jane feel uncomfortable. They eventually stopped to speak with a doctor who seemed irritated that Jane had not sought his permission before approaching his patient.
“She’s quite remarkable really. She’s very intelligent, but she tires easily and is on strong medication for the pain, although she no longer requires a morphine drip. You’ll see some deep bruises on her arms—those are from the catheters required for her surgery. She’s been breathing on her own since last night. But she’ll need a lot of treatment and care for some considerable time. You can have a few moments with her. The nurse will direct you.”
Jane followed the portly nurse past curtained booths busy with nurses, until they reached the double doors leading to the private rooms at the end of the ward. An overweight armed officer, who looked as if he was about to burst out of his uniform, sat outside Daphne’s room, reading the Sun. He immediately rose to his feet when he saw Jane, folding the paper and placing it on the chair. The straining belt around his rotund stomach had a radio hanging from a clip at his waist, and a .38 revolver.
“I’m WDC Jane Tennison,” she said, showing her warrant card.
The officer took her card and nodded.
“I’ll bring you a mug of tea when I get a minute,” the nurse said to the officer. “Two sugars, right?”
“Thank you, nurse.” He passed Jane back her warrant card and then went to the closed door. He knocked lightly and then eased it open. Jane entered the room and the officer closed the door behind her.
The room was as bare as she remembered, and the blind was drawn. The bedside cabinet was covered with kidney bowls, pads and plastic cups. A draped protective cage had been placed over Daphne, covering her from the waist down. A glucose drip was attached to a catheter in her left arm, and there was a tube running from her bladder into a urine bag. Wires ran from her chest to a heart monitor, which bleeped steadily. She lay slightly raised on a pillow, her thinning white hair combed away from her face. Small, scabbed wounds stood out on her cheeks and forehead, and her thin arms were black with bruises and raised blue veins that tracked down to her small curled hands. She had her eyes closed, and Jane moved closer to be beside the bed. Not wanting to wake Daphne if she was sleeping, Jane gently stroked her hand. Daphne’s eyes opened.
“Hello, Daphne. My name is Jane. I was with you at Covent Garden. I’m sorry if I’m intruding but . . .” She hesitated, as there was no reaction. “Can you hear me?”
“I’ve got just about everything else wrong with me, but I’m not deaf.”
Jane smiled, then drew a chair from the wall to sit closer beside her.
“You’ve had such a dreadful time, but I’ve been told you’re really recovering very well. If you feel up to it, I would like to ask you some questions. I understand that your full name is Daphne Millbank. My name is Jane Tennison.”
Daphne turned to look at her through watery, blue eyes. “I remember you, dear . . . you saved my life. To be honest I’m not sure whether to thank you or not. You know they had to amputate my left leg? I can’t feel a thing down there sometimes, but then it aches so much it’s dreadful. It’s going to make it difficult for me to play golf. Not that I was a regular, or even that good . . . but I keep thinking about it. At least I’ve got my teeth back. The nurse left them in a little cardboard box. I told her I needed a bottle of peroxide as I like to let them soak overnight so they look nice and white, but I have not been given it yet. How do they look to you?”
Daphne gave a wide, open-mouthed smile.
“Very white . . . they don’t look like false teeth to me.”
“I know, my dear. Always get a good, private dentist. The NHS dentures never fit. These were made to measure and cost a fortune.”
“Can you remember anything that happened?”
“Not all of it . . . it’s very hazy. I suppose it’ll come back to me. They found my handbag, but I don’t have my reading glasses. Maybe they got broken, but I can’t read anything. Are you a nurse?”
“No, I’m a police officer.”
“I was a Wren in the last war . . . my husband was a pilot. What did you say your name was again, dear?”
“Jane.”
Although Daphne was talking relatively coherently, she spoke slowly and with little expression. She opened and closed her eyes as if the effort wearied her.
“Daphne, I don’t want to tire you too much but do you think you could try to answer some questions for me? If you want me to wait awhile I can do that, but it is rather important and time is really against—”
“Go ahead, dear. I was a Wren, you know, so I’m used to working under pressure. As you are here it must be important, and I was always a stickler for putting duty first.”
“I want you to try to recall everything that happened in as much detail as you can remember from the moment you arrived at Covent Garden station. What you saw, and how it all occurred.”
Daphne lay with her eyes closed. It took a while before she slowly recounted to Jane how she had noticed the rucksack, and had seen the man walking away. She had called out to him because she thought he had forgotten it, but he didn’t take any notice. She had called a second time, but he’d walked toward the exit. Then she had seen Jane and heard her calling out to the man. Considering what she had been through, her recollection was very clear, but Jane didn’t want to take her to the moment of the explosion. She patted her hand.
“That’s good, Daphne. Can you describe what he was wearing?”
“Yes, a dark, coat . . . and he had a scarf around his neck. He was a big man with longish, shoulder-length hair. He didn’t have a full beard but he was unshaven.”
“Do you think you would recognize him?”
“Yes, I would, most definitely, because when I called out to him he turned to face me.”
Jane was deep in thought about what to do. Crowley had said he’d send someone from bomb squad to get Daphne’s description but she wanted to know if Daphne recognized the man in the artist’s impression that had been shown at the press conference.
“Don’t you want to know what he looked like, dear?”
Daphne’s question made up her mind. Jane rummaged in her bag and pulled out a crumpled press release showing the image of the man that Crowley had released to the press.
“Did he look like this, Daphne?”
Daphne couldn’t lift her head so Jane had to stand close to her to show her the sketch. She pursed her lips and squeezed
her eyes open and shut.
“I need my glasses. Can you hold it a little bit further away from me?”
Jane held the sketch in front of Daphne, until she gave a small shake of her head.
“No, no . . . that’s not him. The hair’s not right; he had more of a square face, thin lips and a sort of flat nose, with bushy eyebrows. That sketch isn’t right at all.”
Jane knew that this would put a spanner in the works for Crowley. It didn’t mean that the man he suspected, in the surveillance photo, wasn’t part of the ASU, but he clearly was not the actual bomber. And this confirmed that Daphne was a more important witness than Jane, as she had seen the bomber’s full face.
“Thank you, Daphne, you have been extremely helpful, and I’ll make sure you get some new glasses.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m being well looked after. I don’t have any family, you know. My husband was a pilot, he was shot down over Dresden . . . never anyone else, no children . . .”
Jane listened as Daphne talked about her husband, until her voice became fainter and when she fell asleep Jane quietly left the room. She headed down the ward and into the corridor, just as DS Dexter came toward her.
“Hi, Jane, I’ve been waiting for you. How did it go with the lovely Daphne?”
“Better than I could have hoped for. She’s an incredible lady and has excellent recall of the suspect’s face.”
As they went out of the hospital Jane told Dexter that she’d shown Daphne the artist’s sketch and how Daphne had dismissed it, giving her a detailed description of the man she saw leave the rucksack. She added that she, too, was now almost certain the man in the surveillance photo was not the man she’d seen at the station. Dexter was very attentive and smiled.
Jane was frustrated. “This situation has the potential to leave Crowley with egg on his face, as well as making me appear to be an unreliable witness.”
“I couldn’t agree more, and the press will have a field day if it gets out. Listen, you did a good job with Daphne. Crowley will be pissed off, but he’s got only himself to blame. He took a gamble releasing the artist’s impression at the press conference, and so far it hasn’t paid off. I know how to handle Crowley, so let me talk to him. In fact, I’ll call him now. I can also order a car for us if you wait here . . .”
Good Friday Page 13