The Black Mile

by Mark Dawson

  Coyle bellowed. Charlie’s hands shook as he read him his rights.

  FRIDAY 13th SEPTEMBER 1940

  43

  AN EIGHT O’CLOCK PRESS CONFERENCE. Charlie stood at the back of the room as the reporters filed in: hacks with notepads at the ready, photographers toting cameras and unfolding tripods. More than thirty of them, with the same number again pressing at the door. He scoured the room for Henry Drake but there was no sign of him. The atmosphere was taut, the pressmen jawing about rumours. The staff canteen had been cleared, with a desk set out at one end of the room and ranks of chairs set out in front of it.

  A side-door opened and Tanner came through, grim-faced and severe. The pressmen gathered behind their cameras, covering their lenses with their trilbies. One called “hats off” and fired his flash. The room was lit by a bright burst of light and a cloud of white smoke bloomed as the powder caught.

  Tanner waited for the smoke to clear. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I’m Detective Chief Inspector William Tanner. You’ve been invited today so that we can ask for your help following three murders that took place during the past week in Soho. Formal identification has now taken place of the victims so we can tell you now that they were Molly Jenkins, Constance Worthing and Annie Stokes. The cases are being investigated by a team from Scotland Yard together with local officers.”

  A man stood up. “Is it the Ripper?”

  “Is he back again?”

  “Questions at the end, gents.”

  Charlie pushed his way towards the exit.

  Another flashbulb popped; Tanner squinted into it, went on: “The body of Molly Jenkins was found in Conduit Street at around six o’clock on Saturday morning. Constance Worthing was found in her flat on Wardour Street at around eight o’clock on Sunday morning. We believe she was murdered between ten o’clock on Saturday evening and three o’clock on Sunday morning. A third body, that of Annie Stokes, was found on Tuesday afternoon. A time of death has yet to be established. An incident room has been set up here at Savile Row. House-to-house enquiries have been carried out and are continuing in the Soho area. We’d also like to thank members of the local community who’ve been quick to come forward to assist. As part of the investigation, we’re appealing to anyone who knew the victims to make themselves known to us.”

  “People are saying it’s the Germans. Care to comment?”

  “Ridiculous. Questions at the end, please. These murders are particularly callous crimes. They are brutal attacks and all three victims suffered multiple knife wounds. Whoever was responsible may have been covered in blood. If any of your readers have suspicions about anyone––maybe a friend or member of the family has been acting out of character or has appeared anxious over the past few days––they should contact their nearest police station.”

  Charlie slipped outside and made his way to the Inquiry Room. Frank and Alf McCartney were talking.

  He swallowed. “Sir.”

  McCartney clasped him on the shoulder. “Well done for yesterday, Charlie. Finding chummy downstairs. Very good work. Where was he?”

  “Working at the Royalty Hotel.”

  “And he made a run for it.”

  “I caught him outside.”

  “You have to ask yourself why he’d do that.”

  “It is suspicious.”

  “I’ve spoken to Tanner,” Frank said to him. “I’m doing the interview.”

  “Your technique goes before you. But take Charlie with you, sport. Won’t hurt to have a couple of you in there.”

  Frank turned for the door. Charlie caught him rolling his eyes.

  “Fine, sir.”

  o o o

  THEY WENT DOWN TO THE CELLS TOGETHER. Charlie felt awkward and he knew Frank was feeling the same way. He looked like a dog’s dinner, his suit rumpled and his shirt dirty. They reached the reception space outside the cells and Frank sat down, passing a hand over his face. He looked done in.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look––”

  “I’m fine, Charlie. We can be professional, but that’s it. Alright?”

  “Fine. I––”

  “Let’s just get it over with.”

  He took Coyle’s C.R.O. file and started to flip through it.

  An interview room served all six cells, a two-way mirror set into the wall so that observers in the corridor could watch the proceedings inside. A uniform Constable sat guard. Charlie peered through the two-way. Coyle was waiting. The uniform nodded in Coyle’s direction. “Might look the part, but he’s not fooling no-one. Tries to give out the impression he’s not bothered but you know it’s all show. Terrified, he is. Been smoking like it’s going out of fashion.”

  Frank closed the file and jabbed a finger at Charlie. “Right. I do the talking. You stand at the back and shut your mouth. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  He went inside; Charlie followed. Coyle swivelled his neck around to get a look at them.

  “Christ’s sake, what happened to your boat?”

  Frank moved around behind him. Coyle stubbed out his cigarette in a full ashtray. He fumbled another fag from the packet, fingers shaking. Frank stood there, saying nothing, for a long minute. Coyle couldn’t take it––his fidgeting got worse. “Come on, squire, what’s the game?” He started to stand.

  “Sit down.” Frank took off his jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it over the back of the spare chair. His shirt was filthy, with dirty crescents beneath the arms. He withdrew three mortuary photographs of a woman from the evidence folder and laid them face up on the table. “Take a look at that, Eddie. Go on––give it a good look. Recognise her?”

  “It’s Connie.”

  Frank didn’t reply, opened the folder again and took out a selection of crime scene photographs. He laid them on the table until it was covered with stark glossies: a woman’s body laid over the bed, cuts and slices across her skin, blood everywhere. “What about her?”

  “C-c-connie.”

  Frank let the atmosphere stew him for a moment. “Why’d you run, Eddie?”

  “What?”

  “You scarpered yesterday. Why was that?”

  “I was scared, wasn’t I.”

  “Of what?”

  “You lot. The police.”

  “Why––have you done something wrong?”

  “No. You must see it all the time, you coppers. Blokes like me, you see Old Bill and you think the worst. And then that makes you think you’ve buggered it up somehow.”

  “Guilty conscience, you mean?”

  “I don’t have no guilty conscience.”

  “So you haven’t buggered up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So why do you think you’re here?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Less of the attitude, son. You’re in all kinds of trouble. Don’t make it worse by messing us around.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’ve had my share of problems with Old Bill. I thought, when your man over there showed up, I thought I was getting done again.”

  “You do have form, don’t you? I’ve seen your record. A couple of breakings last year. An assault the year before that. Rape. You’re used to these cosy little chats. What you might call an occupational hazard for a toerag like you. Not something that’d worry you all that much, I wouldn’t’ve thought. So why are your hands shaking now, Eddie?”

  “I’m not–– I’m––”

  “But then Constance got murdered. And we know you used to knock her about. And then you run off when we turn up to talk to you? How’d you think that looks?”

  “I didn’t do nothing! Honest to God, I never bloody touched her.”

  “It all makes you look guilty, Eddie. Guilty as sin. We found yesterday’s newspaper at your gaff––open at the page with the article about her being topped. Do
n’t pretend you don’t know what’s happened. Why didn’t you come forward? You knew bloody well we’d want to have a word.”

  “I didn’t––”

  “The fake name at the hotel. Then you tried to run. You’ve got a great big guilty sign around your neck.”

  “I was seeing Connie on the side, alright?”

  “You’re married?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t want my old lady to know. We’ve got two little ones. If she knew I had a bit on the side she’d throw me out of the house.”

  “You were worried your wife would find out you had a bit on the side so you decided not to come forward when the girl you were screwing got murdered? Come on, Eddie, you expect me to believe that? That’s not nearly good enough.”

  He turned to Charlie: “I didn’t do nothing!”

  “You’re talking to me,” Frank bellowed. “Look at me.” Coyle did as he was told. “That’s better. You didn’t used to beat her?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Yes or no?”

  He pushed himself out of the chair. “You’ve been talking to that little bitch, ain’t you?”

  “Got a temper, have you, Eddie?

  “She’s a nasty little whore, she is.”

  “Fly off the handle sometimes?”

  “You don’t want to pay no attention to what she says. She’s a lying little slut––always had it in for me, ever since Connie found her.”

  Frank slammed his palms on the table. The ashtray jumped; Coyle jumped; Charlie jumped. “Eddie––we know you used to hit her. Don’t play games with me, son, alright? I’m not in the bloody mood.”

  Coyle choked smoke, dragged in more, his hand quivering. “Alright. Once or twice. She had a way about her. If I’d had a skinful sometimes she’d start nagging me and I’d have to give her a quick straightener, nothing serious, just remind her who’s boss.”

  “When she deserved it?”

  “Exactly.” He grinned, nervously, yellow teeth; all boys together. “You know what birds can be like, squire. They get under the skin, don’t they?”

  Frank struck him across the cheek with a stiff right. Coyle swung against the side of his seat, the lit fag flying out of his mouth. “Like that?” He hit him again with a left hook, knocking him back the other way, a streamer of bloody spit flung out of his mouth. “Or like that?”

  Charlie took a step towards the table; Frank glared at him, froze him where he was.

  “Jesus,” Coyle was whimpering.

  Frank placed both hands on the table and leaned in close. “Listen to me very carefully, you nasty little shit. I’m going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer them. If you make me think you’re lying, just for one second, I’m going to come down on you so hard you won’t know what day of the bloody week it is. I’ll charge you with whatever I can think of that’ll send you down for the longest time. If you’re not swinging before spring’s out you’ll be in stir until nineteen-bloody-eighty. That clear enough for you?”

  He didn’t answer, whimpering quietly to himself.

  “Is that clear enough?”

  He wiped away trailers of spit. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Then you’d better start persuading me. How’d you meet her?”

  “At the Trocadero Brasserie.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was out for a bit of a drink and a bit of quim, and I saw her and said hello. She said she was there to meet a fellow she knew but he’d stood her up. I bought her a drink and got her chatting. She let me buy her dinner. I was a bit drunk and I don’t suppose I was feeling all that particular.”

  “Then what?”

  “Not much. We’ve been seeing each other two or three times a week. Relaxed, like. Nothing formal.”

  “For how long?”

  “Couple of months. But it wasn’t serious––we weren’t going steady or nothing like that. We’d meet and have dinner in Soho then go back to her flat––she rented a drum on Wardour Street. I was getting a bit bored with it all, to be honest. Thinking of knocking the whole thing on the head.”

  “She let you screw her?”

  “After about two weeks of asking. But she had to be in the mood, see? Normally it was ‘I’m too tired’ or some other nonsense excuse.”

  “And that bothered you.”

  “Too bloody right, it did. It’s a man’s right, ain’t it, conjugal relations with his bird.”

  “That’s why you hit her?”

  “I said it was only once or twice.”

  “I don’t believe you, Eddie. You hit her all the time.”

  “No, guv. Hardly never.”

  “She wouldn’t have sex with you and you hated her for it.”

  “No––”

  “Yes. It made you feel inadequate, didn’t it, Eddie? Made you feel less like a man, a woman telling you when you could and couldn’t have it away. Like you said, it’s not a bird’s place to tell a fella when he can and can’t. Is that what happened with Phyllis Brown, too?”

  “They never charged me for that.”

  “Only because they buggered up the collar and your brief was a slippery bastard. We both know you raped her.”

  “I never!”

  “When Connie wouldn’t let you have it you got angry, didn’t you?”

  Coyle turned to Charlie. “He’s putting words in my mouth.”

  “Don’t look at him like that, Eddie, he’s not going to help you. I’m your only hope here. Where were you on Friday night?”

  “At home.”

  “With who?”

  “The wife. I had a bath and went to bed.”

  “What about Saturday?”

  “With Connie.”

  “Who else?”

  “Just her.”

  “Monday night?”

  “At home.” He looked at Charlie again. “I never did what he’s saying I did.”

  Frank slapped him again. “I’m talking to you Eddie, not him.”

  “Frank.”

  Coyle had started to whimper.

  “What happened, Eddie? You wanted a bit of slap and tickle and she said no again? She had the nerve to say no? To you? Made you angry, didn’t it, Eddie? Really took the biscuit. You’ve been working on her for weeks and she hardly ever lets you have your end away. It’s your right. A man’s right. You gave her a cuff, like you normally did when she said no, only this time that wasn’t enough. Maybe she got bolshy. Stood up to you? She really had to learn a lesson, didn’t she, Eddie?”

  “No.”

  “The silly little bitch needed to be taught a lesson. Who the boss was. So you put your hands around her throat. You put your filthy hands around her throat and you squeezed. Admit it!”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You squeezed until she blacked out. Only that wasn’t enough either, was it? Not this time. She had you really angry––the full red bloody mist. So you got a knife from the kitchen and you stabbed her in the throat with it, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You cut her up.”

  “No no no no.”

  “Yes, Eddie. Yes yes yes YES!”

  The door opened.

  Frank turned the table over, yelled into Coyle’s face: “TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!”

  Their father was there.

  McCartney behind him.

  Bob Peters behind him.

  They must have been watching through the two-way.

  “Frank, that’s enough,” their father said.

  Frank didn’t hear him, or ignored it; he grabbed Coyle under the armpits and hauled him out of the chair, ran him backwards across the room, slammed him hard into the wall. “Tell me what happened or I’ll break your bloody neck.”

  “Frank!”

  Coyle gasped something.

  “What?”

  “I used to pimp her,” he whispered. “She used to tom for me, alright?”

  “Frank, let him go.”

  “Who else?”

  “No-one.”
r />   “Molly Jenkins?”

  “Son––”

  Coyle looked at William Murphy, at Charlie; doubt flickering for a moment.

  “No––”

  “Annie Stokes?”

  “No––”

  William Murphy laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder and tugged him away. “That’ll do, son.”

  Coyle sobbed: “I swear, guv. On my mother’s life. I know I was awful to Connie, God rest her, but I didn’t do her in like they said in the paper. I couldn’t. I’m a bastard, I know it, I’m a dirty rotten bastard but I ain’t like that.”

  Frank got up and stepped away from the overturned table, straightening his rumpled shirt. He righted the table and picked up the chairs. Coyle sank down the wall, buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

  Frank went outside; Charlie, his father and McCartney followed.

  “What are you doing?”

  Frank grabbed Charlie by the lapels, shoved him back against the wall and leant in. “If you ever interrupt me while I’m interrogating a suspect again I’ll put your teeth down your throat. I don’t care if you’re my bloody brother. Understand?”

  William Murphy put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Francis.”

  Charlie struggled, but Frank laid his forearm across his windpipe and held him there.

  Bob Peters yanked at him; Frank was too strong.

  “Let him go, Frank.”

  Frank released him.

  “You always were a pansy,” he spat. “Take a statement from him on the bloody pimping then let him go.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t do the murders.”

  Charlie turned to McCartney. “Sir?”

  “He’s right. Get someone to check with his wife––sounds like he’s alibi’d, at least for Jenkins. Go on, sport. Get him down on paper then let him out. He’s not our man.”

  44

  FRANK HAD GONE OUT ONTO THE STREET after the interview with Coyle.

  Damned Charlie.

  Damned fool.

  He needed to get away from him before he did something even more stupid.