was nobody else using the communal bathroom. She washed her hair and, returning to her room, gently applied some antiseptic cream to the cut on her lip. She was totally exhausted. Looking at her shocking reflection she said to herself, ‘My God, I look as though I’ve just done two rounds in a boxing ring.’
She hesitated as she recalled Moran’s rough treatment of the prisoner, and the way he had controlled the whole situation, including her. He was so different from Bradfield, the only other DCI she’d worked with, who had been a gentle giant. Moran behaved like a street fighter and Jane was unsure if she was impressed by that or not.
It was 2 a.m. by the time she actually got into bed, and she’d have to get up in four hours. Lying curled on her side she found it hard to stop her brain churning over the events of the night.
She went over and over in her mind the sort of questions they might ask the suspect. She realized he would probably deny everything, but knew he would go down for a few years for the attack on her. Despite her bruised face and swollen lip, she had to admit that she had enjoyed the evening’s events. The rush of adrenalin made up for the fear of being attacked and she’d liked being part of the team. Now, more than ever, Jane was determined to join the CID.
Feeling nauseous from lack of sleep Jane went to the canteen and got a strong black coffee and a bacon sandwich, which she carried to the CID office. The office was empty, so she sat at DC Edwards’s desk and ate her breakfast.
‘That looks good.’ Glancing up, she saw a dapperlooking DI Moran coming out of his office.
‘Oh sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to be late on parade.’
‘You’re not . . . I’m early. And we don’t have parades in the CID, just nine to five and two to ten shifts, and a rotation of one DS and a DC on a week’s night shift. We’ve had some good news . . . Fingerprint Bureau got a match for the prisoner . . . he’s not John Allard, he’s Peter Allard, with one previous conviction for ABH in his late teens, in a pub fight. The address on his arrest sheet from back then is just up the road, in Stoke Newington. But his name isn’t shown on the current Voters’ Register.’
‘That’s good that you got him identified, sir. Maybe he’ll tell us where he lives now?’
‘I doubt it, there might be evidence at his address that he doesn’t want us to find. So that’s why I want you to visit the last known address for Peter Allard to see if the current owners knew anything about him, or where he moved to.’ Moran handed her a bit of paper with Allard’s details and his last known address.
‘Will that be before or after the interview, sir?’
‘Before. If we get something positive then we can use it to put him under pressure. In the meantime, I’ve got a meeting with DCS Metcalf about Allard’s arrest.’
Jane didn’t want to ask Moran if he was going to tell Metcalf that she had been the arresting officer. She hoped he would as it would help when it came to asking him about joining the CID.
Moran handed Jane the log book and keys for one of the CID cars. ‘I haven’t been given the five-week basic driving course yet, so I’m not authorized to drive police vehicles,’ she said.
‘OK, well, go and see if you can get a lift in a panda car, or go by bus.’
Jane hurriedly finished her coffee and went to the comms room to book out a radio and ask about getting a lift to Stoke Newington. There were only two panda cars on patrol, and they were both dealing with incidents, so she caught the bus to Stoke Newington High Street and walked the rest of the way to Kynaston Road, a quiet street lined with terraced houses built after the war. After repeatedly knocking on the door of number 23 and getting no answer, Jane felt it had been a wasted journey. She posted a note through the letterbox for the occupier, giving a phone number, and asking them to contact her at Hackney CID regarding a previous occupant of the premises. Before leaving she decided to see if any of the neighbours were in. An elderly lady answered the door of one of the small terraced houses and, after she had seen her warrant card, invited Jane in.
The narrow hall was lined with cat litter trays. The carpet looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed for years, and was thick with balls of cat fur. Mrs Walker introduced herself and asked Jane if she liked cats. There was little Jane could say. The pungent smell of moggies was overpowering in the hall, but in the living room it was almost suffocating. There were felines perched on every possible surface, even the piano keys.
Jane took out her notebook and perched perilously on the arm of a cat-clawed sofa. Mrs Walker was standing next to a small, tiled fireplace. On the mantelpiece was an array of cheaply framed photographs of cats.
‘Thank you for letting me in, Mrs Walker. I just have a few questions – nothing serious.’
‘That’s OK, dear, you ask away, and call me Eadie.’
‘Did you know the Allard family, Mrs Walker?’
‘Eadie . . . Yes, I knew them very well. There was John and Hilda and their children Peter and Cherrie. The daughter had something wrong with her. I used to babysit when they were nippers.’
‘Do the family still live there?’
‘No, they moved out at least twelve, or more, years ago. The parents divorced and sold up . . . I don’t know where they went, or where the children moved to.’
‘Mrs Wal . . . I mean Eadie, do you know what job Peter did?’
‘Oh, he was about eighteen when they left. He was very nice and bought me some flowers when he came to say goodbye. He was such a lovely handsome boy. I was so surprised when he got in a bit of bother for punching a lad in a pub, but his mum and dad said it was in self-defence. He used to do all kinds of different jobs, anything so he could pay his way really. I remember laughing when he was a nipper as I’d ask what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said that he wanted to be a cabbie, like his dad. He loved going out with his dad in the taxi. I think the divorce upset him . . . but that’s life for ya, innit?’
‘Thank you . . . you’ve been very helpful.’
‘That’s all right, love. You get to my age an’ yer glad of a bit of company. Is Peter in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, we just need to trace him about something. Thank you for your time.’
Jane left the house and, turning left at the end of the street, called into Stoke Newington Police Station, which was a ten-minute walk away, unaware that the back of her jacket and skirt were covered in cat hairs. She showed her warrant card to a PC at the front counter and asked if she could use a phone to make an urgent call regarding an investigation she was carrying out for DI Moran of Hackney CID. The officer showed her the way to the PCs’ writing room and said she could use the phone in there. Jane called the Public Carriage Office at Penton Street, Islington and asked if they had a licensed cab driver under the name of Peter Allard. The lady at the cab office replied that she was very busy, but would do her best to look in their card index within the next hour. Jane gave her the phone number of the comms room at Hackney and asked her to leave the details with them.
Jane then spoke to Hackney and explained that she was expecting an important call from the Public Carriage Office and asked if they could radio the result straight through to her when it came. Satisfied that she’d covered all bases, she thanked the PC
