The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane suspected George was referring to a wedding car driver for Saturday, but the reference to the man putting the frighteners on a woman sent a shiver down her spine. She was sure it was something to do with Fiona Simpson. She remembered Rachel telling her that George Ripley had said to Tommy that “Riley” was a loose cannon. Since Aidan O’Reilly worked for Tommy Ripley, she wondered if he was the man George was referring to. If he was, then it followed that O’Reilly was in the Crown on Saturday night.

  She suddenly felt nauseous thinking about Kingston, wondering if it was more than mere coincidence that he was in the same boxing club as Tommy Ripley. He’d also been in the Crown shortly before Fiona Simpson died, and said the pub was quiet. It struck her that if Aidan O’Reilly had been there, Kingston would have known, or at least suspected, it was him. Like everyone on the team, he’d seen the photo the RUC had faxed over of the six feet four O’Reilly, who now also had a cut on his forehead. Her mind was spinning and her stomach churning at the thought that Kingston might have deliberately distracted Fiona Simpson while O’Reilly slipped into the pub and hid in the toilet. The thought that he could be complicit in her death and leaking information to the Ripleys was beyond comprehension, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  There was a knock on the toilet door.

  “You all right, Jane?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, just a bit of a queasy stomach.”

  “OK, make a sure you spray the air freshener.”

  When she came out of the toilet the Ripley brothers had gone. She took their coffee cups and tucked them away under the counter to take back to the office with her, so Dabs could fingerprint them.

  Cam put the phone down and turned to Murphy.

  “Fingerprint Bureau say the prints sent over by the RUC are a match for Aidan O’Reilly. George Ripley is in his office at the showroom, and CO11 tailed the suspect Carl to a builder’s merchant where he purchased some coveralls.”

  “Do we know how many?”

  “Four.”

  “Looks like they’re getting their outfits together for a robbery and Carl is their errand boy. After we nick ’em all on the pavement he might be the weak link and cough up about any other robberies they’ve done.”

  “I also spoke to Tommy Ripley’s bank manager. He took out a forty grand loan to buy the ground floor of the old cinema and turn it into a snooker hall. He’s already late on the payments.”

  “So, he’s desperate for money. What about George Ripley?”

  “According to the tax man he doesn’t make a fortune, and certainly not enough for his kind of lifestyle.”

  “He’s probably got a hooky accountant and doesn’t run every sale through the books. I’m just going to see how the wiretaps are going.”

  He went into Kingston’s office. Two officers from CO11 intelligence unit had five reel-to-reel recorders set up to tape any conversations on the Ripleys’ work and home phones.

  “Anything interesting so far?”

  “No. A few calls to GR Motors about MOTs, servicing, et cetera, and O’Reilly ordering booze and crisps for the snooker club. Ripley’s wife, Maureen, has been on and off the phone all morning to caterers and friends about the wedding. You’ll like this—she’s talking to a friend of hers about the flowers.”

  The officer rewound the tape and turned it on. She spoke in a screechy cockney accent.

  “The flowers are costin’ a bloody fortune. I could ’ave a dirty weekend in Southend for the price of the bridal bouquet . . . I mean, it’s a total load of bollocks, all this flingin’ it over your shoulder to the single gals,” Maureen said.

  “Oh, don’t be mean, whoever catches it will have a future filled with love and happiness,” her friend replied.

  “Well, I caught me sister’s and she ended up shaggin’ me first ’usband. All it did was fill me with a desire to cut ’is knackers off with a pair of scissors!”

  Murphy laughed. “Ouch, I wouldn’t like to upset her. Let us know if you hear anything of interest.”

  It was just after 3 p.m. The cafe was empty, and Nick put the closed sign on the door. Jane popped upstairs with the coffee cups and put them in a plastic bag in her shoulder bag. She then radioed in that the cafe was closing. Cam said Murphy wanted her to return to the station.

  “You done good work today, Jane,” Nick said as she put her coat on.

  She felt exhausted. “It’s been a long time since I was on my feet for so long. I wish I’d worn my trainers instead of my thin flat soles.”

  “You gonna come in tomorrow?” he asked, opening the door.

  “I expect so, but it’s up to my boss. Arrivederci, Nick.”

  Walking to her car, Jane thought about Kingston and wondered if he was corrupt and involved with the Ripley brothers. If he had lied, then Betty could be in danger. She knew if she told Murphy, or anyone on the team, she risked being ostracized for daring to question an experienced and respected officer’s integrity. She took a deep breath and blew it out in an effort to unclutter her mind. Seeing a public phone box, she dialed the lab and asked to speak to Paul Lawrence.

  “The Chubb key is still in the superglue chamber, but it looks like a finger mark is starting to develop.”

  “What size was the footprint on the toilet seat?”

  He looked in his notes. “It’s a nine to ten Nike training shoe. Why?”

  “I thought one of our suspects called Aidan O’Reilly might have gone to the Crown last night to kill Fiona Simpson. He’s six foot four, so that shoe size seems unlikely for a man that tall.”

  “Height isn’t an exact predictor for shoe size. We’re all different—some tall people have tiny feet, some short people have huge feet. From my experience, a man that tall could wear a shoe size anywhere between a nine and a fourteen. Dabs told me about O’Reilly, so as soon as I get the fingerprint developed I’ll check it against O’Reilly first and let you know the result.”

  “Thanks. Catch you later.”

  “Come on, spit it out, what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve literally been on my feet and hardly slept in the last two days, so I’m really tired and irritable.”

  She desperately wanted to tell Paul her suspicions about Kingston, but knew he would say not to jump to conclusions and wait for the fingerprint result on the Chubb key.

  “Then go home and get some rest.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “I wish life was that simple.”

  She put the phone down.

  As she walked towards her car, Jane saw two men sitting in a vehicle parked behind hers. The passenger was leaning to one side and looking at Jane’s reflection in the wing mirror. She felt a sense of unease as the passenger opened his door and began to get out of the car. Her anxiety increased when he looked at her; she wondered if her cover had been blown and the Ripleys had sent someone to get her. The man was dressed smartly in a suit and tie but he had a menacing look about him. He started walking towards her and she knew she only had two choices—to run or to stand her ground. Her head was spinning, and she wondered if her physical and mental exhaustion was making her imagine things. The man put his hand inside his jacket and for a moment Jane was paralyzed with fear. She closed her eyes, thinking this was the end.

  “WDS Tennison? I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard Bartlett.” He spoke in a West Country accent.

  She opened her eyes to see he was holding up a warrant card, but she didn’t recognize the police crest badge.

  “That’s not a Met warrant card,” she said nervously.

  “I know, I’m from Dorset Police—same as DI Wickens, who’s me driver.” He nodded towards the car. “I appreciate you’re very busy, but we’d just like to have a quick word with you.”

  “What about?”

  “I’d rather we spoke in the car.”

  She remembered Dabs referring to Dorset Police as the “Sweedy” when they first met.

  “Are you from Operation Countryman?”

  “Yes.
I’m in charge of it, as it happens.”

  “Why do you want to speak to me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know that, Jane. You’ve sailed a little close to the wind at times, but from what I’ve heard you’re as honest as the day is long—and the first women ever to be on the illustrious Flying Squad.”

  She didn’t like his patronizing manner.

  “Have you been following me?”

  “Only today—and not me personally.”

  She realized he must have put a surveillance team on her.

  “You could have blown my cover and put me in danger.”

  “We’re not that reckless. It’s some of your colleagues you should be more worried about.”

  “Like who?” she asked, immediately thinking of Kingston.

  He opened the rear nearside door and Jane got in. Bartlett turned his body to face her.

  “An underworld supergrass has claimed that members of the Flying Squad are receiving large sums of money for warning criminals of imminent arrests and police raids, and for dropping robbery charges. We also know that evidence is being fabricated by participating informants and their controlling officers so the reward money can be shared.”

  Jane suddenly found herself thinking of the Colonel and the meeting with Gentleman Jim. She also knew that he and Kingston were close.

  “I still don’t see what this has got to do with me.”

  “Do you suspect anyone on your team of corruption?” the DI asked.

  Although Jane had her suspicions about Kingston and the Colonel, she wasn’t about to risk her career by making unsubstantiated allegations without knowing who Bartlett suspected.

  “I’ve only been on the squad since last Thursday, and to be honest, as a woman I haven’t been made very welcome. The rest of the team aren’t very open with me. It would help if you could give me some names.”

  “Our source said he’d heard it was one or two members of your team but wasn’t able to give us any names, but we’re confident he will,” Bartlett said.

  Jane wondered if they thought she was naive, and were just fishing for any sort of information that they could use to their advantage.

  “If I had evidence that an officer on the squad was corrupt, I can assure you I’d do something about it.”

  “That’s why we wanted to speak to you. Do you have any suspects in your current robbery investigation?”

  “You know I’m not obliged to tell you anything about our investigations.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” the DI said with a wry smile.

  Jane didn’t like his attitude.

  “You can take it however you like . . . sir. Unless there’s anything else you’d like to ask me, I’ve got work to do.”

  Bartlett sighed. “We don’t like what we do, Jane, but it’s vital to stamp out corruption in the Met. Here’s my card. It would be to your advantage to contact me if you suspect anyone on your team of corruption.”

  “What do you mean, to my advantage?”

  “I’d hate to see an honest officer get dragged under by association with a dishonest one.”

  She got out of the car and slammed the door.

  “Fucking arseholes,” she said to herself.

  She was disgusted with their veiled threats and underhand methods. Even if she did discover evidence to prove that Kingston, the Colonel or any member of the squad was corrupt, Bartlett and his cronies would be the last people she’d tell.

  Chapter Thirty

  Returning to Rigg Approach, Jane’s feet were so sore from waitressing that she trudged up the stairs using the safety pole to pull herself forward.

  “Christ, you look knackered,” Cam said as soon as he saw her.

  “I’ll tell you what, it’s a lot easier pounding the beat than being a waitress.”

  She took off her shoes, sat down and started to massage her feet.

  “How’d it go at the cafe?”

  “Not much to tell, really.”

  “I spoke to that PC at Wood Green this morning about Asil Osman. He made some enquiries and phoned back earlier. Asil wasn’t part of Osman’s gang, and helped the CID to locate his brother after he assaulted his wife. I won’t bore you with all the details, but the fruit export company he owns appears legit. Here’s the company name and address, and the PC’s details if you want to speak to him about it.”

  He handed her a bit of paper with the details.

  Jane was surprised.

  “So, his money isn’t hooky?”

  “He’s opened a distribution warehouse over here and from the enquiries I’ve made with Customs and Excise it doesn’t appear he’s importing drugs.”

  “Is Murphy in?”

  Cam nodded, and she went straight to his office.

  “Lost your shoes?” Murphy asked.

  “Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.”

  “Be my guest. What happened at the cafe?”

  “I didn’t hear what the Ripleys were talking about, though we did have some casual conversation while I was serving them. George is the more dominant, likes the sound of his own voice and thinks he’s funny. Truth is he’s an ignorant pig of a man with no manners, but Tommy seemed OK.”

  “When he’s not robbing banks with a sawn-off in his hand,” Murphy reminded her.

  “Point taken.”

  “Did Rachel Wilson turn up?”

  “Yes.” She handed him the note. “She slipped me this.”

  He read it and handed it back.

  “Doesn’t tell us much . . . Banks are closed on a Saturday, so ‘sorting out the driver’ probably refers to one of the bridal cars. The other bit about putting the frighteners on a woman is the sort of thing they do, but it could be anyone.”

  She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “You don’t think it’s Fiona Simpson?”

  “Jesus Christ, you’ve really got a bee in your bonnet about her—”

  “Lawrence found some shoe prints on the toilet seat, which suggests someone might have been hiding in the toilets waiting for her to close the pub. I’ve got a gut feeling that it might have been one of our suspects.”

  “I’ve spoken to Lawrence and I agree with you.”

  “You do?” she asked, surprised.

  “I’ve informed the divisional DI who’s investigating her death that as soon as we’ve completed our operation, he is free to interview the Ripleys and the other suspects about Simpson’s death.”

  “Why can’t we, if we arrest them?”

  “Because we deal with robberies,” he said firmly, indicating the matter was closed.

  Cam knocked on the door and popped his head in.

  “The surveillance team are wondering if you want to put anyone on Graham Smith and Carl when they leave work.”

  “Tail them and find out where they live. If they can find an OP or use an OBO van on Smith then watch him until he beds down, but don’t worry about Carl. We haven’t got enough officers for a static observation on him.”

  “OK, Guv.” Cam left.

  “Carl is George Ripley’s stepson and Tina is his daughter,” Jane said. “He speaks to Carl like he’s a piece of dirt and treats him like an errand boy.”

  “Well, your errand boy went to a builder’s merchant’s earlier and bought some coveralls. You know, the kind of thing a robber likes to wear.”

  “I was serving them when George Ripley gave Carl some money and said to get some ‘stuff for Smudge.’ ”

  “Well, he obviously knew what he meant when George said ‘stuff.’ ”

  “I’m not so sure. George gave him a piece of paper with what to buy written on it.”

  “The fact is he bought four, and somehow I doubt they were all for Graham Smith. Anything else of value?”

  “The wedding reception is being held at Farthings in a marquee.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “How’d you find that out?”

  “Carl invited me to the wedding and—”
r />   “Jesus Christ, I hope you said no,” he snapped.

  “I was caught in an awkward situation. George Ripley had been ribbing him about not having anyone to take to the wedding and Carl asked me out of the blue. It was a bit odd, but I saw it as an opportunity to gather more information about the Ripleys. There’s no OP at the church or overlooking the grounds of the house, so I thought I could blend in at the wedding and take photographs of the guests with a pocket camera.”

  “Well, you bloody well thought wrong. I’m not risking you giving the game away and screwing this operation up in a honey trap! The answer is no and that’s final.”

  “Do you still want me to work in the cafe?”

  She already suspected what his answer would be.

  “No, I want you in the office where you can’t screw things up. Tell Cam you’re replacing him and he can drive Kingston and the Colonel, then book off duty and go home.”

  “I need to write up my report.”

  “Do it tomorrow. Now get out of my sight before I really lose my temper.”

  Jane bit back an angry retort and walked out of Murphy’s office, silently fuming. She picked up her jacket and shoes, then slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Murphy said you’re back driving the car and I’m in here, from tomorrow morning.”

  “Why, what did you do?” Cam asked.

  “My fucking job!”

  She stormed out of the office.

  Jane’s anger hadn’t abated by the time she got home. In fact, if anything she was even more furious. She went straight to the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine. She took a large mouthful, then banged the glass down on the kitchen counter and went to her bedroom. She opened the wardrobe and looked through her dresses, then took one out and held it up against her body as she looked in the mirror.

  “Fine, I won’t go to the bloody wedding. But nobody said anything about going out for a drink, did they?”

  She turned one way and then the other.

  “Nope, too dowdy.” She threw the dress on the bed and grabbed another one. “Too short.” She threw it on the bed, said, “Out of fashion” with the next, until finally, after taking out six dresses, she decided on the one to wear.

  George Ripley closed up GR Motors at 6 p.m. and drove home. His daughter Tina had not been seen at work by Teflon, who’d been keeping observation on the garage. However, the CROPS officer in the field had seen Maureen Ripley and a young woman, who was assumed to be Tina, leaving and then returning to Farthings in a green Range Rover. Murphy guessed that Tina had the week off work before her wedding and was shopping with her mother. Graham Smith was tailed to a three-bedroom semi in Enfield. The CO11 officers following him remarked that he drove his Capri “like a madman” but knew how to handle the car. Carl was followed to a one-bedroom flat in Stoke Newington. And a subsequent check in the electoral register revealed his surname was Winter and he had no criminal record. Murphy stood the firearms officers down at 5 p.m. as the banks were all closed. Tommy Ripley left the snooker hall at 6 p.m. with Maria Fernandez and returned home to his flat in Chingford, while Aidan O’Reilly remained at the snooker club, which closed at 10 p.m. on weekdays.