Hidden Killers. Lynda La plante

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