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.’
Jane scurried into the small stuffy communications room where WPC Kathleen Morgan was on the phone speaking to a member of the public, recording the details on an incident message pad. She smiled, gave a wave and mouthed ‘Hello’ to Jane, who waved back.
Kathleen, or Kath as she was commonly known, was a curvaceous brunette with hazel eyes and thick, unruly, curly hair. She had a habit of wearing too much make-up, contrary to police regulations that stated it should be ‘subtle and discreet’, but she didn’t care and was more than capable of coping with her male colleagues’ flippant or derogatory remarks. She would stand firm, hands on her hips, ready for any of the macho banter:
‘You’ve got too much lipstick on, Morgan.’
‘Oh really? Well, kiss it off then — that is if your belly can even let you get that close.’
Kath was twenty-six and had joined the police aged nineteen. She was a London girl from Canning Town and was used to the chauvinistic ways of many of her male counterparts. She took no stick from anyone. She was the only other woman on ‘B Relief’ with Jane, and had shown her the ropes from day one.
The teleprinter in the corner was clicking away and rolling off messages from Scotland Yard and other stations. Beside two wooden desks, facing each other, was a small telephone switchbox with a radio communications set. On the desk where Kath was sitting was the latest piece of technology, a visual display unit computer, or VDU as it was commonly known. It allowed fast access to centrally held records at Scotland Yard, including information on stolen or suspect vehicles, wanted or missing persons and registered-vehicle owners. The wall adjacent to the desks was covered with collator’s cards showing pictures and details of local wanted criminals and those suspected of habitual and recent crimes. Next to these were a number of missing persons appeal leaflets.
‘Jane, can you check the teleprinter for any urgent messages while I put this call out to one of the panda cars?’ Kathleen asked and Jane nodded.
‘Panda Five Two, can you attend the scene of a suspect’s disturbed break-in at 22 Wick Lane... Golf Hotel, over.’
‘Five Two received and on way,’ the reply came over the loudspeaker.