by Mark Dawson
William Murphy clapped Charlie on the shoulder as he went past. “Make me proud, son.”
Charlie got straight to work. He took Johnson’s C.R.O. file and pulled out Form C.R.O. 100A. He checked his associates and the places he frequented. He wrote down a dozen names and addresses and distributed them to the men, two each.
The room emptied.
“We’re getting warm,” Alf said to him.
“Is it him?”
“Your brother thinks so.”
“Do you?”
“We definitely need to talk to him.”
46
HENRY FINISHED HIS PINT. He was in the French, waiting for darkness to fall. Raiders had been overhead for a solid two hours. It wasn’t just the docks that were getting it; Göring had all of London in his sights now and he was pummelling it. Henry was nervous, and not just about the bombing. He thought a couple of drinks might settle him down. They didn’t––he just felt light-headed, his anxiety still churning. There were more police on the street than usual and he imagined they were looking for him. At least one of them was: there had been a knock on his door during the afternoon. He had crept into the sitting room and pulled back the curtain a fraction. He didn’t recognise the man waiting on the stoop but he had the officious air of a plainclothes Detective. The man had waited patiently for five minutes, as if he knew perfectly well that Henry was cowering beneath the sill. Henry waited shamefully, in anxious silence, his heart seeming uncommonly loud. Eventually the Detective gave up and turned away. Henry knew he would have to speak to them. Ignoring them could only be temporary. But he wasn’t ready yet.
He went outside. Quiet streets, engines overhead, searchlights playing on the underside of low clouds. Henry felt a moment of nausea––the drink, his nerves. He steadied himself against the wall, waited for his stomach to settle.
He had been fired.
The police were looking for him.
He thought of Asquith, the dead girls, the story.
What in blazes was he doing?
The risks he was taking––they suddenly felt enormous.
He turned the corner and saw it: Ham Yard was on fire. It was out of control: huge flames, two storeys high, burning orange and red and yellow, the blackout a bad joke. The Top Hat was taking the brunt, waves of woozy heat beating out, fracturing the glass in the shop fronts opposite, singeing hair. Two policemen were blocking the way through, one of them looping a length of rope around a lamppost and stretching it across the road. Henry pushed up against a wall, thinking: Jackie Field. The booze and the heat dizzied, disorientated; he bent double and vomited.
A small crowd had gathered.
“Clear off!” the panicked bobby yelled over the sound of the flames. “Jerry’s still overhead. They use fires as targets.”
Henry spat phlegm, got closer. “I’m a reporter. What happened?”
The copper didn’t look at him. “Probably an incendiary. They’ve dropped tons of ‘em tonight. Half of Soho’s going up.”
“Is anyone inside?”
“They were closed, thank Christ. No public, but I don’t know about anyone else. Good as dead if they are, though. It’s a bloody inferno. Get away from here, mate. Jerry will drop bombs straight on top of this. We’re sitting bloody ducks.”
Two auxiliary fire tenders clattered around the corner. The bobbies pulled the cordon aside and let them through. AFS men unspooled hoses, tapped temporary reservoirs, tried to dampen the flames. Henry stared into the fire, bright enough to leave doppler traces across his vision, crisp his eyebrows. The firemen yelled out a warning, darted back; the first floor collapsed, dust and smoke mixing with golden motes of light that carried on the hot wind.
There was no point in standing around. He put the heat to his back and staggered away until the burning building was behind him. He braced himself against a wall and hawked up more acid phlegm.
“Excuse me.”
A man had approached, gliding up like a ghost.
Henry took a step forwards, details resolving out of the gloom: a pulled-down trilby covering most of his face. He looked for the second man, knowing what was coming, but he was already too late: hands grabbed him, turned him, shoved him hard into a doorway. His shoulders crashed against the door as a hand snaked up towards his face and swiped down––the flash of a razor glinting in the firelight. He felt the sting as the blade sliced into his flesh and fell to his knees, the sudden pain blinding him.
“Final warning. Next time you’ll end up like your mate. Brown fucking bread.”
The men disappeared into the heat haze. Henry fell into the dirt, his cheek feeling like a red-hot poker had been laid across it. He raised himself onto his knees and touched his face; his palm came away wet with blood.
47
FRANK GRIPPED THE EDGE OF THE SEAT as the driver flung the Wolsley through the streets. The siren on the roof clanged, the sparse traffic pulling to the side to allow them to pass. Malcolm Slater and Albert Regan were in the back; a Railton with Colin Winston and a Comet followed behind; a police van with another six men and a Black Maria brought up the rear. They killed the sirens when they were half a mile away and cruised in silently.
Frank hadn’t had the chance to think all day. His father had been busy, chivvying up support and calling in favours. It had been successful: with Tanner still missing, he was in command of the biggest murder hunt in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Officers from the Yard had joined detachments from every Division across the capital and, by midday, over a thousand men were on the look-out for Johnson.
It had been a woodentop who spotted him. A random break: a man matching his description was seen going into a boozer in Canning Town. Two Detectives from the local factory were sent to observe; they followed him and another man to an address half a mile away, surveilled from a bombed-out house opposite. K Division called West End Central and enquiries were made. The local council said the house was rented to a Reggie Dudley. Frank ordered a C.R.O. check on Dudley. The file was dynamite: Reginald Wilson Dudley a.k.a. Hoppy Dudley (on account of a clubbed foot); form for a series of nasty knife-point rapes on young girls; served time in Brixton between 1929 and 1939, overlapping with Duncan Johnson; out for six months and his P.O. wasn’t happy with his progress. The dots were easy to join: Johnson and Dudley palled up together inside, two perverts who decided to get together on the outside. Johnson lied to his P.O., left his halfway house, quit his job; it looked like he was trying to drop out of sight. Wasn’t hard to guess why he might want to do that. What he might have been up to.
Frank looked at the scrap of paper in his sweaty hand: 19, Appleby Road, Canning Town.
His watch showed eleven as they sped onto East India Dock Road. The air raid sirens had sounded and the sky was full of exploding AAA shells and the low drone of engines. The shoreline on either side of the Thames at Silvertown and Canning Town was still burning, huge flames a hundred feet tall stacked up around them.
“Are you sure about this, guv?” the driver said. “We’re going right into the middle of it.”
“Keep driving.”
Frank took out the .38 and loaded it with six slugs. The station armoury had a supply of Webleys from the War. They hardly ever had to break them out, but McCartney had insisted: both Johnson and Dudley had form for violence, and nothing was to be left to chance. Alf had made it crystal clear: Johnson was coming in. Dead or alive.
Appleby Road bordered a square of fenced-off recreation ground less than three hundred yards to the north of the Royal Victoria Dock. The Wolsley pulled up out of sight around the corner and parked. The warehouses and tethered ships were burning. The heat was so strong the paint on the side of a fence was bubbling and the wooden panels had warped. It washed over Frank as he stepped out of the car. It was dizzying and it took a moment to get used to. The light from the flames was enough to turn the darkness to day and the noise was deafening. Explosions cracked out incessantly, fire cackled, flames danced across the barrel of Fr
ank’s gun.
The van arrived and the rest of the men got out. They were going in heavy-footed, weapons drawn. Frank wasn’t going to take any chances. Dudley’s address was in the middle of a terrace of three-storey houses. The windows of the house were gone, the frames boarded up, and the basement door hung off one hinge. An explosion detonated and a warehouse ahead of them collapsed, sparks thrown into the air.
Frank split the men: “You lot stay out front,” he said to the uniform. “If you hear anything, put the door in. Regan, Slater, Winston: with me. Through the back.”
He led the way behind the terrace. A fence bordered a narrow alley; they opened a gate and went through. The backyard was covered with a crazy jumble of broken roof timbers, pieces of wood, tiles, bricks, an old mangle, bits of smashed furniture. The tiles were missing from the roof, and a few remaining timbers stuck up through open gashes like splintered bones. The outside privy stank.
Frank signalled, crept to the back addition and tried the door handle: unlocked. An explosion masked the scrape as he pushed the door open. Inside: a filthy kitchen, dirty plates in the sink, empty cans and packets overflowing from the bin, stained clothes piled on the floor. A muffled radio played from another room. Frank drew his .38; Slater, Regan and Winston pulled theirs. He opened the kitchen door: a short hallway, empty, leading to the front door, another door opening onto it to the right. It was murky, the boards across the windows blocking out most of the firelight from outside. Frank put his ear to the door: he caught the sound of the radio, but nothing else. He opened it carefully: a fire burned in the grate, a Roberts set played show tunes from a table, two half-eaten meals were left on the floor. Frank touched a plate: still warm. Adrenaline pumped; his pulse ticked up.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Winston and Slater. “If they come down, shoot them.” He prodded Regan on the shoulder and then pointed to the first floor.
They ascended slowly, the treads creaking. A dirty rug on the landing floor helped dampen their noise. The stairs led onto a narrow landing with two doors leading off it: both were shut. The sound of laughter came from the room at the front of the house. Frank stepped closer to the nearest one and pressed his ear to the panel. He froze; he thought he heard a muffled sob. He gestured for Regan to be ready to shoot and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob. He turned it gently and pushed. A gut-wrenching view: a naked girl roped to a bed frame, a red scarf stuffed into her mouth. Frank told Regan to stay at the door and went to the bed. The girl followed him with big, frightened eyes. With his finger to his lips, he removed the gag.
“Don’t worry. I’m a policeman. It’s all over.” He set to untying the ropes around her wrists and ankles.
“Guv,” Regan hissed. “There’s definitely someone in there. I can hear them talking.”
The girl whimpered. Frank took off his jacket and covered her with it. She was no older than fifteen; just a girl. Same age as Eve when she disappeared. “What’s your name, darling?”
She looked at him blankly. Shock––they weren’t going to get much from her tonight.
“I need you to be as quiet as a mouse for me. Alright?”
She nodded.
“The men who did this to you––are they in the other room?”
She nodded.
“How many? One?”
She shook her head.
“Two?”
She nodded.
“Alright, sweetheart. We’ll be back––promise.”
He followed Regan into the hall and shut the door. “Two men. Ready?”
Regan gritted his teeth and nodded. Frank slid his finger through the trigger guard and squeezed the cold butt of the revolver into his palm. They faced the door. Frank held up his fingers and counted down: three-two-one. He kicked the door so hard it flew off its hinges. Candlelight spilled out, revealing two men in ratty armchairs, stroke magazines on the floor, the girl’s clothes in a pile.
“Police!”
Frank recognised them from their mugshots. Duncan Johnson was furthest from the door; he threw up his hands. Reginald Dudley stumbled up. Regan aimed: bang bang. “No!” Frank yelled. Dudley took one slug in the forehead, the other in the gut, and sprawled back in his chair. Regan swivelled, aiming for Johnson; Frank checked him, forcing his arm towards the ceiling.
Chaos: on cue, the front door was kicked in and, downstairs, Winston and Slater shouted out before putting through the closed door.
Regan struggled to bring his gun arm down again. Frank stepped between him and Johnson, held onto his wrist, pressed himself tight against him. “No, Georgie. We’re taking him in.”
Regan pushed against him. “You saw that poor mite. You know what they’ve done to her and what he did to those other girls. You want to take the chance he gets a proper brief? You sure he won’t fool a jury? Or persuade a judge he’s mental?”
Frank was bigger than Regan. He forced the gun out of his hand. “It’s not up to us.”
“You want him getting out of a scragging and doing life? I don’t want that on my conscience. He doesn’t deserve to live. This is justice.”
Frank looked over his shoulder. Johnson had pushed himself up against the wall beneath the window, his hands in front of his face. He mumbled he was sorry, over and over and over again.
“Think of your daughter!”
Frank felt the urge: powerful, compelling, and for a moment he almost let it have him. The evidence of what the two filthy perverts had done to the girl was as plain as the nose on his face. Dirty bastards. Dirty, evil, degenerate bastards. Frank felt the heft of the gun in his hand, cold steel in his palm. Regan punched him in the shoulder. Regan was right. What if a slippery brief fooled a jury? He had it in his power to give him what he deserved now.
“Shoot the bastard!”
Frank aimed the revolver. Johnson recoiled as he covered him, his legs scrabbling as he pushed himself back against the wall. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” Frank thought of the girl in the room next door, of Molly Jenkins, of Constance Worthing, of Annie Stokes. He thought of five other dead girls. He thought of Eve. He thought of what Duncan Johnson would do if the legal system failed again. He thought of evil and the chance of extinguishing it. He thought of what the one pull of the trigger offered him: final, certain, absolute justice.
“Do him!”
Frank lowered his arm.
“Murphy, shoot him!”
He took a step towards Johnson.
“No,” he said. “It’s not for us.”
Johnson looked up at him.
“Duncan Johnson,” Frank said. “You’re under arrest.”
o o o
FRANK WRAPPED THE GIRL in a blanket and carried her down the stairs and out into the fire-lit street, her tiny body weighing next to nothing in his arms. She didn’t say a word, just looked straight ahead; the jittery flinches from close-falling bombs were automatic, didn’t register across glassy, dead eyes. Johnson followed in shackles. Dudley would be last, bagged-up on a stretcher once the formalities of his death had been dealt with.
“Secure the house,” Frank told the nearest uniform. “But no-one goes upstairs until I say so. Alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnson was put into the back of the Black Maria with two of the uniforms. The driver was on the radio, requesting attendance by the first available pathologist.
Frank grabbed D.C. Slater by the arm and moved him to one side. “Take him to West End Central. Tell Tanner I’ll see if the girl has anything to say and then come back here. Fill him in on what happened then get to writing it up. Anything else we find, we’ll add later.”
“Yes, guv.”
He went back inside the house. Regan and Winston were in the kitchen.
“Georgie. A word.”
He took Regan out into the corridor.
“Give me your gun.”
“What?”
“Give it to me.”
Regan handed over the revolver. Frank opened it; four bullets, two
discharged.
“Alright,” he said. “This is what we’re going to say. We went in, we told them to put their hands up, there was a struggle and Dudley managed to get my gun off me. He took a shot at us and missed.”
“I say––”
“Don’t bloody argue with me, Georgie. He took my gun off me, he shot at us, then you shot him twice. Once in the gut, once in the head. Understand?”
“Yes, guv.”
“If Johnson says different, I’ll back your story.”
“Thank-you. Guv, I––”
“That’s it, detective. We won’t mention it again.”
They went back into the kitchen. Winston was going through the filthy plates on the draining board.
“Top to bottom search. Put the lights on. Bugger the black-out. Jerry’s lit a big enough beacon on the docks, he’s not going to notice us.”
He went up to the first floor, checked both bedrooms. The first one was empty now the girl was gone. In the second, Dudley’s head had stopped leaking. He looked around more carefully: a bed roll on the floor; crusted, dirty sheets; rubbish piled against the walls and overflowing from bins; a plastic bucket full of piss. Pleasant. The place was a pigsty; no knowing what they’d find. One thing was certain: the whole house was so packed with junk it’d take hours to check and inventory.
He knelt down and picked up a girl’s dress, torn at the shoulder, heavy with the smell of urine and stained with semen. He put it back, picked up a pair of small shoes and re-arranged them neatly. He stood, his knees creaking, and fastened his raincoat. He was tired. A few more things to do, he thought. A couple more jobs and then I can sleep.
He took out his pistol and crouched down next to Dudley’s body. He aimed back at the door and, waiting until the noise of the bombers overhead was at its loudest, fired a single shot into the doorframe, splintering it. He laid the pistol in Dudley’s lap, next to his outstretched hand.
