Tennison. Lynda La plante
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crossed, Jane, fingers crossed,’ Kath said as she hurried off to the custody room.
*
Jane got the Woodbines and was returning to Bradfield’s office when Sergeant Harris came out with a face like thunder. He glared as she approached.
‘You might think you can get round Bradfield by fluttering your eyelashes, but you can’t fool me, Tennison. Your cards are marked, so I suggest you watch your step if you want to pass your probation and be confirmed as a WPC.’
As Harris stormed off Jane couldn’t believe that he was so riled simply because she had been to a bereavement notification and a post-mortem, things she was expected to do during her probation anyway.
She knocked on Bradfield’s door, and when he told her to come in she handed him his Woodbines and his change. He thanked her, inviting her to sit down.
‘How do you get on with Harris as your reporting sergeant?’
‘Fine, sir, he’s very helpful,’ she replied unconvincingly, not daring to be honest in case Bradfield and Harris were friends.
‘What are you like at indexing?’
‘I’m not very good, sir,’ Jane said, wanting to get back to the front office before Harris boiled over.
Bradfield flicked open a file on his desk. ‘Funny that. Your application says you went to the Central London Polytechnic and did business studies, and you used to help in your father’s company during the holidays, so you must have some experience of indexing?’
‘Yes, sir, but not in murder investigations.’
‘My indexer Sally is three months pregnant. Under police regulations it means she’s due to go on maternity leave, so I need a replacement.’
Jane thought about Harris’s threat. She realized Bradfield had already told him he wanted her to do some indexing, and that was why he was so annoyed with her.
‘I’m honoured that you have asked me, sir, but I am still a probationer and—’
He interrupted her, patting a vast file on his desk.
‘It’s only temporary. Take this with you and do a few hours here and there until I find a suitable replacement. As you know, Julie Ann may have been murdered nearby and dumped, so I need to concentrate on the area close to the scene, and that means the Kingsmead Estate. There’s no way a magistrate will give me a warrant to search each and every one of the bloody flats down there. I need someone to check off all the names the occupants give in the house-to-house enquiries against the electoral register, and also check with the collator for anyone with a criminal record living down there.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you want me to start now?’
‘What a good idea, and do the same for the residents of Edgar House on the Pembridge where the squat was,’ he said with a smile.
Jane stood up to leave, and although she knew she should feel pleased with herself, she worried about Harris. But if she let Bradfield down it could jeopardize her career even further.
‘One last thing – you’re not the only one who thinks Harris is over the hill and a lazy waste of space, and I don’t think he was too pleased I just told him as much. If he gives you any hassle let me know; for now you work for me.’ He took a bite of his sandwich and pulled a face.
‘Jesus Christ, this is tuna.’
‘Is it? I’m sure I asked for ham.’
‘Never mind. Sally will give you a run-through on indexing and what to do, but first I want you to type up what Professor Martin told us at the post-mortem.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you.’
She started to go, then realized she hadn’t picked up his file. He watched her as she returned to his desk to collect it. She blushed as he smiled at her, and was so flustered she almost tripped and only just managed to hold on to the file.
‘I’ll get on to it straight away.’
‘Good, thank you.’
As she closed the door behind her, Bradfield opened his new pack of Woodbines.
*
Jane went to the small PCs’ writing room, next to the parade room, to type up the post-mortem report. When she’d finished she took it up to DCI Bradfield to check over, but he wasn’t in his office. She left the report on his desk and went down to the collator’s office to talk to PC Donaldson about the residents of the Kingsmead and Pembridge estates.
‘Bloody hell, are you telling me he wants you to check out every address and person on the estate? You do realize that on the Kingsmead alone there are nearly a thousand flats and over four thousand residents? I’m happy for you to look through my criminal index cards, but like I said before, you can only do it in here. If you want microfiche copies of any files then write the name and criminal-record number in my book here and I’ll order them from the Yard.’
‘Can I take the voters’ register with me, please?’
‘Go on then. I’ve got a spare one in my desk drawer so you can keep that one for now. If you get any suspect names run them by me and I’ll see if I can find out any more about them from my various sources.’
‘Do you know anything about Jaguar cars?’
‘Not really, way above my wages. I’m a Ford Cortina man myself. Why?’
‘DCI Bradfield said the victim of his murder investigation was last seen getting into a Jaguar and I don’t know much about cars myself.’
‘You could try the black rats.’
‘Who?’
‘Traffic police. A black rat is an animal that will eat its own family, which equates to a traffic officer having no compassion for uniform patrol and CID officers when it comes to drink driving or other vehicle offences. There isn’t much they don’t know about different makes of cars. Try the unit at Bow.’
On her way to the incident room Jane knocked on DCI Bradfield’s door to see if he had read her report on the post-mortem, and to ask if she should now index and file it. The door was opened by a huge man in his early fifties with a ruddy, stern-looking face. He was at least eighteen stone and wore a blue pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, tie and black brogues.
‘Sorry, I was looking for DCI Bradfield,’ she said, wondering who he was.
‘So was I, young lady, and as the Divisional Detective Chief Superintendent I expect to be addressed as “sir” or “Mr Metcalf”.’
Jane stood to attention. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—’
‘Do you know where DCI Bradfield is?’
‘He said he had a meeting with you in the uniform Chief Superintendent’s office, sir.’
‘Ah, I thought it was in his office. Do you need to see him urgently or can I pass a message on?’
‘No, sir, I just wanted to ask if I should file the report I typed up for him on the post-mortem of Julie Ann Collins.’ The DCS held up Jane’s report. ‘I’ve just been reading it. DCI Bradfield’s report is very detailed, to the point and interesting. Poor thing was pregnant and used as a punchbag, I see. Anyway I’d best get on – this report can be
indexed and filed.’ He handed it to Jane.
She knew it would be a bad move to say she had actually compiled as well as typed it, but didn’t want to upset Bradfield or get him into trouble.
Jane had hoped to find Sally in the incident room, but there was no one about. She looked around. There was a piece of paper with ‘Indexer’ written on it stuck to the side of a desk and on top of it was the carousel index-card holder. Also on the desk were two trays. The one marked
‘IN’