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  Jane smiled. ‘He of the thirty years’ experience would have a heart attack. A woman detective . . . what a bloody disgrace.’

  ‘Pissing Harris off would be a bonus,’ Kath replied and they both laughed.

  Kath’s tone became serious as she continued.

  ‘Listen, about that bloke you mentioned, the one that threw you out of his mother’s flat. Was his name John Bentley?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure it was. Irene Bentley was the name on the rent book and he called her Mum.’

  ‘Before I went off duty last night I had a quick look through the collator’s criminal index cards. There’s a Bentley whose description matches but he lives at a different address. Bit of a nasty sod from a nasty family: he’s been done for GBH.’

  Jane smiled saying she was glad she hadn’t tried to dig him in the ribs with his mother’s umbrella.

  ‘Lucky you didn’t. From his record he’d have likely walloped you one.’

  The CID office door flew open as DC Edwards came out. ‘Come on, Kath, get a move on. We need to get the obo van parked up before the suspect gets there,’ he said as he rushed past her.

  ‘I’m friggin’ ready so keep your hair on,’ Kath shouted and turned back to Jane. ‘I know why he wants to make a quick arrest . . . there’s a game of shoot pontoon followed by three-card brag in the CID office tonight and his fingers are twitching to lose his weekly expenses.’

  Kath started to follow the disgruntled detective down the stairs, but stopped.

  ‘Listen, there’s a place coming up soon at the section house in Mare Street. It’s just down the road and would save you loads of time travelling, but you got to make it snappy or the room will go. It’s only a fiver a month as well.’

  ‘Thanks, Kath, I appreciate it.’

  ‘And have a word with the collator about the Bentleys – he’ll probably know a lot more – always good to get to know who the villains on the patch are.’

  Jane went to the collator’s office on the ground floor. The post was held by PC Donaldson. Rather overweight and with thinning grey hair, he had worked at Hackney Police Station for over twenty-five years. There wasn’t much Donaldson didn’t know about who was who in Hackney’s criminal underworld. He received and collated information about criminals on the division and dispersed intelligence to the beat officers about crime trends and people wanted or suspected of a crime. His knowledge was invaluable, and he was highly respected by everyone in the station as a genuinely nice man who had time for everyone, male or female.

  Donaldson flicked through the index-card drawer marked ‘B’. ‘Here it is, full name John Henry Bentley, aged thirty-seven.’ He withdrew the three cards from a plastic sleeve and handed them to Jane who looked at the black-and-white mug-shot picture on the front.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said.

  PC Donaldson drew out two further cards from the ‘B’ drawer.

  ‘They’re a well-known family who’ve lived in Hackney all their lives. All of them villains and all hard as nails, apart from the mum Renee, bless her. John’s got a council house on Middleton Road and his younger brother David, who’s thirty, lives with his mother on the Pembridge.’

  Jane noticed that amongst John Bentley’s convictions there was grievous bodily harm, burglary and theft. ‘Middleton Road is by London Fields, isn’t it?’

  PC Donaldson nodded.

  ‘WPC Morgan’s doing an observation on the Holly Street Estate for a burglar nicking pension books. Do you think it might be . . .?’

  ‘No way. Nicking pension books or snatching old ladies’ handbags isn’t their style, plus John Bentley’s been clean for quite a few years. They have their own code of honour, his kind, the number one rule being you don’t grass to the police and two you don’t turn over old people. If they caught someone doing that they’d beat the crap out of them and break their fingers for good measure. That’s how John got his conviction for GBH.’

  ‘The victim grassed on him?’

  ‘No, CID heard him screaming – they caught John breaking the poor bloke’s fingers with a hammer.’

  Jane winced. ‘I got the impression his mother was frightened of him.’

  PC Donaldson handed Jane another index card for a Clifford Bentley, aged seventy-two. He explained her fear probably stemmed from her old man, ‘Cliffy’ as he was known, knocking her about before he got a ten-stretch in Wormwood Scrubs.

  ‘He’s real handy with his fists, but more as a renowned bare-knuckle fighter. At one time he associated with the Kray twins as a bag man collecting protection money.’

  ‘What did he go to prison for last time?’

  ‘The Sweeney got a tip-off from a snout and nicked him on the pavement,’ he said.

  Seeing the look of puzzlement on Jane’s face Donaldson explained that ‘snout’ meant informant and ‘the Sweeney’ was the Met’s flying squad nickname from the Cockney rhyming slang ‘Sweeney Todd’. The unit had no boundaries and operated all across London investigating commercial armed robberies. Clifford Bentley was arrested whilst trying to rob a security van during a bank-cash collection and he’d have got a much longer prison sentence if the gun had been real and loaded. Donaldson remarked that it wasn’t Clifford’s usual style, but rumour had it he urgently needed cash to pay the Krays off on a gambling debt.

  ‘What happened to the informant?’

  ‘Don’t know, but word has it he’s part of a concrete pillar somewhere.’

  ‘Is John Bentley a builder?’ Jane asked, recalling seeing the power tools brochures in Renee’s kitchen.

  ‘Could be, but like I said he’s been clean for a while and can turn his hand to anything.’

  ‘What does the brother David do?’

  Donaldson handed Jane his index card. ‘Not a lot after he smashed his legs up. Good few years back he was out with his dad and brother nicking lead off a church roof when night-duty CID caught them red-handed. David tried to do a runner: silly bugger jumped off the roof and broke his legs badly. Big sob story at the trial as he was in a wheelchair. His barrister played the sympathy card, the soft judge fell for it and David got a light sentence.’

  Jane looked at David Bentley’s card and saw that the arresting officer was the then Detective Sergeant Bradfield. ‘Can I take these cards with me to have a look-over?’ PC Donaldson explained that no one was allowed to remove the cards from his office, but she could make notes if she wanted. The other alternative was to order copies of their criminal records on microfiche from Scotland Yard. Jane said not to bother and that she had just been curious after meeting the over-aggressive John Bentley the day before.

  ‘Well, good on you. Always good to do research for yer knowledge, and any time you want to know who’s who, you come to me.’

  Jane got the Vicks VapoRub from Kath’s tray. She was making her way to the mortuary when DCI Bradfield sped into the station yard in his light blue Ford Zephyr, causing her to jump out of the way as he pulled up abruptly into a parking bay. He got out of the car, said nothing to her, but simply nodded. She could see from the look on his face that he was not in the best of moods. He strode ahead of Jane forcing her to hurry in his wake, and she was almost clipped in the chest as he pushed open the door to the mortuary and went towards the coroner’s assistant’s office. He held up his hand in a gesture for her to wait behind him, then opened the door and peered in.

  ‘DCI Bradfield. Are they ready to go with the PM on my murder victim?’ he asked.

  Jane heard a murmured reply, and then Bradfield closed the door.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said abruptly, walking down the corridor and banging open the swing doors to the examination room as if he was on some sort of mission. He patted his pocket for his cigarette pack and stuck one into his mouth then paused to light it, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

  The awful putrid smell in the room hit Jane instantly and made her gag. The head mortician was finishing stitching up the decomposing body of an elderly man on a white porcelain examina
tion table. She had been warned about the smell by Kath, but hadn’t expected it to be so bad. Opening Kath’s jar of Vicks she put some on her finger and rubbed it below her nostrils.

  ‘That’s not a very bright idea, luv,’ the mortician said with a touch of sarcasm.

  Jane noticed Bradfield raising his eyebrows and shaking his head as if she was dim.

  ‘Sorry, what’s not a bright idea?’ she asked, wondering what was so amusing.

  ‘The menthol in the Vicks clears your nasal passages so you’ll be able to smell even better now.’

  ‘She’s a probationer . . . first PM,’ Bradfield said, grinning, and the mortician laughed, saying he thought as much.

  Jane felt silly and realized that she was the butt of the joke Gibbs had initially intended to play on Kath.

  To distract herself she looked around the small room. The walls were lined with white brick-shaped tiles and the stone-flagged floor was angled to a gulley which ran down to a drain area. The other porcelain examination table was clean and dry and on it was a large wooden chopping board and round plastic bowl. To one side were two steel trolleys which were covered with an array of different-shaped cutting instruments. On one trolley there was a white butcher’s scale with a steel meat tray resting in its holder. Then the doors swung open and a tall dapper man in his mid-forties with swept-back blond hair walked in. He was wearing a brown wax Barbour jacket, white shirt, blue-and-white-striped tie, grey slacks and brown zip ankle boots. He was carrying a large black doctor’s-style case which he put down on the clean examination table. Jane thought he must be the forensic pathologist as DCI Bradfield greeted him with a friendly smile and firm handshake.

  ‘I’m glad I got you on this case, Paul. The Chief’s breathing down my neck and pressing for results, but right now we’ve still got bugger all,’ Bradfield said.

  ‘Who’s the wooden top?’ Paul asked, using a detective’s term for a uniform officer.

  ‘WPC Tennison, meet Detective Sergeant Lawrence, best lab liaison officer in the Met. Any suspicious death or murder scene, he’s the man you want working it,’ Bradfield said and patted him on the shoulder.

  DS Lawrence gave him a suspicious glance. ‘You after a loan of money for the office card game or something?’

  ‘You can’t even take praise now?’

  Jane realized this was the first time she had seen Bradfield smile: it made him appear quite boyish. She had been made aware of the highly respected role of a lab sergeant during training at Hendon, and Bradfield and Lawrence obviously rated each other highly. There were only twelve lab sergeants in London and they were all experienced detectives with twenty years-plus service. They worked alongside forensic scientists at crime scenes and at the Met’s laboratory in Lambeth. They didn’t make arrests as this could detract from their invaluable input.

  ‘You got any thoughts on the scene, Paul?’ Bradfield asked, his cigarette dangling from his lips.

  ‘It’s a bit of a minefield. There were lots of footprints but it is a kids’ adventure playground.’

  Lawrence added that some were ‘plod-issue boots’, referring to the footprints of the uniform officers who trampled over the scene, but he had concentrated on the footprints near the body, and had taken some plaster-cast lifts to examine in the lab. It was hoped they might get a possible size and be able to compare them to any suspect’s shoes. DS Lawrence said he had been to the station and visited Eddie Phillips in the cell, but he was wearing Cuban-heel boots which didn’t appear to match any marks at the scene.

  ‘What about prints?’ Bradfield asked.

  DS Lawrence shook his head. ‘We concentrated on anything metal, but due to the recent heavy rain we only managed to get a few lifts. I’ve had them sent to finger-print branch to look at.

  The mortician finished on the old man, wrapped a shroud round the body and placed it on a metal trolley. As he picked up a shower hose Jane hadn’t noticed that Bradfield and DS Lawrence had stepped into the side corridor leading to the fridges. The mortician turned on the hose and started washing down the examination table and floor. The force of the spray sent dirty bloodstained water splashing onto Jane’s skirt, shoes and tights, causing her to squeal and jump back out of the way. The mortician then threw a bucket of water onto the floor, and gave it a quick once-over with a mop. From the smell the water contained a large measure of disinfectant. She didn’t say anything to him but strongly suspected it was an intentional initiation to the mortuary for probationers.

  The assistant mortician wheeled a shrouded body into the room, and Jane could see from the blonde hair hanging loosely over the edge of the trolley that it was Julie Ann’s. The assistant handed DS Lawrence some paper bags containing the victim’s clothing and then wheeled the old man’s body out to the refrigerators. Lawrence had a quick look in the bag that contained Julie Ann’s white socks and her boots.

  ‘We got quite a few red fibres on the soles of these socks, probably from a carpet of some sort. I’ll get the scientist to check all the clothing for any similar or other foreign fibres. Her platform boots are blue cloth and patent leather so we might get a fingerprint off them if he dragged her.’

  DS Lawrence then took out her underwear. ‘Looks like there might be some semen-staining on the gusset.’

  ‘She was a tom so there’s probably bucket loads of it,’ Bradfield replied sarcastically. He patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lit up a fresh one.

  ‘Look out, here comes the miserable munchkin,’ DS Lawrence said as the swing doors opened.

  A small stumpy man entered the room carrying a clipboard and paper. He was in his fifties, with grey thinning hair and half-moon glasses perched unsteadily on the end of his bulbous red nose.

  Jane observed that his green mortuary gown and black wellington boots were stained with blood and body tissue, and deduced that he must be the pathologist. The two morticians slid Julie Ann’s shrouded body from the trolley onto the table.

  ‘Try and keep your fag ash off my instruments today, DCI Bradfield. DS Lawrence, you’re doing exhibits and photographs, I take it?’ the po-faced Professor Martin said as he wrote their names in his notes. He turned towards Jane, lowered his head and peered over the top of his glasses. ‘And you, young lady, are . . .?’

  ‘Probationary WPC 517 Golf Hotel Tennison, on B Relief Hackney, sir.’

  Martin sighed. ‘This is a mortuary, not a courtroom – I can see you are a WPC and an unusually pretty one . . . name and number is all I require. I’m Professor Dean Martin, and not to be confused with the crooner.’

  Seeing Jane staring at the red spider-web marks on the Professor’s face, DS Lawrence leant towards her and whispered, ‘He drinks like Dean Martin though . . . that’s what too much whisky does to your skin.’

  Professor Martin put a black-rubber apron over his gown and pulled on some green-rubber gauntlet gloves. The apron had two metal link-chains at the neck and waist to hold it in place.

  ‘I wasn’t needed in court this morning so I’ve already done my external examination of the body. Gather round, please,’ Martin said as he moved towards the body and then, like a magician, pulled off the shroud in a theatrical flurry to display the naked girl.

  Jane gave a sharp intake of breath. Julie Ann’s body was alabaster white, stretched out with her hands placed at her sides. DS Lawrence got a camera out of his kit bag and took some photographs.

  Martin looked at Jane as he spoke. ‘Time of death is the question most consistently asked by detectives in murder investigations. However, due to many variables, it is extremely difficult to determine, and can never be one hundred per cent accurate.’ He flicked over a page on his clipboard.

  ‘He’s showboating for her benefit,’ Jane heard Bradfield mutter to DS Lawrence.

  ‘So, as to time of death for little missy here: the body was found at 9 a.m. in the open. Livor mortis, which is due to the settling of the blood after death, was well developed, thus indicating the victim had been in the same pos
ition for six to twelve hours. At the scene at 10.30 a.m., I took vaginal swabs and a rectal temperature. I have considered the overnight external air temperature, which in turn influences the rate of heat loss from the body and affects the onset of rigor—’

  Bradfield sighed. ‘Can we just have it in layman’s terms, Prof?’

  Martin puffed out his chest indignantly. ‘By my calculations she was killed on Sunday the 13th of May sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight.’

  ‘It didn’t get dark until just after eight and it’s unlikely she was killed outside in broad daylight,’ DS Lawrence remarked.

  ‘Do you think she was killed at the playground, or elsewhere?’ Bradfield asked Martin.

  ‘I don’t know, it’s impossible for me to say.’

  ‘She could have been murdered indoors somewhere nearby, carried on foot in the early hours and dumped,’ DS Lawrence speculated.

  ‘OK, Sherlock, how’s that explain her bra still being round her neck?’

  Martin spoke before Lawrence could answer. ‘It was tied in a double knot and so tightly neither I nor DS Lawrence could unpick it at the scene. In the end I had to cut it free with some scissors.’

  DS Lawrence removed the bra from the paper bag and showed it to DCI Bradfield so he could see the knot for himself. He then removed the blouse and laid it on top of the bag.

  ‘The two upper buttons on the blouse are missing and they weren’t found at the scene.’

  ‘They could have come off at any time, even accidentally,’ Bradfield said.

  Lawrence pointed to the chest area of the blouse. ‘There’s tear damage where the buttons were, which suggests a struggle.’

  Jane stepped forward so she could get a better look at the bra.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but the bra’s strapless, so he could have removed it at the scene while she still had the shirt on during a bit of foreplay.’

  There was a sudden silence in the room as all three men looked at each other and Jane thought she was about to get a dressing down.

  DS Lawrence glanced at Bradfield, nodded at him and whispered, ‘It’s a good point.’