Jane was at a loss as to where she should sit, but just then DCI Church left his table with Crowley and Maynard and their guests.
“Come on, we’ve got some food at the table for you.”
She followed him to a large round table. It was full of used napkins and empty wine glasses but there were two fresh bottles of white and red wine. Jane sat down as Church pulled out a chair for her in front of a setting of salad, cheese and biscuits.
Church poured her a glass of red wine. Crowley was sitting beside her, next to a large woman in a sequined jacket who was obviously rather tipsy. Opposite them were two forensic scientists she knew by sight from the explosives lab who were also clearly enjoying themselves, as were most of the other rowdy guests. Couples were dancing and throwing themselves around as the band struck up “Rock Around the Clock.” Suddenly the net above the dance floor was released and red and white balloons cascaded down from the ceiling, along with streamers and confetti.
Jane sipped her wine and cut a small slice of cheese as Crowley leaned toward her.
“I’m proud of you, of what you have done. You are a brave young woman. Believe me, it won’t go unnoticed.”
Jane nodded gratefully as he topped up her wine, then he gestured toward the woman in the sequin dress, who was knocking back her drink.
“That’s my wife, Margaret, and you know those two rogues from the forensic science lab.”
He then almost turned his back completely to Jane as he suggested to his wife that they should be leaving. Church bent his head toward Jane and whispered.
“She’s three sheets to the wind, and the forensic guys are plastered as well. You can relax, Tennison. Everything is safe now, thanks to Dexter.”
“Am I all right, sir?”
Church tilted his head to one side. “This is not the time or the place, Tennison.”
“I know I have been a bit of a liability . . .”
“That is putting it mildly, Tennison. Come in and see me tomorrow at midday, and we can talk everything over. Now, would you like to dance?”
“Could I just have a few minutes, if you don’t mind? I’m really quite hungry.”
“It’s a lucky escape, to be honest. I’ve got two left feet!”
Jane scoured the dance floor and the surrounding tables for Dexter. She eventually caught sight of him on the far side of the room, sitting at a table full of men. He was rocking back and forth in his chair, laughing.
She jumped as there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see DS Lawrence standing behind her, looking very smart in an elegant dinner jacket and a frilled shirt.
“Hello, Jane. I just got here—missed all the action by the sound of things. You look lovely . . . which is more than I can say for Edith. I think a couple of the guys had to help her out, after she attempted to rock and roll with Maynard!”
Jane laughed softly as Lawrence pointed across the room to the dance floor.
“You seen Timex? He looks like an emperor penguin in that gear.”
Shepherd, known as Timex because he was always checking his watch, was the only man wearing a white tuxedo jacket with black trousers.
“That’s his wife with him. Absolutely stunning isn’t she? No wonder he always wants to clock off at five pm sharp and get home ASAP,” Lawrence remarked. He leaned over to speak with Crowley, giving him an update on his work. The Triumph Herald had been double-checked before the car was towed away and it was all clear. Lawrence moved away from the table as Jane ate another slice of cheese.
DCI Church was now busy talking to Crowley and had left his packet of cigarettes on the table. Jane took one and picked up a box of matches that had been left next to the overflowing ashtray. She inhaled deeply as the band started playing “Blue Moon” and the lights were lowered.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the next song will be the last waltz. We hope you’ve all enjoyed your evening, and we wish you a safe journey home.”
Jane sat, smoking, and wondered if they had arranged a car or taxi to take her home. She stubbed out the cigarette and suddenly sat bolt upright as she felt a tingle down the back of her neck. Dexter leaned down toward her, running his finger down her nape.
“Can I have the last waltz?”
Jane nodded. He drew out her chair and took her hand. She felt herself blushing as Dexter guided her forward and then slipped his arms around her.
“You look lovely! Is your dress fixed? We don’t want to fall arse over . . .”
“Yes, the cloakroom attendant sewed it up for me.”
He held her tighter, his face close to her hair. Stanley and Alison danced next to them. Alison seemed to have forgotten her anger and had her arms around her husband’s neck, resting her head on his shoulder. She was quite a few inches taller than him.
“She’s going to need you tonight, Dexter. She’s got twenty-five buttons at the back of her dress, and there’s no way can she undo them herself,” Stanley said.
“How do you know?” Dexter asked, grinning.
“I got her into it!”
Alison looked up from Stanley’s shoulder and shook her head. “Honestly, you say the rudest things! What if she doesn’t want him to go home with her? Mind you, if it was me I’d jump at the chance.”
“ALISON!” Stanley said, whisking her away as she laughed and said she was only joking.
Dexter tilted Jane’s chin up and at the same time ran his hand down the back of her dress.
“Do you need me to help get you out of this?”
“Yes, I do . . .”
They didn’t wait for the waltz to end. In the car park, the blue Triumph Herald was being loaded onto a flat truck under Lawrence’s supervision. Seeing Jane, he waved her goodnight.
Dexter kept his arm around her shoulder as they headed into the road and hailed a taxi to take them to her flat.
“Well, that was certainly some event,” he said, casually.
“Yes, I won’t forget it for a long time. I still can’t believe it all happened.”
“Without you, Jane Tennison, it wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting, never mind conclusive.”
“It was exactly as you told me. You know, remembering him from Covent Garden. When I did recognize him, I just froze.”
Dexter stared out of the window and said quietly that he didn’t want to talk about it. He sat slightly apart from her as she tried to think of something to say to him.
“That was so nice of you to give Stanley your raffle prize.”
“It was all down to Crowley fixing it for me to win. He’s an odd man; doesn’t know how to look you in the face and show you his appreciation, but basically he’s an all right old so and so.”
“He told me tonight that he would look after me. He wants to see me in his office tomorrow.”
“You should get a commendation for what you’ve brought to the table, never mind what you were subjected to by that two-faced bitch. She’ll be under tough interrogation. But when she finds out her bomber pal is mincemeat, she might crack and give details about their cell, and name other IRA members.”
“You don’t think it will go against me that I was so taken in by her?”
Dexter shrugged, not wanting to say that it very well could be an issue. Instead he pulled his wallet out of his jacket and took out some money to pay for the taxi. They drew up outside her flat and Jane unlocked the main front door, hitching up her long skirt to walk up the stairs as Dexter followed behind her.
On entering her flat she switched on the hall lights and tossed her evening bag onto the breakfast bar in her kitchen.
“Would you like a coffee or anything?”
“No thanks, nothing. Unless you have any brandy?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s okay . . . Let’s get you out of that dress.”
They went into her bedroom, which was still untidy from the search for her necklace. Jane quickly replaced the cushions on the bed and rearranged the valance where Stanley had lifted it and found the detona
tor underneath.
“Stanley had to hide in the wardrobe in Pearl’s old room. Natalie really sent shock waves when she rang the doorbell.”
“I’d say our pal Stanley has probably done a lot of nipping into wardrobes when taken by surprise!” He laughed.
Dexter took Jane by her shoulders and slowly turned her around so that her back was facing him. He began undoing the tiny buttons, and as he did so he bent his head and kissed her bare back, loosening one button after another.
“My God, these are fiddly! Some of the button holes are really tight.”
By the time he had undone them, the top of her dress had slipped down, revealing her black strapless bra. She caught it in her hands, embarrassed.
“Well, that was a job well done!”
“Thank you.”
Dexter sat on the edge of her bed as she stood in front of him wanting, more than anything, for him to take her in his arms.
“I need to be straight with you, Jane. I think you’re sweet, and sexy, and I would like to stay here with you all night. I think that’s what you want as well. I could be wrong, and maybe that’s my ego talking, but I want to be straight with you. I really like you, but if I sleep with you tonight it will be harder for you to understand that that is all it would be. I don’t want a relationship.”
“I understand,” Jane said, close to tears.
Dexter stood up and cradled her in his arms. “No, don’t say that . . . don’t make it any harder. I’m going to go, Jane.”
Dexter held her at arm’s length and looked at her through what suddenly seemed like cruel blue eyes.
“You don’t understand, Jane. I need to get fucked tonight, fucked rigid . . . because it’s the only way I’m going to release all the pent-up shit inside me. And I’m not going to use you for that, because you are worth far more.”
Dexter walked out of her bedroom, and Jane slumped down on her bed as she heard the front door close behind him. She felt as if her heart was breaking as she reached for his faded James Dean t-shirt and held it to her face.
Dexter lit a cigar as he stepped into the phone box. He took some change from his pocket and dialed a number. It was after midnight, but he knew she would be up. Her husky, laconic, bedroom voice answered.
“Pauline, it’s me.”
“You’re lucky I got a good memory for voices, Dex. You think all my clients say ‘it’s me’ and expect me to know who it is? What you want?”
“Two of your best. Send them over in about half an hour, all right?”
“Cab fare on top, darlin’.”
“Yeah, OK.”
Dexter hung up and stared at his reflection in the small square mirror above the phone. He looked haunted and there were deep circles beneath his pale blue eyes. The incredible adrenalin he had felt that night had left him mentally exhausted and now he needed to feel the same way physically. Pauline’s girls would ensure that, and when they left him he would sleep.
Jane was surprised that she was able to switch off, and when her alarm clock rang in the morning she could hardly believe she had slept so deeply. Her dress was still on the bedroom floor where she had stepped out of it, and there was a trail of underwear from the bedroom to the bathroom.
She pulled on her old toweling dressing gown and went into the kitchen to make herself some eggs and bacon. She was ravenously hungry.
By the time she had tidied her bedroom, showered and dressed it was almost nine o’clock. The phone rang in the hallway.
“Hi there, it’s Michael. Are you still free tonight? I was wondering if you’d like to see a movie and then maybe have dinner?”
“You know, I would really like that.”
“Great! Do you want to leave me to choose which film, or do you have one you’d like to see?”
“No, you choose.”
“Done. Let me pick you up at around seven. Does that suit?”
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
“See you later. Is everything all right with you?”
“Yes Michael, everything’s fine. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”
Jane replaced the receiver and rested her hand on the telephone. Michael was very different from Dexter. He was nice and dependable, and obviously cared for her. Deep down she was certain that Dexter cared too, and that was the reason he had walked away. She caught sight of his t-shirt on the floor next to her bed, where she had thrown it down last night.
Picking it up, she put it into the waste bin.
Turn the page for an excerpt from Lynda La Plante’s
Murder Mile
Chapter One
Jane Tennison, recently promoted to sergeant, looked out of the passenger window of the CID car at the snow, which was falling too lightly to settle. It was 4:30 a.m. on a freezing Saturday morning in mid-February 1979 and recently the overnight temperatures had been sub-zero. The weather reports were calling it one of the coldest winters of the century.
Apart from a couple of minor incidents, Jane’s CID night shift at Peckham had been remarkably uneventful, due to the bad weather. She looked at her watch: only another hour and a half to go before she finished her week of night duty and could get home to a warm bath, good sleep and some time off. She’d be back at Peckham on Monday for day shift.
Detective Constable Brian Edwards, an old colleague from her Hackney days, had been her night duty partner throughout the week. He was so tall he had the driving seat pressed as far back as it could possibly go, but his knees were still almost touching the steering wheel.
“Can you turn the heating up?” she asked, as they drove along East Dulwich Road.
“It’s already on full.” Edwards moved the slider to be sure, then glanced at Jane. “I meant to say earlier—I like your new hairstyle . . . sort of makes you look more mature.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I look older, Brian?” Jane asked.
“I was being complimentary! It goes with your smart clothes, makes you look more business-like . . . especially now you’ve been promoted.”
Jane was about to reply when Edwards suddenly slammed his foot on the car brake bringing it to an abrupt halt. They both lunged forward, Edwards banging his chest against the steering wheel and Jane narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the windscreen.
“What—what’s up?” Jane asked, startled, staring at Edwards.
“A rat . . . A bloody rat!” He pointed at the middle of the road in front of them.
Illuminated by the car headlights was a massive rat, a piece of rotting meat between its sharp teeth. The rat suddenly darted off across the road and out of sight. Edwards shook his head.
“I hate rats. They give me the creeps.”
“Well, that’s obvious! And yes, thank you, Brian, I’m OK—apart from nearly going through the windscreen.”
“I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t mean to hit the brakes so suddenly.”
“I’m just touched that you didn’t want to run the rat over, Brian,” Jane said.
Edwards pointed over toward Peckham Rye Park to a pile of rubbish-filled black plastic bin and shopping bags. They were piled up five foot high and stretched over twenty feet along the side of the park. The stench of rotting rubbish slowly permeated its way into the stationary car.
“It’s thanks to Prime Minister Callaghan and his waste-of-space Labour government that the bin men and other public-sector workers are on strike,” grumbled Edwards. “Everyone’s dumping their rotting rubbish in the parks and it’s attracting the rats. No wonder they’re calling it the ‘Winter of Disconnect.’”
“It’s ‘Discontent,’” Jane corrected him.
“You’re quite right—there’s not much to be happy about! Mind you, if Maggie Thatcher wins the next election we might get a pay rise. She likes the Old Bill.”
Jane was trying hard not to laugh. “It’s the ‘Winter of Discontent’! It comes from Shakespeare’s Richard III: ‘Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York . . .’”
Edwards looked skeptical. “Really?”
“I studied Richard III for A level English.”
“All that Shakespeare lingo is mumbo jumbo to me. I left school at sixteen and joined the Metropolitan Police Cadets,” Edwards said proudly.
“I didn’t know you’d been a Gadget,” said Jane, somewhat surprised. A “Gadget” was affectionate force jargon for a cadet.
“It was all blokes when I first joined the Gadgets,” Edwards went on. “We lived in a big dormitory and got work experience on division alongside the regulars. It gave me a better understanding of police work than your average ex-civvy probationer who went to Hendon—no offense intended,” he added hastily.
“None taken. If I’d known what I wanted to do at sixteen I’d probably have joined the cadets—though my mother would probably have had a heart attack.” Jane liked Edwards, but he wasn’t the brightest spark. He’d been transferred to various stations and hadn’t lasted long on the Flying Squad. In her estimation, he’d probably remain a DC for the rest of his career.
“Tell you what: head back to the station so we can warm up with a hot drink and I’ll type up the night duty CID report,” she said.
Edwards snorted. “That shouldn’t take long—we haven’t attended a crime scene or nicked anyone all night.”
Their banter was interrupted by a call over the radio. “Night duty CID receiving . . . over?”
Jane picked up the radio handset. “Yes, Detective Sergeant Tennison receiving. Go ahead . . . over.”
“A fruit and veg man on his way to set up his market stall has found an unconscious woman in Bussey Alley. Couldn’t rouse her so he called 999. There’s an ambulance en route,” the comms officer said.
“That’s just off Rye Lane.” Edwards made a sharp U turn.
“Yes, we’re free to attend and en route,” Jane confirmed over the radio, switching on the car’s two-tone siren.
Good Friday Page 36