by Mark Romain
Sadler seemed impressed. “You’re very observant,” he said, bending down to tuck the book into his bag.
White shrugged disarmingly. “Nosey is the word you’re looking for,” he said, “but I can’t help it. It comes with the job.”
Sadler smiled. “I do find the subject rather interesting,” he said, straightening up. “In fact, I had one of those Ripper tours booked for later in the week, but I’m not sure if it’s appropriate now, given what’s just happened.”
“I don’t see why not,” White said. “What happened is very sad, but life goes on.”
Sadler bent down again and rummaged around inside his bag for a moment, producing a small bottle of pills. “Yes, it does,” he agreed. “Now, about those tablets, you’re not allergic to anything are you?”
“Only hard work,” White replied with a lame grin.
When the interview with Dawson recommenced, ten minutes later, Sandra proceeded to disclose information that, to put it mildly, astonished her captors. She told them how upset and afraid Tracey had seemed the night before, as they stood together on the street corner. She described the fresh scratch marks on Winston’s face when he came looking for poor Tracey in the early hours. She confessed her belief that Winston had eventually found her and killed her because of the incident in the car. He was, she explained, an evil bastard. Finally, she went on to explain how, to help Tracey, she had come to be in possession of the crack. Crying unashamedly, Sandra agreed to make a full statement for them, despite being scared shitless about reprisals from Winston and his lackeys.
When Steve Bull asked her if she was really sure that she wanted to do it: to put pen to paper, she nodded once, saying tearfully, “Tracey was my friend. I owe it to her memory.”
Charlie gave him a stern look out of the corner of his eye that seemed to say: don’t ask her questions like that in case she changes her mind.
Charlie needn’t have worried. True to her word, Sandra co-operated fully, telling them everything she knew and everything that she suspected about Claude Winston and his illegal activities. She gave them a detailed description of his car, of the various places he frequented and the people he mixed with. Unfortunately, she didn’t know where he lived, which was a minor disappointment but not an insurmountable hurdle. They were confident that a man like Winston would be in the system somewhere. At least they had a name and a description to work with.
Having obtained the Duty Officer’s authority to deal with the drugs by way of an adult caution, they escorted Sandra Dawson out of the station just as dawn was breaking.
The sky was battleship grey, which didn’t bode well for the coming day. Despite a biting wind, the birds in the park opposite were chirping away happily.
With nothing left to say, the three endured an awkward silence together until Dawson’s mini-cab arrived and they waved her off.
As they crossed the rear yard to their car a few minutes later, Charlie White turned to Bull, a satisfied look on his bent-nosed face. “You do realise that when the boss finds out what we’ve achieved by nicking her we’ll both be heroes. Less than a day into the job and we’ve already identified the killer. Not bad going, eh, Stevie?” Charlie was feeling immensely pleased with himself.
“We?” Steve said icily. “Let’s have less of the ‘we’ if you don’t mind, Whitey. I nicked her, not ‘we’. You said so yourself, remember?” Steve Bull gave him a bittersweet smile while thinking, up yours an’ all mate!
“Cheers very much,” Charlie said as his shoulders sagged. “I guess I had that coming.”
“Yep. Felt good too.”
CHAPTER 8
Monday 1st November 1999
The sky above Arbour Square was grey and foreboding and heavy showers were forecast to arrive by mid-morning as an easterly wind blew the storm front ever closer.
It was day two of the enquiry, and the office was already buzzing when Tyler and Dillon walked in, just after half seven that morning. Jack, clean shaven today, felt like shit, but five hours of sleep had fully recharged Dillon, and he was being annoyingly loud.
Tyler nodded at a steady stream of familiar faces as they passed through the main office.
Staff from his Major Incident Room staff fussed over an untidy assortment of statements, messages, and actions that had been brought back the day before, trying to put them into some semblance of order so that they could be inputted onto HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System that was used nationally to run all murders – after the meeting. DC Evans was booking in the CCTV he had seized the previous day. Kelly Flowers sat alone, frantically writing up her FLO log. Charlie White looked dog tired; he had managed to doze at his desk for an hour or so after getting back from Whitechapel, and his shirt – the same one he’d had on yesterday – was now criss-crossed with creases.
Nick Bartholomew and Terry Grier were also there, the latter looking uncomfortable in plain clothes. The two local officers stood up respectfully as he approached. Jack nodded a tired acknowledgement and told them to help themselves to coffee.
Dillon glared malevolently at Kevin Murray, who did his best to avoid eye contact.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot. There was bad blood between the two, stemming from an investigation that had gone sour when Dillon had been Murray’s supervisor back on division. Papers relating to a six-figure fraud that potentially implicated a prominent local businessman and several councillors had mysteriously disappeared, and although he had never been able to prove it, Dillon suspected that Murray had been offered a financial incentive to misplace them. Complaints had tried their hardest to find someone – anyone – to blame, but nothing had ever been proven.
Jack shrugged. “He was on the HAT car when it responded to the call. He’s here for the formal handover, I guess,” he said as they entered his office.
“Jack, I know you’ve asked Holland for some troops from other teams, but please tell me you didn’t ask for him,” Dillon said.
“No way,” Tyler reassured his friend. But it occurred to him that he hadn’t specifically said he didn’t want Murray either.
There was a rap on the glass door, and Bull stepped in without waiting to be invited. “I’ve got an important update from last night,” he told them, but, before he could give it, Tyler’s phone went. He held up his hand, indicating for Steve to be quiet while he answered it. After a brief conversation, which from the tone of his voice the other two realised was with Holland, Jack hung up, looking thoughtful. “It’ll have to wait a little while, Steve. I’ve just been summoned to the boss’s office. Spread the word that the meeting will have to be put back half hour or so.”
◆◆◆
Although DCS Holland was primarily based at the Yard, he also kept an office at Arbour Square.
Jack knocked on the door, which was ajar, and waited to be called in. Holland was standing behind his desk putting his tie on as Jack entered. He indicated a percolator on the window ledge. “Pour me a brew while I sort myself out, please, Jack. Have one yourself if you want.”
Tyler declined the offer, but poured one for his boss and then sat quietly while the older man scribbled a few notes in a day book.
When Holland finished writing he took a sip of the fresh Columbian coffee. “I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner on the phone this morning. Needless to say, he wants a quick result. Have you seen the papers yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“They haven’t made too much out of it yet, but they will, you mark my words.” Holland glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be at the Yard at ten for a meeting, and then I’m off to the Bailey for the afternoon, so you won’t see me anymore today.”
“That’s okay, I haven’t needed anyone to hold my hand since junior school,” Jack said.
Holland swilled his cup for a few seconds, and then drank more coffee. “I’m not trying to mollycoddle you; I’m just making sure you have the support structure you need to run a Cat A investiga
tion”
“Is that what this is now?”
“I suspect it will be before the day is out.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll call you if I need anything,” Jack assured him.
“You’ll call me immediately if anything significant happens. I don’t want to find myself in a position where the AC asks me what’s happening and I don’t know. If nothing too exciting happens during the day I still want a call at home tonight giving me a general update.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, obediently.
Holland smiled at the pained expression on Jack’s face. “You’re going to get a lot of unwanted attention with this case, Jack. It goes with the territory, so get used to it. On the bright side, powerful people are watching. Get this one right and it will do wonders for your career.”
What he means, Tyler thought, is get it wrong and I’m fucked.
“We need to crack this one quickly, Jack, so I would appreciate some good news next time we speak.”
It was an unrealistic request and Jack was tempted to tell him so, but there was no point. Shit cascades downward; Holland was only passing on the demands from above. Besides, complaining would only make him look weak, so Tyler simply nodded and said he would do his best.
They moved onto staffing issues; Jack pointed out that his team was drastically under strength and would need considerable bolstering if they were to do justice to the enquiry. Holland raised a hand to silence the protest. “Jack, everyone’s in the same boat. We’ve been fielding scratch teams across London all year long. If it’s any consolation I’ve already found you some extra people to make the numbers up.”
Jack waved this aside impatiently. “It’s not just about numbers; it’s about having the right blend of skill and experience.”
Holland’s face darkened. “I’m not blind to that Jack, but sometimes you just have to do the best job you can with the tools at your disposal.” He handed a sheet of paper over.
“Here’s a list of the personnel you’ll be getting. Every AMIP team will supply two DCs, except Andy Quinlan’s. As you know they took a new job at the same time as you, so Andy can only spare one, a chap called DC Murray. You’re getting an extra ten people in total, which should be more than enough. Most of them have been warned to parade in your office at eight, but a couple can’t make it till mid-morning. It’s all on that sheet. “Right, I’ll let you crack on.” Holland gulped down the last of his coffee and nodded at the door, indicating the meeting was over.
◆◆◆
Tyler was not in a good mood when he made his way back upstairs. This case was going to be hard enough to crack without Holland and the AC putting undue pressure on him. The staffing situation hadn’t been resolved to his satisfaction either. He’d been hoping to cherry-pick half a dozen names from the other teams, but instead, he’d had to settle for whoever the various DCIs could spare. They were unlikely to release their best assets, but hopefully, none of them would be quite as useless as that plonker, Murray.
There were an extra seven people in the office by the time he returned; he recognised a couple, although most were unknown to him. He signalled for Bull to call the office meeting to order and nipped into his office to collect his notes.
Dillon sidled up next to him as he came out of his office. “What about that wanker?” He indicated Murray with his chin. “Shall I tell him to piss off?”
Jack winced. “I’ve got some bad news on that front,” he said.
Dillon looked as though he had developed indigestion. “Oh no, you’re not going to say what I think you are – are you?”
“Sorry, Dill,” Jack said, handing him the list of names he’d been given downstairs. “DCS Holland has sorted us some assistance from the other teams.”
“And he’s on it?”
“And he’s on it, unfortunately.”
◆◆◆
“First things first,” Tyler began. He was sitting with his back to the tea urn, just to the side of the main door, and everyone else had gathered into a semi-circle around him.
“This is going to be a bit of a scratch team; the core roles will be performed by my staff, but we have back up from other teams and a couple of lads from the host division. DS Deakin from team six will be covering the Office Manager’s post until Matt Blake returns.” Blake, his regular OM, was currently bumming around Australia and New Zealand on a three-month career break. Chris Deakin raised a hand to let everyone know who he was. “Be patient with me,” he said. “I’ve done the course but I’ve never performed the role outside of a classroom.” Tyler was distinctly pissed off to hear that. He didn’t want his Major Incident Room run by a rookie; he needed someone who could hit the ground running. No disrespect to Chris Deakin, but as the person responsible for ensuring the MIR ran smoothly, the OM was one of the most important people on a major enquiry. This was hardly the time to blood a novice. What was Holland playing at?
“To assist Chris, I’ve got to nominate a receiver to cover for Todd Dervish, who’s still off with a broken ankle.” Dervish had injured himself at an artificial ski slope three weeks back. Ironically, his wife had booked him four ‘beginners’ lessons in preparation for the trip they were hoping to take next February. The accident had occurred ten minutes into the first lesson.
“Sorry, Tim,” Jack gave Tim Barton a sympathetic smile, “I know you only came out of the MIR two months ago but you’re going to have to return for a little while.” He needed to compensate for having a novice OM in charge by supplying an ultra-efficient Receiver, and Tim was definitely that
Barton stood up. “I guess I’d better grab a pen and pad and start taking notes of the meeting,” he said.
“Sorry, Tim,” Kelly whispered as he moved past her to collect his writing materials. She had recently completed the three-week HOLMES user’s course at Farrow House but was not yet ready to go in the MIR unsupervised.
Barton winked conspiratorially at her. “Don’t fret. If Todd’s not back in time for the next one you can do it,” he promised.
Tyler waited until Barton returned before continuing. “While I’m on the subject of MIR personnel, the four ladies sitting at the back of the room are our HOLMES inputters and typists.” He nodded to them and was rewarded by smiles. One of the girls giggled nervously as other heads in the room followed Tyler’s gaze. “I’d also like to welcome Brian Johnson, who recently transferred into the Command from Whitechapel. Brian is an analyst and he’ll be working with us during this investigation. Hopefully, his past association with the borough will prove very useful.”
All heads turned towards a dumpy looking, middle-aged man, whose comb-over was failing miserably in its attempts to conceal his receding hairline. He sat at the rear, and was noticeably detached from the rest of the group.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m DCI Jack Tyler, the SIO. This,” he indicated Dillon, who was sitting to his left, “is DI Tony Dillon, the IO.” The IO – or Investigating Officer – was the deputy SIO. Dillon saluted them Benny Hill style.
“And this,” Jack said, pointing to the man sitting to his right, “is DS Steve Bull, the Case Officer.”
With the introductions over, Tyler gave an overview of the case, which took about twenty minutes. Five minutes in, Sam Calvin burst through the room’s swing doors looking tired and dishevelled. He smiled sheepishly, apologised for being late, and sat down next to George Copeland.
Jack had noticed that a few of the seconded detectives, obviously peeved at being torn away from their own heavy caseloads, had looked somewhat disgruntled when the briefing had started, but by the time he had finished outlining the case he was pleased to see that they were all sitting up and paying attention.
Jack played them the scene video as he talked them through the initial police response. He occasionally paused the tape to fire questions relating to the initial response at Bartholomew, who without exception consulted his notebook before answering. Then, Tyler directed a barrage of forensic-related questions at Calvin,
who had all the relevant information stored inside his head.
“George,” Tyler said, turning his attention to Copeland.
“Guv?”
“The money found on the victim, thirty quid, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, three crisp new tenners if memory serves.”
“Yes,” Calvin confirmed. “They were in pristine condition and could have come straight from a cash machine.”
“That’s interesting,” Tyler said. “What are your views on sending them off to the lab to be treated for fingerprints, Sam?”
Calvin nodded thoughtfully. “Might be worth a shot,” he said. “Especially as they are new notes and won’t have been handled by all and sundry. Are you thinking the killer might have given the money to her for sex?”