Jane shook herself and went downstairs. She found Sergeant Harris who, apologizing, said he needed her to continue covering the front desk. She knew he was deliberately making her do it, but was determined not to show any of the antagonism she felt towards him.
She simply smiled. ‘Yes, of course, Sergeant Harris.’ He had never mentioned the recovered money and Jane’s property-store lists; in fact since the incident he had been surprisingly polite when speaking to her, which made her feel even more suspicious. Jane wondered if he was just biding his time before doing something else to try to make her look bad.
An hour passed with no one attending the station counter and Jane was feeling quite bored. She sat down at the desk and remembering DS Gibbs’s advice at the squat raid started to read the weekly published ‘General Orders and Regulations’. She’d just become engrossed by a list giving details of which officers had been sacked or fined for misconduct when the front-desk phone rang. Jane picked it up, asking how she could help the caller. She listened as someone on the other end with a squeaky voice rambled on, not letting her get a word in.
She took the phone from her ear, held her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Sergeant Harris who was sitting at the duty desk typing up a report.
‘Sarge, I don’t know if I should take this call seriously or not.’
‘We take every call seriously, Tennison — what’s it about?’
‘Sounds weird... he said something about picking up a conversation on his radio at home about a robbery.’
Sergeant Harris pursed his lips.
‘Well, that’s a new one on me, bloody time-waster — give it here.’
He got up from his desk and went over to Jane who handed over the phone.
‘This is Duty Sergeant William Harris. Please slow down, son, if you’d just...’
Jane smiled, realizing Harris was having the same difficulty understanding the caller.
He shook his head and raised his eyebrows. ‘Just you listen up, son. Unfortunately we have had a serious incident that requires every officer’s urgent attention. Please call back later.’
He put down the phone.
‘I thought we took all calls seriously?’ Jane said, wondering if she was chancing her luck with a flippant remark.
‘Not with squeaky nutters, we don’t.’
The door to the charge room opened. Gibbs walked out and crooked his finger to Jane.
‘If I find out that lipstick joke is anything to do with you, you’ll be sorry.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sarge,’ Jane said.
‘Yeah, neither did Kath, but I’ll find out, I’ll bloody find out.’
‘What was he talking about?’ Harris asked.
Jane shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant.’
DS Gibbs went to speak with Bradfield while Kath booked Boyle in at the station. Bradfield had moved fast after Kath had explained about the money and a paddy wagon had been sent to Brixton Prison to collect Boyle and bring him back to the station. Boyle had asked Gibbs, who was accompanying him, why he was being taken back to Hackney and Gibbs had replied that there were more break-ins they needed to speak to him about.
‘He was really edgy and sweating. I made up a couple of addresses and he said he’d broken in and nicked money from them. Kath Morgan was spot on. He’s definitely hiding something if he’s confessing to crimes that don’t exist.’
‘Who’s his brief?’ Bradfield asked.
‘Like last time, doesn’t want one. Might change his mind when he finds out why he’s really here.’
‘Fuck him if he does. I’ll get the files together, you bring Boyle up and tell Kath Morgan she can sit in on the interview with you and me.’
Ten minutes later Gibbs and Kath brought Boyle into Bradfield’s office, sat him down and removed his handcuffs. He was unshaven, his face covered in acne, and nasty boils were visible on his neck above the prison-issue shirt. Bradfield got up and stood beside Boyle, placing a photograph of Julie Ann down on the table in front of him.
‘Do you recognize this woman?’ Bradfield asked quietly, leaning over so his face was close to Boyle’s.
Boyle didn’t answer.
‘Kenneth Boyle, I am arresting you for the murder of Julie Ann Collins. You are not obliged to say anything, but what you say may be given in evidence.’
Boyle wiped his sweaty brow with his nicotine-stained fingers and was about to say something when Bradfield interrupted him.
‘You refused a solicitor when DS Gibbs asked if you wanted one so don’t even think about changing your mind or I’ll write your confession myself.’
Bradfield opened his desk drawer and put a plastic property bag containing bundles of bank-wrapped £1, £5 and £10 notes on the table. When asked Boyle admitted they were some of the notes recovered from his home and said that he’d stolen them from a pensioner.
‘Well, Kenny, I’ve had the notes checked for the murdered girl’s fingerprints, and guess what — they’re on some of them. One print is right next to yours. So if you know what’s good for you I suggest you tell me exactly how they came to be in your possession?’
Boyle refused to look at Bradfield and shuffled his feet.
‘Erm yeah, I did meet her and she give me the money, right? She told me to get her some heroin, I mean what I said was I could score for her, right?’
‘Right! So who’s your dealer, Kenneth?’
‘Er well, I dunno his name, but I seen him passing gear on the streets, right? I mean I dunno where he lives, that’s the God’s truth, sir.’
Kath crossed her legs as she watched the repellent Boyle attempt to lie his way out of anything to do with the murder. Bradfield concentrated on his notebook, tapping it with his pencil.
‘I mean on my mother’s life, the last time I saw her was after she give me the money. She said to meet up with her outside the hospital, well, I couldn’t find this dealer so I went to tell her and she never showed up.’
Bradfield nodded his head and then picked up a pencil sharpener and began to twist his pencil round and round in it.
Kath was fascinated by how Bradfield deliberately changed his attitude towards Boyle, making it appear he believed him, encouraging him by accepting his story, and constantly nodding his head saying he understood how difficult it would be for Boyle to name his dealers.
‘Right, that’s right, but I swear before God that’s what I intended doing, scoring drugs for her.’
‘Yeah, I understand. I mean she was just a common little slag. She’d open her legs for drugs, right?’
‘Yeah, she fucked anyone, even the blacks. She was a tart all right.’
Bradfield paused then spoke quietly. ‘But she wouldn’t screw you, would she?’ he asked without any trace of emotion.
It was as if Bradfield had hit a raw nerve as Boyle pursed his lips.
‘Yeah, I mean she was a slag, right? And she got this posh way of talkin’, lookin’ down on me.’
‘That must have really pissed you off.’
Boyle nodded, and then Bradfield slowly pushed the photograph of Julie Ann closer.
‘She deserved what she got.’
Kath watched as there was a glance between Bradfield and Gibbs, who had so far not spoken. Gibbs now leaned forwards, jabbing Boyle with his finger.
‘She’d fuck anyone else but you, because you are a stinking little no-good thief. She told you to piss off, you got riled and decided you were gonna show this slag that nobody like her could refuse you and you made a grab for her...’