by Mark Dawson
There was no sign of her.
He turned the car and headed back towards home.
CHAPTER 9
CHARLIE REACHED THE SIGN OVER the pavement of Berwick Street: Bloom’s Sausages. A Jewish business: smoke oven in the basement, snack-bar on the ground floor, dressmakers upstairs. A metal urn held gallons of tea, a hob curled smoke into a blackened vent and the griddle spat burning fat. A dozen stools were fixed to the floor around a central table and booths were fitted to the wall, the red leather upholstery held together with criss-crossed grids of black tape. A half-dozen punters were eating breakfast: workers from the warehouses, blokes off the markets. Plates full of kosher smoked meat hash, challah toast, shakshuka, pickled cabbage, diced cucumber and tomatoes.
Nerves: he knew what he had decided to do would be unpopular; with the men at the nick, with his father, with Frank. Tough—there was nothing else he could do. It was this or the Labour Exchange. A difficult conversation, a couple of months lying low—it’d be worth it. If he played his cards right, he stood to do more than just keep his job.
Bloom’s was on the other side of Regent Street to the nick—it wasn’t local, and Charlie was glad of that. He didn’t want to bump into anyone who knew him. He fretted at a table in the back as Detective Superintendent Alfred McCartney brought over two cups of tea.
“Does your father know you telephoned me?”
“No, sir.”
“Your brother?”
“No-one does.”
“Probably best to keep it that way.”
“I agree.”
“We haven’t really spoken before, have we?”
“No, sir.”
“Your old man’s a good copper. My guv’nor twice, you know. My Sergeant when I was made Winter Patrol—must’ve been 1910—thirty years ago. Jesus Christ.”
Charlie stirred his tea. The small-talk made him uncomfortable
“What about you? I looked at your record. You’ve been in uniform a long time.”
“Fourteen years, sir.”
“Never fancied the C.I.D.?”
“Oh, yes—I’d love to.”
“So why not?”
“I’ve never been asked.”
“Really? You’re father wasn’t able to pull any strings for you?”
“He was against it.”
“Nepotism?”
“That’s what he said.”
“You can understand that.” McCartney eyed him. “Are you on the level?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you on the Square?”
Charlie tumbled it: Masonry. He had no truck with all that mystical nonsense, the weird get-ups and whatever foolish thing it was they worshipped. He’d rather be at home with his books than at one of their silly-arsed rituals. But maybe it could be helpful, and he had nothing against anything that might give him a leg-up. Everyone knew how being in the Craft greased the pole.
“I’ve never been asked.”
McCartney gave him a wink. “Well—an ambitious officer like you, that’s something to keep an eye out for.”
A waitress brought over two plates of fried salami and scrambled eggs. McCartney sliced the meat into neat portions.
“Shall we get down to it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard what I had to say this morning?”
Charlie had stood at the back of the mess. Standing-room only; a three-line whip as the new D.S. tore strips out of the men. “Yes, sir.”
“And you were there last night?”
“I saw it all.”
“What I said is true: the Commissioner is furious. So am I.”
I bet you are, Charlie thought. Not the sort of incident you’d want to mark your promotion. Indiscipline. A mess full of drunken men. A dozen injured prisoners threatening to sue. “Sir, can I speak frankly?”
“I prefer it.”
“What happened was a disgrace. The public need to trust us, especially now. We have to show them that they can. Empty measures won’t be enough. You said that heads would roll. I agree.”
“You’d be prepared to speak to that?”
“Yes, sir, I would.”
“What about your brother?”
Charlie paused. “What about him?”
“Come on, sport. He was in it up to his eyeballs. Three of the Italians identified him. He was involved.”
“I can’t speak against him, sir.”
“What if I was to say we left him out?”
“No charges?”
“Nothing formal. A bar on promotion, a temporary deduction from his wages.”
“That’s it?”
“If you give me the others.”
“And them?”
“As you say, a trial board won’t be enough. They’ll be disciplined and dismissal. The Commissioner is prepared to countenance their sacrifice in order to protect the reputation of the Force. It won’t pain me to lose them. They’re lazy, drunken grifters.” He chewed languorously. “What do you say?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good man.”
“And me? What do I get?”
McCartney smiled as he mopped salami around the plate. “Your report said you were ambitious. Good for you, sport, good for you.” He loaded his fork and put it into his mouth. “There’ll be compensations to make up for your inconvenience. The Commissioner’s gratitude. And I can be a valuable friend.”
He pressed: “But what does that mean, sir?”
“You say you have a yen to join the C.I.D.?”
Charlie nodded.
“An officer is moving on from the Flying Squad next year. There’ll be a vacancy for a young, vigorous thief-taker to fill his shoes. I could have you transferred. Would the Sweeney be of interest?”
Butterflies: “Very much.”
“Before you agree, you need to understand the consequences if you speak out.”
“I do, sir.”
“I need you to be sure. You’ll be roundly hated by the rank and file. They’ll see you as a snake—that doesn’t dissuade you?”
“No.”
“Good man. In that case, you’ll be transferred to C Department with immediate effect.”
o o o
MCCARTNEY LED HIM OUTSIDE. “You understand what you’ll be doing at the Yard?”
C Division—internal discipline. Investigating complaints. Chasing crooked colleagues. Hardly a glamorous posting, and not one likely to engender goodwill. “I believe so.”
“It’s dangerous work.”
“How so?”
“Spiritually dangerous. Temptation. You investigate a man who’s lost his way, he’s liable to tempt you with whatever it is that caused his own problem: money, mostly. Women.”
“I’ll be careful.”
McCartney ignored him. “But that’s the job, isn’t it? The police. The lads put themselves in harm’s way every day. London’s a cesspit, Charlie, with all manner of filth floating in it. Pederasts and perverts and degenerates—the scum of the earth. A good copper takes precautions. What I said earlier—you were interested?”
“Very, sir.”
“Working on the Sweeney will put you in temptation’s way. Chummy will offer all sorts so you turn a blind eye—financial inducements, the pleasures of the flesh. The Mysteries of the Craft will keep you clean. The All-Seeing Eye of the Great Architect will watch over you. The world has turned its back on morals and decency. Whores hawking the mutton all across Soho, homosexuals squealing in Piccadilly Circus. This is the heart of the bloody Empire, Charlie. Christ, go to the Windmill and you can pay pennies to see that bloody bastard van Damm’s birds take their kit off and the Attorney General says there’s nothing he can do about it.”
“I’m really very interested.”
“That’s settled, then. I’ll propose you at my lodge. We’ll have you sorted, no time at all.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Excellent.” McCartney took out his wallet and took out a pound note. “Get your
self a proper haircut. Short, back and sides. And go to Henry Poole. Savile Row. They make my suits. Best in London. I’ll telephone them this afternoon and let them know you’re coming. They’ll sort you out with a proper whistle. Tell him to put it on my account.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”
“Think nothing of it, old sport. Don’t go into work this morning. We can’t have you at Savile Row when the men find out what you’re going to do. Take a day off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Report to the Yard at tomorrow. Nine sharp. We need to start preparing your testimony.”
CHAPTER 10
FRANK WENT INTO HIS OFFICE AND SHUT THE DOOR. He picked up the telephone and had the operator connect him to the Yard. He filed a Missing Persons report and dialled his home number.
“Eve?”
“No, it’s me, darling.”
“Have you found her?”
“Not yet.”
“She wasn’t with him?”
“She was there earlier. I just missed her.”
“So where is she now?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“You believe him?”
“He wasn’t lying.”
Julia sobbed. “We’ve lost her.”
“Calm down, darling. We haven’t. She’ll come back or I’ll find her. One or the other.”
“It’s your fault, Frank,” she cried. “If you hadn’t lost your temper this would never have happened.”
Frank’s knuckles whitened around the receiver. “I’ll find her, love. I’ll speak to you later.”
He put the receiver down.
Frank looked at the files on his desk. The crime scene photographs had slipped out of their folder: a leg, a clasped hand. He felt his stomach curdle. The Ripper was out there, hiding in the blackout. Picking off victims. Leaving strangled bodies for them to find.
There was a knock on the door.
“What?”
“Alright, Frank?”
Harry Sparks. Jesus, Harry. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. He was completely out of control last night. It must’ve been the sauce, Frank thought. He’d been steaming drunk. He’d seen Harry lose his rag before when he was boozed but yesterday was something else. He’d been like a wild animal in the station. They’d had to drag him off the Wop who spat at him, no excuse for that sort of nonsense but the poor bastard really got paid. He was unconscious on the floor when they finally got them out of the way, blood on his face like it’d been poured over him.
“Where were you this morning?”
“Why?”
“McCartney had the whole nick in the mess.”
“What for?”
“Last night—the Wops have lawyered up. They’re bringing proceedings for battery. He’s spitting tacks about it.”
“Give it a couple of days. It’ll blow over.”
“He just got promoted. It doesn’t look good on him, does it? He said anyone involved will get their cards. I can’t afford that—Jesus, the way the old lady gets through cash, we’d be on the street in five minutes.”
“Relax, Harry.” Frank raised his hands. “It’s not going to happen. It’s all bluster—all for effect. He can threaten all he wants but unless him or the Wops get someone to back it up it won’t matter. And who’s going to grass on a mate, eh? No-one. Trust me: it’ll blow over.”
“Maybe.”
He thought about the Ripper. The fifth girl. The investigation. He didn’t have time to baby-sit Sparks.
“Are you alright, Frank?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look distracted.”
“I had an argument with Eve last night. She’s been seeing Harry Costello’s boy.”
Sparks laughed. “What?”
“It’s not funny.” Frank glared at him; Sparks stopped laughing.
“Which one?”
“Joseph.”
Sparks shook his head. “He’s a little bastard. Nicked him for pinching coupons last year.”
“His file’s as long as his bloody arm.”
“And you had a word with her?”
“Told her she had to knock it on the head. She
ignored me.”
“She’s at that age.”
“I clouted her.”
“You were right to.”
“No, I wasn’t, Harry. And I feel awful about it.”
“Don’t be daft. Have to show them who’s boss. Discipline. Hardly your fault.”
“No. I shouldn’t have done it, and now she’s done a runner.”
“She’s just playing up.”
“She went to see him and he told her to clear off. She hasn’t gone home. I’ve looked everywhere, her friends, everywhere I can think of. And there’s a bloody psychopath out there.”
Harry took Frank’s coat from the hook and tossed it at him. “Come on then,” he said. “I’ll give you a hand.”
CHAPTER 11
HENRY BURST INTO CHATTAWAY’S OFFICE.
“What’s going on?”
“Henry—”
“Why aren’t you publishing it?”
“Henry—”
“What’s wrong?
“Sit—”
“Have you even read it?”
“I’ve read it.”
“And?”
“There’s a problem.”
“But it’s a good piece.”
“It’s not that. It’s the report from last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sit down.”
Henry didn’t. “What’s going on?”
Chattaway was behind his desk. Another man sat in the sofa next to the wide picture window; Henry didn’t recognise him.
“Who’s that?”
“Frank Deakins,” the man said. “From legal.”
“Why do we need a lawyer here?”
Chattaway shuffled uncomfortably. “The article last night—there are some things—well, frankly, questions have arisen. We need to have them answered, old man.”
“What questions?”
Deakins had the morning paper on his lap. “This is a colourful article, Mr. Drake. Very colourful.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m saying that—”
“That’s my job. To make things interesting.”
“Up to a point.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police haven’t released the name of the victim yet, have they?”
“No. There’ll be an announcement later.”
“They haven’t released any information at all.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as a little strange: they’ve made so little public and yet you seem to have found out such a lot?”
“That’s what I do. Find things. That’s what I’m paid to do.”
Deakins put a pair of thin spectacles on his nose and read: “‘Death stalked the streets of Soho again last night as the Black-Out Ripper claimed a fifth victim. Police found the body of a local woman in a one-bedroom flat. The frenzied attack bears all the hallmarks of the psychopath who has caused terror in the West End since his first victim on 15th May. Police have yet to release details of the poor wretch who has fallen prey to the monster’s depraved appetite but a neighbour said that it was well-known that she worked as a prostitute. ‘We all knew it,’ the woman told this newspaper. ‘She had men in there at all hours.’”
Henry felt a stab of nervousness. “And?”
“The police have interviewed her neighbours. None of them thought she was a prostitute.”
“Then they didn’t speak to my source.”
“Who is?”
“She wants to remain anonymous.”
“But you have her details in your notes?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll need to speak with her.”
“Out of the question.”
“It’s not a request, Mr. Drake.”
Henry turned to
Chattaway. “I promised her. She’s frightened. I can’t.”
Deakins kept reading: “‘Another local woman confirmed that the victim worked in Soho’s notorious red-light district. She reported that she was seen taking a ‘large, heavy-set man’ into her flat at around midnight. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ the woman said. ‘What if that was the Ripper? It could just as easily have been me who’s dead up there.’ Powerful stuff.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“You are. You’re insinuating—I’ve made this up.”
“Not at all, Mr. Drake. I’m saying we’ll need to check your sources.”
“This has come from the police, I’m afraid,” Chattaway said. “Have to take it seriously.”
“What?”
“They’ve been on the telephone.”
“Saying?”
“That they suspect you’ve fabricated your story.”
“Who said that?”
“Inspector Murphy of Savile Row.”
“For God’s sake.”
“You know him?”
“I wrote a story about him, three years ago—he was accused of assault. I spoke to him last night. He’s biased, Chattaway! He still bears a grudge.”
Deakins folded his spectacles. “That’s as may be. But he’s raised some questions that we need to answer.”
“Please—this is nonsense.”
Chattaway shook his head. “We need to review your work. Deakins is going to do it. A full check over the last six months. Everything of yours that we’ve published. And you’ll need to provide him with your notes from last night.”
“This is a vendetta. Murphy’s trying to punish me.”
“I’m taking you off the news desk.”
“Edward—”
“No choice, I’m afraid.”
“And the Ripper?”
“I’m giving it to Peter Byatt.”
“That’s my story, Edward. You know it is. No-one else knows as much as I do. Byatt wouldn’t know where to start.”
“I’ve made my decision, Henry. And I’d remind you to be professional. I’ll need you to help him get started.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“I’m putting you on general duties. Starting with the horoscopes.”
