Invisible Foe

by Ronald Cove

  We vacated our chosen place of safety just after the all clear had sounded round about five am. DI. Selby then suggested going back to Bow Road, after all they should be able to hand out a mug of tea, he reasoned. “Yeah and who knows they might even throw in a slice of stale bread toasted” DC. Willis put in hopefully. In actual fact we each received two slices of toast. Having enjoyed the small offering, DC. Willis and myself relaxed with a cigarette while Dave Selby was once again obliged to spend time visiting the Superintendent.

  On his return Dave announced we were all going on a tour of East London. First stop is Bucks Row, from there Hanbury Street then on to Bemer Street or to be more precise Dutfields Yard, we will next pay a call on Mitre Square. It was there I held my hand up to silence him “‘alf a mo Dave, you’re takin’ us on a bloody tour of murderers row ‘ere, I suppose we also pop into see Mary Kelly at 9, Millers Court then, to finish the tour,” I proposed. “Yer know Bill that’s exactly right, yer see, some bright spark back at the yard thinks one of them murdered ladies was related to a German family and our boy could be ‘anging around ‘ere abouts somewhere. Mind you I do believe they’ve changed some of the names of the streets, anyway you’re right, it’s as yer say Bill, a walk back down memory lane into Murderers Row,” he concluded.

  16:

  A NEVER ENDING ARGUMENT

  After taking a quick look at the Hornchurch airfield and making a note that only a six foot fence separated school from airfield, the bogus RAF Corporal, Dick Fletcher, decided he would have a wander around the Hornchurch village, which he considered to be a far better idea than just hanging around the airfield and trying to cripple a spitfire or two on the airstrip with his so far untouched fire bolts. He reasoned he could then perhaps sort out a target in the village itself. So now with these two unused devices still reposing comfortably in his briefcase, he retraced his steps only this time going towards the village.

  Leaving the aerodrome and walking back pass the railway station then going on straight down passed an old shack advertised as a police station, at the same time bearing round to his left, negotiating a small slope which took him into what he guessed was the centre of this quiet little village. His reasoning for this was based on the fact that he now stood outside a pub called ‘The White Hart’ which was situated on what looked to him like an island with three major roads running around it. The corporal entered this old village pub with trepidation, but to his surprise quickly found the locals eagerly plying him with half pints of English ale. He could only guess at the reason for their generosity to be on account of the RAF uniform he wore. Nevertheless Cpl: Fletcher made a point of only staying with one half-pint while at various times passing others onto other men in uniform.

  It was however at one point, while handing a newly arrived young bus driver one of his unsolicited half pints of ale, that he overheard the bus drivers’ companion saying “Oh yes, apparently two policemen were knocked unconscious and the owner of the house was murdered”. “Jesus that was bleeding dicey wasn’t it?” the bus driver declared, after thanking a generous RAF corporal for a half-pint of ale. “Well they’re saying the culprit was a bleeding spy who killed him” the informer concluded.

  On hearing these few words the bogus RAF man decided it was time he left this small village. Not wanting to return by way of the local railway station on account of maybe running into the ticket collector, who would no doubt be full of awkward questions. To avoid all this he decided to enquire of the bus driver for the best alternative way to catch a train to London, without walking back up that bloody hill to the Hornchurch station. “Oh that’s bloody easy mate, just hop on an 86a bus over the road there” the driver pointed to a bus stop through the pub window “There see, takes you to Upminster Bridge Station, jump off there, stations right opposite” he was eagerly told by this friendly bus driver. The corporal then shook hands with one or two of his new found friends, gave a thumbs-up sign, a mock salute, and left.

  *

  “As far as we know ol’ Jacky boy only disposed of five prostitutes and they all lived within a mile or two of each other, believe it or not, and yet in 1888 he had several hundreds to choose from” DI. Selby enlightened us on beginning our walking tour of London’s East End. “Yer know I could never understand why they didn’t get the bugger’s prints” DC. Willis said out of the blue. Selby glanced at me “Yer know my son that would ‘ave been a good idea, but it wasn’t until 1901 that Sir Edward Henry in India worked it out, then the English police adopted the system. Mind you, there must ‘ave been any amount of fingerprints left at each crime scene, although at that time, we didn’t ‘ave the expertise to process them anyway” my dear old friend cleverly observed, however me like a clown had to have my two penneth and walked straight into dangerous argumentative territory. “I wonder just ‘ow many innocent men been ‘ung on the evidence of fingerprints?” I mockingly enquired. Dave threw me a glance that said ‘idiot’. DC. Willis gave out with an offbeat cough. I looked from one to the other “What?” I declared. “Well mate, you a Detective Sergeant an’ yer don’t even know fingerprints are considered infallible? No two people ‘ave the same bloody prints, every bleedin’ idiot knows that” Selby growled with a friendly dig in my ribs, and that’s when clever bollocks me, really put a spanner in the works “Ah, that’s just it Dave, perhaps we are all bloody idiots at that, to believe it” I offered back. Dave glanced at DC. Willis and winked “‘Ow d’yer make that out me ol’ mate?” he asked as though speaking to a ten-year-old. Now it was my turn to look towards Willis, I gave him a grin. “Well yer might smile me ol’ pal but listen ‘ere, who says no two set of prints are the same?” Suddenly Dave burst out laughing “Yer silly bleedin’ sod” he croaked through a fit of laughter. “No no ‘ang on a minute Dave so why do they say it? Go on answer me that” I rattled off in one breath. “Well it’s been tried and proven by experts, yer bloody dim wit” Dave reminded me. That’s when I fired my big guns “yeah, that’s exactly what I mean Dave ‘experts’, them bloody Generals that thought up the battle of the bleedin’ Somme, wasn’t they experts? So I still say ‘ow many poor innocent buggers ‘ave been ‘ung on account of the sodden experts, who insist no two sets of prints are the same?” I broke off there. Selby had stopped walking in order to offer round his cigarettes, we then went through the ritual of lighting a cigarette, then DC Willis said through a cloud of smoke “Blimey Sarge you could be right at that”. However DI. Selby was having none of it. “No me ol’ mate, they’re not idiots, they know what they’re doin’” he replied in an unconvincing tone, then added two smoke rings to boost his argument. “Well they say that Dave because out of all the prints they’ve taken, they have yet to find two sets the same, anyway they couldn’t possibly know until they’ve taken everybody’s prints, So until they do” I left my argument there again and shrugged my shoulders, then nigh on choked my bleeding self, trying to blow one of Dave’s decorative smoke rings.

  “So what yer sayin’ is, the experts ‘ave got it all wrong” Dave smugly replied. “No what I’m sayin’ me ol’ mate is them so called experts are assuming no two sets of prints are the same, simply because they ‘aven’t come across two sets the same yet” I threw back with an equal amount of smugness and satisfaction. Dave stepped forward stretched out his hand and ruffled my hair. “Alright yer blonde bombshell, I don’t agree but still, ‘ave it your way” he finally capitulated. I pulled away straightening my hair “No, ‘ang on Dave, think about it, we’re only in this bleedin’ war because of them so called experts” I added as my closing argument. “Christ all bloody mighty, you’ve lost me completely now, what are you on about Bill?” he growled back in amusement. At this point I decided to let it go, but DC. Willis took it a step further “Yer know I can see what yer mean now sarge, them bleedin’ politicians they’re all supposed to be experts at negotiating, ain’t they?” he showed such poise and elegance in putting this argument forward that even I had to laugh. At this point DI. Selby with tears of lau
ghter now running down his face, put an arm around each of our shoulders and guided all three of the cleverest detectives in Britain across the road. “Come on you pair of clowns, let’s go and see if we can find ol’ Jacks’ ghost” he said gasping through fits of laughter. This of course cut off our debate instantly.

  Way off in the distance we heard the first wailings of an air raid warning, and as we manoeuvred our way into JTR’s old hunting ground, around the Whitechapel area, DC. Willis suddenly called out “What the bloody ‘ells that?” and pointed to a building which seemed to be coming towards us. It did in fact take several seconds before any of us realised the front wall of the whole building was actually collapsing, and had we stayed where we were, three of the best police officers in Britain would have been buried alive. Fortunately for us DC. Willis’s warning came just in time, although funnily enough it wasn’t until best part of the building had collapsed that we heard the bloody bomb explode, and I’m sure I speak for all three of us when I say three very nervous men quickly vacated the scene. However on doing so we found ourselves in the wrong bloody street. Instead of going into Bucks Row where dear ol’ Jack had left his first victim, Mary Anne Nicholls, no doubt because us highly intelligent guardians of the law had been involved in a heated discussion about fingerprints, DI. Selby had inadvertently taken us into Hanbury Street where of course Annie Chapman’s body was found.

  “Never mind we’ll ‘ave a quick shifty around ‘ere, then move on to Bucks Row” he informed us, then a second or two later more or less, he repeated an earlier remark “Mind you it’s like I said, since then they’ve changed the names of them bloody streets.” DC. Willis and me nodded in agreement. I didn’t really understand why we bothered to acknowledge, because by now everyone knew only to bloody well the street names had been altered ages ago.

  Anyway we didn’t have much time to dwell on the subject. As Selby opened his mouth to speak again, an open back lorry slowly edged its way into the middle of this narrow street, and with a pair of twin Pom Pom guns which were fitted on the back of said lorry, suddenly began to open fire furiously at a bothersome Junkers 88 Bomber which had been trapped in the beam of a searchlight. “Jesus where in God’s name did they come from?” DC. Willis yelled in amazement as we all dithered about on the curb looking for somewhere to hide. “I don’t know, but he’s making enough bleedin’ noise, wherever the bugger came from” Selby quickly replied. Just to let them know I was still with them I almost screamed above the noise of those bleedin’ guns “Yeah and now ol’ Jerry knows them guns are ‘ere, he’ll soon be comin’ after ‘em, so I suggest we take a bleedin’ powder quick”.

  17:

  A BREAKTHROUGH

  Back at the Bow Road police station Dave Selby told me and DC. Willis to find somewhere to rest for a while. So after Willis had cadged a couple of cups of tea, we commandeered an empty holding cell to relax in. While sipping tea and puffing on a cigarette, which we must have been doing for about an hour, a uniformed sergeant came through the door and presented each of us with a plate of buttered toast. “‘Ere boys you look like you need this,” he said in a fatherly tone, while placing the plates side by side on a small chair. As we both offered our thanks to the sergeant, DI Selby popped his head around the cell door “I don’t suppose you’ve got a slice or two left over sergeant?” he enquired in a hopeful way. The sergeant, who must have been a man rushing towards his 60th birthday, gave Dave a friendly smile “I think we can rustle up one or two more for you Sir” he answered slipping through the door.

  Dave sat on the edge of a small table that had been secured to an old windowless wall opposite the door. He looked first at me, then at Willis, his face turned serious “Now look fellas we came ‘ere in the first place hoping to find someone of German origin, you know, someone connected to the fatherland amongst these poor bloody retch’s that Jackie boy obviously didn’t like” Selby began, while both Willis and myself listened patiently as we knew only too well this would be a long drawn out recital “Well as it ‘appens” he went on “it makes no bloody difference if there is a connection, because all we’re interested in is catching the bleedin’ bastard before ‘e does worse than just leaving a few torches lying about for ‘is mates to see. Now what I suggest, first thing in the morning you Tony, commandeer a car from the pool somewhere so we’ll ‘ave wheels, but before we do anything else, I want to pay that ol’ girl in Old Ford another visit, coz I think we can learn one or two things from ‘er. Right now get some rest, then it’s up early tomorrow” he finally concluded. I of course asked him to repeat it on account I’d fallen asleep halfway through, he simply said “Bollocks”.

  So now it turns out all three of us were up, washed, shaved and dressed ready to face the world at 6am in the bloody morning. “Right, it’s Old Ford Road first, see the lady who likes wearing a pair of peed in bloomers around ‘er face” Dave smiled, giving his first order of the day. “Yeah and I can pop in see ‘ow my folks are doin’” I put in for good measure. “Strange yer should say that Bill, coz I was about to suggest it” DI Selby informed me with a knowing grin.

  As Dave and I walked through the yard of Bow police station we were obliged to wait by the stables gate, until DC. Willis could manoeuvre a black Wolseley car from around the back of a long-forgotten parking area, which had been designed some time ago no doubt to accommodate several police horse-drawn carriages. At length with the help of two or three police officers, he managed to negotiate this big black vehicle across the yard, past the horse stables and out through a side gate, straight onto an almost quiet street.

  *

  When Cpl: Fletcher finally stepped from the train at Whitechapel that morning, he considered spending a night on a British underground train in wartime, was something he would definitely not recommend to any of his fellow countrymen. It had appeared to him that every time an anti-aircraft gun had fired, the train would stop and wait for an hour to let the marauding aircraft clear the sky. They’d been through this ritual several times throughout the night simply because of the flashes thrown out from the live rail, which these electric lines constantly discharged, could give an enemy pilot a target to aim for.

  The only consolation he could derive from this experience was the fact that he’d been travelling on one of the older trains, that allowed him to open a door for himself, and seeing as he’d been travelling in an empty carriage, he’d decided it to be a good time to dispose of his two childhood nut and bolt devices which still lay dormant in his briefcase. Making sure all lights in this lonely carriage were dimmed, he’d slowly opened one of the doors just enough to throw his first nut and bolt, which he quickly did, and was instantly rewarded with a bright flash followed by a dull thud. Apart from that nothing else happened, nevertheless he had achieved the satisfaction of knowing his childhood device still worked. He’d therefore decided to next rid himself of the second device. He’d disposed of this one through another door further down the carriage, but was sadly disappointed on not hearing a miniature explosion which should have followed. Instead what he’d heard was someone out of sight in the dark, probably a railway worker yell, “Fuck that” followed by complete silence. Cpl: Fletcher had quickly closed the carriage door, went back to his original seat, sat with his eyes closed, waiting patiently for the train to continue its journey. Of course he had no way of knowing that the railway worker would report the incident to the police, and also present them with the evidence.

  *

  On visiting my parents that morning, DI. Selby and myself learned ol’ fritz had very seriously tried to destroy all the docks the previous night. Apparently the East India Docks “‘Ad been delivered of bloody thousands of them bleedin’ fire bombs (incendiary bombs)” was the way my dear old dad phrased the event. My mother, not to be outdone, told us that jerry had also had a go at St. Pauls Cathedral. “Look” she added “you can still see the fires” she pointed in the general direction, and sure enough at a quick glance we could see some thick smoke rising from around
dear old St. Pauls, and that got me seriously thinking. I decided right there and then my mum and dad must move away from this bloody battle zone. It also struck me that Florrie May and I could do likewise, ‘Yeah’ I thought, we could all move in together, vacate London, start afresh, in Essex, maybe Dagenham or Romford, then again there’s that quaint little old village called Hornchurch where they use a wooden shack for a police station. However all these plans had to be shelved for the time being, because at this moment DI: Selby along with DC: Willis was saying their goodbyes to my folks and urging me to join them.

  Now finally we were able to pursue Dave Selby’s quest to have another word with the old cockney lady, who believed peeing in her bloomers and covering her face with them would save her from being gassed. This time one knock and the old girl’s door swung open. “Ah, I was aspectin’ yous bleedin’ lot” she greeted us. “Well that’s worked out just right then mother” Dave informed her as all three of us entered the old girls front room. “‘Ere yer ‘ansome bugger, sit over there” she indicated a chair for DC: Willis. “Right thanks ma” the handsome sod replied. By now Dave had already grabbed a chair for himself, while I stood around thinking I’d probably end up sitting on the old girl’s lap, “Ah now you, yer big bleedin’ lumux, can sit yerself down on that little bugger of a stool, look over there, just beside that bleedin’ ambitious pot plant. Bleedin’ thing” her monologue stopped there for the time being as she treated herself to a pinch of snuff. She then took a big white handkerchief from her pinafore pocket and gave one gigantic sneeze into it, then, she continued where she left off. “Don’t know whether it wants to live or die, like the rest of us silly sods” she turned to Selby “Now young man, what are yer awantin’ of us thisa bleedin’ time?” she put the question to Selby in pure old cockney, only this time with a touch of old Irish brogue thrown in. Dave gave her a big grin, but before he had a chance to speak I jumped in with “We’ve made this return trip especially for that cup of tea you offered us earlier mum” to which she quickly responded with “Oh, yer ‘ave ‘ave yer, well yer can make it yer bleedin’ self, coz I ainna gonna move from this ‘ere ableedin’ chair, now then!” Now with a grin all over his face, DC: Willis hopped to his feet “I’ll do it, where’s the kettle?” he managed while still posing with a wide grin and trying desperately to hold back a fit of laughter, “With the rest of them bits and a-pieces bleedin’ jerry left me with last night, in I daresay what’s left of me bleedin’ kitchen” She jerked her thumb to indicate the kitchen which was next door. She sighed then went on “An’ will yer be-a-lookin’ at that load of bleedin’ junk them lazy buggers ‘ave left me a-stuck out in me bleedin’ front yard?”