Hidden Killers. Lynda La plante

hesitated, then turned with a cynical smile towards the suspect.

      ‘. . . Which was good thinking as this pervert not only assaulted her but he was carrying a knife.’

      Harris glanced towards Jane. ‘I take it that, being in fear of your life, you used the truncheon within the law to protect yourself?’

      Jane realized he was asking a leading question and hastily agreed that was the case.

      ‘Yes, Sergeant, and then—’

      Harris interrupted, leading her again. ‘You would have aimed for his shoulder, as per the Police Instruction Book, but this was literally a matter of life and death so you realized you had to incapacitate the suspect and hit him on the head as hard as you could, being a female.’

      Jane smiled. ‘Yes, Sergeant, that’s exactly what happened. And before I hit him on the head I kicked him in the groin and—’

      Harris cut her off. ‘As is standard procedure, I need to inspect the truncheon that was used.’

      Moran had picked up the truncheon and now pulled it out from his inside jacket pocket. He was about to hand it over but Harris just glanced at it.

      ‘Looks fine to me . . . no blood on it. I take it the rib and facial injuries to the prisoner occurred when he slipped and fell trying to escape, correct?’

      Moran and Edwards spoke in unison.

      ‘That’s correct.’

      The prisoner, now extremely agitated, tried to interrupt, but Harris pointed a finger at him, making it clear he had better keep his mouth shut. He then asked the prisoner for his name, date of birth and address. The prisoner replied that he was John Allard, born 20^th February 1941, living at 33 Hall Road, East Ham.

      Harris was still recording the prisoner’s property on the arrest sheet as DI Moran checked his height against the measuring stick. He told the prisoner to remove his clothing, which he bagged up for forensics, and gave him a prisoner issue boiler suit to wear. As the prisoner undressed, both Harris and Moran noticed how athletic and muscular he was.

      ‘Do a bit of weight training, do you?’ Harris asked, and the prisoner replied that he liked to keep fit and work out.

      Moran cynically replied, ‘Yeah, but obviously not enough to escape from a female police officer! I think you’re lying because you’ve been nicked before and are probably wanted. I’ll call you Allard for now, but we’ll take your fingerprints so we can get them up to the Yard tonight to be checked against criminal records, then no doubt we’ll find out who you really are.’

      ‘Allard’ became increasingly sullen and demanded to speak to a solicitor. Harris refused him a phone call unless he gave his real details, but he insisted he had, so Harris denied the call on the grounds that it might interfere with the course of the investigation.

      Harris stood up. ‘You three go and write up your arrest notes. I’ll take the pervert’s prints and we’ll also have a little chat as to why he shouldn’t hit police officers . . . especially female officers.’

      Harris grabbed the prisoner by the scruff of his neck and literally lifted him off his feet, hauled him towards the fingerprint room and slammed him up against the wall while he opened the door. As Allard cried out, Harris looked over his shoulder at Jane. ‘The results of the probationer’s final exams are in envelopes on the duty desk.’

      Jane hurried to the duty desk and, finding the envelope with her name on it, tucked it into her pocket and joined Moran and Edwards in the CID office.

      Moran handed her a CID pocket book and said that while she was on attachment any arrests, interview notes, etc., were to be recorded in it. Jane felt honoured to be given the book. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

      ‘You’re welcome. It would be best if you write the notes, then myself and Edwards can agree and countersign them from the point where we tackled the suspect. Edwards, help Jane, will you? I’ll write up the notes from our perspective in the obo van.’ He pointed to the kettle in the corner and asked Jane to make him a coffee, then left the room.

      As Jane wrote up the arrest notes Edwards said he’d make the coffee. She took the results envelope out of her pocket, placed it on the table and stared at it. When Edwards asked why she wasn’t opening it she replied that it wasn’t because she thought she had failed, it was more that she was worried about getting a good mark. She decided she would open it when she got back to the section house later.

      Edwards snatched the envelope from the table and Jane tried to grab it back, but he held it up high out of her reach. As soon as she backed off slightly he quickly opened the envelope, pulled out the paper inside and unfolded it.

      ‘Bloody hell! You passed with flying colours . . . ninety-four per cent! You little swot – you’ll be a sergeant before we know it!’

      Despite being annoyed by Edwards’s antics, Jane was thrilled with the result. ‘I’ve only just about completed my two years’ probation, so I don’t have enough service to sit the sergeant’s exam.’

      ‘Anyone with two years’ service can apply to sit the exam, but you’ll need the recommendation of a senior officer to do it.’

      ‘I’m not really interested in uniform promotion at the moment, though. First and foremost I’d like to become a detective.’

      ‘Well, your good work tonight will help, that’s for sure,’ Edwards replied, as Moran returned.

      ‘You two should be getting on with your notes, not yapping. When you’ve finished bring them to me in my office, Tennison, and I’ll check them.’

      With Edwards’s assistance it didn’t take Jane long to write up the notes on her arrest. Edwards pointed out that although Harris had ‘led’ her through why she used the truncheon it was best, in accordance with the Met instruction book, that she say she aimed for the suspect’s elbow, but he suddenly ducked and she unintentionally hit his head.

      ‘Also, don’t write anything about the kicks to his ribs or how he got the cut to his face, or the nosebleed. He fell while trying to escape, OK?’

      Jane felt a sudden chill. It was as if she was back sitting at home with DCI Bradfield when he had asked her to tell a similar lie after DS Gibbs had assaulted the black drug dealer, Terrence O’Duncie, during the Julie Ann Collins murder investigation.

      ‘You all right, Jane, you look a bit pale?’

      ‘Yes, fine. I know the score about the injuries . . . I’ve been down that road before. You know, I didn’t actually see a knife in the suspect’s hand?’

      ‘He told you he had one, so what’s the problem?’

      ‘Did you see DI Moran find that knife?’

      Edwards frowned.

      ‘No . . . but if he said he found it in the suspect’s pocket then that’s good enough for me. Hang on, are you suggesting he might have planted evidence?’

      Jane could tell he was upset by her insinuation. ‘No, not at all. If he did actually have a knife on him then I am even more worked up about what could have happened to me. I didn’t realize he was suspected of the rape as well . . . I thought it was just indecent assaults.’

      ‘There is no strong evidence. The victim had been out celebrating her seventeenth birthday and was attacked from behind on her way home. She didn’t see his face, but she did see a flick knife, and the suspect even said he had a knife and told her not to scream. DI Moran’s been dealing with it and he wanted to see how the prisoner would react when told he was a suspect . . . It certainly got him fired up, so you never know, Moran might be right.’

      ‘Why didn’t he mention that he suspected the same person to me before the operation?’

      ‘He told me not to mention it to you as he didn’t want to make you worried about being a decoy. In hindsight, after what happened tonight, maybe he should