Lynda Plante - Tennison

He then went to his bedroom where Renee was asleep but lying fully clothed across the bed. The smell of alcohol coming from her permeated the room. He nudged her, but she just moaned, so he lifted her feet and repositioned her body to one side before getting into bed. As he lay next to her he stared at the ceiling and for the first time it entered his mind that John might still have been in the bank at the time of the explosion. His heart was pounding as he looked at Renee and wondered what on earth he was going to tell her and David.

Danny Mitcham had the spare key for the lock-up garage John Bentley had rented. When he got there he was shaking from the agonizing pain in his back. He thought maybe he had damaged some vertebrae when the blast from the explosion hit him. It wasn’t until he tried to remove his T-shirt, and it stuck to his back, that he realized he had been badly burned by the fireball, which had also singed the hair on the back of his head. He winced in agony as he eased off his T-shirt and his burnt skin peeled away. Looking over his shoulder Danny could see the bright red weeping blisters on his skin. He knew he needed the wound tended at a hospital, but he couldn’t risk going to one. He decided he would go out late at night and break into a chemist’s for what he needed to treat himself. He would also nick some clothes and food, then after a couple of days of lying low in the garage he’d make his way to Spain.

Danny looked inside the sports holdall and opened the pillowcases. In one there was a large amount of cash, which was all in fivers. In the others there was a little cash but mostly jewellery, items of gold and other valuables. He reckoned he’d done well for himself and smiled even more when he removed the large bags of heroin and cocaine from his trouser pockets. Now these really will make me rich, he thought to himself as he opened a bag of cocaine, put some on his fingers and sniffed it up his nose. He’d never taken any hard drugs, but needs must and he was glad when the cocaine kicked in, numbing the painful burns on his back.

Jane slept until after 9 a.m. The first decent sleep she’d had for weeks. She felt refreshed and no longer anxious about having been told by Bradfield to go home and take a few days off work. She helped her mother prepare the lunch and found doing the ordinary small things, like laying the table and putting out the wine glasses, made her glad she was at home. By the time Pam and her husband arrived it was almost twelve. Jane was truly pleased to see her sister and hear all about the honeymoon in the Lake District, laughing as she spoke about the dreadful weather and how the MGB car had broken down and had to be towed back to London. Jane could see that her sister was blissfully happy, and Tony hardly got a word in edgeways as Pam began detailing all the gifts they had received.

Mr Tennison was in the open-plan room watching television and reading the newspaper. Mrs Tennison put the leg of lamb on the dining table and asked her husband to carve the meat. He turned the sound down on the TV and joined them at the table. Whilst he cut some slices from the lamb joint his wife fussed around putting vegetables and roast potatoes on everyone’s plates and telling them to help themselves to gravy.

Jane complimented her mum on her cooking. When everyone had finished Jane and Pam helped to clear the table and washed the dirty plates and cutlery while their mother made the hot custard to go with the lovely apple turnover. Jane and Pam took the bowls of dessert to the table, then Jane fetched the jug of hot custard. Her father was uncorking another bottle of wine when he pointed at the silent TV.

‘My God, the IRA must have exploded another car bomb in the City,’ he exclaimed, then went over and turned up the volume to hear what the newscaster was saying:

As you can see from the carnage around me here in Great Eastern Street a large explosion occurred in the early hours of this morning. A number of people were injured during the blast, some we believe fatally. At present the police have not released any names or further details about the incident.

Jane was about to pour custard on her father’s dessert. She looked at the screen and saw the ambulances and police cars and a fire engine still dousing down what was left of the Trustee Savings Bank. The instantaneous shock, and the thought of possible fatalities, caused her to drop the jug of custard. It broke into pieces as it crashed against the dessert bowl, causing hot custard to splash onto the table, the floor and Jane’s T-shirt and jeans.

She gasped, staring back at the TV screen.

The reporter continued:

It is not yet clear what caused the massive explosion, and the IRA has not as yet claimed responsibility. There were no coded warnings sent to any news agencies as was the case with the car bombs in March this year outside the Old Bailey and the Army recruitment office in Whitehall, where one person was killed and two hundred and fifteen people injured.

Jane grabbed her father’s arm.

‘Daddy, please... I need your car keys... please! I have to go the station! Don’t try and stop me, just let me have your car keys.’

She wasn’t aware that she was screaming and pulling at his arm. ‘Gimme the keys, for Chrissake!’

Her father was taken aback by her outburst and went to the kitchen area where he got the car keys from a drawer. He didn’t try and stop her when she snatched them from his hand.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go... I am so sorry,’ she said as she hurriedly left the room.

They all heard the front door slam and Mrs Tennison looked confused and frightened as she turned to her husband.

‘She’s only just passed her driving test! Go after her and stop her!’

He went to follow but slipped on the spilt custard, knocking over a dining-table chair.

Jane hurried down the stairs and out of the flats. She ran down the path and turned to look up and down the small backstreet where her father usually parked his car. Seeing it midway down the road she ran towards it, fumbling for the right key to unlock the driver’s door. She got into the car and was gasping for breath as she started the engine. The gears crunched as she pulled out and drove to the end of the road, turning into Edgware Road and then straight through a set of red lights into Marylebone Road.

Jane realized she’d forgotten her handbag and therefore didn’t have her warrant card with her to prove she was a police officer if she was stopped for dangerous driving. She forced herself to slow down and drive more carefully, and thankfully it being a bank holiday the roads were very quiet. She breathed heavily and told herself to try to remain calm. The news report about an IRA car bomb made no sense. It seemed to her that something had gone terribly wrong with Operation Hawk.

As she drove past the front of the station Jane saw reporters and television news crews being held back by uniformed officers. A senior civilian from the Met’s press bureau was standing on the top steps of the station trying to address the throng who were firing questions at him from all angles. Jane drove round to the rear of the station only to discover it was the same, with a line of uniform officers keeping the press back and refusing entry without police identification.

A PC she didn’t recognize raised his arm to stop Jane, so she pulled up and wound down the window to speak to him.

‘I am WPC Jane Tennison, please... I work here.’

‘I need to see your warrant card, otherwise I can’t let—’

‘I saw the news and in the rush to get here I forgot my ID. The officer over there knows me, ask him.’

The PC spoke with the officer and she was let into the station yard. Manoeuvring the car into a parking bay she was distracted when she saw Detective Chief Superintendent Metcalf by the back door talking to two officers. They looked pale and drained.