Tennison (50 page)

Jane looked down the landing and saw Bradfield at the far end waving for her to come forward, so she ran the entire way and followed him to his room. He opened the door quickly, ushered her inside and as she turned to face him he embraced her in his arms and kissed her passionately. He lifted her up, gently laid her down on his single bed and positioned himself beside her, gently brushing her hair from her face.

‘I didn’t think you would come . . . you smell lovely.’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m scared stiff, especially as the crabby section-house sergeant is on the prowl.’

Bradfield was very gentle, kissing her tenderly before he pulled off his T-shirt, and then unbuttoned her blouse. She had been in such a hurry to get dressed she hadn’t put a bra on and he sighed staring at her breasts before he bent down to kiss each nipple. Aroused, she pulled his head closer, moaning with pleasure. He looked up and grinned.

‘Shushhh!’ He put his hand over her lips. ‘You are so lovely . . . have you any idea how much I’ve wanted to hold you?’

He kept on kissing her and Jane felt as if she was flying. Then he took off her jeans, undressed himself and lay naked next to her. He remained so quiet and so loving that she gave herself to him, whispering that she loved kissing his cheeks, his eyes and his mouth. Jane was not completely sexually naive. She had been involved with a boy from college and had had a short relationship with one of the class instructors at training college. But she had never felt this way, or been so adored and cared for so tenderly. It had just been plain sex before, but this was different. After making love to her once he became rougher and more sexually explicit, whispering what he wanted her to do and how he wanted her to touch him. She found his sexual confidence encouraging and it made her lose all her inhibitions so that she enjoyed the sex and was satisfied in a way she had never believed possible.

Two hours later Jane watched as Bradfield opened the door and took a look up and down the corridor.

‘OK, it’s all clear. Goodnight . . . ’

He tilted her chin up and kissed her as she eased past him and hurried towards the stairs to go to her room. She had just passed through the double doors when Gibbs stepped out of the lift and headed along the corridor and rapped on Bradfield’s door. Bradfield opened it fast with a beaming smile thinking it was Jane, but seeing Gibbs he reacted quickly to cover himself.

‘Christ, you woke me up.’ He yawned.

‘I just finished typing up my report – you want to go for a drink? The pub’s still open and I want to give you an update.’

‘Yeah sure, let me get my trousers on.’ Bradfield closed the door. He didn’t want to let Gibbs in in case he smelt Jane’s perfume.

Unaware of how close she had been to being discovered by Gibbs, Jane flung herself onto her bed. She felt happier and more contented than she could remember.

As they sat at a table drinking their pints, Gibbs explained to Bradfield what had taken place at the Greek café.

‘Although no one was working in the basement and no van was there I’m dead certain we’ve got the right café and bank, Len. The guy Silas was sweating and talking non-stop, making this and that excuse about having builders in, then having to give up on a rebuild in the cellar. The vault of the fucking bank is literally adjacent to his back-yard wall, he’s that close. There were loose bricks and soil bags in the yard – I reckon the bricks are from a hole they’ve made through a wall in the cellar and the plasterboard is used to conceal it when they ain’t working. The soil must have come from digging a hole under the vault. I’m bloody sure of it.’

Bradfield could feel his guts churning.

‘What about tools in the basement?’

Gibbs shrugged and said he didn’t see any spades or pickaxes, but they could be in the tunnel or hidden upstairs: he hadn’t wanted to spook Silas by asking to look up there. However, he was excited about what he had seen in the basement.

‘Although it looked like it was being done up, there was a gas cutting rig hidden under a dust sheet. It’s an extreme heat-cutting torch, and no way does a basic renovation need something like that. I checked it out – it can cut through metal and steel and it is real dangerous equipment if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Fuck me,’ Bradfield said, draining his pint.

Gibbs picked up their empty glasses to get a refill but Bradfield stood up.

‘No, I want to get some shut-eye as it’s gonna be all systems go tomorrow. They’re definitely not through into the vault yet, and for some reason they’ve been having a rest day.’

‘Do you think they sussed the surveillance and called it off?’

‘No, otherwise Silas would have got rid of the gas tanks. Was he suspicious of you and Harris?’

‘Nervous, yes, but I reckon he believed me about the break-in. Besides, you primed Mannie Charles to say it was true if he was asked. Silas hasn’t got a pot to piss in and needs the money so I don’t even think he’ll tell Bentley we paid a visit as he was shitting himself.’

Bradfield patted Gibbs’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Spence. You get off home for some shut-eye. We beef up the surveillance from tomorrow, twenty-four hours non-stop for as long as it takes, if necessary.’

‘It was a good night, boss, huh?’ Gibbs said.

Bradfield smiled. ‘You have no idea just how good it was.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Shaun Metcalf arrived at Hackney at 8 a.m. in a dour mood. Bradfield was in his office going over the reports and surveillance logs and the entire team was on tenterhooks. The DCS wanted a full update of the situation before agreeing to any further course of action.

Bradfield went over everything calmly and succinctly, detailing all the new information and evidence. The DCS remained tight-lipped and listened with his head slightly lowered, making it difficult to gauge whether or not he was going to sanction ‘Operation Hawk’. Metcalf looked over all the reports himself to make sure Bradfield was not exaggerating his case. Eventually he pulled at his nose, sniffed and slowly laid down the papers before getting up and pacing around the room deep in thought, leaving Bradfield still wondering what his decision would be. He stood by the window looking down onto the street below and eventually turned to face Bradfield.

‘You’ve got a green light, Len, but on one condition – I don’t want individual arrests made for a conspiracy to rob the bank. I don’t want a cock-up like that Lloyds Bank job where they never got the ringleader . . . I want those bastards caught on the job, inside, shovels in hand, while their lookout is in position as well. You nick them all together and the case is strong. Plus one or two of them might turn Queen’s Evidence against each other, especially the Greek as he seems likely to talk.’

‘Thank you, sir. It was always my intention to get them all bang to rights on the plot, and I’m very grateful you agree,’ Bradfield said as he stood up and shook Metcalf’s hand.

‘You haul in whatever extra manpower you need. Do whatever is necessary, but don’t jump the gun as this will be a big press plus for the Met if you succeed.’

Bradfield had to take deep breaths to control his excitement. This could be a major step forward in his career and he was not about to mess it up.

‘I’ve still got surveillance on all the suspected team, so if there is any movement to or from their individual addresses we’ll be on it right away.’

‘Good. I know your station CID people are helping out with the surveillance, but wherever possible get it done by the unit from the Yard. They’re much more experienced and blend in with the surroundings more easily.’

As soon as Metcalf had left the station Bradfield was eager to sort out suitable observation points in Great Eastern Street, and then hold a briefing for Operation Hawk. The incident room was buzzing, and Jane was disappointed when Sergeant Harris came in and said that due to abstractions he was now two officers short on early turn and he needed Jane to go out in uniform and direct traffic by the Eastway underpass tunnel, where a major RTA had occurred and a driver had been killed, then come back and man the front desk.

Kath, overhearing and seeing Jane’s crestfallen face, went up to Harris and asked to have a word.

‘Sarge, if it wasn’t for WPC Tennison we would never have identified the targets for this operation. It’s the biggest robbery case we’ve ever worked on at this station so she deserves to be part of Operation Hawk. Besides, why can’t you ask for an officer from another nick to assist?’

‘I make the decisions about staffing, not you, Morgan.’

‘Actually, DCI Bradfield does when it comes to a CID operation, so maybe you should ask him,’ Kath said, gesturing to the door as she saw him enter the room.

‘Ask me what?’ Bradfield said, putting the reports back in the desk tray.

Harris started to explain his position but Bradfield didn’t even let him finish.

‘DCS Metcalf has authorized Operation Hawk and stated I can have whoever I want on MY team.’

Harris was annoyed. ‘I assisted DS Gibbs at the café last night. Tennison is a uniform officer, not a detective, and as such I need her to cover the front desk.’

Bradfield glared at him. ‘WPC Tennison is part of my investigation whether you like it or not! I signed off your overtime last night out of the CID budget, and gave you four hours extra as compensation, but if you like I can soon put a pen through it.’

A disgruntled Harris had no option but to back off. Bradfield gave a smile and wink to Jane before returning to his office.

‘Thank you, Kath,’ Jane said quietly.

‘Forget it. Harris obviously helped out last night not just for the overtime. I reckon he thought he could use it to get you off the team and back in uniform to spite you. He’s a sly bastard who plays Mr Nice with ulterior motives so watch him like a hawk.’

They both laughed at the pun. Kath said she had to go to a meeting with the lady who owned the shoe shop next to Silas’s café.

‘Isn’t that a bit risky? Silas might see you and suspect you’re police.’

‘No flies on me, darlin’ – I arranged to meet her at her flat above her other shop in St John’s Wood. Catch ya later.’

Hebe Ide’s flat was above her boutique shoe shop in St John’s Wood High Street. It was small but elegant with very expensively priced shoes – way out of Kath’s price range – in the window display. The shop’s exterior and interior were very different from those of Hebe’s other shop next to Silas’s café in Shoreditch.

Hebe Ide was a very well-endowed woman in her forties, with heavy make-up and bleached blonde hair worn in a chignon. She was smoking and wearing a floral satin padded housecoat when she opened the door. Kath showed her warrant card, introduced herself, and was led up a narrow staircase. Following behind Hebe she couldn’t help but notice her very shapely legs, but didn’t much like the gold mule slippers she wore.

The hall was lined with model-like pictures of Hebe, and Kath thought she looked rather like a cross between Diana Dors and the 1960s songstress Yana. As they passed the photographs Hebe stopped and tapped one with her red-varnished fingernail.

‘I used to be in show business. In fact I was named after a character in an opera. Do you know Gilbert and Sullivan’s
H.M.S. Pinafore
?’

‘Yes,’ Kath replied. She’d heard of it, but never been to the opera in her life.

‘In the opera Hebe is the first cousin of Sir Joseph Porter, First Lord of the Admiralty, and my surname Ide originates from a village of the same name in Devonshire.’

‘How interesting. They’re lovely pictures. I was just thinking how much you remind me of Yana,’ Kath said, trying to get the subject onto something she knew.

‘I met her a few times. She did the lot, modelling, acting and singing. “Climb Up The Wall” was her best song for me. She was so sexy and wore fantastic gowns that floated out at the back like a mermaid’s tail, all sequinned and so tight it was a wonder she could breathe, let alone sing.’

Hebe led Kath into a chic drawing room with thick piled carpet and a velvet settee with matching chairs. More photographs of Hebe adorned the walls. The fireplace was art deco with a mantelpiece above laden with silver-framed pictures of Hebe.

‘I gave up show business when I got married, but I still miss it, especially since my Arnie passed away. The shoe shops were his, been in his family for years, and now I run the business, no children, other than my little Poochie Poo,’ Hebe said, stubbing out her cigarette before picking up a tiny white fluffy poodle from the settee and kissing it.

At first Kath hadn’t noticed the dog, which was now licking Hebe’s face repeatedly. It hadn’t moved an inch or made a sound when they’d entered the room and Kath, thinking it was a cushion, had almost sat on it.

‘So how can Poochie and I help you?’ Hebe asked, once again kissing the dog who responded with more licks to her face.

‘I’m here concerning your shop in Great Eastern Street and—’

‘Bloody council have decided to demolish the whole row for development. I use it mostly for storage now as I have a Sunday stall at Petticoat Lane Market. The cheaper shoes sell like hot cakes there, but I don’t know where I’m going to store all the stock when Hackney Council kicks me out. I’ve got a small green van I park up in the yard there, but I can’t keep the shoes in it because some little buggers will only break in and steal the lot.’ She put the dog down, got up, pulled a cigarette from a small silver case and lit it.

Kath was about to speak but Hebe was off again.

‘I’m not doing good business . . . there’s no real passing trade since they demolished the houses and built that monstrosity of a car park. It’s so bloody tall it blocks the sunlight into the shop and now the place smells damp and looks dowdy. Who knows, maybe it’ll be a blessing in disguise when they close me down.’ She sighed and took a long drag of her cigarette.

Kath had been briefed by Gibbs about what she should say, but it was almost impossible to get a word in edgeways.

‘The car park is part of the reason I’m here,’ she said.

‘Have the other shopkeepers complained to you about it as well? I rarely see or speak to them now. I only open up on odd days and pop in early Sunday morning to get stock. Arnie and me lived in the flat above the Shoreditch shop when we first got married. Horrible place – the smell of the curries from next door used to come through and stink our shop out.’