corridor. The fact that they had not recognized her gave Jane a boost.
While storing her coat in her locker Jane had another moment of déjà vu. It was over something completely unconnected, but after being confident about controlling her emotions, this came on so strongly she had to brace herself. Jane had forgotten to spray on any perfume, and she had a visualization of Kath and her heavy French scent, which all the men used to tease her about. Kath had once sprayed Jane with it to get rid of the smell of Dettol from the first post-mortem she had attended.
Her recollection was suddenly interrupted by a loud knock on the locker room door, and DI Moran’s voice.
‘Two rather stunned uniform lads just said they’d seen you in the corridor . . . all right if I come in and have a look?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jane said, brushing herself down and shaking her head so the wig would look better.
‘My God, you look the part . . . especially the sequined boob tube, which is very revealing,’ he said, his eyes transfixed on her, adding, ‘This is for you.’ He tossed her a pale blue waist length rabbit fur coat.
‘It’ll be pretty cold out there so you’ll need something to keep you warm that goes with the rest of the gear. It’s evidence in a handling case, but for now it’s yours.’ Jane gratefully put on the cheap rabbit fur jacket, which reeked of patchouli oil.
‘I’ll just check my makeup and then I’ll be up for the briefing, sir.’
‘Your makeup’s fine. I’d like to get out on the plot, so I’ll brief you in the obo van. Get the duty sergeant to book you out with us . . . the obo van is in the yard.’ Jane clipped on the earrings and went to the front office where Sergeant Rodgers was sitting at the duty desk. She liked Sergeant Rodgers. Unlike Harris he had a sense of humour and didn’t bark out orders. He nearly fell off his seat when he saw Jane, but she was quick to identify herself to him and reassure him that she was not
a trespasser in the station.
‘Bloody hell, you look lovely, Tennison. Harris said you were getting dressed up for a UC job, but I never imagined you looking anything like this.’
Jane smiled, but realized he wasn’t joking as he stared at her in admiration.
‘Fancy me, do you, Sarge?’
‘I dunno how you done it . . . you look like a movie star. Pity I got a wife, three kids and a cross-breed Alsatian at home. Listen, good luck tonight, be careful and don’t go sticking your neck out. You’ll have plenty of backup out there, so use it.’
‘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
