The Black Mile

by Mark Dawson

He put report in his drawer with the half-written story, locked it again, and walked quickly across the office.

  Right, then.

  Time to dig.

  o o o

  HENRY CAUGHT A BUS, chocolate-coloured rather than the usual red. One of the replacement vehicles the bus companies had brought in from the sea-side, Brighton or Bournemouth or somesuch. He paid the clippie the fare and took a seat on the top deck, watching the streets pass by through mesh-covered windows.

  First things first: get Asquith on the record. He needed to put the allegations to him. He would have preferred to put the pictures on the table, cut the legs out from underneath him, make him see that a denial was pointless. That wasn’t going to be possible, at least not until Field resurfaced again. It wasn’t perfect but he couldn’t wait. Things were happening, that much was certain.

  He needed to act quickly.

  He looked at the scrap of paper in his hand: Eaton Square.

  They turned onto Whitehall, passing the Foreign Office and the Treasury, and then the long run of Victoria Street.

  Half past four: the siren shrieked and the bus pulled over to the side of the road beside the House of Fraser, the clippie shouting up that they’d been told by the depot to stop in the event of a raid. The customers of a hair salon emptied out into the street, one woman’s hair a pile of soapsuds fresh from the shampoo. The stores had their own shelters in the basements and frantic shoppers piled for the entrances. The nonchalance that had marked the previous alerts was gone. The cloud of smoke over the Eastern horizon was more than enough motivation for people to take the raids seriously.

  Nothing else for it––he’d have to walk. A half-hour stroll through the heart of tired London: drawn black-out curtains disfigured handsome houses and offices, newspaper stands shouted grim headlines about invasion, rubbish piled against buildings, blowing in the wind. The bombers rumbled overhead, the AAA barrage going up, the whistle of falling bombs, the crump as they hit. Bells clashed and a fire engine passed the bus, racing East. Another followed, then a third, then a fourth, until the sub-station must have been empty. All of them heading East. He followed Victoria Street to the station, turned onto Buckingham Palace Road and then onto Ecclestone Street. It was quiet. The action was miles away but the locals were staying inside.

  Eaton Square. It stank of old money: five-storey terraces, classical, triple bay windows. He walked to number 47: it was huge, four storeys with a dormer, white stucco walls, Italian design. There were holes in the ground where railings used to be, the metal requisitioned to make munitions. He walked up the short steps to the door and glanced through the windows on either side––a reception room, expensive furniture, rugs, empty––and rapped the knocker. He stepped back and glanced through the windows again. Lights came on and the sound of footsteps approached.

  The door was opened by an elegant-looking woman. She wore a v-neck dress with softly gathered shoulder yokes. There were pearls around her neck and a silver brooch was clipped to her lapel. Everything about her looked expensive. She was middle-aged, with an obvious youthful beauty that had matured into handsomeness. “Hello.”

  “Lady Asquith?”

  “That’s right. And you are?”

  “The name’s Henry Drake. I’m a reporter. The Star.”

  She regarded him dubiously. “And how can I help you?”

  “Would it be possible to speak to your husband?”

  “Afraid not. He’s at the factory. Won’t be back until the weekend at the earliest. Can I ask why you want to see him?”

  He thought on his feet. “I’m researching a piece on the war effort for the newspaper. Viscount Asquith is someone I fancy my readers would like to know a little more about.”

  “After the new government contract?”

  “Precisely so.”

  Ack-ack drilled up from Buckingham Palace Gardens: earth-shaking detonations heralded blooms of inky smoke. Henry looked up as a wing of bombers passed high overhead.

  “I can’t have you standing outside in this––you must come inside.”

  A chance to look inside the house; Henry couldn’t resist. He followed her into the hallway. It was a wide space, with black-and-white chequered tiles and a broad staircase leading up to the first floor. A vase of orchids was placed on an occasional table, next to a telephone. An explosion rattled the panes of glass in the door as Lady Asquith closed the it behind him. “My goodness.”

  “Thank-you. You’re very kind.”

  “Nonsense. It’s beastly out there. This way.”

  She opened a door and went into the reception. Henry followed; the room was plush. It was double-height and had been decorated in an Oriental fashion: painted plaster walls spaced with strips of Chinese embroidery, tall bookshelves reaching to the ceiling holding volumes on history, politics and philosophy. There was a low divan and a carved lamp on a side-table, two other standing lamps with jade-green shades and long tassels. Black-out curtains had been tacked above the windows and tied back with ribbons.

  “What a lovely room.”

  “Thank you. My husband has a thing for the East. He was in the diplomatic service there for five years.”

  Henry inspected the framed pictures on the side-table: Asquith with his wife, with two small children, one of him in racing goggles in a Morgan touring car.

  Lady Asquith sat down on a Chesterfield and indicated for Henry to do the same. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me about the article for your newspaper.”

  Henry sat. “It’s part of a series on the war effort. Individuals who are doing their bit. Fire-fighters on the one hand all the way to generals and government ministers. As I say, I think your husband’s story would be of great interest to my readers. His aeroplanes are making a tremendous difference.”

  “Capital idea, Mr. Drake. James is not the sort of man to seek plaudits but I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you. You should go to the factory, provided the trains are still running, of course. Do you have the address?”

  “I do.”

  “When were you thinking of going?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it. As soon as possible.”

  “Well, yes––you’d best be quick. James is travelling to Scotland for the weekend.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow then?”

  “Splendid. I’ll arrange an appointment when I speak to him this evening, assuming the telephone is still working. Should I say two o’clock?”

  “Two would be perfect.”

  “That’s settled then. Can I get you a drink?”

  He stood. “No, you’ve already been too kind. It sounds a little quieter outside––I better be on my way.”

  “Are you sure? Something restorative before you go? Stiffen the nerves?”

  “No, thank-you––really, I best get back to the office. My editor will be wondering where I am.”

  “Very well. Do be careful, Mr. Drake. I was hearing on the wireless that the East End has taken a frightful beating. It’s just a matter of time before that awful man Göring decides it’s time the rest of us had our turn.”

  “Thank you, madam.” She smiled at him and showed him to the door. Henry thanked her again. She closed the door and he exhaled. Her hospitality, his lies, what he knew––it had all started to make him feel uncomfortable.

  36

  CHARLIE LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW OF THE CANTEEN. The action seemed to be over the docks again but the occasional explosion was nearer. A heavy pall of smoke and dust had been slung over the East End. The cloud dominated the horizon, the barrage balloons pink in the glow from the flames below. It had grown to such a size Charlie doubted there could ever have been a larger fire. Someone had left a copy of yesterday’s Pictorial on the table: 500 PLANES RAID LONDON: BIG FIRES. There were interviews with blitzed-out families, pictures from Silvertown adding colour. The wreckage was shocking: lines of refugees heading West, soldiers dragging dead bodies out of piles of rubble, dead-eyed firemen spraying down smoking debris. It w
as only a matter of time before Göring ran out of things to bomb, and then the West End would get it. The Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the theatres and museums and shops; Charlie wondered how long they would be able to take it.

  He pushed his food around his plate, not hungry and unable to switch off. He had received a telephone call from Paddington: the pathologist had carried out the P.M. on Grimes. Suicide. He had ordered the toxicological examination Charlie had requested but the results wouldn’t be ready for a week but he doubted they would affect his findings. He’d found the fibres in the mouth, couldn’t explain them, but was still sure this was a self-made topping.

  Charlie couldn’t settle for that.

  The more he thought about it, the more he was sure: Grimes had been done by someone who wanted to make it look like he’d topped himself. The questions multiplied.

  Why?

  He followed his gut and extrapolated: he was going to drop someone in it when he spoke to Charlie.

  How?

  He was chloroformed and had his brains blown out while he was unconscious.

  Who?

  That was the question. Odds-on it was a crim that Grimes was in league with, someone out of Soho. Or maybe the bloke he was working with.

  He needed to talk to Alf.

  He finished his dinner and went back to his desk. There was a note from his boss, Sinclair: SEE ME ASAP. He went around to the D.C.I.’s office. It was full of brass: along with his guv’nor were chief Constable Nicholas Vassey and Detective Chief Inspector Bill Tanner.

  “Come in, Murphy,” Sinclair called. Vassey nodded at him as he sat down. Charlie was surprised he knew him from Adam. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Two women have been murdered in Soho,” Vassey said. “Bloody nasty business. Some suggestion it might be the same fellow as before.”

  “The Ripper?”

  “That’s what we think at the moment,” Tanner said. “Fairly certain of it.”

  Charlie remembered the case; he’d followed it in the papers, desperate to be involved. “We never got anywhere with him, did we?”

  “We had some leads,” Tanner said, defensively. “Nothing came of them.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. How does this have anything to do with me?”

  “D.C.I. Tanner’s Sergeant broke his leg. Blown out of bed by a bomb, poor bugger. So he needs a new bagman. Your name’s been suggested.”

  “Me?”

  “You don’t want it, son?” Tanner said gruffly. “I’d heard you were as keen as mustard.”

  “No, sir, I am––I’d be delighted. I’m just a little surprised.”

  “You were very highly recommended by D.S. McCartney.”

  “That’s very kind of him, sir.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “But what about my other inquiries?”

  “What do you have on?”

  “The Grimes case.”

  “It’s hardly a case,” Sinclair disagreed.

  “It could be, sir.”

  Sinclair explained. “One of the lads from Savile Row topped himself. Alf’s got it under control. A couple of his lads over there are looking into it. I think we can probably leave it with them.”

  “That’s that, then. What else?”

  Charlie bit his tongue. “Nothing I can’t sort out.”

  “Good,” Tanner said. “The Commissioner wants this cleared up pronto. We can’t afford to have this maniac running around the West End again slicing up brasses, not at the moment. The last thing we want is the public panicking about a sex killer when the Luftwaffe is doing its best to bloody well flatten everything.”

  “I understand.”

  “Get down to Savile Row and get your head into the file. You’ve got a fresh pair of eyes, you might spot something we’ve missed. I want a full briefing by the close of play.”

  “Sir.”

  “Dismissed, Sergeant.”

  o o o

  ALF McCARTNEY WAS SMOKING HIS PIPE in the quadrangle outside.

  “Guv.”

  He winked at him. “Congratulations, lad. Didn’t I say I could be a useful friend?”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “Let’s just say I was able to put in a good word and leave it at that. This is your chance. You deserve it. Do a decent job here, and Vassey’s promised you’ll be rewarded. Promotion to first-class Sergeant, a job in the field. Proper coppering. Everything you wanted.”

  “Thank you.”

  He winked. “The Winding Stair. You see the benefits now, don’t you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “More where that came from, too. But there is one thing you can do for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Reciprocity, son. Report to me on the investigation. Bill Tanner’s a good man but we haven’t always seen eye to eye and, between you and me, he’s not the best detective you’ll ever meet. I don’t want him thinking I’m standing on his toes but I need to be kept right up to date on this. There’s a maniac on my manor––I’ve just started, the longer it goes without him being nicked, the worse it looks for me. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, sport? My reasons?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Good lad.”

  37

  FRANK PARKED THE RAILTON OUTSIDE A POLICE TELEPHONE BOX and put the engine in neutral. He’d hardly stopped at the nick this morning, taking the keys for the motor and setting out at once. He had stayed at the Section House last night, still off the booze, and thought about what he wanted to do. The last thing he needed was Tanner interrupting his plan by deciding he would be better employed elsewhere.

  He’d mentioned what he was planning with Bob Peters. He said he’d cover for him at the nick.

  He had a day’s grace.

  Time enough.

  He took out his notes, amended with details from a call to the C.R.O. They had half a dozen decent suspects from before: Terrance Moore, two-time rapist who told a cellmate he was on a mission from God to “punish women”; Alan Jules Worthington, notorious sexual pervert; George Peter Whiteside, convicted homosexual and defrocked clergyman, suspected of harbouring puritanical anti-whore rage; Julian Petersfield, alcoholic drifter with form for exposing himself to Mayfair secretaries, arrested after beating a brass he’d picked up in Wardour Street; Duncan Edward Johnson. He struck through two of the names: Worthington had been shanked in the throat in the Punishment Block at Wandsworth and was buried in an unmarked grave in the prison grounds; Whiteside was on the Moor for a ten-stretch for kiddie fiddling. Three to check: Moore, Petersfield and Johnson.

  Moore first: 37 Evering Road, Hackney. The further East he drove, the worse it got. The area had taken a proper pasting, much worse than he’d expected: dozens of houses wrecked, terraces left like mouthfuls of snaggled teeth. Columns of refugees headed West and weary, red-eyed firemen sat by the side of the road, hoses dribbling dusty water into the gutter. All that guff on the radio––the BBC was having a laugh if they thought this could be put up with for long.

  The house was a cheap-looking two-up, two-down, the windows smashed and boarded, shrapnel scarring the brick. Frank slipped a shillelagh inside his jacket and knocked on the door. A thin, buck-toothed man with an acne-scarred face opened up.

  “Terrance Moore?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Frank badged him. “D.I. Frank Murphy and you want to watch your lip. You still chasing young skirt?”

  “What is this?”

  “This is me asking questions and you answering them, unless you’d rather come down to West End Central in cuffs. Where were you on Friday night?”

  “At home.”

  “Alone?”

  “With my wife.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Here.”

  “Sunday?”

  “The same, alright? She’ll vouch for me. I ain’t done nothing wrong. The Good Lord showed me the error of my ways when I was inside. I�
�m a reformed man.”

  “That right? Your old lady know about what you used to get up to?”

  “She knows everything and she is a forgiving woman, Inspector, so don’t waste your time making threats.”

  “Take her to Stoke Newington nick. I need a statement from her confirming you were here.”

  He went back to the car. Credible enough, even with the religious nonsense. He crossed through his name and flipped through his notes. George Whiteside lived in a Sally Army kip-shop on Old Street. Frank drove over. He wasn’t there, but the warden alibi’d him for the nights in question. They kept a curfew, and Whiteside had been tucked up by ten: signatures in the in/out book proved it. Good enough.

  Back to the car, another name crossed off. One left: Duncan Edward Johnson.

  The others were warm-up acts.

  Johnson was the main event.

  C.R.O. had provided details: naughty Duncan had been inside again, done for a scuffle in a pub down the docks. Three weeks for breaching the peace, out eleven days ago on license. Frank ran the dates through his head again. Johnson goes inside on 8th June, two days after Rose Wilkin’s murder. He comes out again on 31st August, a week before Molly Jenkins was killed.

  The dates fit.

  He stopped the car outside a police phone box and called his parole officer.

  “Duncan Johnson––one of yours?”

  “Yes, Inspector. What’s he done?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Where is he?”

  “I found him a room in a halfway house. Bow.”

  “What do you make of him?”

  “Going straight, far as I can tell. Got him a job as a gardener for the council. He sees me twice a week like he’s supposed to. He seems to be doing well. Can’t complain about anything.”

  “And as a bloke?”

  “Do I like him? No, can’t say that I do. He’s aloof and arrogant. But is he doing anything wrong now? No, he isn’t. What’s this about, Inspector?”

  “Never mind––give me his details.”

  He took down addresses for his home and work, got back into the Railton and turned back towards the East End again. He got onto the City Road and headed east. Bow: he turned onto the street with the address he’d written down. A typical halfway house: a three storey block, twenty rooms, the place full of drunks, blokes trying to go straight and blokes who said they would but knew they wouldn’t. He let himself into the lobby and checked the post-boxes on the wall. Room thirteen: HUGHES. He peeled the label back: JOHNSON underneath. He badged the caretaker.