Tennison (6 page)

Shortly before midnight, while the SPG officers were still on the estate, they stopped a young male drug addict, Billy Myers, just outside the block where Julie Ann had squatted. It transpired that he knew the victim and, along with another drug addict, had spent the previous night with Eddie. He told the officers that Eddie was so spaced out on heroin he wouldn’t have known what time of day it was, and when he had asked him where Julie Ann was, Eddie had said he didn’t know and hadn’t seen her since she’d gone off with a punter in a car. The officers traced the other drug addict and he gave the same story without any prompting.

The police divisional surgeon had examined Eddie. He had a number of needle marks from injecting heroin in his left arm, but no marks on his body that suggested he had been involved in a violent struggle.

Bradfield and DS Gibbs had re-interviewed Eddie, who still protested his innocence, and when asked if he was with anyone on the night Julie Ann died he said he couldn’t remember as he was high on drugs.

Eddie’s description of the last time he’d seen Julie Ann was still vague, as it was at least two weeks ago. He blamed drugs and methadone for his memory loss, and when asked about the red car he’d seen her getting into he said he was ‘pretty sure’ it was a newish Jaguar as it was shiny and he liked them. Eddie was unable to give a description of the driver, saying that he only saw the car from behind and didn’t take any notice as he thought it was probably some punter picking Julie Ann up for sex.

Bradfield was beginning to doubt Eddie’s involvement in Julie Ann’s murder, but couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was hiding something or knew someone who might be involved.

During the interview Eddie had been asked who their drug dealer was. He told them that Julie Ann used to get drugs for both of them, but he didn’t know who from. Evidently, Julie Ann used to let her drug-dealing punters have sex in return for heroin, instead of cash. Bradfield found it repellent that Eddie allowed his so-called girlfriend to sell her body in order to feed their heroin habit. When asked if Julie Ann had a pimp, Eddie said he didn’t know but Bradfield suspected he was lying. However, there was no incriminating evidence to charge Eddie or keep him in custody, so Bradfield had him released pending further enquiries. He warned Eddie to stay with his grandmother and that at some point he or one of his detectives would want to speak with him again.

Without any witnesses, they had no clear time of death, only that Julie Ann’s body had been discovered at 9 a.m. the day before by some kids. It was clear that she had been strangled, but they needed to know what time she was killed, and whether the murder had happened in the playground or elsewhere.

Bradfield demanded that his officers push any informants they had to find out who had supplied Julie Ann and Eddie with heroin. He instructed them to check all the red-light districts in Stoke Newington, Holloway, King’s Cross and Soho for any toms who might have known Julie Ann or seen a red Jag loitering for pick-ups. He wanted the car and driver traced, even if it meant speaking to everyone in London who owned a red Jaguar, which could run into thousands.

Jane went to the parade room in the back yard to check her tray for any internal mail or notices. She opened an envelope with her divisional number and station code. It contained the results of her latest continuation training exam and she had passed with an overall mark of 85 per cent. With plenty of time to spare Jane decided to have a coffee and a Chelsea bun in the canteen. She was just heading up the stairs when she saw Kath Morgan coming out of the CID office dressed in flared jeans, a T-shirt and denim jacket.

‘You’re in early,’ they both said in unison.

Jane explained about the invite from DCI Bradfield to attend the post-mortem.

‘You lucky so and so, Jane. I’ve never been to a proper murder one, only a routine natural-causes death. Anyway, after that DS Gibbs gave me a tip and told me to use some Vicks VapoRub – you put a bit under each nostril to avoid the stink. In fact I’ve still got the unopened pot I bought. It’s in me parade-room tray, help yourself to it.’

‘Oh, thanks, Kath, I will. Why don’t you ask if you can come as well?’

‘I’m busy already. I got a bit of info about a burglar working the Holly Street Estate over by London Fields. He’s turning over the old folks’ flats and nicking pension books and cash. DS Gibbs said I could do a plain-clothes shift with the crime squad to try and nick him on the plot. I hope it pays off, Jane, as I really want to get onto the crime squad and then get selected for detective.’

‘It would be a first for this station, Kath, a woman detective.’

‘I know! There’s only a couple of other WDCs in the Met, but I’m determined to prove myself.’

Jane smiled. ‘He of the thirty years’ experience would have a heart attack. A woman detective . . . what a bloody disgrace.’

‘Pissing Harris off would be a bonus,’ Kath replied and they both laughed.

Kath’s tone became serious as she continued.

‘Listen, about that bloke you mentioned, the one that threw you out of his mother’s flat. Was his name John Bentley?’

‘Well, I’m pretty sure it was. Irene Bentley was the name on the rent book and he called her Mum.’

‘Before I went off duty last night I had a quick look through the collator’s criminal index cards. There’s a Bentley whose description matches but he lives at a different address. Bit of a nasty sod from a nasty family: he’s been done for GBH.’

Jane smiled saying she was glad she hadn’t tried to dig him in the ribs with his mother’s umbrella.

‘Lucky you didn’t. From his record he’d have likely walloped you one.’

The CID office door flew open as DC Edwards came out. ‘Come on, Kath, get a move on. We need to get the obo van parked up before the suspect gets there,’ he said as he rushed past her.

‘I’m friggin’ ready so keep your hair on,’ Kath shouted and turned back to Jane. ‘I know why he wants to make a quick arrest . . . there’s a game of shoot pontoon followed by three-card brag in the CID office tonight and his fingers are twitching to lose his weekly expenses.’

Kath started to follow the disgruntled detective down the stairs, but stopped.

‘Listen, there’s a place coming up soon at the section house in Mare Street. It’s just down the road and would save you loads of time travelling, but you got to make it snappy or the room will go. It’s only a fiver a month as well.’

‘Thanks, Kath, I appreciate it.’

‘And have a word with the collator about the Bentleys – he’ll probably know a lot more – always good to get to know who the villains on the patch are.’

Jane went to the collator’s office on the ground floor. The post was held by PC Donaldson. Rather overweight and with thinning grey hair, he had worked at Hackney Police Station for over twenty-five years. There wasn’t much Donaldson didn’t know about who was who in Hackney’s criminal underworld. He received and collated information about criminals on the division and dispersed intelligence to the beat officers about crime trends and people wanted or suspected of a crime. His knowledge was invaluable, and he was highly respected by everyone in the station as a genuinely nice man who had time for everyone, male or female.

Donaldson flicked through the index-card drawer marked ‘B’. ‘Here it is, full name John Henry Bentley, aged thirty-seven.’ He withdrew the three cards from a plastic sleeve and handed them to Jane who looked at the black-and-white mug-shot picture on the front.

‘That’s him,’ she said.

PC Donaldson drew out two further cards from the ‘B’ drawer.

‘They’re a well-known family who’ve lived in Hackney all their lives. All of them villains and all hard as nails, apart from the mum Renee, bless her. John’s got a council house on Middleton Road and his younger brother David, who’s thirty, lives with his mother on the Pembridge.’

Jane noticed that amongst John Bentley’s convictions there was grievous bodily harm, burglary and theft. ‘Middleton Road is by London Fields, isn’t it?’

PC Donaldson nodded.

‘WPC Morgan’s doing an observation on the Holly Street Estate for a burglar nicking pension books. Do you think it might be . . .?’

‘No way. Nicking pension books or snatching old ladies’ handbags isn’t their style, plus John Bentley’s been clean for quite a few years. They have their own code of honour, his kind, the number one rule being you don’t grass to the police and two you don’t turn over old people. If they caught someone doing that they’d beat the crap out of them and break their fingers for good measure. That’s how John got his conviction for GBH.’

‘The victim grassed on him?’

‘No, CID heard him screaming – they caught John breaking the poor bloke’s fingers with a hammer.’

Jane winced. ‘I got the impression his mother was frightened of him.’

PC Donaldson handed Jane another index card for a Clifford Bentley, aged seventy-two. He explained her fear probably stemmed from her old man, ‘Cliffy’ as he was known, knocking her about before he got a ten-stretch in Wormwood Scrubs.

‘He’s real handy with his fists, but more as a renowned bare-knuckle fighter. At one time he associated with the Kray twins as a bag man collecting protection money.’

‘What did he go to prison for last time?’

‘The Sweeney got a tip-off from a snout and nicked him on the pavement,’ he said.

Seeing the look of puzzlement on Jane’s face Donaldson explained that ‘snout’ meant informant and ‘the Sweeney’ was the Met’s flying squad nickname from the Cockney rhyming slang ‘Sweeney Todd’. The unit had no boundaries and operated all across London investigating commercial armed robberies. Clifford Bentley was arrested whilst trying to rob a security van during a bank-cash collection and he’d have got a much longer prison sentence if the gun had been real and loaded. Donaldson remarked that it wasn’t Clifford’s usual style, but rumour had it he urgently needed cash to pay the Krays off on a gambling debt.

‘What happened to the informant?’

‘Don’t know, but word has it he’s part of a concrete pillar somewhere.’

‘Is John Bentley a builder?’ Jane asked, recalling seeing the power tools brochures in Renee’s kitchen.

‘Could be, but like I said he’s been clean for a while and can turn his hand to anything.’

‘What does the brother David do?’

Donaldson handed Jane his index card. ‘Not a lot after he smashed his legs up. Good few years back he was out with his dad and brother nicking lead off a church roof when night-duty CID caught them red-handed. David tried to do a runner: silly bugger jumped off the roof and broke his legs badly. Big sob story at the trial as he was in a wheelchair. His barrister played the sympathy card, the soft judge fell for it and David got a light sentence.’

Jane looked at David Bentley’s card and saw that the arresting officer was the then Detective Sergeant Bradfield. ‘Can I take these cards with me to have a look-over?’ PC Donaldson explained that no one was allowed to remove the cards from his office, but she could make notes if she wanted. The other alternative was to order copies of their criminal records on microfiche from Scotland Yard. Jane said not to bother and that she had just been curious after meeting the over-aggressive John Bentley the day before.

‘Well, good on you. Always good to do research for yer knowledge, and any time you want to know who’s who, you come to me.’

Jane got the Vicks VapoRub from Kath’s tray. She was making her way to the mortuary when DCI Bradfield sped into the station yard in his light blue Ford Zephyr, causing her to jump out of the way as he pulled up abruptly into a parking bay. He got out of the car, said nothing to her, but simply nodded. She could see from the look on his face that he was not in the best of moods. He strode ahead of Jane forcing her to hurry in his wake, and she was almost clipped in the chest as he pushed open the door to the mortuary and went towards the coroner’s assistant’s office. He held up his hand in a gesture for her to wait behind him, then opened the door and peered in.

‘DCI Bradfield. Are they ready to go with the PM on my murder victim?’ he asked.

Jane heard a murmured reply, and then Bradfield closed the door.

‘Follow me,’ he said abruptly, walking down the corridor and banging open the swing doors to the examination room as if he was on some sort of mission. He patted his pocket for his cigarette pack and stuck one into his mouth then paused to light it, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

The awful putrid smell in the room hit Jane instantly and made her gag. The head mortician was finishing stitching up the decomposing body of an elderly man on a white porcelain examination table. She had been warned about the smell by Kath, but hadn’t expected it to be so bad. Opening Kath’s jar of Vicks she put some on her finger and rubbed it below her nostrils.

‘That’s not a very bright idea, luv,’ the mortician said with a touch of sarcasm.

Jane noticed Bradfield raising his eyebrows and shaking his head as if she was dim.

‘Sorry, what’s not a bright idea?’ she asked, wondering what was so amusing.

‘The menthol in the Vicks clears your nasal passages so you’ll be able to smell even better now.’

‘She’s a probationer . . . first PM,’ Bradfield said, grinning, and the mortician laughed, saying he thought as much.

Jane felt silly and realized that she was the butt of the joke Gibbs had initially intended to play on Kath.

To distract herself she looked around the small room. The walls were lined with white brick-shaped tiles and the stone-flagged floor was angled to a gulley which ran down to a drain area. The other porcelain examination table was clean and dry and on it was a large wooden chopping board and round plastic bowl. To one side were two steel trolleys which were covered with an array of different-shaped cutting instruments. On one trolley there was a white butcher’s scale with a steel meat tray resting in its holder. Then the doors swung open and a tall dapper man in his mid-forties with swept-back blond hair walked in. He was wearing a brown wax Barbour jacket, white shirt, blue-and-white-striped tie, grey slacks and brown zip ankle boots. He was carrying a large black doctor’s-style case which he put down on the clean examination table. Jane thought he must be the forensic pathologist as DCI Bradfield greeted him with a friendly smile and firm handshake.