Authors: Lynda La Plante
Clifford dumped the car a mile from home behind some garages. He set light to it, so as to ensure no trace of his fingerprints could be found. He was in a state of hysteria as he wandered the streets, gasping and trying to calm down, whilst wondering what to do. He had considered going on the run, but had no money, clothes or other means to survive and was too old and heavy now to break into houses. He thought about John and wished he was with him. He knew the police had rumbled them, but wondered if they already knew who was involved, or if they’d been watching the flat as well. Clifford made his mind up: he was going to go home and front it out. If the police started calling he’d say he was at a funeral wake with his wife, or shacked up with his mistress. He knew both of them would back him up for fear of a slap.
It was almost 6 a.m. and daylight when an exhausted Clifford returned to his flat on the Pembridge. He went straight to John’s room to see if he was there, but the reality was he knew he wouldn’t be. He went into the bathroom, undressed and splashed cold water over his face. The small jagged cuts were bleeding and he kept on splashing cold water over them before dabbing them with a white styptic pencil. The aluminium sulphate stung, but he knew it would cause the blood vessels to contract which would help to stop the bleeding.
He then went to his bedroom where Renee was asleep but lying fully clothed across the bed. The smell of alcohol coming from her permeated the room. He nudged her, but she just moaned, so he lifted her feet and repositioned her body to one side before getting into bed. As he lay next to her he stared at the ceiling and for the first time it entered his mind that John might still have been in the bank at the time of the explosion. His heart was pounding as he looked at Renee and wondered what on earth he was going to tell her and David.
Danny Mitcham had the spare key for the lock-up garage John Bentley had rented. When he got there he was shaking from the agonizing pain in his back. He thought maybe he had damaged some vertebrae when the blast from the explosion hit him. It wasn’t until he tried to remove his T-shirt, and it stuck to his back, that he realized he had been badly burned by the fireball, which had also singed the hair on the back of his head. He winced in agony as he eased off his T-shirt and his burnt skin peeled away. Looking over his shoulder Danny could see the bright red weeping blisters on his skin. He knew he needed the wound tended at a hospital, but he couldn’t risk going to one. He decided he would go out late at night and break into a chemist’s for what he needed to treat himself. He would also nick some clothes and food, then after a couple of days of lying low in the garage he’d make his way to Spain.
Danny looked inside the sports holdall and opened the pillowcases. In one there was a large amount of cash, which was all in fivers. In the others there was a little cash but mostly jewellery, items of gold and other valuables. He reckoned he’d done well for himself and smiled even more when he removed the large bags of heroin and cocaine from his trouser pockets. Now these really will make me rich, he thought to himself as he opened a bag of cocaine, put some on his fingers and sniffed it up his nose. He’d never taken any hard drugs, but needs must and he was glad when the cocaine kicked in, numbing the painful burns on his back.
Jane slept until after 9 a.m. The first decent sleep she’d had for weeks. She felt refreshed and no longer anxious about having been told by Bradfield to go home and take a few days off work. She helped her mother prepare the lunch and found doing the ordinary small things, like laying the table and putting out the wine glasses, made her glad she was at home. By the time Pam and her husband arrived it was almost twelve. Jane was truly pleased to see her sister and hear all about the honeymoon in the Lake District, laughing as she spoke about the dreadful weather and how the MGB car had broken down and had to be towed back to London. Jane could see that her sister was blissfully happy, and Tony hardly got a word in edgeways as Pam began detailing all the gifts they had received.
Mr Tennison was in the open-plan room watching television and reading the newspaper. Mrs Tennison put the leg of lamb on the dining table and asked her husband to carve the meat. He turned the sound down on the TV and joined them at the table. Whilst he cut some slices from the lamb joint his wife fussed around putting vegetables and roast potatoes on everyone’s plates and telling them to help themselves to gravy.
Jane complimented her mum on her cooking. When everyone had finished Jane and Pam helped to clear the table and washed the dirty plates and cutlery while their mother made the hot custard to go with the lovely apple turnover. Jane and Pam took the bowls of dessert to the table, then Jane fetched the jug of hot custard. Her father was uncorking another bottle of wine when he pointed at the silent TV.
‘My God, the IRA must have exploded another car bomb in the City,’ he exclaimed, then went over and turned up the volume to hear what the newscaster was saying:
As you can see from the carnage around me here in Great Eastern Street a large explosion occurred in the early hours of this morning. A number of people were injured during the blast, some we believe fatally. At present the police have not released any names or further details about the incident.
Jane was about to pour custard on her father’s dessert. She looked at the screen and saw the ambulances and police cars and a fire engine still dousing down what was left of the Trustee Savings Bank. The instantaneous shock, and the thought of possible fatalities, caused her to drop the jug of custard. It broke into pieces as it crashed against the dessert bowl, causing hot custard to splash onto the table, the floor and Jane’s T-shirt and jeans.
She gasped, staring back at the TV screen.
The reporter continued:
It is not yet clear what caused the massive explosion, and the IRA has not as yet claimed responsibility. There were no coded warnings sent to any news agencies as was the case with the car bombs in March this year outside the Old Bailey and the Army recruitment office in Whitehall, where one person was killed and two hundred and fifteen people injured.
Jane grabbed her father’s arm.
‘Daddy, please . . . I need your car keys . . . please! I have to go the station! Don’t try and stop me, just let me have your car keys.’
She wasn’t aware that she was screaming and pulling at his arm. ‘Gimme the keys, for Chrissake!’
Her father was taken aback by her outburst and went to the kitchen area where he got the car keys from a drawer. He didn’t try and stop her when she snatched them from his hand.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go . . . I am so sorry,’ she said as she hurriedly left the room.
They all heard the front door slam and Mrs Tennison looked confused and frightened as she turned to her husband.
‘She’s only just passed her driving test! Go after her and stop her!’
He went to follow but slipped on the spilt custard, knocking over a dining-table chair.
Jane hurried down the stairs and out of the flats. She ran down the path and turned to look up and down the small backstreet where her father usually parked his car. Seeing it midway down the road she ran towards it, fumbling for the right key to unlock the driver’s door. She got into the car and was gasping for breath as she started the engine. The gears crunched as she pulled out and drove to the end of the road, turning into Edgware Road and then straight through a set of red lights into Marylebone Road.
Jane realized she’d forgotten her handbag and therefore didn’t have her warrant card with her to prove she was a police officer if she was stopped for dangerous driving. She forced herself to slow down and drive more carefully, and thankfully it being a bank holiday the roads were very quiet. She breathed heavily and told herself to try to remain calm. The news report about an IRA car bomb made no sense. It seemed to her that something had gone terribly wrong with Operation Hawk.
As she drove past the front of the station Jane saw reporters and television news crews being held back by uniformed officers. A senior civilian from the Met’s press bureau was standing on the top steps of the station trying to address the throng who were firing questions at him from all angles. Jane drove round to the rear of the station only to discover it was the same, with a line of uniform officers keeping the press back and refusing entry without police identification.
A PC she didn’t recognize raised his arm to stop Jane, so she pulled up and wound down the window to speak to him.
‘I am WPC Jane Tennison, please . . . I work here.’
‘I need to see your warrant card, otherwise I can’t let—’
‘I saw the news and in the rush to get here I forgot my ID. The officer over there knows me, ask him.’
The PC spoke with the officer and she was let into the station yard. Manoeuvring the car into a parking bay she was distracted when she saw Detective Chief Superintendent Metcalf by the back door talking to two officers. They looked pale and drained.
She winced as she scraped the side of her father’s car along one of the metal pole dividers for the motorbike parking area. She didn’t even bother to look at the damage as she ran towards the entrance.
Inside the station it was mayhem. Every phone was ringing and a large number of officers, who had clearly been drafted in from other stations to assist, were wandering the corridor asking where the parade room was.
Jane saw an agitated Sergeant Harris appear waving his hands and shouting for people to get out of the front desk area and keep the corridors clear. He raised his voice even higher.
‘The parade room is on the left of the rear yard as you exit the building. DCS Metcalf will be addressing you all there in ten minutes’ time and will give further instructions.’
Jane tugged his shirtsleeve. ‘Sarge, what’s happened?’
‘Not now, Tennison. If you wanna help then assist the officer on the front desk while I get this lot to the parade room. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.’
Jane pushed and shoved her way through the throng towards the front desk, but there were still a lot of uniform officers milling around, and the front doors to the station were closed. At the top of her voice she yelled out the directions to the parade room and gradually the front desk area cleared. She could hear the frustrated reporters and news teams outside shouting out questions and saw a PC she knew on the duty-desk phone. When he’d finished she asked what was going on, but he said he didn’t really know as he’d come on for late shift and had been told by Harris to man the front desk.
Jane decided to go to the incident room hoping she might get some proper answers. As she ran up the stairs she saw Sally, the pregnant civilian indexer she had replaced on the Julie Ann Collins case. Sally was leaning against the wall in floods of tears and Jane knew that worry for the safety of her friends and colleagues must have brought her to the station.
‘Can you tell me what’s happened, Sally?’
‘It’s Kath, no one’s seen Kath . . . Oh my God . . . ’
‘Is Kath hurt?’ Jane asked anxiously.
‘Dead . . . some of them are dead,’ Sally wailed.
‘What? Who exactly is dead?’
‘I don’t know, no one will say and some are in hospital.’
Sally looked faint as she slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Confused, Jane tried to help up the inconsolable woman, but she just wanted to stay where she was and be left alone. Jane still had no idea of exactly what had happened. She knew that if anyone had died in the explosion they would have been taken to Hackney Mortuary. Asking a passing PC to look after Sally, she ran as fast as she could out through the back of the station and across the churchyard towards the mortuary.
Pushing open the door to the reception area Jane saw some of the surveillance officers and detectives from Operation Hawk standing looking at each other, lost for words. She knew that something terrible had happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask exactly what. She dreaded having her own worst fears confirmed.
A mortuary assistant in his green gown and white wellington boots opened the door from the corridor to say that the undertaker’s van was on its way from the scene of the explosion. They would be bringing in body bags via the back entrance and he needed some assistance. Jane felt helpless as she and the others followed the head mortician down the corridor to the van bay, where he pulled open the double-door metal shutters to let the first black van reverse in.
Jane was surprised, yet in some ways relieved, to see Sarah Redhead get out of the passenger side of the van as the mortician opened the rear to remove the body bags onto a trolley.
‘Thank God, Sarah. Can you tell me if a WPC Kathleen Morgan is here or at the hospital as . . . ? ’
Sarah, normally so loud-spoken, took Jane by her arm and whispered, ‘I haven’t a clue who’s in the bags. We got called to go to the bank to control the cordons and keep the press and public out. When they got the bodies out we were told to accompany them here and then go off duty. I’ve been on for sixteen hours now.’
‘Has nobody said anything about who has died?’
‘I’m a uniform WPC like you, Jane. I don’t ask, I just do. Unless you’re on duty you really shouldn’t be in here. All I can tell you is the scene at the bank was horrendous. Glass, metal and bricks were all over the streets.’
They had to stand back as another undertaker’s van reversed in. At the same time the head mortician told a couple of officers to take the first body through to the fridge area for storage.
The undertaker driving the latest arrival got out and spoke with the mortician.
‘Bit of a jigsaw in this bag – it’s full of bits and pieces the forensic guys found in the vault. God only knows which bits are the police and which bits the bad guys.’
Jane felt as if she had been punched in her heart by what she’d just heard.
‘Body parts?’ she repeated breathlessly.