“All part of the front to appear normal in the eyes of others. She’s a skilled operative, Jane. I doubt any one of us on this investigation would have rumbled her cover.”
In the waste bin they found the unopened groceries and tins of food that Natalie must have bought on the day she’d left work early. Some used candles were also in the bin. Jane bent down and took one out, sniffing it. Lily of the Valley. She held it up.
“Natalie must have lit the scented candles to cover the smell of mildew when I came over. Plus she was always cooking when I was here.”
Lawrence nodded. “You never know. Besides her prints we might find some other useful ones here that match to known IRA members.”
He did several spot tests for nitroglycerine but all proved negative and he said he thought it was unlikely that the premises had been used for bomb making.
They opened the French windows onto the small garden; the moss covered stone steps led to a garden table and two benches. Overshadowed by a huge tree with enormous branches, it felt dank and cold.
“I keep on making excuses for my naivety. Why didn’t I pick it up? She lied to me about everything, even telling me she had picnics out here.”
Lawrence shrugged. He was surprised that the usually observant Jane hadn’t detected the underlying state of the flat. But instead he said, “Don’t beat yourself up about this, Jane. You didn’t have any reason to doubt her.”
Jane looked around, picturing the flat as it had been when she’d last visited. Now all she could see were the lies.
Back in the lab, Lawrence set up three trestle tables covered in plastic sheeting before tipping out each rubbish bag they’d brought from Natalie’s flat. The stench of rotting food filled the lab. Lawrence wore a mask as he plucked out a chicken carcass that was crawling with maggots. Using a wooden spatula, he picked his way through the mound of potato peelings and apple pie crust. It was a tedious and distasteful process. He set aside the empty food cans for fingerprinting, but it was not until he reached the damp, stinking, newspapers that many of the items had been wrapped in that he came across something of interest.
The newspapers had been flattened out, and the dates were barely visible in the blurred wet print. One of the headlines from the Evening Standard was “Covent Garden Bomb Horror.” Lawrence had to be careful as the sodden paper was falling apart, but the front page had a picture of Jane Tennison standing by an ambulance. Using a magnifying glass and leaning closer to the blurred picture, Lawrence could see a very faint red ring drawn around Jane’s face, and her name was underlined. Sifting further through the bin, he found a cutting of the press release with the artist’s impression of the suspect and the interview with Jane.
DCI Crowley sat in his office with DCI Church discussing the investigation.
“Natalie Wilde must have recognized Tennison from the press conference or bomb scene photographs in the paper,” Church suggested.
“Yeah, and no doubt the rest of the ASU were rubbing their hands with glee once they realized Wilde knew Tennison from Hendon training college.”
“Perhaps Wilde was a sleeper when she joined the Met. Lucky she couldn’t swim, otherwise she might have been Commissioner by now.” Church was trying to make light of the situation, but Crowley wasn’t amused.
“Don’t even go there. The press will have a field day when it comes out, which it will if we arrest her and she stands trial. Every one of us will be made to look fools thanks to Tennison.”
“She’s young and inexperienced. She wasn’t to know who and what Wilde really was. I’m not pointing any fingers, but the reality is that we all put Jane in this situation with Natalie. Jane was adamant that she could not identify the bomber, but the press release and artist’s impression marked her out as our only witness who saw him.”
“Whatever I did or didn’t do was for the sake of the investigation and arresting those IRA bastards before they killed and maimed more innocent people. Tennison divulged confidential information to a fuckin’ IRA sleeper and now they are one jump ahead of us!”
“So, why the phone call from Natalie last night?” Church asked, quietly.
Crowley pursed his lips, not answering. Church leaned forward, patting his pocket for a cigarette pack.
“She’s coming out of hiding. It doesn’t make sense, unless she’s not going to turn up tonight. Why lie about working late at the bank and being at her flat when she’d already gone to ground? Stanley’s one of my best guys, and he is adamant that she was not aware of being tailed. The way she acted was like a pro, making sure she was safe. I mean, Jesus Christ, for one second Stanley thought there was going to be another bomb explosion at Selfridges.”
“But she didn’t have a bomb so there wasn’t,” Crowley said. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro from his jacket pocket and tossed them over his desk to Church. “Listen, we’ve had talks about what could be on the agenda. We know that Natalie Wilde is aware of the time and place of tonight’s dinner, but we’ve got high security at the hotel so it’s still going ahead. The Yard’s detective squads have had a dinner dance on Good Friday for years and I’m not letting the IRA stop this one.”
“I know that! But why did she call Jane?” Church snapped.
Crowley leaned back in his desk chair and counted off the points on his fingers. “One, she was making sure the venue was still the same. Two, she’s checking we had no knowledge, or evidence, of her connection to the bomber. Three—”
“Three, she takes Tennison out, removing our key witness, and we never catch the bomber. Then another bloody bomb goes off and we’re to blame.”
“I was coming to that. I think she’s going to turn up. We need a wire on Tennison to record everything Wilde says as evidence against her.”
Church said angrily, “Wilde is going there to help Jane with her dress! How on earth is she going to conceal a bloody wire? Have you not considered her safety at all?”
“Of course I have. Okay, the wire won’t work, but we can hide listening devices in the flat instead.”
“Even then Natalie might stumble across a listening device. Armed officers should arrest her on the pavement before she gets into Tennison’s block of flats.”
“That’s a fair point,” Crowley conceded. “Safer all round.”
Together they began to select officers to be in position outside Baker Street underground station so they could arrest Wilde on the street. As an extra precaution, they would have two men in the surveillance position opposite Jane’s flat. “And we should place Stanley inside the flat with her as additional protection,” Church added. Crowley agreed.
By the time DCI Church had left Scotland Yard, he was confident that Crowley had set a water-tight trap for Natalie Wilde. He drove to Melcombe Street to update Jane. When he arrived it was after two o’clock. She was in her dressing gown with her hair in rollers, and had been waiting for him. He spoke calmly as he explained what the plan was: just as he’d promised, Natalie would be arrested before she even got to Jane’s flat.
“All you have to do is sit tight and wait. You’ll be given a blow-by-blow account over the surveillance radio. Just keep that close by and then you and Stanley will get to the venue by taxi when it’s all clear.” He smiled. “Save the first waltz for me?”
As Church left Jane seemed surprisingly relaxed, saying that she would start getting herself ready for the evening.
“Stanley will have do up all the little buttons on my dress,” she joked. “That part was true you know. I can’t do the dress up by myself.”
After Church had gone, Jane smoked the last cigarette in the pack he had left behind the day before. Holding her other hand up, she saw that it was shaking. She inhaled a deep lungful of smoke, stubbed out the cigarette and went into the bathroom.
Jane spent a long time applying her makeup. She used more foundation than usual, with a damp sponge to smooth the pale ivory liquid down her neck and over her cleavage. She darkened her eye brows, and outlined her eyelashes and lids in
brown eye shadow and liner before finishing with black mascara. The pale lipstick was enhanced with a little dab of Vaseline, making her lips look shiny as she pouted in front of the mirror.
She jumped as the phone rang, then went into the hall and tentatively picked up the receiver.
It was Michael, asking if she was free for dinner that night. She told him she had a work function, and that she’d call tomorrow to arrange a date over the weekend. She would have liked to have told Michael everything was far from fine, but she couldn’t. She checked her bedside clock and saw that it was after five, so she began taking out her rollers. She brushed her hair loose and was about to pin it up, but decided against it as it looked lovely down. She put on her best underwear and the strapless bra, which reminded her of the awful bridesmaid’s dress she’d worn for her sister’s wedding. Her mother had followed her round constantly trying to pull up the dress, worried about Jane showing too much cleavage, which had attracted even more attention.
Jane had hung the Chanel gown up on her wardrobe door so that the creases in the spiral silk and lace frills of the skirt would drop out. She took the gown off the hanger and stepped into it. There was no way she was going to be able to do up all the buttons herself; Stanley really would have to help her when he arrived.
Crowley had four teams of undercover officers at Baker Street station, on the platforms and outside in the street. Also in position was a surveillance van with a driver, and two officers inside. They had all been issued with recent surveillance photos of Natalie Wilde, taken when she had brought the groceries back to her flat before vanishing. Their orders were to arrest her on sight and get her into the van to be driven to Scotland Yard for an immediate interview with DCI Crowley.
Two more officers were on duty across the road from Tennison’s flat, just in case their target somehow managed to avoid arrest. All officers were in radio contact and by four fifteen everyone was in position. Crowley remained at the Yard with DCI Church, waiting for the outcome. Both men had brought in their evening suits and shirts for the dinner dance that night.
At four twenty, Tennison’s doorbell rang. She looked through the window and saw that it was Stanley, although she had to look twice as he was wearing a purple velvet dinner suit with a frilled shirt and a velvet bow tie. His usually greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail. She buzzed him in and opened her front door as he headed up the stairs.
“You look very smart,” Jane said, as he joined her.
“Thank you. The suit belongs to my brother-in-law, and my wife had the trousers shortened and the waistcoat made to measure. The shirt’s mine, and the cufflinks were my dad’s.”
He displayed one of the large gold and onyx cufflinks, then looked up.
“What?” he said. “You don’t like them?”
“I just find that I don’t really like you.”
“Ah, well. It takes all sorts.”
“I trusted you, Stanley. The other night, with the Vice Squad, you said that you would do what you could to look out for me with DCI Church.”
Stanley made a hissing sound through his teeth.
“Yeah, I know what I said. Can we go and sit down in the kitchen for a minute?”
Jane reluctantly followed him. He poured some water into the kettle and switched it on, then fetched a box of tea bags from the cupboard and a bottle of milk from the fridge.
“You’re making yourself at home.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing, Jane, I’m trying to relax enough to talk to you seriously. I want you to understand why I had to inform DCI Church of the screw-up with the Vice Squad. D’you take sugar?”
Jane perched on the stool beside him. “No, I don’t.”
“I need to go further back, Jane. Maybe you don’t know this, but your old boss at Bow Street Station kind of twisted Jimmy’s arm to bring you in. I know you have ambitions, farcical as they may be, to get into the Flying Squad, but Jimmy agreed to take you on in the Dip Squad because we might be able to use a female officer.”
Jane didn’t interrupt as the kettle boiled. Stanley made the tea.
“So, first thing. After, I admit, a brief training, we have WDC Tennison working on the underground. We had a major suspect, a man already wanted for assault and handling stolen property—Andres Hernandez.”
Jane said nothing. Stanley could hardly look at her.
“First day up, Tennison, you almost get pushed under a bloody train, we lose our main suspect, but we bag Miguel Hernandez and the yob in the big leather coat. I have to give it to you that the poor joker who had his wallet lifted gave you a description of Regina Hernandez.”
Jane nodded. “I know that, Stanley. Until then, nobody on the team knew there was a girl involved. It was only when we were questioning Miguel—when I spoke to him in Spanish, remember—that he admitted that Regina was his sister.”
Stanley poured the tea. “Yes, yes, yes . . . we know that. Through Miguel we get access to the rundown flat they were living in—”
“—and you arrest Andres Hernandez,” Jane interjected.
“Yes, yes . . . And we take Regina, who was being sexually abused.”
“She was being RAPED!” Jane exclaimed. “She was fifteen years old and terrified! I had to take her to be examined—”
“Shut up and listen to me! As a consequence of raiding the Portobello flat, we discovered fourteen passports belonging to underage girls from Colombia.”
Stanley pointed his finger at Jane.
“At this time we were instructed, by the guv, that we were no longer running with this case and that we were handing it over to the Vice Squad. Do you recall him saying that?”
Jane shrugged. “Yes, I do. But we were told that Regina would most likely not go to trial and that someone at the Embassy would arrange for a safe place for her to stay.”
Stanley raised his hand. “Please, just let me take this in order!”
Jane turned away and sipped her tea.
“The next thing we have is WDC Tennison on the front page of the tabloids involved in the horror of the bomb blast at Covent Garden underground station. Whether you were or were not aware of photographers being there is another matter. What is important, obviously even more so because of what’s going down today, is that you are possibly a vital witness to the bomber. Have you followed everything so far, Jane?”
“Yes,” Jane said resentfully. “I am following you perfectly well, Stanley. I’m just not sure why you feel it is necessary for you to go into all this detail.”
“Because you bloody need to know the details. The next thing is that you take it upon yourself to follow Regina Hernandez, who you spot as a passenger in a car that we later discover is a courtesy vehicle for the Playboy Club in Park Lane.”
Stanley went on to say that he was aware that this information had been passed onto the Vice Squad and they immediately acted on it. The reality was that they were already focusing on Andres Hernandez.
“After that you were told, again, that the Vice Squad were handling the situation and that it was not the Dip Squad’s territory.”
“She was wearing a mini skirt, stiletto shoes, and her breasts were hanging out of a skimpy top! We were supposed to be protecting her, Stanley!” Jane felt her anger rising.
“Shut up! Your little fifteen-year-old isn’t as naïve as you think she is. She was brought in for questioning and agreed to lead the Vice Squad to two further establishments that this Andres bastard runs—one in Beak Street and the other in Greek Street. On the night they’ve organized a raid, our innocent little Regina goes walkabout. As they need her to give evidence against Andres Hernandez, they go out looking for her. WDC Tennison, in the middle of the red-light district with no back up, attempts a street arrest of Regina Hernandez, completely unaware that the guy who had stopped to talk to her was Vice Squad. And Regina, our witness, runs off—vanishes.”
Jane felt her cheeks flush.
Stanley rolled a cigarette. “I know what I said to you, Jane, but you
had yet again ignored orders and if DCI Church found out, you would have been in dire trouble—so my intention was to dig you out of the shit. However, the following morning, I discover that your flatmate had been arrested. What the fuck do you expect me to do? When I was told, I thought you were a bloody liability! NOW it turns out that your friend from training school is a wrong ’un and the major suspect!”
“You arsehole, Stanley!” Jane was really angry now. “How dare you suggest I was in some way complicit with what happened! Tell me, can you honestly say hand on heart that Natalie Wilde wouldn’t have fooled you?”
“That’s irrelevant,” snapped Stanley. “What’s relevant is that if, via Natalie Wilde, the bomb squad can identify the bomber, you’ll be hanging onto your career by your finger nails—but at least you might still have one.”
He took out the radio from his pocket and spoke into it. “This is OP Juliet Tango to control, testing . . . over.” The transmitter crackled.
“Receiving you, Juliet Tango . . . loud and clear . . . control over.”
“Juliet Tango premises safe and secure, over.” Stanley shook his head at the radio. “Piece of crap. it’s one from the Dip Squad’s office. They keep promising we’ll get new ones.”
He suddenly looked properly at Jane for the first time since he had arrived. “My God, that’s a bit low at the front, isn’t it?”
“I need you to do up all the little buttons at the back.”
“Well, I have to say Tennison, you’ve got a good pair. Just keep them under wraps.” He smirked and checked his watch. “It’s coming up to five o’clock. Fingers crossed.”
He sat on a stool as Jane went into her bedroom to collect her evening bag. Inside it she had put her warrant card, lipstick, comb, some folded bank notes, keys and a handkerchief. She needed time alone to digest everything that Stanley had said. What she had not told him was that she knew what it felt like to get on the wrong side of DCI Church. When Church had reprimanded her and told her that they still had not traced Regina Hernandez, he had said that if Regina was subsequently found dead it would be on her head.
Good Friday Page 32