by Mark Dawson
Charlie sat down.
McCartney strolled over to the window, the sunlight flashing off his ruby tie-pin. He took out a pouch of tobacco and filled the bowl of his pipe. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve been given a case. One of the lads was running it, he’s joined the Navy, I’ve got it.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“It’s about a couple of the lads here.”
McCartney groaned. “Who?”
“George Grimes.”
He looked dismayed. “George?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And?”
“Don’t know the other one yet.”
“What’ve they done?”
“Extortion. Threatened a businessman that if he didn’t give them money they’d stitch him up.”
“Who’s saying this?”
“The owner of the fruit store on Old Compton Street. He doesn’t have a reason to lie about this. He knows he’s taking a risk complaining.”
“So why take it?”
“He’s been paying for a while. Regular amounts. But George put the squeeze on him––a hundred quid. He says he can’t afford it. The way he sees it, he has two choices: have them sorted or tell them he can’t pay and get fitted up.”
McCartney sighed. “What’ve you done?”
“Not much. I had a look at Grimes. He’s living well beyond his means: new car, big house, all a bit flash. It doesn’t look good. I thought if you had a problem here you’d appreciate a warning. Especially because he’s in the Craft.”
“He’s not been himself for weeks. He’s missed meetings, too.”
“I thought that.”
“Stray from the path and you open yourself up to temptation. I’ve seen it happen before, Charlie.” McCartney sucked on the pipe thoughtfully. “You’ve a wise head on your shoulders. You’ve done the right thing.”
“What should I do?”
“Bring him in. Scare him, make him confess, but don’t charge him.”
“Sir?”
“The balloon will go up. The lads will find out he’s been nicked and that’ll be that––the fellow he’s been working with will go to ground and we’ll never get him. No––we keep it on the hush-hush. If I’ve got a cancer in this nick I want it cut out. All of it.”
“And George?”
“I know him––I brought him to the Craft, Charlie, like you, and he doesn’t have the gumption for this on his own. This other chap, he’s the one we want. He’s polluted George’s mind, taken his focus away from the Lodge. Tell George to report to me. Tell him if he co-operates, I’ll see he gets off easy. A fine, maybe demotion back to uniform, but he won’t be charged and he won’t get his cards.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie stood.
“Good lad. I knew you had the makings of a fine officer. You take the Craft seriously. Heartening to see in a young man. You won’t go wrong if you keep on the path. Your future is assured.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, if only we can persuade George the same.”
Charlie saluted.
Felt like he’d dodged a bullet.
So why did he still feel uneasy?
19
HENRY DRAKE TOOK A DESK IN RECORDS and shut the door. Chattaway was chairing the editorial meeting. A bit of time when he wouldn’t be disturbed. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number for the C.R.O. at Scotland Yard.
“This is Detective Constable Howarth, 930 F,” he said. “I want to check on a fellow, name of Jackie Field, F-I-E-L-D, aged between 30 and 35, height six foot one. No address. Suspicion he might be involved in prostitution. My number is BRI-2452.”
“I’ll call you back, Detective.”
An old trick: the C.R.O. clerks were too busy to check credentials. As long as you sounded kosher, it was free information. He knew plenty of hacks who took advantage of it.
Down to work: getting to know Viscount Asquith.
He took out Debrett’s:
ASQUITH. THE 4TH VISCOUNT ASQUITH, Stallingborough, Co Lincoln; Recognised by Lord Lyon King of Arms and matric arms, served in Great War 1916-18, with Royal Corps of Signals, in the Far East, b. 10 Nov. 1890, educ. Stowe, Trin. Coll. Camb. (BA), and Aberdeen Univ. (BSc), m. 1stly 21 April, 1916, (m. diss. by div. 1931) Jane Euphemia Beatrice, only dau. of late Lewis Reynolds, of Lynton Hall, Sexela, Natal, S Africa, and of Mrs. Wallace of Candacraig (see that family), no issue. He m. 2ndly, 16 May, 1932, to Ione Bruce Melville, formerly wife of Hamish Mackenzie Kerr, only dau. of late Capt. Robert Bruce Melville Wills of Birdcombe Court, Nailsea, Somerset.
Memb Ctee on Jt Statutory Instruments 1939—
Arms—Arg., on a chevron engrailed cotised gu., between three torteaux as many mullets of the field. Crest-Issuant from a coronet composed of four mullets gu. and as many torteaux alternately set on a rim or, a demi-stork wings expanded, arg.
Clubs—Travellers’; Shropshire (Shrewsbury).
Images ran wild: Asquith dressed like a SS Commandant, caught in the act with a whore dressed like Eva Braun.
He tore the page and stuffed it into his pocket.
He skimmed through press cuttings: nothing to back up what he’d seen in the pictures. Asquith was as clean as a whistle. His marriage was idyllic, he was a doting father to his two children. Next to nothing on his personal life: a house in Chelsea, Neville Chamberlain a neighbour; marriage to his childhood sweetheart in ’30; two children; liked sports cars and good wine. Little else, unsurprising given he was said to be jealous of his privacy.
No suggestion he’d ever been involved with the police.
No suggestion of a predilection for working girls.
No scuttlebutt whatsoever.
He dug up everything he could find on his professional life. The government held him in high regard and had just awarded him a huge RAF contract for the manufacture of airframes. His company, Asquith Aviation, had two big factories in the Midlands. It was responsible for turning out airframes for the RAF’s fighters, Hurricanes and Spitfires.
Henry tore out the pages.
The telephone rang. He picked it up on the second ring.
“Records here. Right then, Detective Constable––Jackie Field a.k.a. John Francis Field. 36 years old. Done two short stints for assault, one for pimping. Latest information lists him as being involved with the Top Hat club in Ham Yard, some suggestion that he’s been selling moody booze there, another suggestion it’s a hotspot for vice. Sound like your man?”
“Just like him. Thank you.”
o o o
SIX O’CLOCK. The staff in the Accounts Department went home for the night at a half past five, but Henry preferred to wait a little, to be cautious. No sense in taking chances that could be avoided. The newsroom was quieter than before as the shifts changed, and no-one noticed as he got up and crossed to the cashier’s office. He tried the door; it was open. He went inside and found the cashbox where the float was kept. Sources needed paying, expenses needed meeting, palms needed greasing––Henry thumbed off two hundred pounds and put them in his pocket. He took another ten, because he thought he was owed it.
He took his coat and left the office. He had money in his pocket. He needed a drink.
THURSDAY, 5th SEPTEMBER 1940
20
CHARLIE WAITED. A queue led into Compton Fruit Stores, customers squabbling over the delivery of oranges that were hard to find now Hitler’s wolfpacks were picking off the convoys. French and Italian matrons shuffled across the sawdust-covered floor, bartering with the assistant for the treats beneath the counter. Memories came back to him: his father showing Frank and him dozens of different cheeses and three-shilling flasks of Chianti in straw skirts. You hardly found them now and the exotic produce––pimentos, aubergines, olive oil, almond pasties, candied fruits––it was all gone.
The door opened and Baxter’s glance flicked away nervously. Charlie felt the tension in his shoulders grow. George Grimes was a big bugger. Much b
igger than him. No way to know how he would react. He made a play of inspecting a tin of pilchards as Grimes passed on the way to the counter. Grimes summoned Baxter with his fingers. The two men started to talk, too quiet for Charlie to make anything out.
Didn’t matter.
Baxter reached down and took out an envelope. Pushed it across the counter. Just like Charlie told him.
Grimes took it.
Bingo.
Charlie moved towards him.
Baxter turned away.
Charlie took a deep breath, took his handcuffs from his inside pocket and closed the distance. He took Grimes by the wrist.
The big man turned around. “Oi!” he said.
Charlie slapped on a bracelet. “George Grimes, I am going to arrest you for corruption.”
“What?” He jerked his arm.
“You’re under arrest.”
“Charlie?”
“Easy, George.”
“Please, Charlie––what’re you doing?”
“Easy.”
“Charlie, please.”
“You are not obliged to say anything, unless you wish to do so, but anything you say may be given in evidence.”
“Here––we can share the money. There’s a ton here. Or take it––yes, go on, all of it. Just don’t take me in.”
Baxter concentrated on the till.
“Come on, George. We need to have a chat.”
o o o
CHARLIE WATCHED THROUGH THE TWO-WAY MIRROR into the interrogation room as Grimes did a bad job of hiding his nervousness. The big man was white-faced. He was nervous, tugging at a loose thread on his jacket, scratching his neck, turning anxiously to the door whenever he heard someone in the corridor outside. Charlie liked to stew them for a bit, give them a chance to think about what they might’ve done and what they might’ve let themselves in for. A woodentop he’d braced last week in Harrow had confessed to taking back-handers from a bookie at the dogs as soon as Charlie had walked in the door. He’d only wanted to talk to the silly bugger about a teacher at the school who’d been fiddling with his little charges. A visit from C1 often had that effect on policemen with something to hide. But a big bruiser like Grimes, the kind of copper who would’ve got results just by looking at chummy, sitting with his hands beneath his thighs, rocking gently on his chair––not what Charlie had expected at all.
He picked up the telephone and dialled Savile Row. He connected to Alf McCartney’s secretary.
“I’ve been trying to speak to the detective superintendent all morning. Is he there?”
“Afraid not, sir.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I could give him a message when he gets back?”
“Never mind. Thank you. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
He had his instructions––Alf had been clear. He went inside. Grimes stood up, managed an unconvincing smile and extended a hand. Charlie shook it; George’s little finger was curled inside, the Masonic grip. It was something Charlie enjoyed in the Lodge, a small gesture that spoke of unity and belonging, but now it felt wrong. Like George was reminding him of his responsibilities. He dropped his hand. “Let’s get started, George.”
“Can we just get this squared away? Come on, old fellow. Please––this isn’t necessary.”
Charlie took out a packet of Embassy and opened it. “Smoke?”
“I don’t.”
“I shouldn’t either. Bad habit.” He took a fag and lit it, left a second on the table.
“Can’t we sort it out?”
“What? Gloss it over?”
“Just don’t write it up.”
“You slip me a fiver and I pretend it never happened?”
“I was thinking a ten.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Really? What do I think?”
Grimes started to speak, then hesitated. “I–– I don’t know.”
Charlie pointed, “That’s a nice watch. Do you mind?”
Grimes undid the clasp and passed the watch over the table. It was heavy, the kind of weight that usually went with pricey bits of tom. “Nice. Must’ve set you back an arm and a leg.”
“Take it. Go on––it’s yours.”
“How much? Forty notes? Fifty?”
“It weren’t cheap.”
“Expensive for a copper.”
“Go on, take it. It’d look good on you, I reckon.”
“Another bribe, George?”
“No, course not.”
“How’d you manage to put together that kind of dough? Get lucky on the pools or something?”
“You know I didn’t.” He shifted in his chair.
Charlie opened up the folder he had in front of him and made a play of running his finger down a list of numbers. All for show: everything he needed was in his head. “You’re on four quid a week, aren’t you? I’m just wondering how you manage to get the money for an expensive piece of kit like that when you’re earning four quid a week. I mean, you’d have to take a couple a week out for rent, six bob for housekeeping, another quid for you to have a few beers with the lads––you see where I’m going with this, don’t you? You’re not left with much at the end of the week.”
Grimes smiled pathetically. “Come on, old man. We can sort this out, can’t we? I’d do the same for you, honestly I would, if you ever found yourself in a pickle.”
“I’ve got a list of questions for you as long as your arm and you need to answer them. Like what were you doing today?”
Grimes started to say something, then stopped, thinking better of it. Confusion fell across his face. His fists clenched.
“Come on, George. Think about it. It’ll be easier for you if you co-operate.”
Grimes looked down at the table and shook his head. He sniffled.
“Why don’t you talk to me––we’re both Masons, George. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve been missing meetings.”
More snivels.
“Baxter told us what’s been going on.”
“You needn’t believe him.”
“You’ve been threatening to fit him up with stolen property unless he gave you this.” He tapped the envelope on the table with his pen.
Grimes put his head in his hands and sobbed. Charlie stared at him, baffled: he’d expected anger, aggression, the table thumped and violent threats. But George, who could probably tear the telephone directory in hands as big as hams, was crying like a baby. Charlie felt bad going on, twisting the knife. “I already know what’s in the envelope. I gave it to Baxter. Marked a couple of the notes on the bottom, too, just in case you were daft enough to take it.” He opened the envelope and took out the money, pointing to the scrawls he had made. “Are you sure you don’t have anything to say? Come on, George––come clean. It’ll help.”
Tears fell between his fingers.
Charlie was wrong-footed. “Baxter said you and another copper were on his case. Who is it?”
Nothing.
“There were two of you. Tell me who your mate is. Get it off your chest. It’ll be a relief.”
“Please. Please. I can’t have this happen to me. Not now. We’re so close. So bloody close.”
“Close to what?”
“You don’t understand––it’ll be the end of me. I’m serious––I’m done for.”
“George, calm down. What is it, man?”
“They’ll do me in.” He reached across the table and grabbed Charlie by the wrist. “I’m begging you.”
Charlie shook his arm free and stood up.
“Begging me isn’t going to help. But what happens to you isn’t my decision.”
“What do you mean? Whose is it?”
“Alf.”
“He knows?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Everythin
g.”
“What did he say?”
“He wants to talk to you. And you might want to think about coming clean to him. Give him what he wants and he’ll look after you. If you don’t–– keeping your mouth shut is just going to make things worse. You’ll go away, George. A year, maybe two.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s not at the station today.”
“So you’re not going to charge me?”
“Not now. But if I let you out and you don’t go and see him first thing tomorrow, that’ll be that. I’ll throw everything at you. Alright?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Do I have your word?”
“As a Mason.”
Charlie opened the door. “Go on, then. Clear off.”
FRIDAY, 6th SEPTEMBER 1940
21
IT WAS A HALF PAST SIX. Charlie was getting ready to leave when the telephone on his desk rang.
“Hello, Sergeant. I have George Grimes for you.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Said he needs to talk to you.”
Charlie threw his coat across the back of his chair and sat on the edge of the desk. “Put him through.”
The operator connected them.
A burst of static.
“Hello?”
“Murphy here.”
“Hello?”
“Murphy here. What do you want, Grimes?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”
“Speak to your brief, George. If there’s anything worth me hearing, he can organise a meeting.”
“No, I can’t tell anyone else. It’s too dangerous. It has to be you.”
“What do you mean dangerous?”
“Not on the telephone. Please––can we meet?”
Something was wrong.
“Please.”
“Alright––Monday?”
“Has to be tonight.”
Charlie looked at his watch: coming up to seven. “Be here for nine.”
“I’m not coming to the Yard.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t. It’s not safe. Being there yesterday was bad enough.”
“What do you mean, man?––it’s bloody Scotland Yard.”
“You know the Pillars of Hercules?”
