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.’
‘I thought it was a hardware shop next door?’ Kath remarked.
‘It is, but the home cooking of the Pakis stank, not to mention the smell from the fat Greek’s café as well. Anyway, after Arnie passed away I rented the flat out until recently. The tenants were more trouble than they were worth, always complaining that this or that didn’t work. We bought this place and opened the shop downstairs. It’s much more upmarket round here. I shouldn’t say it, but the truth is I sell the same shoes for a much higher price and no one who buys a pair bats an eyelid.’
Kath leaned forwards. ‘Please, Mrs Ide, I don’t wish to appear rude but I have to get back to the station soon.’
‘You should have said... anyway, how can I help you?’
‘Well, a high number of quality cars have been stolen from the multistorey car park recently and we think it’s a professional gang who steal to order, change the plates and sell the vehicles on.’