‘Thanks, Sarge. Can you book me out with the CID, please?’
Rodgers nodded and watched as Jane sashayed off down the corridor before booking her out in the station duty book. He noted that WPC 517 Tennison had left the station at 7.45 p.m. to work with CID on an attachment. Closing the duty book he tapped it with his hand and sighed. He knew how young Tennison was, and doubted that she had any concept of what she might have to face. Looking like a tough street-wise Tom could get her into a nasty situation.
Jane felt nervous in the obo van as they made their way over to London Fields. DI Moran gave her a small concealed radio, which he placed in the pocket of the blue rabbit fur coat. He had already made a small hole in the pocket for the earpiece and a small hand-held mic. He ran the wire for the speaker down the inside of the left sleeve of the jacket and the earpiece to the middle of her neck, up into the wig and into her left ear. Moran explained that it worked the same as a normal police radio and all she had to do was hold the mic in her left hand and press the small transmitter button whenever she wanted to communicate with him.
‘Here, take this just in case you need to use it,’ he said, as he produced a truncheon from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. ‘Self-preservation always comes first so you hit ’em where it hurts most, as hard as you can if anything happens. OK?’
Jane nodded as she held the truncheon in her hand.
‘Where am I going to put it? It’s too big for my coat pocket and I don’t fancy trying to squeeze it down the back of this boob tube or these hot pants.’
Moran laughed and pulled a rubber band out of his pocket. ‘Up your right sleeve, and use the band to hold it in place.’ He helped her with the truncheon and instructed her to make a radio test call to him once she was dropped off.
‘You still up for this?’ he asked, in a serious tone.
‘Yes, sir. If I’m honest, I’m just a bit nervous.’
‘That’s to be expected . . . but I’ve got plain clothes backup cars nearby, covering both sides of the Fields. The uniform officers are aware of what’s going on should we need them as well. DC Ashton is driving the obo van and we will be the nearest to you at all times. I’ll be running the show . . . my call sign will be Gold, yours is Silver and the rest of the troops, should we need them, will be Bronze.’
Jane gave a small nod of recognition to Ashton, a pale freckle-faced twenty-eight-year-old who had recently married. Like many of the CID officers, he had also been on Bradfield’s team.
Moran smiled at Jane reassuringly. ‘Not many Toms are working the patch after what’s been happening, but with less foot traffic we can tail you more easily.’
Arriving at London Fields’ west side entrance Moran told Jane to follow the path past the outdoor Lido and hang around there for a while, ‘as if touting for business’. They would park up in a suitable vantage point to watch her, and after ten to fifteen minutes she was to follow the central path through the park to the south entrance at Lansdowne Drive, then turn back on herself and walk through the park to the north entrance at Richmond Road. Moran said that if nothing had happened within the next hour or so she could jump back in the obo van to have a hot coffee, before repeating the route through the Fields.
From the front of the obo van DC Ashton called out that it was all clear. Moran checked the rear, then opened the back door to let Jane out, telling her that rather than looking for punters she should let them come to her.
The cold outside air mixed with Jane’s nerves and she felt a shudder down her spine as she started to walk towards the Lido. She raised her left hand to her mouth and pressed the transmitter button on the mic.
‘Gold to Silver receiving, over,’ she said, without at first realizing her nervous error.
‘You’re Silver, and yes, Gold is receiving . . . Over.’ Jane could have kicked herself and responded, ‘Silver
received.’
Moran was joined in the obo van by the young and relatively inexperienced Detective Constable Brian Edwards. Edwards was a rawboned six-footer with thick dark curly hair, and usually looked as if he had just fallen out of bed. Tonight, however, both men were dressed in dark polo-neck sweaters and black trousers. Moran wore a black leather jacket and Edwards a black bomber jacket. It was too dark to use the spy holes and they had a better view looking out of the rear window, which had a reflective foil-like sheet on it so no one could see in.
London Fields was virtually desolate. There was hardly anyone about and nobody who could be described as acting in a suspicious manner. Jane kept on walking. By now she was feeling very tired and cold when over the radio came Moran’s voice.
‘Gold to Silver, white male, late sixties coming towards you, approach with caution.’
Jane tensed as he moved closer, she took a deep breath, and felt the adrenalin rush of nerves. She could smell the alcohol as the man weaved and tottered towards her.
‘Which way to the Cat and Mutton, my darling one?’
he slurred.
In the obo van Moran became alert and told Edwards to stand by.
‘I’m sorry, mate, I dunno,’ Jane said in a dreadful attempt at a cockney accent as she passed him.
‘False alarm,’ Moran muttered. ‘He’s pissed out of his head. I’m beginning to think this is a waste of everyone’s time.’
He opened a can of beer and lit a cigarette while Edwards had a cup of coffee from his flask and ate his sandwich.
It was now just after 10 p.m. and Jane made her way along the tarmac path, past the Lido yet again. She was struggling to walk in the thigh length boots that were by now really hurting her feet and had given her a blister on her right heel. But she had to keep up appearances, even though she was continually having to adjust her hot pants as they rode up her thighs. The cold night air penetrated through the frilly cheesecloth shirt that was tied tightly round her waist.
Jane couldn’t believe that she hadn’t even come across a ‘legitimate prostitute’ having sex up against a tree, or a park bench, as she had seen before when out on uniform patrol. But she realized that the fact that there were no prostitutes about was actually in her favour. It meant she avoided any angry confrontations with local Toms questioning what a new girl was doing on their patch. Jane knew that an uptight prostitute, or worse still a drunk prostitute, could be a real handful to deal with.
She carried on walking along the path, the pain from the blister getting worse, when she was suddenly aware of someone approaching quickly behind her. She gripped the radio mic in her hand, ready to press the talk button if she needed to. She could hear the sound of deep breathing and panting coming nearer. Jane’s heart was pounding as she turned her head slightly, to look over her left shoulder, and saw the figure of a man in a hooded black tracksuit within inches of her. She had a sudden urge to scream but controlled herself as he jogged on past her.
Jane felt an incredible sense of relief as she looked to her left along Martello Street, on the east side of London Fields. In the distance, she could see the obo van moving slowly with its lights out. She was really glad she hadn’t jumped the gun and radioed in for assistance, and taking a deep breath she walked on. The fact that neither Moran nor Edwards had radioed her about the jogger made her wonder how visible she was to them.
Jane’s heart was still beating faster than usual. As she passed under a large tree she was startled by some conkers falling from the branches of the chestnut tree above her. Relieved, Jane smiled, but then she heard a much heavier thud behind her. Before she could turn around a black leather-gloved hand was clamped over her mouth while the other hand grabbed her round the chest, pinning her left arm to her side. The sudden attack caused the mic in her left hand to fall