Tennison

Chapter thirty-two

Jane slept until after 9 a.m. The first decent sleep she’d had for weeks. She felt refreshed and no longer anxious about having been told by Bradfield to go home and take a few days off work. She helped her mother prepare the lunch and found doing the ordinary small things, like laying the table and putting out the wine glasses, made her glad she was at home. By the time Pam and her husband arrived it was almost twelve. Jane was truly pleased to see her sister and hear all about the honeymoon in the Lake District, laughing as she spoke about the dreadful weather and how the MGB car had broken down and had to be towed back to London. Jane could see that her sister was blissfully happy, and Tony hardly got a word in edgeways as Pam began detailing all the gifts they had received.

Mr Tennison was in the open-plan room watching television and reading the newspaper. Mrs Tennison put the leg of lamb on the dining table and asked her husband to carve the meat. He turned the sound down on the TV and joined them at the table. Whilst he cut some slices from the lamb joint his wife fussed around putting vegetables and roast potatoes on everyone’s plates and telling them to help themselves to gravy.

Jane complimented her mum on her cooking. When everyone had finished Jane and Pam helped to clear the table and washed the dirty plates and cutlery while their mother made the hot custard to go with the lovely apple turnover. Jane and Pam took the bowls of dessert to the table, then Jane fetched the jug of hot custard. Her father was uncorking another bottle of wine when he pointed at the silent TV.

‘My God, the IRA must have exploded another car bomb in the City,’ he exclaimed, then went over and turned up the volume to hear what the newscaster was saying:

Jane was about to pour custard on her father’s dessert. She looked at the screen and saw the ambulances and police cars and a fire engine still dousing down what was left of the Trustee Savings Bank. The instantaneous shock, and the thought of possible fatalities, caused her to drop the jug of custard. It broke into pieces as it crashed against the dessert bowl, causing hot custard to splash onto the table, the floor and Jane’s T-shirt and jeans.

She gasped, staring back at the TV screen.

The reporter continued:

Jane grabbed her father’s arm.

‘Daddy, please... I need your car keys... please! I have to go the station! Don’t try and stop me, just let me have your car keys.’

She wasn’t aware that she was screaming and pulling at his arm. ‘Gimme the keys, for Chrissake!’

Her father was taken aback by her outburst and went to the kitchen area where he got the car keys from a drawer. He didn’t try and stop her when she snatched them from his hand.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go... I am so sorry,’ she said as she hurriedly left the room.

They all heard the front door slam and Mrs Tennison looked confused and frightened as she turned to her husband.

‘She’s only just passed her driving test! Go after her and stop her!’

He went to follow but slipped on the spilt custard, knocking over a dining-table chair.

Jane hurried down the stairs and out of the flats. She ran down the path and turned to look up and down the small backstreet where her father usually parked his car. Seeing it midway down the road she ran towards it, fumbling for the right key to unlock the driver’s door. She got into the car and was gasping for breath as she started the engine. The gears crunched as she pulled out and drove to the end of the road, turning into Edgware Road and then straight through a set of red lights into Marylebone Road.

Jane realized she’d forgotten her handbag and therefore didn’t have her warrant card with her to prove she was a police officer if she was stopped for dangerous driving. She forced herself to slow down and drive more carefully, and thankfully it being a bank holiday the roads were very quiet. She breathed heavily and told herself to try to remain calm. The news report about an IRA car bomb made no sense. It seemed to her that something had gone terribly wrong with Operation Hawk.

As she drove past the front of the station Jane saw reporters and television news crews being held back by uniformed officers. A senior civilian from the Met’s press bureau was standing on the top steps of the station trying to address the throng who were firing questions at him from all angles. Jane drove round to the rear of the station only to discover it was the same, with a line of uniform officers keeping the press back and refusing entry without police identification.

A PC she didn’t recognize raised his arm to stop Jane, so she pulled up and wound down the window to speak to him.

‘I am WPC Jane Tennison, please... I work here.’

‘I need to see your warrant card, otherwise I can’t let—’

‘I saw the news and in the rush to get here I forgot my ID. The officer over there knows me, ask him.’

The PC spoke with the officer and she was let into the station yard. Manoeuvring the car into a parking bay she was distracted when she saw Detective Chief Superintendent Metcalf by the back door talking to two officers. They looked pale and drained.

She winced as she scraped the side of her father’s car along one of the metal pole dividers for the motorbike parking area. She didn’t even bother to look at the damage as she ran towards the entrance.

Inside the station it was mayhem. Every phone was ringing and a large number of officers, who had clearly been drafted in from other stations to assist, were wandering the corridor asking where the parade room was.

Jane saw an agitated Sergeant Harris appear waving his hands and shouting for people to get out of the front desk area and keep the corridors clear. He raised his voice even higher.

‘The parade room is on the left of the rear yard as you exit the building. DCS Metcalf will be addressing you all there in ten minutes’ time and will give further instructions.’

Jane tugged his shirtsleeve. ‘Sarge, what’s happened?’

‘Not now, Tennison. If you wanna help then assist the officer on the front desk while I get this lot to the parade room. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.’

Jane pushed and shoved her way through the throng towards the front desk, but there were still a lot of uniform officers milling around, and the front doors to the station were closed. At the top of her voice she yelled out the directions to the parade room and gradually the front desk area cleared. She could hear the frustrated reporters and news teams outside shouting out questions and saw a PC she knew on the duty-desk phone. When he’d finished she asked what was going on, but he said he didn’t really know as he’d come on for late shift and had been told by Harris to man the front desk.

Jane decided to go to the incident room hoping she might get some proper answers. As she ran up the stairs she saw Sally, the pregnant civilian indexer she had replaced on the Julie Ann Collins case. Sally was leaning against the wall in floods of tears and Jane knew that worry for the safety of her friends and colleagues must have brought her to the station.

‘Can you tell me what’s happened, Sally?’

‘It’s Kath, no one’s seen Kath... Oh my God...’

‘Is Kath hurt?’ Jane asked anxiously.

‘Dead... some of them are dead,’ Sally wailed.

‘What? Who exactly is dead?’

‘I don’t know, no one will say and some are in hospital.’

Sally looked faint as she slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Confused, Jane tried to help up the inconsolable woman, but she just wanted to stay where she was and be left alone. Jane still had no idea of exactly what had happened. She knew that if anyone had died in the explosion they would have been taken to Hackney Mortuary. Asking a passing PC to look after Sally, she ran as fast as she could out through the back of the station and across the churchyard towards the mortuary.

Pushing open the door to the reception area Jane saw some of the surveillance officers and detectives from Operation Hawk standing looking at each other, lost for words. She knew that something terrible had happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask exactly what. She dreaded having her own worst fears confirmed.

A mortuary assistant in his green gown and white wellington boots opened the door from the corridor to say that the undertaker’s van was on its way from the scene of the explosion. They would be bringing in body bags via the back entrance and he needed some assistance. Jane felt helpless as she and the others followed the head mortician down the corridor to the van bay, where he pulled open the double-door metal shutters to let the first black van reverse in.

Jane was surprised, yet in some ways relieved, to see Sarah Redhead get out of the passenger side of the van as the mortician opened the rear to remove the body bags onto a trolley.

‘Thank God, Sarah. Can you tell me if a WPC Kathleen Morgan is here or at the hospital as...? ’

Sarah, normally so loud-spoken, took Jane by her arm and whispered, ‘I haven’t a clue who’s in the bags. We got called to go to the bank to control the cordons and keep the press and public out. When they got the bodies out we were told to accompany them here and then go off duty. I’ve been on for sixteen hours now.’

‘Has nobody said anything about who has died?’

‘I’m a uniform WPC like you, Jane. I don’t ask, I just do. Unless you’re on duty you really shouldn’t be in here. All I can tell you is the scene at the bank was horrendous. Glass, metal and bricks were all over the streets.’

They had to stand back as another undertaker’s van reversed in. At the same time the head mortician told a couple of officers to take the first body through to the fridge area for storage.

The undertaker driving the latest arrival got out and spoke with the mortician.

‘Bit of a jigsaw in this bag — it’s full of bits and pieces the forensic guys found in the vault. God only knows which bits are the police and which bits the bad guys.’

Jane felt as if she had been punched in her heart by what she’d just heard.

‘Body parts?’ she repeated breathlessly.

The head mortician looked at Jane. ‘You’re that probationer who was in here the other week to watch the post-mortem on the murdered girl. What’s this case got to do with you?’

‘It’s OK, she’s working on it as well,’ a voice said.

Jane looked and saw a dazed DS Spencer Gibbs getting out of the passenger seat of the undertaker’s van. He looked terrible. He had a dressing over the left side of his face and both his hands were bandaged. His jacket was blackened and singed and he was obviously in considerable pain.

‘My God, what happened to you?’

‘I was in the bank and got hurt during the explosion.’

Jane was still in shock. He glanced at her.

‘Have you been sick over yourself?’

‘No, it’s custard. Was Kath with you?’

Gibbs took a deep trembling breath and nodded.

‘Bradfield as well.’ His voice quivered and he started to walk off.

‘What happened, Spence?’

‘I need to get back to the station as I’ve got things to do.’

Jane felt more optimistic. Although Gibbs was injured he had survived. She followed him out of the mortuary and could see he was wincing and gritting his teeth as he walked. She stepped closer.

‘I’m confused, Spence, and really need to know what’s happened.’

He stopped and looked at her. His voice was sad.

‘Kath and Len didn’t make it—’

A shocked Jane shook her head as she interrupted him. ‘But you were with them, how did you...?’

‘I was behind the thick vault door with the bank manager when the explosion occurred so our bodies were protected from the fireball and flying debris. Our injuries are just heat-blast burns.’

Jane felt her legs begin to shake as she feared the worst.

‘They were standing by the entrance to the vault and took the full blast. They didn’t stand a chance, Jane,’ he said, welling up.

‘They’re dead?’ she asked disbelievingly.

‘Yes. I’m really sorry as I know how close you were to Kath.’

Jane felt as if her legs were going to buckle under her. Gibbs took hold of her arm to support her as they walked slowly back to the station.

‘For what it’s worth some of the suspects died. We don’t know exactly who yet due to the injuries, but from what’s left I think it could be John Bentley and the Greek. It seems Danny Mitcham escaped over the roofs and I’m going out to look for Clifford Bentley later.’

As they walked across the station yard Sergeant Harris approached them and told Gibbs that DCS Metcalf had been asking the surveillance officers and other team detectives awkward questions, wanting to know the ins and outs of Operation Hawk and why, once the suspects were in the vault, it was so long before they went in to make arrests.

‘Bastard’s looking for a scapegoat to blame already. I ain’t gonna let him blacken Len Bradfield’s name so I’ll take the rap.’

Harris took him to one side. ‘Are you sure that’s wise, Spencer? Metcalf hasn’t the bottle to blame a dead man who everyone respected and who had an unblemished career. If you say it was in any way your fault he’ll blame you publicly for Len’s death and that’s your career screwed. Do you really think Bradfield would want it to end that way?’

Gibbs shook his head and realized Harris, for all his many irritating faults, spoke with experience and sense.

‘You should go home, Spence, you look awful.’

‘I’m all right and I want to make the NOK call before Metcalf does.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? He is the senior officer investigating this now.’

‘I was his friend so I’ll make the call, and if Metcalf doesn’t like it then tough.’

‘Don’t lose your head, you got to stay in control,’ Harris said.

Jane heard bits of what they were talking about but didn’t know what a NOK was and didn’t want to appear nosy or irritating by asking. She interrupted with a light tap to Gibbs’s arm.

‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘No, I got to do this myself,’ he said and walked off into Bradfield’s office.

Harris turned to Jane. ‘Canteen’s closed as it’s a bank holiday so make him a nice cup of tea,’ he said, and looked her up and down before continuing. ‘What’s that yellow stuff on your clothes? You look a mess.’

She apologized explaining that she had been off duty, but had come in after seeing the news. She asked him if she could stay on and work.

‘Yes, but put your uniform on as this station is going to be the focus of press and top-brass attention for a long while yet.’

She said she would make Gibbs a tea and then return to the section house to change.

Jane went into the small kitchen and put the kettle on before unthinkingly washing the usual array of dirty mugs that had been left in the sink.

When she took DS Gibbs a cup of tea he was sitting behind Bradfield’s desk, leaning forward with his arms on the table, his head resting between them. At first she thought he was asleep. He looked up and took out a handkerchief to wipe his nose.

‘Two sugars, right?’ Jane asked with a smile.

‘Thanks,’ Gibbs said.

‘Did your NOK call go OK?’ she asked out of politeness, still unsure what it meant.

‘I don’t think she could really take it all in, but I’ll go over to be with her later.’

‘I’m sorry, who do you mean by “she”?’

Spencer sighed. ‘Len’s wife. It was awful as I could hear their two small kids playing in the background, and now I gotta do Kath’s NOK call.’

Jane suddenly realized that ‘NOK’ was short for ‘next of kin’ and couldn’t believe what Gibbs had just said. Was Bradfield married? It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be true, she thought to herself before speaking as calmly as possible under the circumstances.

‘Married. I didn’t know married officers could live at the section house.’

Gibbs sipped his tea, and gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

‘His wife was finding it hard to cope with all the late hours he worked. She’d get anxious, wondering if maybe he’d been hurt as he hadn’t come home when expected. Len told me she would often sit up waiting for him. He spoke with the section house sergeant who said he, and a few others, could use a spare room when things got busy. Len reckoned it would help stop all the anxiety at home and then a rumour goes round that they were splitting up. It didn’t bother him as he always felt that his private life was his own personal business and nothing to do with anyone else and...’ He bowed his head trying to stifle a sob. ‘God help me, I loved and respected that man so much and now I gotta tell poor Kath’s mum and dad she’s dead.’

Jane had to take deep breaths to steady herself. She gently patted his shoulder.

‘Sorry, Spence, so sorry.’

She turned away, knowing she was going to break down. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. She hurried out of the office, down the stairs and out to the rear entrance of the station in a state of denial.

With no handbag, warrant card or money she walked to the section house and had to ask the ‘old buzzard’ to let her into her room. She gasped for breath as she shut the door behind her. She stared at the big poster of Janis Joplin with her wild hair and the silly feather boa, her arms lined with bracelets and rings on her fingers. The scream came from the pit of her stomach.

‘No, no, no, no!’

She tore the poster down and began ripping it to shreds as the song that had constantly been running through her mind seemed to drill into her heart:

Still crying Jane took off her stained clothes, changed into a clean pressed shirt and skirt, then brushed her hair and tied it back with an elastic band. Hard as she tried she couldn’t stop the floodgates opening as she remembered Bradfield tossing the elastic band onto her desk and calling her Veronica Lake.

She splashed cold water over her face and held the towel against her eyes until her sobs quietened.

‘Take control, take control, do it.’

Jane picked up her hat, put it on and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her uniform suddenly felt like a protective armour. As she returned to the station she gritted her teeth and knew that, whatever anguish she was feeling or had to face in the future, she would now be able to contain it inside her.

Sergeant Harris saw her sitting at the front counter desk looking pristine and calm.

He paused briefly and spoke softly. ‘Good girl.’

‘Thank you, Sarge.’