Leaving their vehicle in the car park while they went to look for a suitable observation point to monitor the front of the café, Gibbs and Hudson walked casually along the road on the opposite side, and stopped by an old two-storey block of terraced flats. They were council-owned, run-down and the lower floor was boarded up with a notice stating that the building was soon to be demolished. They went round the back via an alleyway and headed up the rear concrete staircase that led to the top-floor corridor. The top-floor flats were all boarded up, except one which was still obviously occupied as outside there were a couple of well-cared-for pot plants and a small washing line with some cotton knee-length lady’s knickers hanging from them. The net curtains were clean, and even the front door looked freshly painted.
Ignoring Hudson’s suggestion that they remove the boarding from an empty flat, Gibbs shook his head and knocked on the door. ‘You’ve a lot to learn, son. They’re old lady’s knickers on the line. Using her place will be warm, with plenty of tea, coffee and biscuits, while we watch the café.’
The door was inched open and, as Gibbs had guessed, an elderly lady in her eighties was standing in front of them holding a mop.
‘I been livin’ here thirty years and I’ve told ya a hundred times I ain’t bloody leavin’ – now piss off,’ she shouted, and pushed the wet mop into Gibbs’s chest.
‘She obviously thinks we’re council officials,’ Hudson said with a smile.
Gibbs produced his warrant card and introduced himself. The old lady put down the mop, apologized and invited them in asking if they’d like a cup of tea and a biscuit. Gibbs smiled smugly at Hudson.
Jane was taking the names, warrant numbers, ranks and departments of all the new officers arriving in the incident room when a tall gaunt man in a black raincoat walked in carrying a large black box with a handle. Jane thought he looked rather lost and asked for his details for the team list. He told her he was clerical staff from Hounslow and had come for a meeting with his brother-in-law DS Spencer Gibbs.
As Jane wrote down his details she explained that DS Gibbs was out on enquiries but should be back soon, and told him that he could wait in the office or the canteen. He said the office would be fine, plonked his large box on the floor and sat down as DS Gibbs walked in carrying a tape recorder from the property store.
‘Frank! How ya doin? Thanks for coming over,’ Gibbs said.
Frank stood up, said hello and they shook hands.
‘Have you got the equipment?’
Frank nodded and pointed to the black box. ‘Yeah, it’s heavy and I’m still an amateur when it comes to using it. But I’ll see what I can do for you.’
‘The guvnor’s in his office and looking forward to meeting you,’ Gibbs said and Frank followed him to Bradfield’s office with his equipment.
After being introduced to Frank, Bradfield cleared a space on his desk for Frank to set up his Citizens Band radio. Gibbs put the tape recorder down next to the radio and also handed Frank a copy of Ashley Brennan’s notes which listed the times and frequencies of the suspect conversations. Frank was twiddling with a dial when he looked up nervously at Bradfield.
‘I know it’s illegal, but I only bought it for a bit of fun off a Yank I know, to listen to airport control at Heathrow as I’m into planes.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Frank. No one’s going to prosecute you as you’re doing us a favour,’ Bradfield said, in an effort to reassure him.
Frank nervously twiddled away with the frequency control, but all he was picking up was hissing static. He kept on repeating that he was just an amateur and would do his best, but it might take a while for him to link the wavelengths.
‘You might have been better getting that Ashley chap to help you,’ Frank said.
‘He’s too much of a geek and he said he’d lost contact. He rambles on in radio jargon, but if you need to call him for some advice then-’
Suddenly the radio began to whistle and the sound of a voice saying ‘Over’ could be heard.
‘Oh, hang on, looks like I’ve got something,’ Frank said excitedly.
‘Bloody hell, don’t tell me Bentley’s in the café right now?’ Gibbs remarked.
Bradfield waved his hand indicating for them to be quiet and leant over Frank to get closer to the CB so that he could listen.
‘Is that their call sign?’ Frank asked, and Gibbs said the voice sounded familiar.
They then heard another voice reply.
‘That’s fucking Harris talking to a PC!’ Bradfield exclaimed.
‘You’ve tuned into the station-radio frequency, Frank,’ a deflated Gibbs told him.
Bradfield was not pleased and took Gibbs to one side.
