“Hi, I’m WDS Tennison from the Flying Squad. I’m following up on some information I was given and wondered if you could help me.”
“I’m sorry, Sarge, but I’m just about to go off duty. I’ve got a half four appointment at my doctor’s and I’m running late as it is. You’re welcome to look through the index cards, or leave the details of anyone you’re interested in and I’ll get back to you on Monday with the results.”
Jane wondered if she could persuade him to stay a while.
“I’m investigating the armed robbery in Leytonstone yesterday morning.”
He stopped and turned around.
“The one where the officers got shot and crashed the car?”
“Yes.”
“I heard about it and read the teleprinter message—bloody miracle no one was killed. I’m PC Kevin Bottomley. How can I help you?” He took his coat off.
“I’m following up on some information I was given about a couple of possible suspects, IC1 males who use the Bluebird cafe in Bruce Grove,” Jane said, referring to the police code for white people.
“I know the Bluebird—I used to pop in there regularly for a cuppa when I was the home beat officer.”
“I was told the owner is called Nick.”
“That’s right. He’s owned the cafe for donkey’s years. Runs it with his wife, but I heard she’s not been very well recently—emphysema.”
“Has he got a criminal record?”
Bottomley laughed. “No, he’s as honest as they come, though he does get a few criminals in his place now and again—but that’s not unusual for a cafe in Tottenham. When I was the home beat, he put some names my way about a gang who were nicking shedloads of fresh meat from an abattoir and trying to sell it on to him. They were nicked thanks to him. I know he’s helped a few other officers out with information as well. What are your suspects’ names?”
He picked up a pen and opened his A4 notebook.
“Apart from the name Tommy, I don’t know if the others are Christian or surnames—but the descriptions I was given are quite good.” Jane got out her pocket notebook. “I must tell you, though, my informant is obviously worried about repercussions.”
“I totally understand. I don’t need to know anything about your informant, and what you tell me will remain between the two of us.”
She handed Bottomley the descriptions Rachel had written.
“M2 may be the one called Tommy.”
He read them and handed Jane back the piece of notepaper.
“There’s no one who springs to mind instantly among the armed robbers who live on the division. To be honest, there’s only about ten I know of, and at least half of them are currently in prison. What I can do for you is look through my card index trays and compile a list of criminals in the same age bracket with similar features. But it will take me a day or so and I’m off over the weekend.”
“That would be very helpful, thank you.”
“Is there anything else you know about them—what sort of work they do or cars they drive?”
“Nothing about cars, but there’s a possibility M2 may be connected to the Star Bingo Hall or Grove Snooker Hall opposite the cafe.”
“Oh yes, the snooker hall opened about six months ago.”
Jane nodded. “From what I was told, that ties in with the time the two men started using the cafe.”
“The bingo hall opens at about midday, and from the description of your M2 I’d say he’s much more likely to be connected to the snooker hall. Did you notice if the building had an alarm on it?”
“I didn’t look, to be honest.”
“Not to worry, let’s have a look in the keyholders’ cards to see if it’s registered.”
He walked over to the index trays.
Jane knew that many businesses which were fitted with alarms registered with the local police. The keyholder was usually the owner, or an employee, who could be called out of hours, in case of a break-in, and reset the alarm if it went off by accident.
He pulled a card from the tray.
“The bingo hall’s main keyholder has been the manager for the last two years, the secondary is a woman. There’s two people for the Grove snooker hall. The primary holder is shown as the assistant manager, Aidan O’Reilly, of 94A Seven Sisters Road N7, which is on Wood Green Division, and probably above a shop, as that’s a main road. There’s a phone number for him as well.”
Jane stopped writing in her pocket notebook.
“Sorry—did you say O’Reilly?” She recalled Rachel mentioning the name “Riley.”
“Yes.”
He handed her the keyholder’s card. She recorded the details in her pocket notebook.
“Have you got an Aidan O’Reilly in your criminal index cards?”
He looked through the “O” section and pulled out some cards.
“There are five O’Reilly’s, none with the first name Aidan, and two of them are from the same family.” He pointed to the computer on his desk. “I could run a criminal record check on the PNC, but you’ll probably get hundreds of hits from all around the country.”
Jane knew she’d need a date or year of birth to narrow the search down on the PNC, and said she’d wait until she had more details about O’Reilly. The secondary keyholder on the card was a Maria Fernandez, with an address in Stamford Hill and a phone number, which she also recorded in her notebook.
“There’s no mention of the owner or manager on here.”
Jane handed him the keyholder’s card. He put it back in the tray.
“That’s not unusual—often they don’t want to be woken up in the early hours of the morning if the alarm goes off, so they get a member of staff registered as a keyholder. Fernandez isn’t on my index cards.”
“I suppose she might be the barmaid or some sort of hostess at the snooker hall.”
“Possibly. What were the other names?”
“Judge and Webley, that’s all I’ve got, but to be honest I can’t be certain about those names either.”
Bottomley stroked his chin. “They don’t ring any bells for me—” He looked in the index trays. “I’ve got two with the surname Judges and one Judge, but they’re either black or juveniles—and there’s no Webley on record. It could be that none of the names you’ve given me live on the Tottenham police manor so they’re not on my cards.”
“Thanks for your assistance, and I’m sorry if I’ve made you late for your doctor’s appointment.”
He put his coat on. “My pleasure, Sarge, and don’t worry about the doc’s. It might be worth phoning Companies House. If the snooker club is a limited company, the owner should be registered with them. If not, the tax office might be able to help—if they pay any!”
“That’s a good idea. Do you have their number?”
“It’s in the address book on my desk, along with the reference code, which you need to give them, then they’ll know you’re police. They close at five, so feel free to use my phone. I could put some feelers out about the snooker club for you, on the pretext we think there’s illegal gambling going on—which wouldn’t be unusual for those types of places.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather do a bit more digging first and see if Companies House or the tax office can help.”
“Feel free to call me if there’s anything else I can assist you with.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, but you don’t need to bother—”
“I want to. Where shall I leave it?”
“The bottom drawer of that filing cabinet over there is fine,” he said with a grin as he walked out.
Jane remained in the collator’s office and got straight on the phone to Companies House. The result was positive and encouraging. The Grove Snooker Hall was a limited company set up seven months earlier by Thomas Anthony Ripley, aged forty-six, of 12 Connington House, Hatch Lane, E4. Although the recorded age was slightly older than Rachel thought, Jane considered that M1, who was likely called Tomm
y, might look younger than he was. She checked the Rs in the criminal index cards, but there were none for Ripley. She looked in the A-Z on the collator’s desk and estimated that Hatch Lane, which was on Chingford Division, was about six miles from the snooker club and just over four from Barclays Bank in Leytonstone High Road.
Jane phoned Chingford Police Station and asked to be put through to the collator’s office. When he answered, she said who she was and asked if he could check his index cards for a white male named Thomas Ripley aged forty-six, and gave his address. She nervously tapped her fingers on the desk, awaiting his reply while he checked the cards. A minute later he was back on the phone.
“I’ve got two Ripleys—one’s twenty-six, the other is eighteen, and neither is called Thomas. The electoral register for that address shows a Thomas Ripley as the sole resident at flat 12.”
“Have you heard the name before?”
“No.”
“He owns a snooker club in Bruce Grove, Tottenham.”
“Still doesn’t ring a bell.”
“What sort of properties are in Connington House?”
“It’s a block of privately owned, and rented, one- and two-bedroom modern flats off Hatch Lane, built a few years ago by a property developer in a middle-class residential area. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Have you got access to a PNC?”
She was unable to use the one on the desk in front of her as she’d never done a PNC authorization course.
“Yes, there’s one here in my office.”
“I don’t have a date of birth for Thomas Ripley, but from his age and the date he registered with Companies House, he was probably born in 1934 or ’35.”
“I’ll run the name with a four year spread on the birth year.” He held the receiver between his shoulder and chin as he typed. A few seconds passed before he spoke. “There are a few possibles with that name and years of birth—you got a middle name for him?”
“Yes, it’s Anthony.”
“Got one. Thomas Anthony Ripley, born tenth of August 1934, height five foot nine inches. Last recorded conviction was twenty-one years ago for GBH—he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to five years in the Scrubs.”
“Any details about the commission of the offence or co-defendants?”
“No, but that’s the norm for really old cases on the PNC. I can request his criminal record file be sent to you at Rigg Approach.”
“Yes, please.”
“Any other names you’d like to run a check on?”
“I’m interested in an Aidan O’Reilly. I haven’t a clue about his age or description, but I’d guess he’s anywhere between thirty to fifty and may live on Seven Sisters Road.”
Jane could hear the collator typing the details on the keyboard.
“There’s over sixty on here from all over the country. I can print them out and put them in a dispatch envelope to be delivered to you.”
“It’s OK, I can get our clerk to do it when I return to the office later. You have anything on the card index for a Maria Fernandez?”
“Let’s see . . . No, nothing on her.”
Jane thanked him for his assistance and decided to contact Wood Green Police Station. She was told by the control room officer that the collator had gone off duty. She asked the officer if he could check the name Aidan O’Reilly and 94A Seven Sisters Road against the collator’s cards and electoral register.
“I would if I could, Sarge, but the other radio operator has gone for refreshments and it’s really busy here just now.”
“Is Wood Green nick far from Tottenham?” Jane asked.
“About three miles.”
“What street is it on?”
She opened the A-Z at the back pages streets index.
“It’s in the High Road opposite Earlham Grove.”
“Thanks, I’ll call in on my way back to the office.”
She put the phone down, looked at her watch and was surprised to see it was nearly five o’clock.
“Shit!”
She’d forgotten to call the office and give an update of her whereabouts, which would definitely please Murphy, as it would give him something else to have a go at her about. She looked in the back of her pocket notebook for the office number, picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed it.
She recognized Katie’s voice. “Hi, it’s Jane Tennison. Has Murphy been asking where I am?”
“Yes, a couple of times, but I’ve covered for you and said you’d rung in.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said you’d been to the Broadwater Farm estate and were making further enquiries at the Tottenham Co-op to trace Emma Wilson.”
“That’s right—did you speak to Teflon?”
“Yes, he rang in and told me what happened at Broadwater Farm—which meant I didn’t have to make anything up about where you were going next,” she said smugly.
“You didn’t need to lie for me, Katie.”
“We cover each other’s backs on the Flying Squad, Jane.”
“Thanks, I owe you one. I’m at Tottenham nick and just need to pop over to Wood Green, then I should be back at Rigg just before six.”
“I think Murphy’s got another meeting to go to at the Yard, but I’ll let him know you called in and are en route to the office.”
“Thanks, I’ll be quick as I can.”
“Did you speak to Emma Wilson?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything connected to the investigation?”
“She didn’t actually hear the men talking about a robbery, but—”
“A waste of your time and effort, just like I thought it would be,” Katie interjected, sounding pleased.
“Not entirely—”
“I knew Murphy should have got the local CID to follow it up before allocating the enquiry to you.”
“To be honest, meeting the Wilsons was a bit surreal, but worth it.”
“What do you mean?” Katie asked.
“I need to get a move on, but I’ll explain everything when I get back . . . Catch you later.”
She put the phone down and was about to leave when she realized there was one more check she should make before going to Wood Green.
She opened the collator’s “W” tray and was pleased there were no criminal record cards for Emma or Rachel Wilson. She also checked the electoral register, which showed them as residing at 68 Tangmere House on the Broadwater Farm estate.
Katie went straight to Murphy’s office after the call. He was sitting at his desk reading the newspaper articles about the robbery.
“Tennison just phoned in,” she told him.
“About bloody time! What did she have to say for herself?”
“Only that the Wilson woman didn’t hear anything in the cafe, and it had been a bit surreal—”
“Tennison’s the one who’s bloody surreal! Give me anything else that comes in looking like another dead-end enquiry—then I’ll allocate it to her. At least I can mark her card for not phoning in earlier.”
“Not really, sir. I told her . . . that I told you that she’d called in twice.”
“Why’d you do that? Now I can’t bollock her!”
“Because you wanted me to get on side with her. Besides, if you’re not here when she gets back, I can tell her you were mad she didn’t return to the office by 5:30 to update you.”
“I told her I wanted a result by the end of the day, not a time.”
“I could have sworn you said by 5:30,” Katie said with a sly grin.
“You’ve got a right cunning streak in you, Powell—you’d have made a good detective.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir. Will you be wanting the team to work over the weekend?”
“Yes, if it’s necessary, but only eight-hour shifts—with no overtime.”
“Will you be coming in?”
“It’s Kingston’s turn to be the squad’s senior duty officer this weekend. I’ll be at home, but only call me if t
here’s positive and corroborated information about the Barclays Bank suspects, which will identify, locate and allow us to arrest them—with the money, preferably.”
“Will you be back later this evening?”
“I doubt it, but then again I might pop in to see what Tennison has to say for herself.”
The rush hour traffic was moving slowly, and it took Jane nearly half an hour to travel the three miles to Wood Green. On checking the collator’s cards, there were no local records for an Anthony Ripley, Aidan O’Reilly or Maria Fernandez, and the electoral register for 94A Seven Sisters Road showed an Anthony Ripley as the sole occupant. With the snooker club connection, this couldn’t be a coincidence. Jane wondered if, when Ripley moved to the flat in Connington House, he’d sublet it to O’Reilly.
Jane didn’t get back to the office until 6:30 p.m. It was empty apart from Katie, who was sitting at her desk typing up some statements.
“Everyone still out on enquiries?” she asked as she hung her coat on the stand.
“Yes, apart from DI Kingston, who’s in his office.”
“Murphy not about?”
“No, he had a meeting to go to.”
“I only came back because he wanted a result about the Emma Wilson enquiry today—”
“It’s just as well, Jane, as he’s fuming that you weren’t back here by 5:30 like he told you to be.”
Jane looked quizzical. “He never said I had to be back here at a specific time.”
Katie looked sympathetic. “I tried to tell him he didn’t say a specific time, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I appreciate you sticking up for me, Katie, but I don’t want you getting on his wrong side because he’s got it in for me.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have to put up with Murphy’s behavior. It’s not right—and he knows it.”
Jane changed the subject. “Anything positive come in from the rest of the team?”
The Dirty Dozen Page 22