Hidden Killers. Lynda La plante
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he has confessed his crimes and signed a statement to that effect, he’d be mad to go for a not guilty claim and risk a much longer sentence.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about your future, Tennison . . . Tell me, where do you see yourself in three or five years’ time?’
‘I’d like to think I’d be a detective, sir.’
He gave her an icy stare. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want? It may not be the best career path for you at this time.’
Jane was taken aback by Metcalf’s attitude. He had promised he would recommend her for the CID after DCI Bradfield’s death.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I ask if DI Moran or Sergeant Harris have said anything to you about me joining the CID?’
‘No . . . why do you ask? Is there a problem between you and them?’
Jane blushed. ‘No, sir. I had told them I’d like to join the department and I just wondered if they had spoken to you favourably, or otherwise, about me.’
‘Detective Moran said you did a good job on the Allard arrest, and Sergeant Harris has never mentioned you . . . but I try to avoid conversations with him as he usually has something to moan about.’
He gave a short bark.
‘Could I ask why you think the CID may be the wrong career path for me?’
Metcalf formed a church steeple with his fingers, and leaned his elbows on the desk.
‘I’m not saying that being a detective isn’t right, but it may not be the right choice in the long term. There is always the possibility of a more rewarding opportunity.’
‘What would that opportunity be, sir?’
‘Well, if you sit the sergeant’s promotion exam and got a mark in the nineties you would automatically be considered for the Special Course.’
‘I see . . . but Sergeant Harris has already said he wouldn’t recommend me to sit the exam yet.’
Metcalf glanced away, staring at a small stain high on the wall behind her.
‘Well, Jane, I would recommend you for accelerated promotion, whereby you could be a uniform sergeant within three years and an inspector within five.’
Jane paused for thought. She then said quietly, ‘It’s very tempting to have a go at accelerated promotion, but I think first I’d like to make detective, work in the CID and maybe sit the exam later.’
‘But you could still apply for the CID even if you pass the promotion exam,’ Metcalf pointed out. ‘You might find it worth studying to sit the exam in January next year, then apply for the CID once you’ve passed.’
Again Jane took time to think about it. ‘Could I become a detective and then sit the exam after a year or two in the CID?’ she asked politely.
She could tell that Metcalf was now becoming a trifle impatient as he drummed his fingertips on the edge of the desk.
‘If you pass the exam, as a detective, you would be required to work in uniform for one year before you could return as a detective sergeant.’
Jane bit down on her bottom lip. One side of her mouth was still scarred where Allard had struck her but she kept tight control and audaciously reminded Metcalf of their previous conversation after Bradfield’s death. Metcalf’s cheeks turned pink. It was hard to determine if it was from anger, or whether he had forgotten that conversation.
Eventually he said very quietly, ‘I’m a man of my word and if that’s what you want then I’ll recommend you for the next CID interview board in about a month’s time. But I’m only able to recommend you, and passing the board is entirely down to how you perform on the day in front of the panel.’ Metcalf peered at her and his tone became brisk. ‘Do your homework and brush up on CID procedure.’ He stood up to signal that their meeting was over and Jane saluted him.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that, Tennison . . . a hand shake will suffice.’
‘Thank you very much, sir, I will remember that.’ Standing ramrod straight she walked out, very pleased with herself, and reckoned she had handled the meeting well.
Jane went straight to the property store to book out the steroids recovered from Allard’s address. PC Doig, the property officer, was a pleasant, rotund old soul who originated from Glasgow. He had a strong Scottish accent that, even after twenty-five years in London, was often hard to understand. He was badly injured after being hit by a car in the line of duty and had spent the last four years assigned to desk duties in the ‘dungeon’, as officers referred to the basement property store.
‘Hello, wee Jane, how ye doin’? I heard you pulled a real belter the other night, arrestin’ that rotten bastard Allard for rape. That’s a nasty cut he gave your lip.’
‘Thanks, Dougal, but it wasn’t just me who made the arrest.’
‘You’re a canny lass that’s fer sure. Now, what’re you aboot?’
‘The bag of tablets in the Allard case, please.’
‘Aye, did ye see them magazines he had? I could na believe the dirty pictures in ’em when I had a wee gander.’ He walked off down the aisle of high shelving to look for the property.
Jane tried not to laugh at his remark about the magazines, as he’d obviously had a good ‘gander’.
‘Right, here ye are. I need yer ta sign in the book here. Are they going ta the lab?’
‘Yes,’ Jane said.
PC Doig put the bag of tablets down on the desk and opened up the property book. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it to Jane, asking her to fill out each section with the date, property exhibit number, case name and description of the property. The page was nearly full and as she filled out each section she couldn’t help but notice the entries above the one she was making. The dates went back three days and she was surprised that nowhere among the entries for withdrawal or deposit was there a blue rabbit fur coat. Moran’s name was there but only relating to the deposit of the Allard property. She flicked back a few pages to double-check, but still found no entry for the coat. Jane distinctly remembered Moran saying the fur coat was evidence in a ‘handling’ case and asking her to leave it on a chair in his office as he needed to put it back in the property store.
‘The fur coat I used for the decoy operation . . . I was just wondering if it was returned to the store, as it was evidence in a case?’
‘What fur coat? I’ve nay had any fur coats in here. If I did, believe me I’d be wearin’ it . . . it’s that damn cold doon here.’
‘It was blue rabbit fur, and waist length.’
‘Nope, d’nay what yer talkin’ aboot, Janey . . . If it was ta do with an overnight prisoner then it may never have got doon here, and could ha been locked in the charge room cabinet.’
The word ‘prisoner’ sparked a memory in Jane’s mind. It was DC Edwards telling her that Moran had gone downstairs to put the fur jacket back in the property store, and release a prisoner he had in on suspicion of dishonest handling. Then Sergeant Harris had told her that DI Moran released his other prisoner the same night she arrested Allard.
She filled out the rest of the details about the steroids in the property book. Why had Moran lied to her about the rabbit fur coat? It just didn’t make sense . . . unless there was something he wanted to hide. She thanked PC Doig for his help.
Jane went straight to the charge room to look through the prisoner arrest and release records for the twenty-four-hour period before and after Allard’s arrest. She was thankful there was no one there, other than a cleaner. She went over to the bookshelf, removed the ‘Prisoner’ book and sat down at the charge room desk to look through it. It didn’t take long. Early in the morning on the day of the decoy operation, DI Moran had arrested a Mary Kelly, aged twenty-nine, unemployed, and of no fixed abode. Jane’s