by Mark Dawson
He turned the doorknob. It was locked.
The front door to the neighbouring house opened. “What are you doing?” an elderly man in a dressing gown called over the dividing wall. “It’s two in the flaming morning.”
An elderly woman appeared behind him. Charlie took out his warrant card, held it up and lit it with his torch. “Police, sir. Have you seen the man who lives here tonight?”
“Didn’t see him, but we heard him come in.”
“When?”
“Must’ve been a couple of hours ago, I reckon.”
“Three hours, I’d say.”
“We’d just finished listening to the news. We heard the door shut.”
“Have you seen or heard anything since then?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“You haven’t seen him leave?”
“No, but if something’s the matter, George gave us a spare key. We looked after the house for him if he went away.”
The woman went inside and returned with a key. Charlie took it and unlocked the door. He opened it. “Hello?” he called out, but there was no reply.
He went inside.
Light shone beneath the door to the living room.
He opened it.
Grimes was sitting in an armchair. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe, open to the waist, the sleeves rolled up. Shaving foam covered one half of his face. There was a small wound on the side of the head: the size of a shilling, blackened around the edges. Blood and brains had sprayed against the wall. A gun was on the floor.
The old woman had followed him inside and was now halfway into the living room. She screamed. Charlie shooed her back into the hall. “Go back to your house.”
“He’s—he’s—”
Charlie pushed her gently into the hall and closed the door behind him.
“Call Scotland Yard. Give them this address, tell them Detective Sergeant Charles Murphy from C Department requests immediate assistance.” The woman fell back against her husband, her hand covering her mouth. “Detective Sergeant Charles Murphy, C Department.”
“Yes.”
“And tell them to call Savile Row station to report that George Grimes has been found dead.”
“I—”
“Go on—now!”
He followed them outside, pushed the door closed and went back into the lounge. Static hissed from the radio. He clicked it off and sat in the sofa opposite the armchair. He stared at Grimes. The investigation might’ve been enough of a motive to do away with himself. He must’ve known he’d lose his job, that he’d probably be looking at corruption charges. He probably thought he’d end up doing a stretch. The bench never looked kindly on crooked policemen and McCartney was right, coppers in stir always had it especially bad. Running into faces he’d put away. A bloke who bore a grudge, a homemade shiv— Thinking about it like that, you could believe it. Suicide didn’t seem so strange.
But why call him?
Why arrange to meet, then top himself?
And the way he’d sounded.
Not safe.
Being there yesterday was bad enough.
Questions.
It all smelt hooky.
He looked at his watch. Next door would call 999; the Yard would call the Hackney police; it’d take the fellows there fifteen minutes to come, twenty at the outside. He had twenty minutes, if he was lucky, to examine the crime scene before the Hackney lot arrived to bugger it up.
He breathed out, settling his thoughts. The body wasn’t going anywhere; he’d get to that last. He put on the pair of thin cotton gloves he carried in his coat pocket and made an inspection of the room, starting at the periphery and moving inwards in a decreasing circle: a few photographs and an empty bottle of scotch on the sideboard; a woman’s coat laid across the back of a chair; a pair of shoes and Grimes’ suit tossed on the floor; the gun. He turned out the trouser pockets: a handful of change, a money clip, a leather wallet. The wallet held a few extra notes. Charlie put it back into the suit pocket. He picked up the gun by the corner of the butt: a Webley Mk VI, Metropolitan Police divisional station standard issue. He opened the chamber; five rounds in the six-round cylinder. The other one had gone through Grimes’ head. He put the gun back on the floor.
“Alright, George. Let’s have a look at you.”
He leant in close: the right eye stared ahead. Gravity had pulled the left one deep into the socket. The gunshot entry wound was on his right temple. A wider, jagged exit wound was adjacent on the other side of the head. He followed the splatter of blood across the room, finding small shards of skull and brain matter along the trajectory. He compared angles, satisfied himself that the track was consistent with where the gun appeared to have been fired. He examined the splatter on the wall closely, the symmetry suggesting a ninety-degree hit, consistent with the position of the body and the wound. Grimes shot himself sitting down.
The windows were shut and locked. Nothing was out of place. Nothing suspicious. He went over to the body again. He laid his palm flat against Grimes’ chest. Even through the thin cotton gloves, he could still feel plenty of heat. He manipulated the fingertips: no rigor. He hadn’t been dead for long. Less than an hour, certainly.
He searched the rest of the house.
Bedroom: more clothes strewn over the floor, another bottle of booze on the nightstand. Grimes certainly had a thirst on him. He opened the wardrobe and poked around inside: more suits, a couple of woman’s dresses. He brought out a small suitcase. He opened it on the bed: packed with a change of clothes, a toilet bag and forty pounds. Decent money. He put the suitcase back in the wardrobe and closed the door. Bedside tables: women’s frillies in one drawer. Add that to the ladies’ coat downstairs: George was shacked up.
Second bedroom: bank statements in a folder inside the desk. Three hundred and fifty six pounds in an account at Barclays in Soho Square was serious money. No straight copper would have that kind of dough. Charlie already thought Grimes was bent. Now he knew for sure: he was very bent.
Bathroom: a bath had been drawn and was still full of tepid water. A razor had been placed on the side of the bath, next to a bowl of shaving foam and a brush. Both were wet. The cabinet contained aftershave, some cotton wool and a bottle of prescription sleeping tablets.
Downstairs again.
Kitchen: empty cans, wrappers, dirty plates in the sink. A packet of Senior Service fags on the counter, a couple left inside. Charlie was checking the window when two dark figures passed on the pavement outside.
He went back into the lounge: two detectives pushed through the door and came into the hallway. Charlie showed them his warrant card and they reciprocated: a D.C. and a D.S. from Stoke Newington C.I.D.
“Bloody hell. What a mess.”
“He’s a detective, from Savile Row. I was investigating him for corruption. He didn’t arrive for a meeting, I came and found him like this.”
“We’ll need a statement.”
“Of course. I’m just going to catch a breath of air.”
“Right you are, sir.”
A half a mile away, on the roof of Stoke Newington Police Station, the siren slowly cranked up its eerie howl. The curtains flicked back next door, the face of the old woman pressed against the window. Charlie looked up into the sky: nothing disturbed the black.
o o o
THE HACKNEY LADS MARSHALLED the scene and Charlie watched. They did it efficiently, by the book, and he stayed out of the way. Two men checked the house: they found the suitcase, the money, the statements. Downstairs, the police surgeon arrived and pronounced life extinct.
“What time?” Charlie asked.
“Couple of hours ago. Around midnight.”
“Suicide?”
“Suicide. No question about it.”
Charlie went outside. He put his back to the wall and breathed in deep. He lit a cigarette and thought of George Grimes, dead in his armchair, his brains blown across the room. He looked back at the house. One of the local slips c
ame down the path. He nodded at Charlie as he passed, heading for his car and the radio.
Another car, a Meteor, pulled up. Two men got out. More detectives. He couldn’t see them in the darkness so he swung up his torch and directed light into their faces: Percy Timms and Albert Regan, Sergeants from Savile Row.
“Get that out of my face, pal,” Timms said, shielding his eyes.
Regan squinted at him. “Who are you?”
“Charlie Murphy. Sorry—I couldn’t see you.”
“Grimes?”
“He’s inside.”
“And?”
“Shot himself.”
“Bloody hell.”
“What are you doing here, chaps?”
“The Hackney lot called.”
A third car drew up. Alf McCartney got out.
The Super looked harried. “Lads,” he said. “What’s happened?”
“He’s shot himself.”
McCartney removed his hat.
“Did he call you again?”
“No, sir. I came to see if I could find him, like you said.”
“And you did.”
“I’m afraid so.”
McCartney clenched his jaw.
“Right.” Timms took off his hat. “Come on, Albert. Let’s have a ready-eye.”
Charlie started towards the front door behind them.
McCartney took him by the shoulder.
“Guv?”
“Go home, Charlie. Get some sleep. I’ll look after it from here.”
PART THREE
“BLACK SATURDAY”
— September & November 1940—
CHAPTER 23
SATURDAY 7th SEPTEMBER 1940
CHARLIE MURPHY PUSHED THE COVERS ASIDE. The pitiful scene in George Grimes’ living room repeated itself whenever he closed his eyes: Grimes slumped in his armchair, his dressing gown open to the waist, his eyes staring dumbly, the side of his head caved in. He was dog-tired but there was no point in staying in bed; he wouldn’t be able to sleep again now and there were things he needed to do. He got up, showered and dressed. He poured himself a bowl of wheaties and polished off the last slice of the mock apricot pie that he had bought at the corner shop on Wednesday. Couldn’t get real apricots now. Grated carrots and plum jam instead, the shopkeeper’s wife had told him.
He checked his watch as he opened the communal door: a quarter before six. He got into his car and drove East again. The streets were quiet and he wound down the window, cool air whipping into the car and helping him shake off the fugue of his wasted night. He passed Liverpool Street station and turned onto the Kingsland Road, squeezing the throttle down and staking advantage of the clear run. The Humber was certainly a luxury, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be feasible to run it when petrol went on the ration, but it was certainly useful for getting about town and now, with the road empty and the sun rising above the rooftops of the low buildings on either side, it was enjoyable.
He parked in front of Grimes’ house, got out of the car and took out his murder bag from the boot. The door to the house was locked. He took out his lock pick, knelt before the door and examined it: no sign it had been forced—the panel was clean and undamaged, without the dent a booting-in would have left. The lock was in one piece, too. Charlie slid his pick and a small tension wrench into the lock and lifted the pins one by one until they clicked.
He turned the handle, opened the door and went inside.
He turned around and read the handwritten note on the door: DON’T FORGET: IDENTITY CARD, RATION BOOK, GAS MASK. A coat and hat on a hatstand, shoes neatly placed, a handful of loose change and a set of keys on the telephone table. Everything looked normal, domestic, as if Grimes would be back shortly. Charlie ran his finger across the surface of the table. It was sad and pathetic. He shut the front door and flicked through the address book next to the telephone. Nothing stood out.
Charlie went through into the sitting room. He put down the murder bag and surveyed again: the blood-soaked armchair, the blood on the floor around it, the splatter on the wall. He took out his notebook and wrote SUICIDE? at the top of a blank page. He moved through the house again, picturing the scene, trying to imagine what might have happened. What did he know about Grimes? He was under investigation on serious charges, so it was certainly likely that he was depressed, worried about the mess he was in. That all made perfect sense. Charlie pictured the scene from last night: Grimes was in a dressing gown, there were flecks of shaving foam on his cheeks and half of his face was clean of whiskers. He would have undressed. Drawn a bath. Started to shave. What then? He got out of the bath before he was finished, put on a dressing gown, went into the sitting room, took out a gun he had probably swiped from the armoury at work, sat down, shot himself.
No.
Didn’t make sense.
Too many questions.
He noted them one by one: why would Grimes call and ask to see him and then top himself? Why call him when he had already taken a gun from work? Why start to shave but finish halfway through? If he was making himself presentable before putting a bullet in his head, surely he would have finished the job?
The last question suggested he was interrupted.
He wrote MURDER? across the top of the next page, and walked the house again. A different movie played: this time, Grimes telephoned him, made the appointment, and came back to the house. It was a Friday night—perhaps he had planned to speak to Charlie and then go out for a few jars to help forget his troubles. He would have got into the bath and started to shave. There was a knock on the door. He put on a robe, went to answer it. No signs of forced entry confirmed Grimes had let him—or them—into the house. So, if he was killed, it could be assumed that he knew his murderer well enough to let him inside.
Charlie continued. Grimes and his visitor or visitors went through into the sitting room. A discussion ensued—something was said, things took a turn for the worse, for the violent. George was a big bloke and wouldn’t have gone down without an almighty scrap, so they—and Charlie decided there would have been more than one of them—must have subdued him first. But there were no marks on George’s body save the gunshot: no other head trauma, no defensive marks. Perhaps they knew him, perhaps he trusted them. So, somehow, they put him in the armchair, put a gun to his head and made it look like suicide.
Why would someone want George Grimes dead?
Charlie put his murder bag on the floor and opened it. His father had given it to him, one he had used from when he was a D.C.I. working cases on the Murder Squad. Two sections opened out, dividing into a number of compartments. Everything was perfectly organised: fingerprint outfit; metal footprint forma; twenty-four inch boxwood rule; sixty-six foot measuring tape; map measure; compass; torch; pencil torch with reflector; lenses; clinical thermometer; scissors; probes; lancets; pliers; tweezers; test tubes; glass boxes; standard thermometer; small cardboard boxes; overalls; rubber apron; rubber gloves; disinfectants; soap-box; sponge; towels; napkins; statement paper; adhesive and transparent tape; envelopes; pocket books; labels; handcuffs.
With the aid of his magnifying glass and torch, he examined objects until he found sets of prints. He took a feather brush and dusted an application of black carbon powder over the distinctive whorl of a thumbprint on a clock in the bedroom. A few strokes of the brush and the power adhered to the oils and moisture of the residue in the latent, exposing the pattern of the friction ridges until it stood out clearly. He took another couple of prints from the room: identical. Chances were, those were Grimes’ dabs. He marked one of the cards with GRIMES and used it as his control.
Starting in the hall, he examined each surface under the beam of the torch. There were prints everywhere, and, by using Grimes’ sample and the magnifying glass, he eliminated most. Two hours passed. Into the lounge: he found different prints. Prints on the sideboard, the mantelpiece, on a wooden chair back. There would have been coppers in here on Sunday morning; they were supposed not to touch anything, but they alwa
ys did. They would each have to be eliminated. He lowered the magnifying glass to the sideboard and examined a print, pressed a strip of lifting tape across the wood and carefully peeled it off, bringing an impression of the latent with it. Further pieces of tape removed additional prints. He stuck each piece of tape to a blank index card, marking where he had found them.
He went through into the kitchen again. He opened the cupboards and the larder. A bottle of milk was on the turn and starting to smell. He poured it down the sink. There was hardly any food in the house. Charlie remembered the packed case upstairs in the bedroom. No food, a suitcase ready to go, the forty pounds. It was beginning to look like George was planning a trip.
He went outside. The front garden was empty. He opened the gate and went through into the back. An Anderson shelter had been dug into the lawn: the raised hump covered with spoilage, a scraggy vegetable patch struggling atop it. Charlie lowered himself into the damp trench around the corrugated structure and tried the door: padlocked. He went to the garden shed, found a hoe and used it as a lever to pop the lock. The door opened. Charlie crouched beneath the low sill and went inside. It was dark, grey light edging the shapes of a toilet bucket, a shelf of paperbacks, a lantern, narrow seats alongside both walls. The floor was soaked, mud sucking at Charlie’s shoes as he stepped further inside. He saw something against the back wall: he reached out, squinting, his ankle bumping against something hard. A hessian sack was on the bench. He took it out into the garden and opened it.
Banknotes fastened with elastic bands.
Charlie took them out one by one:
