Читать книгу Hidden Killers - Lynda La plante - Страница 10

CHAPTER FIVE

Jane walked into Hackney Police Station at 9.30 a.m., just as Marie Allard was coming out from reception. Jane realized that she must have visited her husband. Marie looked awful, as if she was in a world of her own. Jane called out her name but Marie carried on walking until Jane caught up with her.

‘Marie, how are you doing?’

Marie suddenly broke down in tears. ‘I was prepared to stand by him for what he done, even though it was bad and wrong, but I could never forgive him for rape.’

‘I understand. But although your husband initially lied about the assaults, he has always denied the rape and he isn’t being charged with it.’

Marie stepped back angrily. ‘What you talking about . . . he admitting it.’

Jane was shocked, instantly feeling that she had been stupid to have believed Allard’s lies and doubt Moran’s integrity.

‘I’m so sorry . . . you must feel as if your world has been torn apart. Did he confess to you just now, during your visit?’

‘No, I not seen him. He was taken to the Magistrates’ Court before I got there.’

Jane was confused. ‘How do you know he confessed?’ Marie was in floods of tears. ‘That detective inspector who came to the house, he saw me just now in the station. He say Peter been charged with the rape and indecent assaults and he be remanded in custody at the court to stand trial.’

Jane was now even more shocked. ‘He confessed to DI Moran?’

‘Yes, in an interview last night. I not believe it at first, but Moran show me Peter’s signed confession and I see his signature.’

Jane didn’t know what to say to Marie. She had genuinely believed that Peter Allard was innocent of the rape, but to hear that he had made a signed confession made her feel naïve and foolish for what she had said to DC Edwards about Moran planting the knife.

Jane told Marie that she had to go to work, and hurried into the station. She went straight to the CID office to speak with DI Moran. There were a few detectives at their own desks, but Moran’s office was empty. Jane went over to Edwards’s desk and spoke to him in a low voice.

‘Where’s Moran?’

‘He’s gone to the Magistrates’ Court with Allard, to object to bail.’

Flustered, Jane took a deep breath.

‘Is it true that Allard signed a confession?’

Edwards nodded. He had a raging headache as he’d drunk too much at the birthday bash the previous evening.

‘I can’t believe Allard signed a confession . . . were you present?’

Edwards could see some of the other detectives looking at them both.

‘Not here, Jane,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.’

Jane waited impatiently for him in the locker room, tidying herself up in preparation for her meeting with Metcalf. She looked at her watch. There was only ten minutes left before she was due to be in his office.

DC Edwards walked in and shut the door.

‘I’m sorry for what I said yesterday, Brian, but I really thought Allard was telling the truth about not being involved in the rape. What did he say? I mean, why did he suddenly confess?’

‘I don’t know – I wasn’t present at the confession as I’d already gone to the pub.’

‘Did Moran say anything to you at the pub?’

‘He didn’t come to the pub, but he was all cock-a-hoop about it first thing this morning. He said he’d charged Allard with the indecent assaults and was fingerprinting him when he suddenly broke down and made a signed confession. Moran couldn’t believe it himself.’

There was something about his tone of voice that didn’t sit right with Jane.

‘So, Moran was alone in the fingerprint room with Allard when he confessed?’

Edwards nodded.

‘Should Moran have had someone else present when he wrote down the actual confession?’

‘There’s no fixed rule about needing two people present, it’s just advisable to counter any allegations of it being false,’ Edwards explained.

Jane hesitated before she spoke. ‘You’re not convinced about the confession, are you? Do you think we should take it further . . . speak with Metcalf maybe? I’m seeing him in a minute about joining the department—’

Edwards was quick to interject.

‘No, I don’t . . . definitely not. If you raise any queries regarding Allard being fitted up by DI Moran, the first thing you’ll be asked for is proof . . . and the fact is you don’t have any. It’s his word against yours, and you won’t win.’

‘Come on, Brian, you know DI Moran obviously decided Allard was guilty of the rape as soon as we arrested him. When Allard lied about what happened with me Moran decided his course of action and planted the knife. The more Allard lied, the more it played into his hands . . . he’ll probably claim that Allard’s emotional stress with his wife made him break down and confess—’

‘For Chrissakes, Jane, wake up and get real! You’ve got more to lose than gain here. Why ruin your career for a piece of shit like Allard? He split your lip, he terrified the life out of you and other helpless women whose lives he’s ruined, not to mention not giving a damn about his wife’s feelings. He’ll get a long stretch, whatever happens . . . and to be frank he’ll get what he deserves.’

Jane shook her head. ‘For a crime he may not have committed . . .’

‘Listen to me, Jane, neither of us knows the truth, but if he’s signed a confession he’s screwed. We both know he lied at the start about his arrest and who he really was . . . Allard did himself no favours, so you and I don’t owe him anything. Lemme tell you, there have been plenty of people like the guv who look upon a fit-up as what is called “noble cause justice”. You might think they have a warped sense of loyalty to the job in bending the rules and making up confessions or fabricating evidence if they are convinced someone is guilty. I don’t . . . I really don’t, because if the ends justify the means, that’s a success. If you want to be part of CID you’d better get used to it and learn to turn a blind eye fast.’

Jane took a deep breath and looked at him in disbelief as he turned to leave.

‘Wait a minute . . . I can’t believe what you’re saying! That’s not justice, it’s corruption, whatever way you look at it.’

Edwards ran his fingers through his hair and sighed as his cheeks flushed.

‘That’s the big dilemma, Jane. But with no proof there’s no case . . . so there’s nothing you can say, no matter how bad you feel about it. You need to learn quickly who the bent cops are and try to avoid working with them. If they try to get you involved in something dodgy, just say no and walk away. But don’t ever say anything to anyone else because everyone will think you’re a grass and ostracize you.’

Jane shook her head. ‘I’d be hated because I told the truth about a dishonest police officer? That can’t be right.’

Edwards sighed; his head was really throbbing now. ‘No one said it was right, Jane, it’s just the way it is. It’s how you define the word “corrupt”, and in my eyes Moran isn’t corrupt. He doesn’t take backhanders or steal from drug dealers.’

‘Really? Well, do you think Moran might have assaulted or threatened Allard to get him to sign a false confession? Is that what you define as “noble”?’

‘For Chrissakes, Jane, no way . . . He might have come off second best in the fingerprint room, or in a cell alone, with a bloke like Allard who has karate skills and is a martial arts expert.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Brian . . . Whatever you say, I don’t believe Allard would have knowingly signed a false confession if he was innocent.’

He was losing his patience. ‘It’s Moran’s word against Allard’s, and we can’t be sure of the truth either way. I’m on your side, Jane, but I’m not stupid enough to shout about it. So let’s just forget we ever had this conversation, OK? After what you did the other night you’ve already got one foot in the door of the department . . . don’t fuck it all up now. Go and see Metcalf and reap the rewards, and we’ll do the lab form for the steroids when you’ve finished.’

Edwards walked out of the locker room. Jane waited a few moments as the implications of their discussion sank in. This was some learning curve. She looked in the mirror and put some foundation over the bruise above her cut lip, powdered her swollen cheek then headed out of the locker room for her meeting with Metcalf.

Jane knocked on the door. ‘Ah, Jane.’ Metcalf invited her in, gesturing to her to sit down. ‘I hear you’ve had good news and that Allard has admitted the rape?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jane replied against her will.

‘Excellent. When this case appears at the Old Bailey the judge will no doubt commend you. You’ll also be put forward for a Commissioner’s Commendation for your part in the arrest of a very dangerous man.’

Jane sat bolt upright on the hard-backed chair. ‘I’m sure that the trial will be very interesting. Do you think Allard will actually plead guilty?’

Metcalf laughed. ‘Given he has confessed his crimes and signed a statement to that effect, he’d be mad to go for a not guilty claim and risk a much longer sentence.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about your future, Tennison . . . Tell me, where do you see yourself in three or five years’ time?’

‘I’d like to think I’d be a detective, sir.’

He gave her an icy stare. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want? It may not be the best career path for you at this time.’

Jane was taken aback by Metcalf’s attitude. He had promised he would recommend her for the CID after DCI Bradfield’s death.

‘Excuse me, sir, can I ask if DI Moran or Sergeant Harris have said anything to you about me joining the CID?’

‘No . . . why do you ask? Is there a problem between you and them?’

Jane blushed. ‘No, sir. I had told them I’d like to join the department and I just wondered if they had spoken to you favourably, or otherwise, about me.’

‘Detective Moran said you did a good job on the Allard arrest, and Sergeant Harris has never mentioned you . . . but I try to avoid conversations with him as he usually has something to moan about.’

He gave a short bark.

‘Could I ask why you think the CID may be the wrong career path for me?’

Metcalf formed a church steeple with his fingers, and leaned his elbows on the desk.

‘I’m not saying that being a detective isn’t right, but it may not be the right choice in the long term. There is always the possibility of a more rewarding opportunity.’

‘What would that opportunity be, sir?’

‘Well, if you sit the sergeant’s promotion exam and got a mark in the nineties you would automatically be considered for the Special Course.’

‘I see . . . but Sergeant Harris has already said he wouldn’t recommend me to sit the exam yet.’

Metcalf glanced away, staring at a small stain high on the wall behind her.

‘Well, Jane, I would recommend you for accelerated promotion, whereby you could be a uniform sergeant within three years and an inspector within five.’

Jane paused for thought. She then said quietly, ‘It’s very tempting to have a go at accelerated promotion, but I think first I’d like to make detective, work in the CID and maybe sit the exam later.’

‘But you could still apply for the CID even if you pass the promotion exam,’ Metcalf pointed out. ‘You might find it worth studying to sit the exam in January next year, then apply for the CID once you’ve passed.’

Again Jane took time to think about it. ‘Could I become a detective and then sit the exam after a year or two in the CID?’ she asked politely.

She could tell that Metcalf was now becoming a trifle impatient as he drummed his fingertips on the edge of the desk.

‘If you pass the exam, as a detective, you would be required to work in uniform for one year before you could return as a detective sergeant.’

Jane bit down on her bottom lip. One side of her mouth was still scarred where Allard had struck her but she kept tight control and audaciously reminded Metcalf of their previous conversation after Bradfield’s death. Metcalf’s cheeks turned pink. It was hard to determine if it was from anger, or whether he had forgotten that conversation.

Eventually he said very quietly, ‘I’m a man of my word and if that’s what you want then I’ll recommend you for the next CID interview board in about a month’s time. But I’m only able to recommend you, and passing the board is entirely down to how you perform on the day in front of the panel.’ Metcalf peered at her and his tone became brisk. ‘Do your homework and brush up on CID procedure.’ He stood up to signal that their meeting was over and Jane saluted him.

‘I wish you’d stop doing that, Tennison . . . a hand shake will suffice.’

‘Thank you very much, sir, I will remember that.’ Standing ramrod straight she walked out, very pleased with herself, and reckoned she had handled the meeting well.

Jane went straight to the property store to book out the steroids recovered from Allard’s address. PC Doig, the property officer, was a pleasant, rotund old soul who originated from Glasgow. He had a strong Scottish accent that, even after twenty-five years in London, was often hard to understand. He was badly injured after being hit by a car in the line of duty and had spent the last four years assigned to desk duties in the ‘dungeon’, as officers referred to the basement property store.

‘Hello, wee Jane, how ye doin’? I heard you pulled a real belter the other night, arrestin’ that rotten bastard Allard for rape. That’s a nasty cut he gave your lip.’

‘Thanks, Dougal, but it wasn’t just me who made the arrest.’

‘You’re a canny lass that’s fer sure. Now, what’re you aboot?’

‘The bag of tablets in the Allard case, please.’

‘Aye, did ye see them magazines he had? I could na believe the dirty pictures in ’em when I had a wee gander.’ He walked off down the aisle of high shelving to look for the property.

Jane tried not to laugh at his remark about the magazines, as he’d obviously had a good ‘gander’.

‘Right, here ye are. I need yer ta sign in the book here. Are they going ta the lab?’

‘Yes,’ Jane said.

PC Doig put the bag of tablets down on the desk and opened up the property book. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it to Jane, asking her to fill out each section with the date, property exhibit number, case name and description of the property. The page was nearly full and as she filled out each section she couldn’t help but notice the entries above the one she was making. The dates went back three days and she was surprised that nowhere among the entries for withdrawal or deposit was there a blue rabbit fur coat. Moran’s name was there but only relating to the deposit of the Allard property. She flicked back a few pages to double-check, but still found no entry for the coat. Jane distinctly remembered Moran saying the fur coat was evidence in a ‘handling’ case and asking her to leave it on a chair in his office as he needed to put it back in the property store.

‘The fur coat I used for the decoy operation . . . I was just wondering if it was returned to the store, as it was evidence in a case?’

‘What fur coat? I’ve nay had any fur coats in here. If I did, believe me I’d be wearin’ it . . . it’s that damn cold doon here.’

‘It was blue rabbit fur, and waist length.’

‘Nope, d’nay what yer talkin’ aboot, Janey . . . If it was ta do with an overnight prisoner then it may never have got doon here, and could ha been locked in the charge room cabinet.’

The word ‘prisoner’ sparked a memory in Jane’s mind. It was DC Edwards telling her that Moran had gone downstairs to put the fur jacket back in the property store, and release a prisoner he had in on suspicion of dishonest handling. Then Sergeant Harris had told her that DI Moran released his other prisoner the same night she arrested Allard.

She filled out the rest of the details about the steroids in the property book. Why had Moran lied to her about the rabbit fur coat? It just didn’t make sense . . . unless there was something he wanted to hide. She thanked PC Doig for his help.

Jane went straight to the charge room to look through the prisoner arrest and release records for the twenty-four-hour period before and after Allard’s arrest. She was thankful there was no one there, other than a cleaner. She went over to the bookshelf, removed the ‘Prisoner’ book and sat down at the charge room desk to look through it. It didn’t take long. Early in the morning on the day of the decoy operation, DI Moran had arrested a Mary Kelly, aged twenty-nine, unemployed, and of no fixed abode. Jane’s eyes opened wide when she read that Kelly was arrested on suspicion of handling stolen goods and Moran had released her, without charge, in the early hours of the morning . . . after Peter Allard was arrested. The ‘Prisoner’ book didn’t say what the ‘stolen goods’ were, but Jane knew it would be recorded on Mary Kelly’s arrest sheet, which would be kept in date order in a large binder, along with all the prisoners kept in custody at Hackney. As she was about to replace the ‘Prisoner’ book the charge room door opened and Sergeant Harris appeared.

‘What are you up to, Tennison?’

She’d already prepared an answer in anticipation that someone might walk in on her, and pointed to the bag of steroids on the table.

‘I’ve got to fill out a lab form regarding those tablets and I needed the time we booked Allard in. I forgot to put it in my notes and couldn’t remember,’ she said and then stood up, replaced the ‘Prisoner’ book on the shelf and quickly left the room before Harris could say anything. She was annoyed that she was unable to see what property was logged against Mary Kelly’s arrest record, but was almost certain it had to be the blue rabbit fur coat. She’d try to sneak back later to have a look, but the more Jane uncovered the more she felt something was seriously wrong.

She thought about the woman she had seen on the way back to the section house the previous evening. The tall, dusky skinned, statuesque girl who was wearing a pale blue rabbit fur coat. Jane wondered if she was Mary Kelly, but the reality was it could have just been a coincidence and she didn’t get a good look at the woman’s face so she doubted she would recognize her again. Jane also knew that as Mary Kelly was released without charge no fingerprints or photograph would have been taken, but she might have a criminal record for previous offences. An idea occurred to her and she decided to seek out PC Donaldson.

PC Donaldson, the station collator, was one of the oldest and longest-serving officers at Hackney. He was overweight with ruddy cheeks and a thatch of white hair. He was perched on a stool in front of his desk reading a newspaper, his chipped mug of coffee beside him. There were other chairs in the room but he found them uncomfortable because of his bad back and preferred the stool as it kept him more upright. The room was crammed with filing cabinets, large and small, containing files and card indexes on every known criminal and persons of interest in Hackney. The basement room had strip lights and only one window, which was so high up it was dirty and cobwebbed, and had obviously never been opened.

‘Morning, Tennison,’ he said with a warm smile.

Jane had become very fond of Donaldson. He was always pleasant and helpful and she stood smiling as she watched his wide bum splay over the edges of the stool. His police issue trousers hung a few inches above his ankles and revealed his thick crepe-soled black polished shoes.

‘I just wanted to check out someone’s name with you.’

Donaldson eased himself down from his stool. ‘No problem . . . the name is?’

‘Mary Kelly.’

‘I know that name . . .’

Jane looked pleased. ‘Do you? What do you know about her?’

Donaldson paused as he looked through the female index cards under the name ‘Kelly’. He turned to Jane.

‘That’s strange, there’s no Mary Kelly in here . . .’

‘If someone is arrested, but not charged, their details and reason for arrest should still be filled out on a form and submitted to you?’

‘Yes, but sometimes officers forget or can’t be bothered.’ Jane became worried. Could Moran have deliberately failed to submit, or have even destroyed, Mary Kelly’s collator’s card?

Donaldson suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Got it! Mary

Jane Kelly, she was his last victim.’

Jane looked excited. ‘Whose last victim? Did someone assault Mary?’

Donaldson looked at her as if she was a bit dim. ‘No, Mary Jane Kelly was Jack the Ripper’s last victim . . . that’s why the name was familiar. I’ve read every book on that crime and watched an old movie about him . . . still shockin’ all these years later. She was a prostitute addicted to rot-gut gin . . .’

Jane felt deflated, but suddenly thought of a long shot on the back of what Donaldson had said. ‘Do you keep records of women arrested for prostitution?’

Donaldson smiled. ‘Yes I do, but there’s so many . . . and they use and share a multitude of different names. Some of them could fill a phone book! It’s hard to remember who’s who, so I put together a photograph album of them all.’

He went to a cabinet and took out a large photo album filled with pages of various women, of all ages and skin colours. ‘As you can see, each one is numbered and I have a corresponding index card or file for each number. I keep the main index card under the name they gave when first arrested and charged.’

Jane sighed. She’d only seen the woman in the rabbit fur coat briefly, and from a side-on view. Nevertheless, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She sat at the spare table and started to flick through the pages, each of which had nine photographs. Donaldson sat back up on his stool and continued to read his newspaper.

Although Jane was frustrated and growing impatient she took her time. After ten minutes she was halfway through the album without seeing anyone she even remotely recognized. It didn’t help that all the pictures were black and white and taken from chest height. It was another five minutes before a picture caught her attention. It wasn’t the dusky faced girl herself, but the coat she was wearing. Jane was almost certain it was the same fur coat she had been given to wear as a decoy, and if it was she wanted to know why and who it belonged to.

‘This one here, number three hundred and twenty-six . . . I think this might be her.’

Donaldson leaned over his desk to a small notebook that had ‘TOMS’ written on the front of it. He licked his finger and started to turn over the pages.

‘Ah ha, here it is . . . Janet Brown! You ever seen her? She’s the dizzy blonde who does impressions on Who Do You Do. She’s really good, and very funny.’

Jane was lost. She didn’t have a clue why Donaldson suddenly wanted to talk about TV impressionists. He went over to one of the female index filing trays, pulled it open and after a second or two pulled out an envelope containing some index cards. He placed it on the table in front of Jane and removed the cards.

‘Number three hundred and twenty-six is Janet Brown, but not the impressionist . . . First arrest for soliciting eight years ago, CRO number D72/261.’ He flicked the card over. ‘Aliases Lily, Sugar Susie, Jane, Angie . . . to name but a few.’ He stopped reading out the list of aliases and ran his finger down the page.

‘Looks like she’s never used the name Mary Kelly before, and come to think of it I can’t recall a Tom who has. I remember seeing the Ripper crime scene pictures of Mary Kelly in the Black Museum at the Yard . . . her body was horribly mutilated.’

Jane felt ill at ease. The more she found out about Moran’s involvement in the arrest of the so-called Mary Kelly, the more suspicious she became. She had nothing concrete to go on, but she was determined to dig deeper. Donaldson picked up Brown’s mug shot and tapped it.

‘This may not be the girl you’re looking for . . . as I said, many of them share and use the same names. The best way to confirm someone’s identity is through their fingerprints, as they can be matched to the first sets ever taken on their CRO file at the Yard.’

Jane already knew about fingerprints. It was as if Donaldson had forgotten that she had nearly two years’ service, but she didn’t want to offend him so just thanked him for the information. She was eager to read Janet Brown’s cards and concentrated on what was in front of her.

Janet was five feet eight inches tall and weighed 125 pounds. To Jane this indicated she must be a slender woman. Her date of birth was 20th February 1945, making her twenty-nine. Jane looked at the scrap of paper she had made notes on about Mary Kelly’s arrest. The date of birth was the same. The most recent mug shot of Janet was five months old, having been sent over from West End Central Police Station after she was arrested by a local PC for prostitution in Soho. The picture surprised Jane because she was exceptionally beautiful, with dark skin, dark hair, wide almond shaped eyes, a small neat nose and wide dark lips, which were probably accentuated with lipstick. There was a sullenness to her expression, and the hand that held up the card had long painted nails.

Janet’s last arrest, in 1972, was for loitering for prostitution in London Fields. It then dawned on her that DC Edwards had said DI Moran used to be on the Clubs and Vice Unit. She looked up at Donaldson.

‘Is Clubs and Vice based at Scotland Yard?’

‘No, they work out of West End Central. Why?’

‘Nothing, I just wondered if they might know of Janet Brown.’ But the truth was she was wondering if there was a connection between Moran and Janet Brown from his time with Clubs and Vice.

Jane sighed. Everything seemed to be going from bad to worse. She noticed that Janet had never served a prison sentence, which she thought was strange due to the number of arrests she had had for soliciting. Jane questioned Donaldson about it, and he shrugged.

‘Could be a soft magistrate, or it’s possible she’s a snout for someone on the Vice Squad and trades details of pimps and johns to avoid prison. If she appeared in court and a good word is put in by the Vice officer she’d probably just get a fine. Paying it off just means turning a few more tricks in one night.’

‘Sounds like a vicious circle,’ Jane remarked. Donaldson put his arm on her shoulder. ‘Will you keep your eye on the shop for me while I nip up to the canteen for a couple of sausage rolls and a coffee?’

Jane nodded and gave Donaldson a warm smile. No sooner had he left the room than he popped his head back round the door.

‘Do you want anything?’

‘No, thank you.’

He smiled and jokingly said, ‘And no sneaking any of my index cards out the room . . . you know it’s against the rules.’

Jane grabbed the memo pad from Donaldson’s desk and started to make shorthand notes from Janet Brown’s cards. One of the cards gave some details of her background. It stated that she was born in King’s Cross, her mother was English and father an American GI. She had lived in America for part of her life, then returned to London after her mother had died. Jane wished the card had more details about Janet Brown’s life, but she knew that it was normal for only a brief family history to be recorded on a CRO file. What was of interest was the fact that Janet Brown gave her address, when last arrested in Soho, as 86 Graham Road, Hackney.

Having recorded as much as she could on the memo pad Jane ripped off the pages she’d written on, folded them up and put them in her handbag. She gathered up the cards to put them back in the envelope and on opening it saw a copy of an Incident Report Book, which was used by uniform officers, and had been filled out by PC 489 Grant, who was based at Hackney, but on a different relief to Jane. The IRB was about a ‘Serious Assault’ on 23 August 1974. She also recalled having read the teenager’s statement saying that her rape had occurred on the 23rd, but had not been reported until two days later when she had an emotional breakdown in front of her mother. To Jane it seemed obvious that the same man may have attacked Janet Brown and the teenager. She couldn’t understand how, or why, DI Moran had missed the connection. Jane opened the IRB and started to read it.

On 23.8.74 I was night duty patrol covering 5 beat. Just after midnight I received a radio call about a drunk woman outside the basement flat of 58 Navarino Road. I attended the scene and the woman had a severely bruised face and what appeared to be a knife wound to her neck and chest. She was semi-conscious and did not smell of alcohol. I also noticed that her clothes were in disarray and there was a handbag on the floor next to her. She was wearing a blue fur coat, white top, miniskirt and long boots.

I asked her what happened but she was incoherent and in a state of shock. I called an ambulance and accompanied her to the Homerton Hospital. She said nothing during the journey. I looked in the handbag to try and identify the woman and found a letter addressed to Miss J. Brown of 86 Graham Road.

At the hospital she was treated immediately in the casualty area and sedated, thus I was unable to get any information from her. I contacted the Night Duty CID and informed them of a possible GBH/Rape, and that the attending doctor said no one would be able to speak to her until the following morning.

CID said they would make an entry in their Night Duty Occurrence Book for the DI to see in the morning, and also asked me to make out a crime report sheet on my return to the station. (Major Crime 1324 refers.)

I left the hospital and returned to Hackney where I checked the collator’s index cards and found a record for a Janet Brown, who from the mug shot was the same woman I escorted to the hospital.

Lifting the mug shot up Jane found two more black and white photographs. One looked as if it had been taken around the same time as the mug shot, but the other photograph was more recent and shocked her. Janet had severe bruises around her eyes and one of them was bulging like a ping pong ball. Her lips were swollen and split. It was very obvious that she had suffered a severe beating. Checking over the dates and times of the various arrests for soliciting there was a brief mention of the assault stating that J. Brown had come into the station to report it, but had later withdrawn the complaint and refused to press charges. She was unable to give a description of the assailant.

Listed on the crime sheet was a memo from DI Moran stating that the victim refused to substantiate the allegation and had said the injuries were as a result of a fall.

‘No crime’ was then underlined.

Jane couldn’t believe what she’d just read. She was now convinced that Janet Brown, Mary Kelly and J. Brown were the same woman. Moran must be hiding something, not just from her, but from everyone else in the station. Navarino Road, where the woman was found, was just a stone’s throw from the north end of London Fields.

Jane was now certain she had been wearing Janet Brown’s rabbit fur coat on the night she was assaulted. She could find no mention of whether or not she was an informer. Even if she was, all informants were usually registered under a false name and a record kept under lock and key in a cabinet by the DCI.

Donaldson returned and Jane handed him the index cards.

‘She took a severe beating.’

‘Yep, I noticed that . . . But you know these girls risk that happening. A lot of them are out soliciting to pay for their drugs. You arrest them, and in the worst cases they do time in Holloway Prison, but then they get out and go straight back to work. They have these scum pimps who they pay for so-called protection, but a lot of the time it’s those creeps who knock them around.’

‘Do you think Janet has a pimp?’

‘I don’t know, sweetheart, maybe . . . Some of them work out of flats over in Mayfair. That’s where the top brass work nowadays. They get customers from the Dorchester Hotel, and some of them even have the cheek to dress up fancy and go into the bars.’