Tennison (2 page)

She suddenly sprang up, realizing that in her daydreaming she had missed her stop. Clattering down the stairs, she shouted to the conductor.

‘I’ve gone too far – I need to get off.’

‘Not a lot I can do about it, love – you should pay more attention. I’m not allowed to ring the bell in between stops, so you’ll have to—’

Jane couldn’t wait and as soon as the bus slowed down at the traffic lights she swung her job-issue black-leather handbag over her shoulder and jumped off. The grinning conductor wagged his finger disapprovingly. Jane had no option but to run the quarter of a mile back down the road to the station; she knew she would be drenched by the time she got there. Pulling up the collar of her trench coat she put her head down and set off. Seconds later, she bumped straight into a woman, which sent her reeling backwards and knocking the woman’s umbrella into the road. Her brown paper carrier bag of groceries split open, spilling tins of soup, apples, bananas, potatoes and a loaf of bread onto the wet pavement.

‘Oh no! I am so sorry,’ Jane said.

The woman shook her head as she looked down at her groceries and the ruined carrier bag.

‘Oh my God, you bleedin’ well ran into me – now what am I gonna do?’ she exclaimed in a strong Cockney accent.

Apologizing profusely, and feeling somewhat embarrassed, Jane surreptitiously took her police hat out of the plastic bag and stuffed it in her handbag. She bent down and started picking up the groceries, placing them inside the empty bag.

‘I’ll get me brolly.’ The woman stepped off the pavement without looking.

‘Mind the traffic!’ Jane called out anxiously and stood up.

She gently grabbed the woman by the arm before instinctively holding her hand up to stop the traffic and retrieving the umbrella herself.

‘Is it still working?’ the woman demanded.

‘There’s no damage,’ Jane said, opening and closing the umbrella to check the spokes. ‘Here, you use it so you don’t get soaked.’

It took a while for Jane to pick up the potatoes as they, along with the now bruised apples, had rolled into the gutter. Her hands were soon cold and muddy, and she had to wipe her face which was wet from the torrential rain.

Holding up her umbrella the woman gestured impatiently. ‘Just put the cans of soup in, never mind the vegetables . . . Oh, don’t tell me, the bread’s split open as well.’

‘I’m really very sorry. I’ll pay for everything that’s damaged.’

Far from being disgruntled, the woman gave a wan smile.

‘No need. Besides, all this new decimal stuff confuses me. It was much easier when everything was in shillin’s.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t want to see you go short.’

‘Don’t look so worried, luv. I do office cleaning and the bread was only to make a sandwich for work.’

Eager to be on her way, Jane stepped a few paces back and, clutching her now wet and bulging handbag, wondered what state her police hat would be in.

‘I have to go – I am so sorry.’

The woman suddenly started gasping and heaving for breath.

‘Are you all right?’ Jane asked with concern.

‘No, gimme a minute . . . it’s . . . me asthma.’

‘Do you live nearby?’

‘Ashburn House.’

‘That’s off Homerton Road on the Pembridge Estate, isn’t it?’

The woman nodded and took more deep breaths. ‘It’s the shock . . . you runnin’ into me.’

‘Long way to walk, you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Let me . . . get me . . . breath back first.’

‘I’ll help you home.’

The Pembridge was a notorious council estate built in the 1930s. Jane had been to it a few times on incident calls. It consisted of eight five-storey blocks of grimy brick and contained a thousand flats. The residents were of different ethnic backgrounds, but predominantly white. Families of six lived in two-bedroom flats. Drug dealing, fights, vandalism and graffiti were part of daily life, and the stairwells served as urinals for drunks.

Jane carried the groceries over one arm as the woman leaned heavily on the other, constantly stopping to catch her breath. By the time they had walked up to the third floor of Ashburn House and along the landing leading to Flat 44, the woman was breathing so heavily that Jane thought she was going to faint.

On entering the flat she helped the woman out of her mac and gave it a couple of swishes outside to get rid of some of the water before hanging it over the folded wheelchair that was leaning against the wall in the hallway. Jane asked where the kitchen was. The woman pointed to the room on the right.

‘You go and sit down and rest and I’ll pop these groceries in the kitchen for you,’ Jane told her with a warm smile.

‘Would you be a luv and make me a cuppa tea with milk and three sugars?’

‘No problem,’ Jane said, although she was desperate to get a move on as she was already late for work. She hooked her handbag over the wheelchair.

Entering the kitchen Jane was surprised by the amount of expensive modern equipment. In one corner there was a Hotpoint front-load washing machine with a matching tumbler-drier on top of it. Next to that stood a dishwasher and an upright fridge with a separate freezer compartment. The room itself was spotlessly clean with a Formica-topped table and four matching chairs to one side.

Having filled the kettle Jane put it on the gas cooker which, like the other appliances, looked fairly new. She got the teapot, sugar, cup and saucer from the cupboards, then took the milk from the fridge and placed everything on the kitchen table. She noticed that there was a council rent book in the name of Mrs Irene Bentley on the table. Under it there was a Green Shield Stamps Gift Collection catalogue, along with some other magazines. Jane picked up the gift catalogue and flicking through it saw that it was filled with the latest kitchen appliances, televisions, entertainment systems, sports goods and clothes. It struck Jane that it would take more than a few Green Shield Stamps books to purchase any of the electrical goods on offer.

The sudden whistling of the kettle made her jump. Replacing the catalogue she noticed that there was a brochure for Wolf power tools, and another for Hilti power tools, which made her suspect that the woman’s family were in the building trade.

‘Oh ta, luv, just what I need after me ordeal . . . a nice cup of Rosie.’ The woman was lying down on the large sofa and she sat up as Jane handed her the tea.

‘You’re looking a lot better, Irene.’

The woman laughed and a drop of tea dribbled from her mouth. ‘Cor blimey, I haven’t been called that in years. Been known as Renee ever since I was a nipper.’

‘Sorry, I saw your rent book and just assumed.’

‘Did you now? Bit nosy of yer, and never assume, luv, always ask.’ She slurped at her tea.

The lounge was modern and comfortably furnished. The thick fitted carpet was a maroon colour with swirling yellow rings, and there was a wing chair that matched the sofa. Against the wall on one side of the room there was a large teak storage cabinet, and a matching dining table and four chairs.

‘You have a very nice flat.’

‘Me boys look after me.’

Jane heard the front door being opened, then slammed shut, followed by a few seconds’ silence and then the sound of heavy footsteps.

‘Ma? Eh, Ma? Where you at?’ a man’s voice bellowed.

Jane turned and saw a tough-looking dark-haired man in his thirties swaggering towards the living room with his hands deep in the pockets of his black donkey jacket. He stopped abruptly just inside the door and looked at Jane. She could see from the way he filled the doorframe that he was big and muscular. His nose resembled a boxer’s and he had a square-set, unshaven jaw.

‘What’s going on, Mum?’ he asked, looking Jane up and down with disdain. She noticed his eyes were dark and penetrating.

Renee was sipping her tea so Jane took the opportunity to explain her presence.

‘I bumped into your mother and she had a bit of a shock, so I helped her home. My name is Jane Tennison.’ She put her hand out politely for him to shake.

He didn’t reciprocate, but gave her a cold arrogant glare and asked his mother brusquely if she was all right.

‘I had one of me asthma attacks, John,’ Renee said, a nervous tremble in her voice as if she was afraid of him.

Jane picked up on the uneasy atmosphere and tried to break the tension. ‘I made a pot of tea, would you like a cup?’

‘Really . . . moving in now, are you?’ he replied, and coming closer gripped Jane by her elbow.

‘Go on, get out . . . get the fuck OUT! Move it, PISS OFF NOW,’ he snapped, and virtually frogmarched her out of the room.

Pushing her hard in the small of her back he propelled her onto the communal landing, barely giving her time to grab her bag before he slammed the door behind her. Tempted to ring the doorbell to give him a piece of her mind, Jane then thought better of it. It wasn’t so much that he was large and intimidating, but she was already late for work and if things got out of hand she had no means of calling for backup.

John went into the lounge, pulled off his jacket and threw it onto the wing chair. He clenched his fist at his mother.

‘What you think you’re fuckin’ doing, you stupid old cow? I could slap you so hard right now.’

Renee cringed away from him looking terrified. ‘I’ll put the kettle back on and make a fresh cuppa . . . ’

He poked his finger at her. ‘I’d like to pour the boiling water over your stupid head. Don’t you know a bloody rozzer when you see one?’

Renee shook her head in fear.

‘Her fuckin’ handbag was in the hallway. I had a quick look and there was a police hat in it, you stupid bitch. She was wearing black tights and shiny black shoes – it all sticks out like a sore thumb. What in Christ’s name do ya think you were doin’?’

‘I’m sorry, son, I—’

‘She’s bloody snoopin’ around, that’s what she’s doing.’

‘I didn’t know, I swear before God I didn’t know! She almost knocked me off me feet in the street.’

He sighed as he went to the kitchen and got himself a can of beer from the fridge. Taking a large swig, he began to calm down. Maybe it was just his paranoia kicking in, but seeing the police hat had really infuriated him. His hand was shaking as he swigged down the rest of the can, crushed it and threw it into the bin. Feeling more relaxed he made a fresh mug of tea and took it through to his mother.

‘Here you go, I’ve sugared it. I’m sorry I kicked off, Ma, but I’m upset about your cleaning job and I don’t want you doing it no more. Besides, you’re getting your state pension now so ya don’t need to work anyway.’

‘But I like working and I got friends there—’

‘No buts, Ma, just do as I say. You stay put and no more visitors. You got everything you need and more right here.’

She cupped the mug in her hands and sipped. ‘I get lonely, John, and with you not working why can’t I carry on doing what I’ve done for most of your life?’

‘Listen to me. I’m not going to be staying here for much longer, and when I leave you can do what you like, but for now you do as I tell you. And if you see that bitch rozzer around here again, you tell me.’

By the time Jane arrived at the station she was an hour late. Her hair was bedraggled and dripping wet, the uniform under her coat was damp and her shoes were soaked through as well. She knew she would have to report to the duty sergeant, but wanted to smarten herself up a bit before the inevitable dressing down for being late and missing parade.

She stood outside the front of the imposing four-storey redbrick-and-white-stone building and realized that she’d have to pass the front counter and duty sergeant’s desk if she went in via the main entrance. She decided to go through the rear gates, so she could sneak down the stairs to the ladies’ locker room to tidy herself up. To her relief there was no one in the yard as she scuttled across it: the Vauxhall Viva panda cars must have all been out on patrol.

‘Tennison! Stop right there!’ a voice bellowed from the canteen window on the third floor.

Recognizing the voice of Sergeant Bill Harris, Jane froze on the spot.

‘What bloody time do you call this?’

Jane looked up slowly. ‘I’m really sorry, Sergeant, but I—’

‘No excuses. You’ve got two minutes to be in front of my desk in full uniform for inspection.’

Jane wished she had access to a hairdryer, but she didn’t have time to do anything with her hair. She tied it in a ponytail with a thin black band and pushed the sides up under her hat before running upstairs to the front office to present herself. Sergeant Harris, he of ‘thirty years’ experience’, as he constantly liked to remind everyone, was a hardened old-school copper who thought the recent amalgamation of the women’s police force with the men’s was ‘an outrageous bloody disgrace!’

Jane was certain that he would, as usual, find some tedious job for her. More often than not she found herself in the communications room processing calls and dispatching the patrol officers to incidents over the radio. Even when she got to go on patrol, if anything of interest came up she was bypassed, or worse ignored, thanks to Sergeant Harris’s hold and influence over the junior male constables below his rank.

As she stood to attention in the front office Harris walked around her shaking his head in disapproval.

‘Have you been using your hat as a cushion? You look like a drowned rat, you’ve got a filthy face, and what’s that all over your hands?’

‘Mud, Sergeant, from picking up potatoes.’

He leaned forward, his face close to hers. ‘Don’t be funny with me, Tennison.’

‘I was helping an elderly lady and—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. I’ve got officers helping the CID with a dead body, one who’s gone sick and I’ve had to post someone else to your beat. And to top it all, I’m havin’ to answer the duty desk phone and deal with the public at the front counter myself. I should be directing, not doing, Tennison.’

‘Sorry, Sergeant. Can I still go on patrol?’

‘No, you missed your chance by being late. I expect better, Tennison, and this incident won’t go unnoticed on your next probationer’s report. Now, get your backside into the comms room and help Morgan out. All the incoming message forms from the weekend and this morning need to be filed away.’