office. She left the report on his desk and went down to the collator’s office to talk to PC Donaldson about the residents of the Kingsmead and Pembridge estates.
‘Bloody hell, are you telling me he wants you to check out every address and person on the estate? You do realize that on the Kingsmead alone there are nearly a thousand flats and over four thousand residents? I’m happy for you to look through my criminal index cards, but like I said before, you can only do it in here. If you want microfiche copies of any files then write the name and criminal-record number in my book here and I’ll order them from the Yard.’
‘Can I take the voters’ register with me, please?’
‘Go on then. I’ve got a spare one in my desk drawer so you can keep that one for now. If you get any suspect names run them by me and I’ll see if I can find out any more about them from my various sources.’
‘Do you know anything about Jaguar cars?’
‘Not really, way above my wages. I’m a Ford Cortina man myself. Why?’
‘DCI Bradfield said the victim of his murder investigation was last seen getting into a Jaguar and I don’t know much about cars myself.’
‘You could try the black rats.’
‘Who?’
‘Traffic police. A black rat is an animal that will eat its own family, which equates to a traffic officer having no compassion for uniform patrol and CID officers when it comes to drink driving or other vehicle offences. There isn’t much they don’t know about different makes of cars. Try the unit at Bow.’
On her way to the incident room Jane knocked on DCI Bradfield’s door to see if he had read her report on the post-mortem, and to ask if she should now index and file it. The door was opened by a huge man in his early fifties with a ruddy, stern-looking face. He was at least eighteen stone and wore a blue pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, tie and black brogues.
‘Sorry, I was looking for DCI Bradfield,’ she said, wondering who he was.
‘So was I, young lady, and as the Divisional Detective Chief Superintendent I expect to be addressed as “sir” or “Mr Metcalf”.’
Jane stood to attention. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—’
‘Do you know where DCI Bradfield is?’
‘He said he had a meeting with you in the uniform Chief Superintendent’s office, sir.’
‘Ah, I thought it was in his office. Do you need to see him urgently or can I pass a message on?’
‘No, sir, I just wanted to ask if I should file the report I typed up for him on the post-mortem of Julie Ann Collins.’ The DCS held up Jane’s report. ‘I’ve just been reading it. DCI Bradfield’s report is very detailed, to the point and interesting. Poor thing was pregnant and used as a punchbag, I see. Anyway I’d best get on – this report can be
indexed and filed.’ He handed it to Jane.
She knew it would be a bad move to say she had actually compiled as well as typed it, but didn’t want to upset Bradfield or get him into trouble.
Jane had hoped to find Sally in the incident room, but there was no one about. She looked around. There was a piece of paper with ‘Indexer’ written on it stuck to the side of a desk and on top of it was the carousel index-card holder. Also on the desk were two trays. The one marked
‘IN’ was overflowing with paper while the ‘OUT’ one was empty.
Just as Jane was wondering where to start, there was a howl as Sally ran in crying.
‘Are you OK?’ Jane asked.
‘Honestly, it’s like working with a bunch of school kids! I mean what childish idiot thinks it’s funny to do that?’ Sally said, exasperated.
Jane was confused. ‘Do what?’
‘Somebody’s put cling film under the toilet seat. I sat down to pee and the next thing I know it’s bouncing back at me and soaking my knickers and skirt. It’s so stupid! I just thank God I wasn’t throwing up.’
Jane and the other women officers, alongside the female clerical staff at the station, were sick to death of the male officers’ childish behaviour. It was only because they couldn’t be bothered to walk down to the basement where the men’s toilets were situated. Kath had complained on more than one occasion to Sergeant Harris, not only about the fact that the seats were constantly being left up, but also about the fact that there was always urine all over the floor because of the male officers’ inability to aim properly. In retaliation, there had been another ‘prank’ incident where the black-plastic toilet seat had been smeared with fingerprint ink and it had taken days to wear off the backside of the poor WPC who had sat on it.
Jane calmed Sally down and the indexer looked relieved when told that DCI Bradfield wanted Jane to be a temporary stand-in for her.
‘Thank God, because I have a mountain of stuff I should have got done but it’s been so difficult – I just feel sick all the time. They should have got someone to help me out weeks ago. I warned Bradfield, and he’s the worst of the bunch when it comes to indexing as he stuffs everything into a file, and it’s all jumbled up and in no kind of order.’
Sally began explaining the indexing system and gave Jane a crash course on what to do.
‘The first forty-eight hours of a murder inquiry are always the most hectic, but after a few days if they haven’t charged anyone it slows down and you get a chance to catch up.’
‘It’s very quiet in here – are all the detectives out on enquiries?’ Jane said, looking around.
‘Mostly yes, but the local ones tend to use their own desks in the main CID office to write their reports. They only come in here to hand them in, or if they want you to do something for them. The briefings and meetings are all held in here, though.’
Sally went on to explain that if DCI Bradfield or DS Gibbs wanted tea or coffee she was expected to make it for them because they were senior officers, but if a detective constable asked she should tell them to get their own.
‘Believe you me, they’ll all try it on when you’re new, but don’t let them get away with it. Really you should have another indexer working with you. I’ve been complaining for months, but nothing has been done to help ease the load. Bradfield said he would ask the DCS for extra staff and another indexer, but when it comes to more female officers they frown and think one is more than enough.’
Jane was trying hard to take on board everything she had been told, and could hardly believe it when Sally started to put her coat on.
‘Are you leaving now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be coming back tomorrow?’
‘No, love, I am officially on maternity leave and I want to go and lie down at home. They knew I was leaving today and I am not staying here another minute, especially after that bloody stupid thing in the toilets.’ She started removing her personal items from drawers, picked up a small pot plant with bedraggled leaves and put everything into a
