Tennison

Chapter twenty-three

Renee guessed where her husband was going as the bathroom stank of his splashed-on aftershave and he’d put on a freshly ironed shirt, new trousers and well-polished shoes. She knew he wasn’t going to the pub for a ‘dinner time tipple’ as he had claimed. He had to be going to see the slut, but Renee wasn’t concerned and showed no interest or contempt, not even asking what time she could expect him home. If he was late for his dinner she’d just leave it on top of the kitchen table with a plate over it and he could then reheat it in the oven. But she was concerned about David as he was still in bed, and from the coughing and sneezing coming from his room she worried he was coming down with bronchitis.

John got up for some dinner at two o’clock and, still in his dressing gown, sat at the kitchen table eating his food and reading the paper. Renee asked why he didn’t fancy joining his dad for a pint and John said lamely that dinner time boozing made him tired for the rest of the day.

She noticed his hair was dusty and brushed it lightly with her hand. ‘Your hair needs a good wash. Is it cement?’

He flicked her hand away and she could see how dirty his fingernails were.

‘Gerroff, Ma. I’ve been stripping plaster at mine and the dust gets everywhere.’

She shrugged her shoulders. God forbid he’d ever get a paintbrush out and do her flat up, she thought to herself.

‘Doing your place up with the intention of moving back in, are yer?’ she asked hopefully.

He sighed and although irritated made no reply, but she persisted.

‘She movin’ out or are the two of you getting back together?’

‘Drop it, Ma.’

She could see she was riling him so stayed quiet and warmed up some soup, which she took through to David’s bedroom with some bread and butter. She fluffed his pillow as he sat up and took the tray.

‘You stay in bed. I think you’re coming down with a bad cold. I’ll get the thermometer and check your temperature.’

‘I’m fine, Ma, and thanks for the soup. Are Dad and John in?’

‘Your dad’s gone out all done up to the nines, and John’s in the kitchen eating dinner covered in dust. Says he’s decorating his place, which means he’s either going back with her or he’s kicked her out and he’s moving some new tart in.’

David was unsure what she was talking about as she started to pick up the clothes he’d worn that night from the floor.

‘Leave it Ma, I’ll tidy it later.’

‘You’re not well, son, so you rest and leave it to me.’

She put his T-shirt, jeans and underpants over her arm. Lifting his long johns she could see they were dry but urine-stained around the crotch. Knowing he often had accidents when he couldn’t get to the toilet quickly enough she said nothing about it.

‘What you wearin’ long johns for? It’s not that cold out.’

David ignored her and opened his bedside cabinet, took out his bottle of painkillers then tipped out four and swallowed them with a spoonful of his soup.

‘You be careful, you’ll get addicted to them, son.’

He winced as he rested against his pillow.

‘I’ll be all right, my back’s just playing up. I wear me long johns for the warm, helps the pain. Thanks for the soup and bread, but I can’t finish it all.’

‘I notice your chair’s not in the hall — is something wrong with it, cos you know if you walk too much it affects your back and leg, so where is it?’

‘It’s in John’s van.’

‘What van?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Ma, the one he uses for decorating,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

With his dirty clothes over her arm Renee took the tray of half-finished soup and left him to sleep. Returning to the kitchen she put the tray on the counter by the sink and saw John had dumped his dirty dust-stained work overalls by the washing machine. She thought she would maybe take them to the launderette as she didn’t want to use her pristine washer and tumbler-drier for workmen’s clothes.

Renee went to watch TV in the lounge and with her feet up fell asleep. She woke with a start when she heard the front door slam shut. Dragging herself up, and a little disorientated, she called out to see who was either coming in or going out. There was no answer, and looking round the flat she was surprised that David and John had gone without saying anything, but not surprised that their beds were left unmade as usual. She checked the time: it was just after six thirty. With nothing else to do she went and got her wheelie cart and, having stripped the beds, gathered up the heap of washing left in the kitchen and put it all in the cart. She fetched her purse and left the flat to go to the launderette.

The white surveillance van was parked amongst vehicles on the road directly across from the Pembridge Estate. It was dirty and dented and one side had scrapes and rust. Barely visible were the spy holes on each side. The back windows were blacked out, but not suspicious as the tint had been made to look old and creased with the corners unstuck. The dashboard and interior front area was covered in old beer cans, newspapers and used takeaway cartons. The two officers in the back of the van had been there for almost fifteen minutes under orders from DCI Bradfield to monitor the Bentley men, but they had not seen them exit the flats before they parked up.

Outside the rented garage David was sitting in the passenger seat of the fake decorator’s van while John changed into some paint-stained but dust-free overalls and some similarly stained working boots. John loaded the van with more wood to support the tunnel then closed the door of the garage. He got into the van, and as he drove off saw his mother in the distance leaving the estate with her wheelie cart.

‘Where the fuck is she going?’ he said in anger.

Instead of turning left John went right and, pulling up beside his mother, told David to open his window.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ he shouted.

Renee turned, startled at first, as she didn’t recognize the voice.

‘I’m goin’ down the launderette wiv the bed sheets, David’s clothes and your dirty overalls.’

David gave a small hand-wave to his mother. John pursed his lips.

‘For Chrissake, you don’t have to go to the launderette any more.’

‘Yes I do. Are you off workin’? Cos David should be in bed as he’s coming down with a cold.’

Leaning right over David, John wound up the window. He couldn’t be bothered to argue with her and angrily crunched the gears as he did a U turn and drove off, not noticing the white surveillance van that was across the road from him.

As the Bentleys drove off, the two officers in the back of the van recognized John from the criminal-record photograph they had with them. One officer in the van, wearing workman’s overalls, slid the concealed panel behind the front seats across and got into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine he followed the Bentley brothers, keeping a good distance. He radioed to another unit, a male and female officer ready and waiting nearby in the back of a fake black cab.

‘Bravo One eyeballed in white decorator’s van, index, Juliet, Whisky, Bravo, One, Seven, Six Charlie. Heading North up Homerton High Street carrying white male passenger unknown.’

Seeing the surveillance cab in his wing mirror the officer driving the van held back.

‘Two Four take over the tail,’ he said over the radio and the cab moved in behind the van.

The surveillance vehicles constantly swapped position behind John Bentley’s van, but always kept a car or two between them wherever possible so as not to be spotted.

In Shoreditch High Street the officer in the van radioed to his colleagues.

‘Target right into Bateman’s Row.’ There was a short pause. ‘Now left into Curtain Road... Two Five take over.’

‘Two Five received,’ the female officer in the cab replied and her colleague driving took up position behind the van.

The female officer continued. ‘Target right into Great Eastern Street and moving slowly... Target now left, left, left into Charlie Papa.’

The other surveillance vehicles knew the code — the target van had gone into the multistorey car park. The surveillance cab parked up nearby. The male and female officer in the back of the cab got out and stood on a nearby corner holding hands, chatting and acting if they were a loving couple out for a stroll.

A few minutes later the target van drove out from the multistorey car park and turned left. From their position the two officers on foot could only see the rear of the van. The female officer got on the radio as she and her colleague dashed back to the cab.

‘Target on move again left out of Charlie Papa, Two Four, you need to follow.’

The surveillance-van driver was parked up nearby and went to move into Great Eastern Street but got stuck behind a learner driver at the junction. By the time he was able to get back onto the main road Bentley’s van was nowhere to be seen, and there were a number of roads he could have turned down.

‘Two Five to Four, target lost,’ he said dejectedly over the radio. Taking a chance he turned down a side road to look for the target vehicle but with no luck.

‘Please tell me you’re joking?’ the now distraught female officer asked over the radio.

‘I’m checking the back streets but no eyeball on target.’

‘Well, you can explain to the boss you screwed up,’ she replied.

‘I knew we should have used more vehicles, and if you two hadn’t got out on foot this wouldn’t have happened.’

The two surveillance vehicles checked every nearby road and narrow lane, but all they found were high brick walls and gated yards that they were unable to see over. Getting out and looking over the walls was not an option. They decided to return to the Pembridge Estate and see if Bentley had driven back there. It never crossed their mind that John Bentley’s passenger had been dropped off as they now assumed his turning into the car park was a deliberate ploy to see if any unmarked police vehicles were following him.

High up in his wheelchair David could see the white van going up and down the alleyways through his binoculars. He was in two minds about making contact with the café, but was worried about John getting mad with him for making unnecessary contact. He was relieved, and presumed the driver was lost, when he saw the van turn onto the main road and drive off up Kingsland Road towards Dalston.

As she waited for the drying cycle to finish, Renee read some of the discarded, out-of-date magazines that were lying around. When the drier stopped a woman offered to help her with the sheets, holding one end whilst she held the other, and together they folded all the bed linen. Renee had already put the other washing into her wheelie, and although the two women had hardly spoken to each other they smiled and both said ‘Goodnight’. By the time Renee got back to Ashburn House her breath was rasping and the wheelie felt heavier than when she had started out. Climbing the stairs to the flat and heaving the wheelie up each floor tired her out, and she had to keep pausing to catch her breath. The flat was in darkness when she let herself in.

Feeling exhausted Renee made herself a cup of tea and had some biscuits, then decided to press on and make up the beds before the boys got back. Whatever time that would be.

She started on David’s bed first. Noticing the mattress was slightly urine-stained in places she decided to turn it over. As she did so she saw newspaper and magazine cuttings hidden beneath it, some of which slid off the divan and onto the floor. Using both hands to balance the mattress on its side she shuffled the rest of the cuttings to the floor with her foot, and heaving some more she eventually succeeded in turning the mattress over. Renee found herself gasping for breath and had to sit down before she could gather the energy to pick up the cuttings. Some were from a travel brochure advertising hotels in Florida, and tucked inside the magazine was an envelope with David’s name and address.

She looked inside the envelope and was surprised to find a passport. Opening it she saw that it was David’s, and looking at his photograph she realized it was at least seven years old. Also in the envelope was a page from a medical journal, giving details about a hospital in New York City that specialized in orthopaedic surgery and treatment for rheumatological conditions. She was unsure what the medical terms meant but underlined was a reference to the hospital performing knee and joint replacements. It made her feel wretched as her poor son must have at one time hoped for an operation to cure his lameness. She sighed. In his dreams maybe, she thought to herself. She placed everything on the bedside cabinet, and set about making up the bed, tucking the cuttings and envelope back under the mattress after she laid the bottom sheet.

Renee noticed that it was almost eight o’clock and realized that she had not had anything substantial to eat since midday. She started to peel some potatoes for the mash and decided she’d cook the liver in gravy, and put on some frozen peas to go with it as well. She spread some newspaper over the table and got a small plastic bowl, tipped in a few potatoes and sat down to peel them. She always used the same small, sharp knife, cutting the skins off finely and methodically. As she did so she thought about David’s cuttings and why he had hidden them. It made her feel depressed as he would never have enough money to get to places like New York, or anywhere in America. David was her favourite son, the handsome one, who had been the most caring and sweet-natured little boy. Now his life was ruined by his awful crippled leg, which was his father’s fault. The tears started to trickle down her cheeks and drop into the dirty, potato-stained water as she thought of poor David’s wasted life. Then she thought about her own life and wept for herself.

It was dark when Jane was woken by a knock on her door. She panicked, thinking she had slept in and was late for the 6 a.m. early shift. She looked at her bedside clock and was relieved to see it was actually only 9 p.m. Opening the door she saw Sarah in the corridor.

‘Hey there, it’s Sarah Redhead, and there’s a DCI Bradfield in the quiet room who wants to speak to you.’

‘Did he say what he wants?’ Jane asked, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

‘I’m only the messenger, sweetheart. He just said it was important. The old buzzard Sergeant is on the prowl so you’d better go down. God forbid a man’s caught on our landing.’

Jane hurried down to the quiet room wondering what was so urgent.

‘You wanted to see me?’ she asked as she entered the room and saw Bradfield wearing a white raincoat with the collar turned up.

‘Please, sit down. I need a quick chat with you about some developments regarding what you told us earlier today. I put a surveillance team on John Bentley. He was driving a white decorator’s van that’s not registered in his name, but that might be because he hasn’t informed DVLC he now owns it so that he avoids paying any road tax or parking fines.’

‘Where did he go?’ Jane asked with excitement and relief.

‘Don’t know — they lost him up by a multistorey car park in Great Eastern Street. It’s possible he sussed he was being tailed. Anyway, they’re sitting on his mum’s flat to see if and when he returns. The reason I’m here is because all this is happening as a result of you recognizing his voice on the tape and a lot of East Londoners sound the same so—’

‘I am honestly sure it was him on the tape.’ She licked her lips nervously.

‘OK, he may be up to something, but he could also be working as a legit decorator. He had someone with him, but as yet we don’t know who it was, other than a younger-looking white male. We also found out his dad Clifford has just been released from prison.’

‘Do you want me to go into the station to type and index the reports?’

‘Not much point at the moment. There’s a shedload of banks in the area where we lost him, and Hatton Garden with all the jewellery shops is just up the road.’

‘So do you think Ashley Brennan could be right?’

‘Who knows, but we’re going to try and find out. However, with the RCA equipment your report said he had, and bearing in mind some enquiries I made about it, he could actually be hearing someone talking in Brighton. We’ll start from the point of his flat and work outwards, but even if we schlep all over London we may never pinpoint where the calls were coming in from.’

‘Were there any banks near the car park?’

He sighed, irritated. ‘Yeah, like I just said, there’s loads of them in the area, but none have reported a robbery or anything suspicious.’

‘Sorry, I just wondered,’ she replied, feeling embarrassed.

He suddenly leaned towards her, staring into her eyes. She blinked rapidly with nerves, and as she swallowed he gently touched her cheek.

‘If you are wrong about Bentley’s voice then I’m wasting a lot of manpower, time and money.’

Before Jane could reply, the section house sergeant walked in, frowned and said there was an urgent call for Bradfield at the reception desk. Bradfield asked for the call to be transferred through to the sergeant’s office so he could talk in private and told Jane to follow him.

Jane waited outside and a few minutes later he came out rubbing his hands together and looking pleased.

‘OK, that was DS Gibbs. He’s just visited the registered owner of the van Bentley was driving. It was in Kingston and he’s a decorator, but surprise, surprise, the bloke’s been working locally all day and his van was parked outside. So that means John Bentley’s driving a ringer.’

‘What’s a ringer?’ Jane asked.

‘Bentley’s using copied index plates, so he’s probably no decorator.’

Bradfield started to walk away and Jane hesitated, not sure what to do, when he stopped and turned to face her.

‘Thanks for your help. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t instigating a wild goose chase, but now with the added info from Spence I think we may be on to something. The lads checking out Great Eastern Street said there’s a Trustee Savings Bank next to a café and a tailor’s shop nearby that’s had a light on all evening, so I’m going there now to check it out.’

‘Do you need me with you?’

‘No, sweetheart, I’m bringing Kath in as I’ve put her on acting detective duties. Besides, we gotta make further enquiries. Go and get some sleep as you’ve got uniform early shift in the morning.’

She felt insulted, as if he was treating her like a child, but he was gone before she had the opportunity to say anything.

Untroubled by events above ground, the frustrated and exhausted threesome in the basement of Silas’s café were working harder than ever before. The tunnel was progressing well and was secured with wooden supports.

From his vantage point David could see with his binoculars there were lights on in the tailor’s shop near the café. The main window had a curtain pulled across it, so it was impossible for him to see directly inside the shop. A small blue Morris Minor van pulled up outside the tailor’s and a short, stumpy-looking bald man got out of the driver’s side. He then opened the rear doors and lifted out two armloads of what appeared to be plastic-wrapped dry-cleaning. As he approached the front of the tailor’s a woman opened the door and took some of the items from him. A few minutes later the man left in the Morris Minor van and returned half an hour later with another bundle of plastic-wrapped clothes, which he took inside the shop.

David was concerned and pressed the button on his walkie-talkie to make contact with his brother in the café. Silas answered and listened as David told him about the activity outside the tailor’s shop, but as it was four shops down he was not unduly worried. John came on the radio and told David to keep contact to a minimum, unless it was something really important.

It was coming up to almost 10 p.m. when David saw a man wearing a baseball cap and raincoat walking arm in arm with a woman along the street. They stopped by the tailor’s and the man pressed the bell. After a while he saw the blind on the entrance door lift and the short stumpy man let the couple in before closing the door behind them. It didn’t appear suspicious, even at that late hour, and David just assumed it was someone who had arranged a fitting or was picking up some clothes.

However, Mannie Charles, the shop owner, was totally freaked out when DCI Bradfield and Kath Morgan showed their warrant cards and asked to have a chat with him.

Bradfield, in case of a lookout in the vicinity, had parked the unmarked CID car down a side street and walked to Mannie’s shop. Bradfield knew who Mannie Charles was, but had never actually met him until now.

‘Oy vey, you’re giving me heart failure. I done nothing wrong, I swear on my son’s life — it’s all kosher,’ Mannie pleaded nervously as Bradfield followed him in.

Bradfield calmed him down. ‘Nothing to do with your business, Mannie. I just want to ask a few questions you might be able to help us with.’ He looked around the dimly lit shop which was stacked with rolls of fabric on shelves lining the walls. On the counter there were more rolls of fabric and some swatches, along with two tailor’s dummies draped in a pinstriped wool material.

‘I’ve only just collected the suits from the Horne warehouse manager, but I should have all the alterations done by mid-week and ready for delivery,’ he said, and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket before continuing. ‘Let’s see. Ah, Mr Bradfield, I got you down for dark navy with silk lining, double-breasted and very good quality, a forty chest, thirty-four waist, thirty-six inside leg. Is that right, Mr Bradfield?’

Kath was puzzled, wondering exactly what Mannie was on about as Bradfield smiled and said he had ordered a new suit, but that was not what he had come about.

‘My wife’s out the back. She’s working on the suits I’ve just brought in. I can fit yours now, make sure it’s just right.’

Bradfield said he was sure the suit would be fine and his wife might be able to help with their enquiries, though this just seemed to worry Mannie even more and he said she was a bit of a klutz. The three of them headed through a door with mottled-glass panels which led into the sewing and fitting room. It was larger than the shop front, with a tall window at the back that had brown paper plastered across it and metal security bars. Next to it there was a heavy metal door that was padlocked, which obviously led to the back yard of the premises. Two big electric sewing machines dominated the room, and there were tables and more stacks of wool and linen samples. Mrs Charles, a diminutive woman with a curved back, was sitting by an old-fashioned pedal-operated sewing machine. She peered over the rim of her half-moon glasses as they entered.

‘What do vey want?’

Mannie gestured for her to get on with her work. Using a small pair of scissors, she was removing labels from a heap of suit jackets and tossing them into a bin.

‘Voz iz the matter, bubbee?’ she asked her husband.

Bradfield reassured her. ‘Nothing to concern or worry you, Mrs Charles. We’re just here to have a chat with Mannie about some suits we want made up,’ he said, deciding it was best not to involve her for the time being.

Mannie told his wife to go and make herself a cup of coffee. She took off her glasses and had to clutch the end of the table to stand. She was badly hunched and shuffled her way into a small kitchen area and closed the door.

‘OK, Mannie, I’m wondering if you have seen anything suspicious happening around here recently.’

His eyes and mouth widened. ‘Like what, Mr Bradfield?’

Bradfield asked if Mannie had seen anyone watching or asking about any of the nearby banks, or heard any sounds that were out of the ordinary, like heavy machinery or digging perhaps. Mannie shook his head.

‘Have any of the other shop owners mentioned anything unusual?’

‘I don’t really have anything to do wiv ’em, Mr Bradfield. I just get on with my business and my customers are mostly regulars that book an appointment for fittings. Passing trade is very poor.’

‘Who runs the store on the corner?’

‘A bunch of Indian schmucks. They sell electric tools and machinery, but we never talk.’

Bradfield smiled. ‘Do you get on with anyone in the street, Mannie?’

‘The woman who owns the shoe shop is very nice and bought a coat and matching skirt from me.’

‘What about the Greek guy who runs the café?’

‘Silas, yes, he’s always pleasant and friendly.’

‘I take it he bought goods from you as well.’

‘No. Why would he wear a suit in a café? He always gives me a little discount, which is kind considering he doesn’t do much business apart from the bank staff next door to him. You should try his Greek coffee with a sweet honey and nut baklava. I love it, but the nuts always get stuck in my teeth.’

‘Have you heard any noises coming from the café at night — drilling or stuff like that?’

‘No, but I don’t usually work here late at night. Me and the wife just wanted to get all the detectives’ suits done.’

Bradfield asked about the back yards belonging to the shop owners in the street and Mannie told him he rented his out to a carpenter. He was unsure about the others, but as far as he knew most shop owners used them for their vans or storage.

Mrs Charles returned with her coffee in a chipped mug and sat at her sewing machine. She began altering the waist on a pair of suit trousers, and twisted the cloth expertly, working at unbelievable speed.

‘Do you have a cellar, Mannie?’ Bradfield asked.

Kath waited upstairs with Mrs Charles as Mannie led Bradfield down the narrow stone stairs to a large cellar the size of the entire space of the floor above. Racks of wrapped material were stored amongst cardboard boxes and old sewing machines. The walls were red brick and in many areas worn and in need of repointing. They could hear the sound of Mrs Charles on the sewing machine as it echoed through the floorboards.

Bradfield couldn’t see any reason to remain there and asked Mannie to have a chat with his wife and let him know if she could add anything of interest. Walking back into the sewing and fitting room Bradfield saw Kath standing with her arms stretched out and Mrs Charles holding a measuring tape round her chest.

‘What you doing, Morgan?’

‘Well, now I’m working in the CID as an acting detective, sir, I thought I’d get a nice two-piece skirt suit for work.’

‘Do it in your own time, not on the job. We’re done here.’

Kath thought this was rather ironic as it was obvious he and a few other detectives were getting new tailored suits, but she said nothing.

Mannie unlocked the front door, and was ushering them out when he tapped Bradfield’s arm.

‘There is something a bit odd. I mean it might not mean anything, but we’ve all been given our marching orders by the council as they is going to knock this row of shops down. The leases are up in six months. Me and Mrs Charles can’t work from home as the house is small and not big enough for all the materials and sewing stuff, so we looking for a new place to set up business.’

‘What’s odd about that?’ Bradfield asked.

‘Well, the Greek café, they got notices up that he’s doing refurbishing, so to me it’s a waste of good money if the place is gonna be pulled down, understand what I mean?’

Bradfield made no comment about the information, but asked Mannie for an empty suit-bag to be padded out with paper and old useless cut-offs. A puzzled Mannie did as he was asked and Bradfield thanked him for his time. ‘We’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about our chat, Mr Charles.’

Mannie nodded. ‘Mazel tov, Mr Bradfield — and, Miss Morgan, my wife will have the lady’s suit ready for you in good time,’ he said, and closed the door.

As Bradfield and Kath walked to the car she said, ‘Do ya not want to take a look at the café?’

He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘If they got a lookout positioned somewhere round here I don’t want them getting suspicious. That’s why I asked for an empty suit-bag that looks full — we just move on nice and casual.’

On the way back to the station Kath sat in the passenger seat as Bradfield drove. It was almost midnight: she was really tired and had been in bed suffering from an almighty hangover when they had called her in.

‘There was something going on that I thought was rather odd,’ she said, yawning.

He turned and frowned at her. ‘I know, so that’s why we’ll check out with the council in the morning about the lease and see what we can get on this Silas geezer.’

‘No, it wasn’t about the lease, it was Mrs Charles cutting out labels from the suits and binning them. There was another stack of labels next to her with “Mannie Charles” on them.’

He said nothing as he was more concerned about the fact the café was next door to the bank. But he made a mental note to have a word with the detective who had been taking the orders for the suits. He had assumed it was just a few off-the-peg, cut-price Horne Brothers suits for some of the Hackney CID officers, and that Mannie was altering them to size, but judging by the amount of suits in the back room he suspected half of East London’s CID were being kitted out and was curious as to why the labels needed to be changed. He sighed to himself as he realized the last thing he needed was A10 breathing down his neck again over a load of hooky suits.

David had watched the couple exit from the tailor’s, confident he had been right and they were customers, as the tall man was now carrying a suit-bag. An hour later Mannie and his wife locked up their shop and drove off. David was shivering again with the cold, his back ached and his leg was throbbing. It was going to be yet another long freezing night.