The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “From the entry point it’s probably lodged in the air filter. Hopefully we’ll find it at the lab or in the house rubble when we sift through it.”

  Part of the front windscreen, on the passenger side, was still intact but covered with fractures that looked like large spiders’ webs. Dabs pointed to a one-centimeter circular hole in the windscreen.

  “That’s a bullet hole as well.”

  He got in the car to look for any bullets.

  After a few minutes he came out holding the front passenger headrest and showed it to Jane. She saw some of the white headrest padding protruding from holes on either side of it. As Dabs got the car keys from the ignition, he said a bullet had penetrated the windscreen, then hit the right side of the radio operator’s head, before passing through the headrest and into the rear seat, and was probably somewhere in the boot.

  “Even though the bullet would have lost velocity when it passed through the windscreen, the officer was lucky it didn’t hit him straight in the forehead and kill him.”

  He opened the boot of the car and looked inside. He had a big smile as he photographed the bullet, then picked it up and showed it to Jane.

  “That one’s in even better shape than the bullet we recovered under the car,” she observed.

  She took the bullet from him and put it in a plastic container and then an exhibits bag.

  After speaking briefly to the bank manager, who couldn’t help much as he didn’t see the robbery, Kingston left the Colonel, Stanley and Bax to take the Securicor guards’ statements. He crossed over the High Road to the Crown public house to speak to the landlady, Fiona Simpson, who’d initially called the police. He knocked on the pub door and it was opened by a small, slim, buxom woman in her mid-forties, who had shoulder-length, black curly hair. She was dressed casually in a blue velour jumpsuit and slippers, and had an orange dustcloth in her hand. He held up his warrant card.

  “I’m DI Kingston, from the Flying Squad. Is the landlady Mrs. Simpson in?” he asked, thinking she was the cleaner.

  “The name’s Fiona and you’re looking at her. You come about the robbery at the bank?”

  “Yes, I was told you were a witness. Can I come in and speak to you, please?”

  She opened the door to let him in, then closed and bolted it shut.

  “Excuse my attire, Inspector, but I haven’t had time to shower, change and put on my make-up yet,” she said as she went behind the bar. “You want something to drink or is that a silly question to ask a detective?”

  “You get a few ‘coppers’ in here, then?”

  He thought she looked attractive, even without make-up.

  “Yeah, CID from Leytonstone drink here, so do the uniform, but only when they’ve finished a shift, unlike the CID who like a pint at all hours.”

  “I’ll have a Scotch, thanks. Some publicans think having the police in damages their trade,” he remarked.

  She poured a large measure from the optic.

  “It also helps to keep the arseholes out. I’ve run the place on me own for three years since my husband died, and there’s been a few occasions where officers have helped me out with drunk or obnoxious punters—and I’m grateful for that. Plus I don’t get done for serving afters.”

  She smiled as she handed him his whisky.

  “Cheers.”

  Kingston opened a blue folder he’d brought with him and took out some statement forms and a pen from his jacket pocket.

  “I was told you saw the face of the driver involved in the robbery.”

  “Yes, briefly when he got out of the car and then returned.”

  “I’ll need to take a detailed statement off you.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Detective inspectors take statements now, do they?”

  He grinned. “When it’s in a pub with a generous landlady, yes.”

  “You’ll need to be quick as I’ve got to get dressed and open up for eleven.”

  “I can make notes for now in my pocket notebook and take the statement later, if that’s easier for you.”

  “I can do it early morning before I open, or after three as we don’t reopen until six. I’m pretty busy with this place and don’t get much time for relaxing.”

  “Do you never take a day off?”

  “Rarely. The last person I had in to look after the pub while I was away had his fingers in the till, which has made me a bit wary of leaving bar staff in charge. Mind you, I could ask one of the girls to do an extra shift this evening and make the statement then—if you’re free—”

  “That would be helpful, thanks, but tomorrow would probably be easier as I’m not sure I’ll have time today. I’ll take your phone number and ring you later to let you know.”

  She borrowed his pen and wrote “Fiona” and the pub number on a beer mat, which he then put in his pocket.

  “I was told you first saw the Cortina in Aylmer Road. Can you tell me what time it was and exactly where it was parked?”

  She pointed to the pub’s side entrance. “Opposite the door there, on the far side of the road. It was around 9:20 or 9:25.”

  “What drew your attention to the car?”

  “I was upstairs in the living room, ironing my skirt and blouse for today, when I looked out of the window at the heavy rain and saw the car. Because I was looking down I could only see the nearside and two people in it—one in the front passenger seat and another person sitting behind him. There were fumes coming out of the exhaust, so I knew the engine was running, and the windscreen wipers were on. At first I thought they were maybe just waiting for someone.”

  “Can you describe any facial features of the first two men you saw?”

  “No, the door windows were covered in rain and misted up on the inside. They were wearing dark clothing and the man in the front must have been tall as I could see his shoulder pressed against the middle of the passenger door window. About ten minutes before the robbery the driver got out of the car and nearly hit Betty with the door as he opened it—”

  “Sorry, who’s Betty?”

  “She lives alone round the back of the pub at Dacre Road. She’s been a regular here for years and comes in most days at six on the dot, apart from Sundays. She has two bottles of Mackeson Stout then goes home for her tea.”

  “She’d have seen the driver’s face close up, then?”

  “Yes. She was upset and pointing her finger at him. I didn’t hear what she said, but knowing Betty she’d have called him a few choice names—that even I would be too embarrassed to repeat. What made me suspicious was the fact he ignored her, pulled his cap down and walked off up the road. That was when I phoned the police.”

  “Do you know Betty’s surname?” Kingston asked, ready to write it down, as she’d be a crucial witness.

  “Do you have to speak to her? She’s just turned eighty and not been well lately—she’s very frail and her eyesight’s not so good. I doubt she’d even remember the incident.”

  Kingston thought for a second. “I’ll leave her be for now, but I’ll still need her details.”

  Fiona wrote Betty’s full name and address down on another beer mat and gave it to Kingston, who slipped it in his pocket.

  “Would you recognize the driver if you saw him again?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, what’s a ‘think so’?”

  “Six, maybe seven . . . I got a slightly better look at him when he returned to the car, but most of the time his head was down, and the pouring rain didn’t help.”

  “If we make an arrest would you be willing to attend an identity parade?”

  “I’d be willing, but as I said I didn’t see his face clearly, so I’m not certain I could pick him out.”

  He wondered if Fiona was scared after witnessing the robbery.

  “Do you think the driver saw you?”

  “No, he never looked up. I know what you’re thinking, Inspector, but believe me I’m not afraid of people like him. I got robbed
at knifepoint by a spotty-faced kid who forced his way in here on a Friday night. I was on my own closing up and he forced me to open the till. He took his beady eyes off me while he was stuffing the night’s takings in his pocket—that’s when I hit the thieving little bastard as hard as I could over the head with a brandy bottle. He ran off, but the police saw him staggering up the High Road with blood pouring down his face. At first they thought he was drunk and had fallen over, but I’m pleased to say he got nicked and I got my money back.”

  Kingston could hear the anger in her voice as she spoke about being the victim of violent crime, but he wanted to know more about the driver of the Cortina.

  “Can you tell me, in as much detail as possible, what the driver looked like?” He held the pen to his pocket notebook.

  “About five feet eight to ten inches tall. He might have looked broader than he was because of the donkey jacket, so I’d say he was probably of medium build. He wore a gray cloth cap, with the peak pulled low over his forehead, but I could see he had a round face and ruddy complexion—like some of the heavy drinkers I get in here. I couldn’t see much of his hair because of the cap, but the sides were black, and his sideburns came down to just below his earlobes.”

  “What about his age?”

  “Hard to say, really, but maybe late thirties to mid-forties.”

  “What about his eyes and nose?”

  “I never saw his eyes, but his nose looked a bit bulbous and red, again like a heavy drinker’s.”

  “Would you help a police artist create an impression of the driver?”

  “Yes, but I can’t leave the pub for long—”

  “It’s OK, I’ll get the artist to come here. It should only take about an hour, if that, and I’ll make sure it’s after three while you’re closed. Can you talk me through the robbery from the moment the three men got out of the car?”

  She said the three men who got out of the car and did the robbery wore black balaclavas, except the big man in the front, who had a stocking mask on. The man who was sitting in the rear nearside passenger seat led the other two at a steady pace across the street in an “A” formation. Kingston asked if she could give an estimate of their heights and any weapons they were carrying now they were out of the car. She thought about it and said the man in the front of the car was about six feet to six feet two inches tall and carrying a gun in his right hand. She thought the man next to him and the leader were both about five feet ten inches, and the one behind the leader had a sawn-off shotgun, which he held with both hands on his right side.

  “The man leading them—was he armed?”

  “Not that I noticed. The only thing I saw him carrying was the cash box from the Securicor van as they left.” She continued and said that while the tall man and the leader were at the back of the van, the man with the shotgun was at the front, pointing it at the driver. “A young man suddenly ran across the road and tried to get the shotgun off him, but got knocked to the ground. He was on his back and I could hear him beg for his life, then there was a loud bang and he screamed in agony as he thrashed around on the pavement and clutched his stomach. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen—he was defenseless, there was no need to shoot him. The next thing I saw was the Cortina outside the bank and the three men jump in it with the cash box. I ran downstairs to go and help the man who’d been shot, but when I opened the pub door I could see the two Securicor guards and the bank manager helping him, so I stayed here.”

  “The young man who got shot was an off-duty police officer.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Thankfully no. He’s got cuts and bruises over his chest and stomach, which are no doubt painful. In some ways it’s his lucky day as the shotgun cartridge was loaded with rice—lead pellets would have killed him at that range. The next person who crosses their path might not be so lucky,” he said intentionally.

  He wanted to gauge Fiona’s reaction and see if, after recounting the terrible event, she’d still be willing to assist the investigation.

  “Then let’s hope you catch the bastards and I can identify the driver before anyone else gets hurt. You want another Scotch?”

  “No thanks.” He finished his whisky and handed her the empty glass. “I’d appreciate it if you kept what you’ve told me to yourself—the fewer people that know, the better it is for us. Apart from the team, that is.”

  She touched the side of her nose and smiled.

  “Mum’s the word and Fiona’s my name, DI Kingston.”

  “For future reference, Fiona, mine’s Stewart.”

  He admired her feisty spirit; she was strong-willed and confident, yet courageous and considerate of others. He wondered if she had always been that way, or if being a widow and a pub landlady had molded her outlook on life. Although it seemed the bank robbers hadn’t seen her watching them, he was concerned about her safety if they ever found out she could possibly identify one of them. He thought about warning her, but knew she was the kind of woman who would quickly dismiss his concerns.

  Chapter Five

  Cam was outside the bank, speaking to MP on the car radio and making notes as Kingston returned to the vehicle.

  “Can you give me the location again, Central 888, over?”

  “It’s Edgar House off Blake Hall Road. The garages are at the rear of it.”

  “Thanks, MP. DI Kingston is with me now, so I’ll update him.”

  Cam replaced the radio mike on its clip.

  Kingston heard the last bit of the radio conversation and looked pleased.

  “Have they found the Cortina?”

  Cam handed him the pocket notebook.

  “Possibly. The fire brigade got called out to a garage on fire at Edgar House, which they’re still dousing down. They found a vehicle inside it on fire, which they think might be a Mark 4 Cortina.”

  “Any index?”

  “I asked, but apparently the number plates have melted.”

  “Do we know who owns the garage?”

  “Not yet. The location is just over a mile away and there’s a uniform officer on scene who spoke to the fire brigade and radioed it in. Shall I get MP to tell him to start making enquiries re the garage owner?”

  Kingston shook his head. “No, go back to Woodville Road, then take Dabs and Tennison to Edgar House. He can examine the burnt Cortina while she organizes the house-to-house enquiries about the garage. Call in uniform assistance and tell Tennison she’s in charge. I also want to know if any of the residents saw anyone coming or going from the garage, not just today but in the last two weeks.”

  “She’s just started on the squad, Guv. I can run the H to H if you—”

  “She’s a bloody DS and worked on murders, so she should be capable of supervising house-to-house.”

  “There’s over a hundred flats there, so it might take a few hours to—”

  Kingston was becoming irritated. “You can help Tennison, but I want it done today. Me and the Colonel will get a lift back to the Rigg with Teflon and his crew in 887.” He looked at his watch. “I’m calling an office meeting for three. Bring Tennison and Dabs back with you, as I want everyone on the team there.”

  “We might get a tip-off about who was responsible,” Cam suggested, trying to cheer Kingston up.

  “In my opinion these guys are professionals, and from the way they operate, a tip-off seems about as likely as me winning the pools.”

  Two uniform officers were helping Dabs and Jane search the rubble-strewn ground where the police car had crashed into the house, looking for any bullets that might have become dislodged from the engine block on impact. Jane felt quite nervous as some of the bricks were still hanging precariously from the building and one fell quite close to her. After twenty minutes of searching, Dabs looked up at Jane and the two officers.

  “I think that’s the best we can do for now. We recovered two bullets earlier and I’m reasonably sure we’ll find a third somewhere in the engine compartment when we examine the car at the lab.”
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  “Do you want me to check across the junction in Grove Road to see if the bullet hit anything there?” she asked as she brushed the brick dust from her clothes.

  “I wouldn’t worry—it would be a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack as it could have gone anywhere.”

  As Juliet 1 was taken away on the low-loader, Cam pulled up and told them about the burnt-out Cortina and the house-to-house enquiries Kingston wanted done at Edgar House.

  “As a DS I’ve overseen house-to-house in murder investigations, so I’m happy to organize it.”

  Cam smiled. “It’s OK, Kingston asked me to organize it while you and Dabs deal with the Cortina.”

  Jane was disappointed. “Fine. If you need any advice or help, then please just ask.”

  “Thanks, but I know how to do house-to-house . . . Sarge,” he replied.

  Jane thought his attitude was rather surly considering she was just trying to be helpful. She also wondered from the way he addressed her if the Colonel had mentioned her objection to being called “Treacle” instead of Sergeant. As she got in the car with Dabs, Cam turned on the siren and blue light before pulling out at speed. This time she was prepared for the sudden acceleration and braced herself with both hands firmly on the passenger side of the dashboard.

  Traveling to the scene, they received a radio call that the garage the Cortina was found in was number 29, but they hadn’t yet located the owner. As the car turned into Blake Hall Road they could see a plume of grey smoke rising above the flats and a large London Fire Brigade engine blocking the entrance route to the garages, so Cam parked as near as he could. Edgar House consisted of 128 duplex flats in three two-storey blocks that were built, and joined together, in a Y shape. Jane initially thought Edgar House would be council flats, but on seeing the well-maintained communal gardens and how neat and tidy the estate was, she wondered if it was a private estate.