down and explain that she was only there for a quick visit as she fibbed that there was a patrol car waiting, and she just wanted to give her mum a hug and a kiss. Mr Tennison was out playing bowls, which was fortunate, as it meant that Jane could see her mother, get what she needed and leave. Her bedroom was always just as she had left it, and it made her feel quite emotional. Everything was neat and orderly, although that soon changed as Jane rummaged through her wardrobe and overhead cupboards.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, dear, and maybe I can help you find it?’
‘It was just a costume I had years ago, when we did a school play . . . and some things I had for a Halloween party,’ Jane said, standing on a stool and rifling through an assortment of her clothes in the cupboard.
‘They might be in Pam’s old bedroom . . . I put lots of things in there for the Salvation Army. There’s some of her clothes she doesn’t want in there as well. Daddy and I were going to drop them off but haven’t got round to it yet. Do you want me to look for anything special? Is it for a party?’
‘Yes, it’s for one of the officers that’s leaving . . . but don’t worry, Mum, I’ll go and have a look.’
Jane stepped down from the stool. There was no way she was going to tell her mother exactly why she needed to find the costumes.
Jane could not believe how many plastic bags were stacked in Pam’s old bedroom. Mrs Tennison started opening one after another.
‘Is it fancy dress, dear? Here’s that pair of thigh length boots Pam wore as Dick Whittington . . . they cost a lot of money because she bought them from Biba . . . they’re not real patent leather, and fit up over the knee.’
Jane and her mother sorted through old clothes, most of which were Pam’s and were things she wouldn’t be seen dead in now that she was a qualified hairdresser and ran the local salon. Jane selected the clothes she wanted and put them into an empty plastic bag. She hugged her mother and left her refolding and packing up the discarded items. Mrs Tennison wanted her to stay for an early dinner but Jane was eager to get back to the section house and try everything on.
‘I have to go, Mum, but thanks for all your help.’
‘Well, I hope it’s a fun party, dear . . . Daddy and I will get all these other things to the Salvation Army . . . not that I think any of their people would want to wear some of Pam’s clothes. She used to worry me so much . . . all those flared trousers and skimpy tops.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
Jane stuffed the wig and makeup into the same bag as the clothes and left her mother still packing everything else away.
By the time she returned to the section house it was almost 6 p.m. On her bed she laid out a miniskirt, a sequined stretch boob tube, a maroon padded bra, a pair of fishnet tights and the awful fake patent leather boots. She had also taken a frilly blouse, some blue plastic hooped earrings and an array of bangles and beads. Jane brushed the dark auburn wig to get some of the tangles out, then pinned back her own hair and pulled the wig on. It hung down to her shoulders and, looking at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t believe how different it made her appear. She put on the frilly blouse and then discarded it for a red boob tube, pulling it down to put on the padded bra and eventually showing a lot of cleavage. She smiled, thinking how her mother would have had a heart attack if she could see what she looked like.
After Jane had pulled on the fishnet tights and zipped up the leather miniskirt, she had to stand on a chair to see herself in the sink mirror. She decided against the miniskirt and tried on a pair of dark green velvet hot pants instead. Climbing back onto the chair to check the outfit, she had a déjà vu moment. When she had first started her probation at Hackney, there had been the wretchedly sad investigation into the murder of a young prostitute called Julie Ann Collins. It was strange for Jane to recall how she had reacted when she had first seen the Polaroid crime scene photographs of the murdered girl. The seventeen-year-old Julie Ann, a heroin addict, had been wearing boots and hot pants when her body had been discovered.
The memory triggered a sudden wave of sadness as images of Kath and DCI Bradfield sprung back into her mind. Jane had to clench her hands into fists to fight back unexpected tears. She didn’t want to remember them, not now, not when she was about to begin undercover work. It could jeopardise her chances of gaining a much longed-for place in the CID. She became angry with herself for being emotional, and as she had done so often before, she refused to let herself cry. It felt as if someone was squeezing her heart and she had to force herself to take slow, deep breaths until the pressure subsided. She had told no one about these ‘attacks’, which were now less frequent, and she was certain she was capable of controlling them.
Jane stepped down from the chair and took out all of Pam’s makeup, spreading it out on her small writing desk: the pale pink lipstick, the rouge and pots of eye shadows, and sticks of pan makeup. Pam had been quite a rebellious teenager, and Jane couldn’t help smiling at how different they were. Perhaps it was just as well that Pam had started work in the salon straight from school and had met her husband and married so young, or she might have ended up going off the rails. Sisters they may be, but they had very little in common. Since Pam had got married and Jane had moved into the section house, they rarely saw each other.
It took Jane several attempts, using a small magnifying mirror, to stick on the false eyelashes. She had never worn them before, and found the tiny tube of glue very fiddly. She used one of the darker sticks of pan to cover her face and work into her neck as Pam had shown her. There was no makeup brush, so she had to apply the rouge with a tissue. Jane chose a blue eye shadow and then wet the mascara from the tap at her washbasin and applied two thick coats, being careful not to unstick the eyelashes. She spent a long time checking her reflection and then lastly put on the pale pink lipstick.
It was nearly 7 p.m. and Jane realized she’d better get a move on as she didn’t want to be late for the briefing in the CID office. She began to feel almost satisfied with her appearance until she realized that it was going to be quite cold as she would be out late, so she tied the blouse she had discarded in a knot around her waist. She realized it wouldn’t be warm enough but she reckoned the adrenalin rush of working undercover would keep her from feeling the cold. Finally, she clipped on the big hoop earrings and pulled the cheap bracelets onto her wrists. She rather hesitantly looked at her police issue shoulder bag, but knowing she wouldn’t be using it, she picked up the plastic makeup bag that belonged to Pam and popped her warrant card inside. It had a floral print and a zip and she could use it as her purse.
Jane practised walking up and down the length of her small room. The boots made it difficult as the plastic kept rubbing her knees, and she had to constantly pull up the flap at the top. They were platform and had a stacked wedge heel, making it very hard to walk properly and mimic a confident ‘hooker’s stride’, swinging her hips and turning her head as if looking for punters.
Jane continued to increase her confidence by practising her new role on the bus journey from the section house back to the station. To begin with, she was very nervous and self-conscious, wondering if anyone would recognize her or try to approach her. In recent months she had arrested several Toms for soliciting and she remembered how they gave a ‘cold shoulder’ steely eyed look when questioned. For her journey to work Jane had taken off the earrings and bracelets and was wearing her black raincoat over her disguise. She went into the station via the back entrance in case anyone saw her walking in by the front counter. As she walked along the corridor to the locker room two uniform officers stopped to question her.
‘Oi, what d’you think you’re doin’ on police premises, luv?’
‘The same as you, luv . . . it’s me, WPC Tennison . . . want to see
