Good Friday

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane unpegged the babygro from the washing line. She held it tightly in her hands. It smelled like sweet pancakes and a cup of warm milk. The musty smell of dry blood then came through and the grit from the explosion rubbed against her hands. It was wretchedly sad. The child would never know its mother.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jane walked into the Italian restaurant and asked for a table for two. She’d arranged to meet Natalie at 8 and had arrived a bit early to ensure she could get in. The tables were covered in red-and-white checked table cloths, and in the center of each was an empty Chianti bottle with a candle stuck in the top. A long counter displayed breads and sweet pastries, together with a vast display of cheeses, on the other side of which a dark-haired man was busy cutting wafer-thin slices of cured ham.

  Jane opened the menu. There was a lunch menu on one side, then the dinner menu and specials were on a thick laminated page on the other side. It was exactly 8pm when Natalie walked in. Seeing Jane sitting at the side of the room, she waved and walked over to join her. She tossed a stylish thick wool jacket over the back of her chair, and tucked her soft leather clutch bag under the table as she sat down.

  “It’s not very posh,” Jane said.

  “Its fine. I love Italian food. Have you decided what you want to order?” Natalie said as she took off her gloves and placed them on the table.

  Jane noticed the plaid lining. “I like your gloves,” she said. “Are they Burberry?”

  “Yes. Christmas present from an old flame. I never spend that much money on gloves.”

  “I think I might have the tomato and basil soup, followed by spaghetti bolognaise. Unless you’re not having a starter?”

  As Natalie looked over the menu Jane admired her pale denim shirt, tight jeans and cowboy boots. Jane thought to herself that as well as getting Pam to cut her hair she’d do some clothes shopping.

  “I’ll have the minestrone, and then the chicken with garlic and mashed potatoes . . . or maybe the cannelloni.” Natalie turned to attract the waitress’s attention.

  “Is the cannelloni freshly made on the premises?”

  “Yes, we make all the pasta dishes here. My father is the chef.” The waitress nodded to the dark-haired man behind the counter.

  They ordered their food, and a bottle of pinot noir. Natalie smiled at Jane.

  “Isn’t this nice! On my way here I was trying to calculate just how long it’s been. You don’t look all that different.”

  “I remember you used to have very long hair.”

  “Oh God, yes! I had this terrible perm and it went like a frizzy mop, so I had it cut really short, you know that sort of pixie cut. But it didn’t really suit me, so I’ve let it grow a bit.”

  “I was thinking of getting my sister to cut mine, and give me some highlights. I’ve not really taken that much interest in my hair style, and always used to put it in a pleat under my police hat. But it was a relief when I came out of uniform. Those police women’s hats are not very flattering, and the uniform was continually having to be brushed down and dry cleaned, shirts starched, tie in place . . .”

  “And those black stockings and awful police-issue shoes,” agreed Natalie. “But you know, I was really heartbroken when I was kicked out of Hendon. Truthfully I don’t think I would have made the grade, though. Where were you posted to when you came out?”

  “Hackney, one of the toughest areas. Didn’t really have too much time to think about it as I was thrown into the deep end. There was only one other uniformed WPC there.”

  Jane was relieved when the waitress came to the table and uncorked the wine, as she didn’t want to get into a discussion about Kath Morgan’s death. Natalie took a small sip of the wine to taste it and nodded in approval.

  “This isn’t too heavy. Light and not too fruity.”

  The waitress filled their glasses and placed the bottle in the center of the table. Jane sipped the wine and nodded.

  “Mmm, it is very nice. So, what did you do after you left Hendon?”

  “I did a course in accountancy. I worked in a couple of firms at a low level, but it was so boring, and you know it takes ages to qualify as a fully fledged accountant. Then I applied for a job on a cruise liner.” She laughed. “I thought it would be a cheap way of seeing the world, but my God, they worked my socks off. I saw the West Indies, and the Bahamas and the Virgin Isles, but nothing ever prepares you for the pettiness of the crews. And most of the guests on board treat you like a glorified waitress and cleaner.”

  At this point their starters arrived. Two more customers came in and were seated, as another couple left. The restaurant was still only a quarter full. As they ate Jane gave a brief outline of how she had moved from Hackney to Bow Street and succeeded in qualifying for CID.

  “CID . . . wow! That’s terrific! Do you deal with murder inquiries?”

  “I have done. But there’s a lot of discrimination in the Met. You learn to deal with it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, women often get sidelined, or given incredibly boring inquiries. Even on murder cases you end up doing tedious paper work. I remember when I was a probationer it felt like I was nothing more than wallpaper. Only useful for making teas and coffees. It’s better now I’m a detective, but it’s still there.”

  “It’s the same at the bank. Some of the clerks and bank managers I’ve had to deal with would make your hair stand on end. So rigid, and obsessive time keepers. God forbid that you should make the smallest error; all hell breaks loose.”

  “So, do you live with someone? Are you married?” Jane asked.

  “I have lived with a few men, and when I was on the cruise ships I was quite naughty, but I haven’t found the right one yet. What about you?”

  “There’s nobody really. I’ve just rented out the spare room in my flat.”

  Jane went on to describe Pearl Radcliff and her vegetarian diet, and relayed the story about asking her if she had many belongings. “And now the spare bedroom looks like a book depository,” she finished. Natalie swapped stories of previous girls she had shared with, making Jane laugh when she told her about one girl who had so many boyfriends coming and going, and that eventually she had found out she was a complete nymphomaniac.

  “Her name was Françoise, and she came from a very upper-class family. I think they owned vineyards in the South of France because she always had loads of money. She made model airplanes, and would spend hours gluing and using thin wires to hang them from her bedroom ceiling. I asked her if she was interested in flying and she said they represented her lovers! Anyway, one time she brought back this handsome chap and kept on saying that he was the one. Then she made this small helicopter and pinned it up! So, he was gone and eventually I had to ask her to leave.”

  By the time their main course arrived they had drunk almost the entire bottle of wine. Natalie was very complimentary about her cannelloni, explaining how difficult it was to roll the light pastry around the meat and make the rich tomato sauce.

  “I love cooking, and I have to say that I’m not too bad. I even did a Cordon Bleu cookery course, because I really like experimenting and trying out new dishes. Do you like Indian food?”

  Jane shrugged, saying that she was embarrassed at how hopeless she was in the kitchen. “When I’m at work, or was living in the section house, I always ate in the canteen. My mother’s a good cook. Did it all when I lived at home. You know, big roast dinners on a Sunday. I can just about boil or scramble an egg with some bacon. I’ve never tried anything fancy. There are blokes at work who know more about cooking than me.”

  “Well, I am going to change that Jane Tennison! I’m going to give you a beginner’s course in some basic culinary dishes. What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Well, I’ve planned to see my sister tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you come over on Sunday? I’ll do a grocery shop tomorrow and we can cook lunch together.”

  Natalie was wonderful company and Jane realized tha
t she had never had a close girlfriend. She felt so at ease with her, and readily accepted her offer of a cooking lesson.

  By the time they had both had coffee and a delicious sweet honey pastry each, they had agreed to meet on Sunday. Natalie wrote down her address in Belsize Park and insisted that Jane come by early so she could start the cookery lesson.

  “It’s just a garden flat in the basement, so don’t be too excited. I’m going to insist I pay for our dinner tonight, and you can pay the next time we eat out. But I’m hoping you’ll be able to invite me to your place to meet your vegetarian Pearl, and then cook for me.”

  They were the last customers to leave the restaurant, and the closed sign was flipped over on the main door. As they headed out into the street toward Baker Street station, they paused at the traffic lights.

  “This is where I head back to Melcombe Street,” Jane said.

  “I had a great evening. See you Sunday,” Natalie replied. She gave Jane a hug and kissed her on the cheek before hurrying across the road.

  Jane was just turning away when a highly polished black Jaguar pulled up at the red traffic light. Jane wouldn’t have noticed the vehicle and its occupants, but for the face in the passenger window. Jane instantly recognized Regina Hernandez, the young girl she had rescued on her first day with the Dip Squad. Regina looked like a startled fawn. As the lights turned to green Jane, hardly believing what she was doing, flagged down a cab.

  “Can you follow that black Jaguar.”

  “Lost your boyfriend, have yer?” The cab driver smirked as Jane got in.

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “Right luv, doing an Agatha Christie, are you? I’ll follow it.”

  From the back seat, Jane watched as the Jaguar drove along Regent Street. Crossing straight over Oxford Circus, they passed the London Palladium Theatre’s billboards and then Liberty’s, taking a right at Brook Street. The cab driver, half turned to Jane, “Do you know where your friends are going luv?”

  “No, I don’t.” Jane said, wondering if the driver of the Jaguar suspected he was being followed or was unfamiliar with the area. She made a note of the plate number of the Jag.

  “Well I hope they’re not a sightseeing tour! That looks like a courtesy car.”

  “Just keep following please.” Part of Jane was uncertain she had even recognized Regina. As they approached Grosvenor Square and headed into the traffic in Park Lane, they were directly behind the Jaguar and when it stopped abruptly outside the Playboy Club, the cab driver almost drove into the back of it.

  “Did you see that? No indication he was stopping!”

  Jane already had her wallet open. Ahead, she saw a man in a shiny suit get out and open the passenger door. Dressed in a plunging top, tight fitting sequined mini skirt, high heeled silver sandals and a white fox fur wrap, the 15-year-old Hernandez girl did not look her age.

  “Could you wait for me?”

  “No, luv, I can’t park out here. Just pay me off. It’s £4.”

  Jane thrust a five-pound note at the driver just as the Jaguar pulled away from the pavement. The Playboy Club’s black gleaming door opened as Jane ran toward Regina. That was the moment she saw that the man ushering the frightened girl in front of him was Regina’s uncle, Andres Hernandez. The club door closed and the doorman barred the entrance.

  “I need to speak to that girl.”

  “Members only,” the bouncer replied without looking at Jane.

  “You don’t understand. It is very important that I speak to that young girl. She’s underage.”

  “You got a membership card, luv?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then you ain’t getting in.”

  Jane got out her warrant card. “I’m a detective with the Metropolitan Police.”

  “So are quite a few people in there . . . and a lot more senior than you, sweetheart. Shall I go disturb a commander and get him to come and have a word with you, or would you like to toddle off and get a warrant?”

  It was a pointless to argue with the doorman. She suspected he was right: there were probably a few senior police officers in the club and they wouldn’t take kindly to being disturbed by the likes of a detective constable. Jane gave up and headed home.

  Jane woke up early the following morning and walked to the nearest launderette, which was on Edgware Road. She didn’t wash bed linen in the flat as there was only a small washing machine and no tumble dryer. As she waited for the dryer to finish, she was haunted by Regina’s scared face as she was pulled into the club. She hurried home and was glad to see that Pearl had already left to visit her parents in Southport. She called DCI Church. He wasn’t in his office, but she spoke to Stanley, who seemed almost to live in the squalid office.

  “There’s something going on, Stanley. Last night I was in Baker Street and I saw this very polished black Jaguar. It might be a courtesy car the Playboy Club provides for its clients.”

  “So?”

  “She was sitting in the back seat.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Regina Hernandez.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t finished yet, Stanley. The man who took her into the Playboy Club was that Andres Hernandez who they say was her uncle. I was told that she was being looked after! Stanley, she is only 15 and was dressed like a hooker and I’m certain that the club management would be wary of allowing an underage girl into the premises. She’s too young to even be allowed to drink, never mind go into a casino.”

  “Did you make a note of the Jag’s license plate?”

  “Yes, I did.” Jane repeated it. “The taxi driver suggested it might be a courtesy car.”

  “Where does the taxi driver fit into this?”

  “I told you, when I saw Regina in the car, I hailed a taxi and followed it from Baker Street.”

  “Right, I’ll pass this on to the Vice Squad and just before you hang up, Jane, do you mind if I give you a little word of advice? I wouldn’t try to claim your cab fare on expenses. You were told this was no longer connected to us and you don’t want to piss DCI Church off.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Jane said shortly.

  Feeling dispirited after her conversation with Stanley, Jane drove to her parents’ flat in Maida Vale. It was just after 1pm when Jane arrived, and they were delighted to see her. They made such a fuss of her that she felt guilty for not having been to see them before. Her father didn’t speak about the events at Covent Garden, but did say that DCI Church had been to visit them again and left contact numbers in case they had any inquiries.

  “Mr. Church said they were all taking good care of you,” her father said, when her mother went out of the room. “He was considerate and supportive, and explained the situation. Mum and I are proud of you Jane, but I’d rather hear it from you . . . Are you coping?”

  “Yes, on the whole, but there are moments when it’s hard to focus. Please don’t tell Mum.”

  “You know I won’t, Jane.”

  “I had to bag and tag the victims’ clothing the other day. There was a mother who was killed at the scene, but her baby survived. I had to bag the mothers torn blood stained clothes and the child’s babygro, which had the mother’s blood on it. I found it really upsetting.”

  Mr. Tennison hugged his daughter. “Your job is really harrowing at times. You are very brave and I admire you. So does your mother, but sometimes she’s not much good at showing it.”

  Her mother was cooking a leg of lamb with all the trimmings. Jane offered to help but as usual her mother refused, as she hated anyone getting under her feet in the kitchen.

  “Does Pam know how to cook, Mum?”

  “Good heavens no! Poor Tony gets more takeaways than he ever has a good cooked meal. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve lived off canteen food for too long. Now I’ve got a place of my own I’d like to fend for myself on something more substantial than eggs and bacon.”

  Mrs. Tennison laughed. “I was self-t
aught, dear. Practice is what makes a good cook. Mind you, I burned a few things and used the wrong ingredients to start with. I’ll give you some of my cookery books to take with you. The Fanny Craddock one is good—you know, the woman who’s always on TV, with the monocled husband. They’re a good double act, a bit like me and your dad.”

  They didn’t eat lunch until after 2pm, then sat watching TV while Mrs. Tennison told Jane that they had booked a two-week cruise. Jane was astonished, even more so when they said they were going to Norway. She could hardly believe they were being such adventurists. They talked about her new flatmate and Mrs. Tennison was relieved that Jane was no longer living on her own. Her father was also relieved that the rent was being paid in, and Jane was repaying his deposit loan toward her mortgage.

  It was 5:30pm when Jane left and drove to the salon hoping that Pam might be able to cut her hair and do some highlights. Pam was tired after a long and busy day but she made Jane a cup of coffee while she finished her last client. By the time Jane was in the chair, it was after 6pm. Pam put a rubber cap on Jane, and pulled sections of her hair through the small holes. Then Pam applied the bleach, wrapping each length of hair in square cut sections of tin foil. It had to be left on for twenty minutes so Pam pulled up a stool and sat beside Jane.

  “I’m still not pregnant . . . but it’s not for lack of trying!” She gave a soft laugh, but Jane could tell she was not happy.

  “Maybe if you didn’t worry so much?”