Читать книгу Hidden Killers - Lynda La plante - Страница 8
ОглавлениеFeeling nauseous from lack of sleep Jane went to the canteen and got a strong black coffee and a bacon sandwich, which she carried to the CID office. The office was empty, so she sat at DC Edwards’s desk and ate her breakfast.
‘That looks good.’ Glancing up, she saw a dapperlooking DI Moran coming out of his office.
‘Oh sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to be late on parade.’
‘You’re not . . . I’m early. And we don’t have parades in the CID, just nine to five and two to ten shifts, and a rotation of one DS and a DC on a week’s night shift. We’ve had some good news . . . Fingerprint Bureau got a match for the prisoner . . . he’s not John Allard, he’s Peter Allard, with one previous conviction for ABH in his late teens, in a pub fight. The address on his arrest sheet from back then is just up the road, in Stoke Newington. But his name isn’t shown on the current Voters’ Register.’
‘That’s good that you got him identified, sir. Maybe he’ll tell us where he lives now?’
‘I doubt it, there might be evidence at his address that he doesn’t want us to find. So that’s why I want you to visit the last known address for Peter Allard to see if the current owners knew anything about him, or where he moved to.’ Moran handed her a bit of paper with Allard’s details and his last known address.
‘Will that be before or after the interview, sir?’
‘Before. If we get something positive then we can use it to put him under pressure. In the meantime, I’ve got a meeting with DCS Metcalf about Allard’s arrest.’
Jane didn’t want to ask Moran if he was going to tell Metcalf that she had been the arresting officer. She hoped he would as it would help when it came to asking him about joining the CID.
Moran handed Jane the log book and keys for one of the CID cars. ‘I haven’t been given the five-week basic driving course yet, so I’m not authorized to drive police vehicles,’ she said.
‘OK, well, go and see if you can get a lift in a panda car, or go by bus.’
Jane hurriedly finished her coffee and went to the comms room to book out a radio and ask about getting a lift to Stoke Newington. There were only two panda cars on patrol, and they were both dealing with incidents, so she caught the bus to Stoke Newington High Street and walked the rest of the way to Kynaston Road, a quiet street lined with terraced houses built after the war. After repeatedly knocking on the door of number 23 and getting no answer, Jane felt it had been a wasted journey. She posted a note through the letterbox for the occupier, giving a phone number, and asking them to contact her at Hackney CID regarding a previous occupant of the premises. Before leaving she decided to see if any of the neighbours were in. An elderly lady answered the door of one of the small terraced houses and, after she had seen her warrant card, invited Jane in.
The narrow hall was lined with cat litter trays. The carpet looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed for years, and was thick with balls of cat fur. Mrs Walker introduced herself and asked Jane if she liked cats. There was little Jane could say. The pungent smell of moggies was overpowering in the hall, but in the living room it was almost suffocating. There were felines perched on every possible surface, even the piano keys.
Jane took out her notebook and perched perilously on the arm of a cat-clawed sofa. Mrs Walker was standing next to a small, tiled fireplace. On the mantelpiece was an array of cheaply framed photographs of cats.
‘Thank you for letting me in, Mrs Walker. I just have a few questions – nothing serious.’
‘That’s OK, dear, you ask away, and call me Eadie.’
‘Did you know the Allard family, Mrs Walker?’
‘Eadie . . . Yes, I knew them very well. There was John and Hilda and their children Peter and Cherrie. The daughter had something wrong with her. I used to babysit when they were nippers.’
‘Do the family still live there?’
‘No, they moved out at least twelve, or more, years ago. The parents divorced and sold up . . . I don’t know where they went, or where the children moved to.’
‘Mrs Wal . . . I mean Eadie, do you know what job Peter did?’
‘Oh, he was about eighteen when they left. He was very nice and bought me some flowers when he came to say goodbye. He was such a lovely handsome boy. I was so surprised when he got in a bit of bother for punching a lad in a pub, but his mum and dad said it was in self-defence. He used to do all kinds of different jobs, anything so he could pay his way really. I remember laughing when he was a nipper as I’d ask what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said that he wanted to be a cabbie, like his dad. He loved going out with his dad in the taxi. I think the divorce upset him . . . but that’s life for ya, innit?’
‘Thank you . . . you’ve been very helpful.’
‘That’s all right, love. You get to my age an’ yer glad of a bit of company. Is Peter in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, we just need to trace him about something. Thank you for your time.’
Jane left the house and, turning left at the end of the street, called into Stoke Newington Police Station, which was a ten-minute walk away, unaware that the back of her jacket and skirt were covered in cat hairs. She showed her warrant card to a PC at the front counter and asked if she could use a phone to make an urgent call regarding an investigation she was carrying out for DI Moran of Hackney CID. The officer showed her the way to the PCs’ writing room and said she could use the phone in there. Jane called the Public Carriage Office at Penton Street, Islington and asked if they had a licensed cab driver under the name of Peter Allard. The lady at the cab office replied that she was very busy, but would do her best to look in their card index within the next hour. Jane gave her the phone number of the comms room at Hackney and asked her to leave the details with them.
Jane then spoke to Hackney and explained that she was expecting an important call from the Public Carriage Office and asked if they could radio the result straight through to her when it came. Satisfied that she’d covered all bases, she thanked the PC at the front counter and caught the bus back to Hackney, but rather than going straight to the station she decided to return to the scene where she had been attacked, as she wanted to have a proper look at it in daylight.
It was hard to get a clear view from the spot where Allard pounced on her, because of the trees. But from what she could see there were no black cabs parked up in London Fields’ east or west side. Jane decided to walk down Martello Street, following the path of the main railway line above it, as it had quiet side roads that ran underneath the arches.
As she turned left into Lamb Lane Jane noticed a black cab parked up by the junction with Mentmore Terrace. She stopped to take a closer look and jotted down the licence number on the rear of the cab. As she was doing so a man dressed in greasy overalls, carrying a ratchet spanner, approached her.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, I’m just checking something . . . is this your cab?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, with an inquisitive stare.
Jane had totally forgotten she was in plain clothes and quickly took her warrant card out to show the man.
‘I’m a mechanic at the garage. This cab is one we’re repairing,’ he explained politely, pointing to the large dent and scratches above the rear offside wheel arch.
It transpired that around the corner in Mentmore Terrace, out of Jane’s view, there was a cab repair garage with a number of taxis parked up that were booked in for mechanical or bodywork repairs. Wondering if any of the parked up cabs weren’t there to be repaired Jane asked if the mechanic had a record of which cabs he was working on. The mechanic led her into the office and handed her a list attached to a clipboard. The list had the black cab licence numbers of all the vehicles that were being booked in at the garage. He explained that the licence plate was on the rear boot, below the index plate. Jane didn’t want to tell him that she already knew this, and began checking the cabs in the road until she discovered one that was not on the list.
With a mounting sense of excitement, Jane radioed through to the station. The information she was waiting for had been received but the comms operator had been busy and had forgotten to contact her. According to records at the PCO a Peter Allard was a registered cab driver and his licence number was 7614, with an address in Walthamstow. Jane told the comms officer that the licence number matched a cab she was looking at and that the owner, Peter Allard, was currently in custody at Hackney.
‘Allard had a car key on him which was put in the prisoner’s property locker in the charge room. Can you get the key booked out and brought down to me so I can see if it fits the cab, and inform DI Moran? Over.’
‘I’ll get DI Moran’s approval first. He may want to send a class one driver down with the key to bring the suspect vehicle to the station yard.’
Jane waited anxiously, pacing the pavement next to the parked cab, but it wasn’t long before the reply came that DI Moran wanted the vehicle brought to the station for examination by a SOCO. The comms officer told her that as soon as the area car driver had finished the call he was on he’d collect Allard’s car key and be with her as quickly as he could.
Jane kept checking her watch every five minutes. Nearly half an hour had passed and she was anxious to get back to the station, fearing that DI Moran may start interviewing Peter Allard with another detective. Eventually an officer arrived. The key fitted and he drove the cab to Hackney while Jane was driven back to the station in a patrol car. She hurried to the CID office and brought Moran up to speed with the latest developments.
‘Bloody good work, Tennison. Job well done . . . but I should have been informed about the developments as soon as you spoke with the Allards’ old neighbour.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure if you realize, but you’ve got cat hairs all over the back of your suit . . .’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Jane brushed self-consciously at the fluff covering her skirt.
Having just returned from the lab DC Edwards joined them and reported that Paul Lawrence, the lab liaison sergeant, would let Moran know as soon as they got any positive results.
‘He’s the best lab sergeant in the force. Brilliant eye for detail, so we’re lucky to have him working on this for us,’ Moran said as he walked out.
Jane nodded in agreement. ‘DCI Bradfield said the same thing about him.’ The recollection of Bradfield filled her with momentary pain.
Edwards sensed her reaction and patted Jane’s shoulder gently, which she acknowledged with a small smile.
‘It’s been hard to adjust to working alongside someone like Moran . . . he’s very different. He doesn’t play rugby . . . we all used to be in the police rugby team and have a few jars afterwards, and a laugh. Have you seen Spencer Gibbs at all?’
Jane shook her head.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘For the first few months after it happened the station was so quiet . . . Nobody wanted to talk about it. Gibbs used to be singing in the showers all the time, and playing with his rock band . . . I’ve phoned him a few times, and written to him, but I’ve had nothing back.’
‘I remember you emulating him, the way you used to slap the suspects around.’
‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . Gibbs was a bit of a naughty boy, but he was a good cop. It’s not the done thing now. I leave that to the boss.’
Moran walked back in.
‘Leave what to the boss, Edwards?’
‘Er, to get the forensic results from DS Lawrence, sir.’
‘Bollocks to that. You two, get SOCO and go over that cab with a fine tooth comb. While you’re doing that I’m going to type up a search warrant for the suspect’s address, and I want you, Edwards, to take it to the magistrate for approval and signature.’
‘Sorry, guv . . . Do you want me to do the cab over, or go to the magistrate?’
‘For Chrissakes, Brian, get on and do both of them!’ The cab at the station yard was as clean as a whis-
tle inside, but they found a fresh shirt and jeans in a plastic bag on the back seat. Underneath the driver’s seat was a cabbie’s cash bag with money in it, and in the glove compartment was a wallet containing money and a photograph of two young children with a pretty, dark-haired oriental woman. There was also a set of house keys and a cab driver’s green neck tag, with a licence number on it that matched the one they had been given by the PCO for Peter Allard. Jane and Edwards left the SOCO to take fibre tapings from the driver’s seat, although he said that he didn’t hold out much hope as the vehicle had obviously been carefully cleaned.
On their return to the station they updated Moran and showed him what they had recovered from the cab. Moran suspected that Allard had probably been using the cab as a cover to travel to and from the scenes of his attacks, on the basis that police officers rarely, if ever, stop black cabs. He decided that he wanted to interview Allard before they visited his home address, which they now knew was 45 Grove Road, Walthamstow. Jane asked Moran if he thought the suspect would keep silent as he knew none of the victims could identify him because he wore a stocking mask.
‘Admittedly with the others there is only circumstantial evidence due to the similarity in the attacks . . . but now I’ve got some leverage on him.’
‘What leverage, sir?’ Jane asked.
‘You’ll find out during the interview, darlin’ . . . so let’s get cracking.’
Jane and DC Edwards went down the stone-flagged corridor to the basement level where the cells were situated. The duty officer unlocked Allard’s cell. Allard seemed very depressed and was unable to make eye contact, especially with Jane. As he held his wrists out to the duty officer to be handcuffed he turned and, for the first time, looked directly at Jane. He spoke softly.
‘I am so sorry for what I did . . . I feel very ashamed . . .’
Surprised, Jane nodded. Edwards led Allard out of his cell, along the corridor and up the narrow concrete steps to DI Moran’s office on the first floor.
Moran got straight to the point and asked Allard if he was responsible for the recent spate of indecent assaults in London Fields and Victoria Park. Allard remained head bowed and flatly denied involvement in any assaults of any kind, even the one on ‘her’, he stated, pointing to Jane. He claimed that he heard the detectives saying at the time that they didn’t see what had happened between him and the woman because their view was blocked by the trees.
Jane couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Allard had just apologized to her, and now here he was shamefacedly denying it to Moran. She watched, incredulous, as he insisted that Jane was lying.
Allard stated that the male detectives believed her lie, and that they had planted a knife on him. Moran sat back and stared into Allard’s dark, angry eyes.
‘Come on, we both know you’re lying, John. Oh sorry, forgive me . . . I mean Peter . . . It is Peter Allard I’m speaking to, isn’t it?’
The use of his proper name caused a visible nervous twitch in Allard’s face. Moran leaned across the table.
‘Bet you’re wondering what else we know about you, Peter?’
Allard shook his head and stupidly denied that was his name. Moran laughed.
‘Peter, you’re digging a bigger hole for yourself – your prints have been matched to a set held at the Yard from your previous arrest for ABH during a pub fight. You hit a young woman, didn’t you?’
Allard once again demanded a phone call. Moran casually remarked that he wasn’t allowed to call anyone until he admitted his true identity and told them where he lived. Then he could call whoever he liked. Allard looked worried as Moran pulled the green licence tag from his pocket and started to swing it like a pendulum in front of Allard.
‘We found this in a black cab that was parked up by London Fields, which is currently being forensically examined in our yard. This tag, and the licence number on the cab, are both registered to you.’
Allard hung his head. Moran pressed on.
‘WPC Tennison here, who you state is a liar, did a little digging . . . she even went to your old home address and spoke to a neighbour who remembered you, as well as your dad, who was also a cab driver. WPC Tennison checked with the Public Carriage Office and obtained your home address in Walthamstow. Take a look at this photograph, Peter . . . nice-looking woman and two kids . . . look at it. Chinese, is she?’
Allard pressed back in his chair.
‘What . . . you married to a slitty eyed chinky woman, are you?’
Allard was now shaking. ‘I’m not married, I don’t have kids, and my name is John.’
Moran slapped the desk hard with the flat of his hand. ‘Start telling the truth . . . the more you lie, the worse it gets. There’s no way out for the attack on WPC Tennison – you’ll be going to prison.’
Allard said nothing. Moran swung around in his chair, then rocked back and forth for a moment before continuing.
‘You gave a false name because you needed time to think about what you were going to tell your chinky girlfriend. In fact, the reason you asked to make a phone call, before we found out who you really were, was not to contact a solicitor but to call your chinky woman with a fabricated story.’
‘She’s not Chinese . . . ! She’s Filipino!’
‘Ahhhh, Filipino eh? Are these two kids yours?’
‘Yes . . . And her name is Marie. I want to tell her the truth before you bastards lie about me to her. She’ll know I’ve been fitted up!’
‘Fitted up? Look what you did to WPC Tennison’s face!’ Moran exclaimed, pointing to Jane.
She stared towards Allard as he lowered his head. His fists were clenched and Jane could feel the animosity and rage in him as he fought to maintain control.
‘At last we get the revelation that Marie is your wife, and you are obviously Peter Allard? Well, for me it’s all a bit late in the day . . . you’ve taken the piss, Peter. So, when we execute our search warrant at your home WPC Tennison will be telling your wife that you are a pervert, and that you attacked her and split her lip. Then there’s all the other defenceless women whose lives are in a mess because of what you did to them.’
Allard started to open and close his tight balled fists and tilted his head sideways to look towards Jane. He stared at her, his eyes shifting as if unable to recognize her as the woman he had assaulted.
‘You can deny everything at the Old Bailey if you want, but no jury in the world will believe you over us. If you’re found guilty you will go down for a long time, but for how long is in your hands. Admitting all the indecent assault offences will be a plus for you in the judge’s eyes, and I’ll even put in a good word about how you helped us before he sentences you.’
‘I keep telling you, I’ve got nothing to admit to—’ Moran pushed the picture of Marie and the children
closer to Allard.
‘Take a good look at your children, because you won’t be seeing them for a long time . . . probably not even after you’re eventually released. Not once your wife sees you for the pervert that you really are. But, if you admit all your crimes I may not have to tell her every sickening detail about what you did. I might even let her visit you in the cells . . .’
There was a long pause. Moran glanced towards Jane who was making copious notes. He picked up the photograph and tapped the desk with the edge of it, waiting. Eventually Allard sighed and slowly looked up.
‘This is the God’s honest truth. I used my dad’s first name cos he’d passed away and had never been in any trouble. The ABH on the woman in the pub was years ago, and I only pushed her but she fell and cut her head on a table. Marie doesn’t know about it, and I didn’t want her to be hurt by the police lies about the ABH, like my parents were. I never did anything wrong . . . I’ve been stitched up, and you can’t make me admit to something that I haven’t done.’
‘Tell me what a cab driver was doing up a tree in
London Fields in the middle of the night?’
Allard pointed to Jane. ‘She made that up . . . you even said yourself that she didn’t see me. I felt ill, so I parked my cab and went for a walk. She approached me and asked if I wanted sex. She started screaming and then you lot turned up and kicked the shit out of me, for nothing.’
‘Fine, you keep on lying . . . but your clothing and the stocking mask have gone to forensics and will be checked to see if any of the fibres on them match those recovered from the clothing of the other indecent assault victims . . . and the young girl who was raped.’
‘I want to make a phone call, I want to speak with a solicitor!’ Allard’s voice was raw and edgy.
Annoyed that Allard wouldn’t break, Moran ordered him to be taken back down to the cells. Two uniform officers came to escort him, and as he walked out he turned and stared at Jane.
‘Why are you doing this to me? Why are you lying?’ Allard had a pitiful expression on his face, as his dark eyes held hers for a moment, then he turned away as he was escorted out of Moran’s office. Jane asked if she really was going to be the one to tell Allard’s wife what happened. Moran sighed and said that if Allard had confessed she would have been, but as he hadn’t been broken yet, Moran would tell Allard’s wife and when she had a meltdown Jane could talk to her while they searched the house. He also remarked that he wouldn’t be surprised if the wife had been knocked about and, as so often happens in domestic violence cases, she was probably too scared to report it and was in self-denial.
Jane wondered why, during the interview, Moran never asked Allard any direct questions about the rape of the teenage girl. She approached the question from a more discreet angle.
‘If you’ll be questioning Allard in more detail about the rape, sir, could I sit in again?’
‘We’ll see. I was hoping he’d confess to the indecent assaults, then I could use the similar facts in each case to press him further about the rape, and maybe even charge him with it. Though it would be a bit of a wing and a prayer if it got to trial.’
Moran instructed Jane to type up the report of the interview, after which she was to accompany him and Edwards on the search of Allard’s home.
