Linda La Plante
Murder Mile
For Cass Sutherland and The Chartered Society of Forensic Sciences
Glossary
A10 The Met’s internal monitoring division, similar to internal affairs in the US
CID Criminal Investigation Department
DC Detective Constable
DCI Detective Chief Inspector
DCS Detective Chief Superintendent
DI Detective Inspector
DS Detective Sargent
Flying Squad Division of the Met that investigates robberies and any crime involving a gun.
Old Bill Slang for ‘the police’
PC Police Constable
Plonk Derogatory slang for female police used by male police.
Section house Residential accommodation for unmarried police officers
SOCO Scenes of crime officer, i.e. part of the forensic team
SPG Special Patrol Group, a mobile squad of highly trained officers deployed to assist other divisions as needed.
The Met The Metropolitan Police
To be nicked Slang for ‘to be arrested’
To nick Slang for ‘to steal’
WDC Woman Detective Constable
WDS Woman Detective Sargent
WPC Woman Police Constable
Chapter One
Jane Tennison, recently promoted to sergeant, looked out of the passenger window of the CID car at the snow, which was falling too lightly to settle. It was 4:30 on a freezing Saturday morning in mid-February 1979 and recently the overnight temperatures had been sub-zero. The weather reports were calling it one of the coldest winters of the century.
Apart from a couple of minor incidents, Jane’s CID night shift at Peckham had been remarkably uneventful, due to the bad weather. She looked at her watch: only another hour and a half to go before she finished her week of night duty and could get home to a warm bath, good sleep and some time off. She’d be back at Peckham on Monday for the day shift.
Detective Constable Brian Edwards, an old colleague from her Hackney days, had been her night duty partner throughout the week. He was so tall he had the driving seat pressed as far back as it could possibly go, but his knees were still almost touching the steering wheel.
‘Can you turn the heating up?’ she asked, as they drove along East Dulwich Road.
‘It’s already on full.’ Edwards moved the slider to be sure, then glanced at Jane. ‘I meant to say earlier: I like your new hairstyle. Sort of makes you look more mature.’
‘Is that a polite way of saying I look older, Brian?’ Jane asked.
‘I was being complimentary! It goes with your smart clothes, makes you look more business like... Especially now you’ve been promoted.’
Jane was about to reply when Edwards suddenly slammed on the brake, bringing it to an abrupt halt. They both lunged forward, Edwards banging his chest against the steering wheel and Jane narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the windscreen.
‘What? What’s up?’ Jane asked, startled, staring at Edwards.
‘A rat... A bloody rat!’ He pointed at the middle of the road in front of them.
Illuminated by the car headlights was a massive rat, a piece of rotting meat between its sharp teeth. The rat suddenly darted off across the road and out of sight.
Edwards shook his head. ‘I hate rats. They give me the creeps.’
‘Well, that’s obvious! And yes, thank you, Brian, I’m OK — apart from nearly going through the windscreen.’
‘I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t mean to hit the brakes so suddenly.’
‘I’m just touched that you didn’t want to run the rat over, Brian,’ Jane said.
Edwards pointed over towards Peckham Rye Park to a pile of rubbish-filled black plastic bin and shopping bags. They were piled up five foot high and stretched over twenty feet along the side of the park. The stench of rotting rubbish slowly permeated its way into the stationary car.
‘It’s thanks to Prime Minister Callaghan and his waste-of-space Labour government that the bin men and other public-sector workers are on strike,’ grumbled Edwards. ‘Everyone’s dumping their rotting rubbish in the parks and it’s attracting the rats. No wonder they’re calling it the “Winter of Disconnect.”’
‘It’s “Discontent,”’ Jane corrected him.
‘You’re quite right — there’s not much to be happy about! Mind you, if Maggie Thatcher wins the next election we might get a pay rise. She likes the Old Bill.’
Jane was trying hard not to laugh. ‘It’s the “Winter of Discontent”! It comes from Shakespeare’s Richard III: “Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York...”’
Edwards looked skeptical. ‘Really?’
‘I studied Richard III for A level English.’
‘All that Shakespeare lingo is mumbo-jumbo to me. I left school at sixteen and joined the Metropolitan Police Cadets,’ Edwards said proudly.
‘I didn’t know you’d been a “Gadget,”’ said Jane, somewhat surprised. A ‘Gadget’ was affectionate force jargon for a cadet.
‘It was all blokes when I first joined the Gadgets,’ Edwards went on. ‘We lived in a big dormitory and got work experience on division alongside the regulars. It gave me a better understanding of police work than your average ex-civvy probationer who went to Hendon. No offence intended,’ he added hastily.
‘None taken. If I’d known what I wanted to do at sixteen I’d probably have joined the cadets — though my mother would likely have had a heart attack.’ Jane liked Edwards, but he wasn’t the brightest spark. He’d been transferred to various stations and hadn’t lasted long on the Flying Squad. In her estimation, he’d probably remain a Detective Constable for the rest of his career.
‘Tell you what: head back to the station so we can warm up with a hot drink and I’ll type up the night duty CID report,’ she said.
Edwards snorted. ‘That shouldn’t take long — we haven’t attended a crime scene or nicked anyone all night.’
Their banter was interrupted by a call over the radio. ‘Night duty CID receiving... over?’
Jane picked up the radio handset. ‘Yes, Detective Sergeant Tennison receiving. Go ahead... over.’
‘A fruit and veg man on his way to set up his market stall has found an unconscious woman in Bussey Alley. Couldn’t rouse her so he called 999. There’s an ambulance en route,’ the comms officer said.
‘That’s just off Rye Lane.’ Edwards made a sharp U-turn.
‘Yes, we’re free to attend and en route,’ Jane confirmed over the radio, switching on the car’s two-tone siren.
‘If she’s been out drinking she’s probably collapsed from hypothermia in this bloody weather. Or maybe she’s been mugged?’ suggested Edwards.
‘Let’s just hope she’s OK,’ Jane said.
Rye Lane ran between the High Street and Peckham Rye Park. In its heyday it had rivaled Oxford Street as a major shopping destination and was known as the ‘Golden Mile.’ It was still a busy area, with a large department store, co-op and various small shops and market traders selling home-produced and ethnic goods from their stalls. During the 1970s, Peckham had gradually become one of the most deprived areas in Europe, with a notorious reputation for serious and violent crime, especially muggings, which were a daily occurrence.
Jane and Edwards arrived at the scene within two minutes. A man who looked to be in his mid-fifties was standing under the railway bridge at the entrance to Bussey Alley, frantically waving his hands. He was dressed in a dark-colored thigh-length sheepskin coat, blue and white Millwall Football Club scarf and a peaked cap. Edwards pulled up beside him and opened the driver’s window.