Murder Mile Read online

  Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA and worked with the National Theatre and RDC before becoming a television actress. She then turned to writing—and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows. Her novels have all been international bestsellers.

  Her original script for the much-acclaimed Prime Suspect won awards from BAFTA, Emmy, British Broadcasting and Royal Television Society as well as the 1993 Edgar Allan Poe Award. Lynda has written and produced over 170 hours of international television. Tennison has been adapted by ITV and was broadcast in March 2017 in the UK; international broadcast will follow.

  Lynda is one of only three screenwriters to have been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute and was awarded the BAFTA Dennis Potter Best Writer Award in 2000. In 2008, she was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List for services to Literature, Drama and Charity.

  If you would like to hear from Lynda, please sign up at www.bit.ly/LyndaLaPlanteClub or you can visit www.lyndalaplante.com for further information. You can also follow Lynda on Facebook and Twitter @LaPlanteLynda.

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

  ZAFFRE PUBLISHING

  80–81 Wimpole St., London W1G 9RE

  www.zaffrebooks.com

  Copyright © La Plante Global Limited, 2018

  Author photograph © Monte Faber

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First published in the United States of America in 2018 by Zaffre Publishing

  Cover Design by Nick Stearn

  Typeset by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-49986-149-5

  Also available as a trade paperback.

  For information, contact 251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

  Zaffre Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company

  www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk

  www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk

  For Cass Sutherland and The Chartered Society of Forensic Sciences

  Contents

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  A Message from Lynda La Plante …

  Glossary

  A10 The Met’s internal monitoring division, similar to internal affairs in the US

  CID Criminal Investigation Department

  DC Detective Constable

  DCI Detective Chief Inspector

  DCS Detective Chief Superintendent

  DI Detective Inspector

  DS Detective Sargent

  Flying Squad Division of the Met that investigates robberies and any crime involving a gun.

  Old Bill Slang for “the police”

  PC Police Constable

  Plonk Derogatory slang for female police used by male police.

  Section house Residential accommodation for unmarried police officers

  SOCO Scenes of crime officer, i.e. part of the forensic team

  SPG Special Patrol Group, a mobile squad of highly trained officers deployed to assist other divisions as needed.

  The Met The Metropolitan Police

  To be nicked Slang for “to be arrested”

  To nick Slang for “to steal”

  WDC Woman Detective Constable

  WDS Woman Detective Sargent

  WPC Woman Police Constable

  Chapter One

  Jane Tennison, recently promoted to sergeant, looked out of the passenger window of the CID car at the snow, which was falling too lightly to settle. It was 4:30 on a freezing Saturday morning in mid-February 1979 and recently the overnight temperatures had been sub-zero. The weather reports were calling it one of the coldest winters of the century.

  Apart from a couple of minor incidents, Jane’s CID night shift at Peckham had been remarkably uneventful, due to the bad weather. She looked at her watch: only another hour and a half to go before she finished her week of night duty and could get home to a warm bath, good sleep and some time off. She’d be back at Peckham on Monday for the day shift.

  Detective Constable Brian Edwards, an old colleague from her Hackney days, had been her night duty partner throughout the week. He was so tall he had the driving seat pressed as far back as it could possibly go, but his knees were still almost touching the steering wheel.

  “Can you turn the heating up?” she asked, as they drove along East Dulwich Road.

  “It’s already on full.” Edwards moved the slider to be sure, then glanced at Jane. “I meant to say earlier: I like your new hairstyle. Sort of makes you look more mature.”

  “Is that a polite way of saying I look older, Brian?” Jane asked.

  “I was being complimentary! It goes with your smart clothes, makes you look more business like … Especially now you’ve been promoted.”

  Jane was about to reply when Edwards suddenly slammed on the brake, bringing it to an abrupt halt. They both lunged forward, Edwards banging his chest against the steering wheel and Jane narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the windscreen.

  “What? What’s up?” Jane asked, startled, staring at Edwards.

  “A rat … A bloody rat!” He pointed at the middle of the road in front of them.

  Illuminated by the car headlights was a massive rat, a piece of rotting meat between its sharp teeth. The rat suddenly darted off across the road and out of sight.

  Edwards shook his head. “I hate rats. They give me the creeps.”

  “Well, that’s obvious! And yes, thank you, Brian, I’m OK—apart from nearly going through the windscreen.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t mean to hit the brakes so suddenly.”

  “I’m just touched that you didn’t want to run the rat over, Brian,” Jane said.

  Edwards pointed over towards Peckham Rye Park to a pile of rubbish-filled black plastic bin and shopping bags. They were piled up five foot high and stretched over twenty feet along the side of the park. The stench of rotting rubbish slowly permeated its way into the stationary car.

  “It’s thanks to Prime Minister Callaghan and his waste-of-space Labour government that the bin men and other public-sector workers are on strike,” grumbled Edwards. “Everyone’s dumping their rotting rubbish in the parks and it’s attracting the rats. No wonder they’re calling it the ‘Winter of Disconnect.’”

  “It’s ‘Discontent,’” Jane corrected him.

  “You’re quite right—there’s not much
to be happy about! Mind you, if Maggie Thatcher wins the next election we might get a pay rise. She likes the Old Bill.”

  Jane was trying hard not to laugh. “It’s the ‘Winter of Discontent’! It comes from Shakespeare’s Richard III: ‘Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York …’”

  Edwards looked skeptical. “Really?”

  “I studied Richard III for A level English.”

  “All that Shakespeare lingo is mumbo-jumbo to me. I left school at sixteen and joined the Metropolitan Police Cadets,” Edwards said proudly.

  “I didn’t know you’d been a ‘Gadget,’” said Jane, somewhat surprised. A “Gadget” was affectionate force jargon for a cadet.

  “It was all blokes when I first joined the Gadgets,” Edwards went on. “We lived in a big dormitory and got work experience on division alongside the regulars. It gave me a better understanding of police work than your average ex-civvy probationer who went to Hendon. No offence intended,” he added hastily.

  “None taken. If I’d known what I wanted to do at sixteen I’d probably have joined the cadets—though my mother would likely have had a heart attack.” Jane liked Edwards, but he wasn’t the brightest spark. He’d been transferred to various stations and hadn’t lasted long on the Flying Squad. In her estimation, he’d probably remain a Detective Constable for the rest of his career.

  “Tell you what: head back to the station so we can warm up with a hot drink and I’ll type up the night duty CID report,” she said.

  Edwards snorted. “That shouldn’t take long—we haven’t attended a crime scene or nicked anyone all night.”

  Their banter was interrupted by a call over the radio. “Night duty CID receiving … over?”

  Jane picked up the radio handset. “Yes, Detective Sergeant Tennison receiving. Go ahead … over.”

  “A fruit and veg man on his way to set up his market stall has found an unconscious woman in Bussey Alley. Couldn’t rouse her so he called 999. There’s an ambulance en route,” the comms officer said.

  “That’s just off Rye Lane.” Edwards made a sharp U-turn.

  “Yes, we’re free to attend and en route,” Jane confirmed over the radio, switching on the car’s two-tone siren.

  “If she’s been out drinking she’s probably collapsed from hypothermia in this bloody weather. Or maybe she’s been mugged?” suggested Edwards.

  “Let’s just hope she’s OK,” Jane said.

  Rye Lane ran between the High Street and Peckham Rye Park. In its heyday it had rivaled Oxford Street as a major shopping destination and was known as the “Golden Mile.” It was still a busy area, with a large department store, co-op and various small shops and market traders selling home-produced and ethnic goods from their stalls. During the 1970s, Peckham had gradually become one of the most deprived areas in Europe, with a notorious reputation for serious and violent crime, especially muggings, which were a daily occurrence.

  Jane and Edwards arrived at the scene within two minutes. A man who looked to be in his mid-fifties was standing under the railway bridge at the entrance to Bussey Alley, frantically waving his hands. He was dressed in a dark-colored thigh-length sheepskin coat, blue and white Millwall Football Club scarf and a peaked cap. Edwards pulled up beside him and opened the driver’s window.

  “I thought you might be the ambulance when I heard the siren.” The man crouched down to speak to them. “Poor thing’s just up there. She’s lyin’ face down and ain’t moved. I put one of me stall tarpaulins over her to keep off the sleet and cold. I was hopin’ she might warm up and come round.”

  Jane put on her leather gloves, got the high-powered torch out of the glove box and picked up the portable Storno police radio.

  “There’s quite a lot of rubbish been dumped on one side of the alley, just up from where she is—be careful of the rats,” the market trader said as they got out of the car.

  Jane grinned at Edwards. He hadn’t looked too happy at the word “rat.” “You get the details,” she said. “I’ll check on the woman.”

  She turned on the torch, lighting up the dingy alley. The narrow path ran alongside the railway line. In the arches underneath were small lockups where the market traders stored their stalls and goods. Jane walked at a brisk pace, until about forty feet along she could see the green and white striped tarpaulin. Crouching down, she lifted it back and shone the torch. The woman beneath was wearing a thigh-length blue PVC coat, with the collar up, covering the back of her neck.

  Removing her right glove, Jane put her index and middle fingers together, and placed them on the side of the woman’s neck, in the soft hollow area just beside the windpipe. There was no pulse and the woman’s neck felt cold and clammy. Jane felt uneasy. She stood up and slowly shone her torch along the body, revealing dried blood smears on the back of the blue coat. The woman’s knee-length pleated skirt was hitched up to her thighs, revealing garters and black stockings. Near the body the torch beam caught three small shirt buttons. Peering closely at one of them, Jane could see some white sewing thread and a tiny piece of torn shirt still attached. It looked as if the button had been ripped off, possibly in a struggle.

  A little further up the alleyway Jane noticed a cheap and worn small handbag. Wearing her leather gloves, she picked it up and opened it carefully, looking for any ID. All she found was a lipstick, handkerchief, a small hairbrush and a plastic purse. Inside the purse were a few coins and one folded five-pound note. There were no house or car keys to be found. Jane placed a ten pence coin down on the spot where she’d found it; it would go in a property bag later to preserve it for fingerprints.

  Next, Jane shone the torch around the body. It was strange: she couldn’t see any blood on the pavement around or near the victim, or on the back of her head. She crouched down and slowly lifted the collar on the PVC coat back, revealing a knotted white cord around the victim’s neck and hair.

  Shocked, Jane got to her feet and pulled out the portable radio.

  “WDS Tennison to Peckham Control Room. Are you receiving? Over.” She spoke with confidence and authority, despite the fact she’d only been promoted and posted to Peckham a few weeks ago.

  “Yes, go ahead, Sarge,” the comms officer replied.

  “Cancel the ambulance. The woman in Bussey Alley appears to have been strangled. I’ve looked in a handbag for possible ID, but can’t find any. I need uniform assistance to cordon off and man the scene at Rye Lane, and the far end of Bussey Alley, which leads onto Copeland Road.”

  “All received, Sarge. A mobile unit is en route to assist.”

  Jane continued, “Can you call DCI Moran at home and ask him to attend the scene? I’ll also need the laboratory scene of crime DS here. Oh, and the divisional surgeon to officially pronounce life extinct … Over.”

  The duty sergeant came on the radio. “Looks like a quiet week just got busy, Jane. I’ll call Moran and tell him you’re on scene and dealing … Over.”

  Jane ended the transmission and replaced the tarpaulin over the body to preserve it from the sleet that was still falling, although not as heavily. Then she walked back to Rye Lane.

  Edwards was still speaking to the market trader and making notes in his notebook. As she approached him, she gave a little shake of her head to indicate this was more than a collapse in the street or hypothermia, then went to the rear of the CID car. Taking out a plastic police property bag, she placed the handbag inside it.

  “Is she all right?” the trader asked.

  Jane shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s dead, sir. Did you see anyone hanging about or acting suspiciously before you found her?”

  The man looked shocked. “No, no one … Oh, my—the poor thing. What’s happened to her?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I’m afraid. Further investigation is needed.” Jane did not want to reveal more.

  “Can I get me gear out the lockup and set up for business?”

  “Sorry, not at the moment, but maybe in an hour or
two,” she said. “We’ll need to take a more detailed statement off you later.”

  Jane took Edwards to one side. By now their hair was soaking and their coats sodden.

  “I take it you’re thinking murder?” he whispered.

  Jane nodded. “Looks like she’s been strangled with a cord. I’ve spoken with the duty sergeant who’s informing DCI Moran. The market man’s up a bit early—does his account of how he found her sound above board to you?”

  “Yeah. His name’s Charlie Dunn, he’s sixty-two and he’s been working the markets since he was twelve. He’s always been an early bird. He said he’s just been over to Spitalfields fruit and veg market to get fresh stock for the day. That’s his white van under the railway bridge. He was unloading it to his archway lockup in the alley when he saw the woman on the pavement. I checked his van: it’s full of fresh goods. He also showed me the purchase receipt for the fruit and veg and his market trader’s licence. He sounded and acted legit to me.”

  “Well, she’s stone cold, so it looks like she’s been dead a while, anyway.”

  “Any ID on her?”

  “Nothing in the handbag, not even keys. I haven’t had a chance to check her coat pockets yet. I want to get both ends of the alleyway sealed off and manned by uniform first—all the market traders will be turning up soon and wanting access to their archway lockups.”

  Edwards nodded and blew into his freezing hands. He didn’t question her authoritative tone; on the contrary, he liked the fact WDS Tennison was taking responsibility for the crime scene.

  The market trader went to his van and returned with a Thermos flask.

  “Hot coffee? You can have it, if you want. I’m going to go home and come back later.”