hurtled down the streets and swore profusely at every red light. The rain was still pouring down, making it difficult for Jane to see the road signs and street names through the windscreen wipers. The car didn’t have ‘blues and twos’, just a tinny-sounding bell, which she had to keep pressing so they could get through the heavy traffic and red lights. Clinging on to the handle of her passenger door she found it hard to concentrate enough to locate their destination, and now it was dark she had to use her pocket torch to see the street map.
‘Are we on the right bloody road?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Yes, sir, left here into Winnington Road, then right, and the address is the next left . . . Oh sorry, it was first right you wanted.’
‘Jesus Christ, get it together.’ Jane took a deep breath and tried not to react to Bradfield’s brash manner.
‘Sorry, sir, it was the first right.’
Bradfield did a fast three-point turn and at last they found Church Mount. He slowed his pace as they approached number 48 and peered from the car window.
He jerked on the handbrake. ‘Looks very upmarket . . . if I’ve been given the wrong fucking address somebody’s head is going to roll.’
He got out of the car then leaned back in, clicking his fingers.
‘Envelope . . . back seat, grab it for me.’
Whilst reaching over to the back seat Jane felt the ladder in her tights split open even further. She got out and hurried to join the DCI as he walked up the path, lighting the way with her pocket torch. Bradfield coughed repeatedly and straightened his tie before taking a deep breath and ringing the doorbell. There was the sound of a dog barking from somewhere in the house. He waited briefly and then rang the bell again. Lights came on in the hall, and through one of the glass panels beside the front door a man peered out.
Bradfield already had his black warrant card in his hand and held it up. The door was unlocked and opened by a tall, hawk-nosed man, his thinning hair standing up on end.
‘Mr Collins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good evening. I’m DCI Leonard Bradfield and this is
WPC Tennison. Do you mind if we come in, sir?’
The door opened wider, revealing Mr Collins wearing pyjamas under a thick dressing gown, and slippers.
‘What is this about?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk, sir?’ George Collins closed the front door behind them, as a
pale-faced woman, also wearing nightclothes and with her hair in clips, came from the lounge.
‘What is it? Has another house been broken into?’
As they were led into the comfortable living room Jane kept tugging at the hem of her skirt. Mr Collins sat with his wife on the sofa and Bradfield sat on the armchair opposite. Jane remained standing to one side; she could see the Collinses looking very confused.
On a piano was a large photograph of a smiling, innocent-looking girl, aged about fifteen. She had glorious blonde wavy hair and wide blue eyes. With a jolt of recognition, Jane could see similarities to the murdered girl in the Polaroid pictures, although the photograph on the piano had obviously been taken before Julie Ann had become a drug addict.
After what seemed an eternal, uncomfortable silence, Bradfield cleared his throat. ‘Do you have a daughter called Julie Ann?’
After a slight pause, Mr Collins spoke. ‘Yes. Is she in trouble again?’
‘I am very sorry to have to tell you that a girl we believe to be your daughter has been found dead. She—’
‘No, no, you are wrong, it can’t be my Julie,’ wailed a distraught Mary Collins as she moved closer to her husband.
The usually brusque Bradfield now spoke softly, clearly and quietly.
‘The body of a young female was found earlier today at an adventure playground in Hackney. She was murdered and we need to have her formally identified as soon as possible.’
Jane watched as Mr Collins reached across to hold his wife’s hand, gripping it tightly.
‘But you can’t be sure it is Julie?’
‘Sadly I believe it is, sir. I don’t want to distress you by showing you photographs of her, but having seen the picture on your piano I am almost certain that the victim is your daughter.’
Mrs Collins began to cry uncontrollably and her husband put his arms round her. He gently kissed her head and stroked her hair. Bradfield said nothing for a minute or two as he let them share their grief. Eventually Mr Collins slowly released his wife, and stood up saying he would go and change. His body was taut and he clenched his hands beside him. He moved robotically to the double doors of their living room, and Bradfield rose quickly realizing what was going to happen. He was directly behind Mr Collins when his legs gave way, and he caught him in his arms.
‘It’s all right, sir, I’m here. I’ll help you up the stairs and
WPC Tennison will stay with Mrs Collins.’
The wretched man sobbed and clung to Bradfield as they left the room.
Jane was unsure what she should do, and found her eyes brimming with tears. She pulled some tissues out of her handbag and handed one to Mrs Collins, then dabbed her own eyes with another.
‘She hasn’t been home for over a year. We tried to help her but she kept running away, so it became pointless reporting it in the end. She broke George’s heart, you know, and we always knew the drugs might kill her, but for her to be murdered . . . it’s . . .’ Mrs Collins couldn’t finish her sentence as she broke down again.
Bradfield returned and leaned close to Mrs Collins, who sat with her hands pressed against her knees and was rocking back and forth.
‘Your husband needs you upstairs. If you wish, you can accompany us, or if you want to stay here I can call someone to be with you.’
Mary Collins looked up at Bradfield and again Jane could see the kindness and gentleness in his face and manner. He helped Mary Collins to her feet with his arm around her, and assisted her from the room.
Jane was wiping her eyes and blowing her nose when
Bradfield walked back in.
‘What are you crying for? You didn’t know her. This is all part of the job – you need to pull yourself together. He’s getting dressed, but she’s in the bathroom and I think she’s wet herself, so go and see what you can do.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Jane hurried from the room as he opened the envelope and took out the Polaroid crime scene pictures. Finding a close-up of the victim’s face he moved to the piano and held it against the silver-framed photograph. There was little doubt it was their daughter.
*
Mary Collins could not face attending the mortuary to identify the body, so Bradfield spoke with a female neighbour
