by Mark Dawson
A hundred notes in each wedge.
A dozen wedges.
Serious money.
Big George Grimes was definitely up to no good.
The bins were pushed up against the side of the house, badly cleaned and spilling rubbish. A pair of rats scampered into the garden as he approached. He opened them and peered inside: they smelt foully of rotten food and rodent faeces. On top of the garbage was a flash of white cloth. He covered his mouth with his jacket sleeve and yanked it out. A white cotton terry towel, smeared with slime from the bin, but still pungent with an ether-like odour. Charlie brought it closer to his nose. It was strongly acrid, almost dizzying; he winced. Chloroform? He put the towel into an evidence bag and put it in the boot of his car.
It was ten o’clock when he parked next to the police telephone box on the Kingsland Road. He unlocked it and called Paddington mortuary, eventually connecting to a clerk in the administrative office.
“D.S. Charles Murphy, Scotland Yard. “You had a body brought in a few hours ago.”
“Had seven last night.”
“Name’s George Grimes. Could you check for me?”
There was a pause as the clerk referred to his records. “Yes, we’ve got him. What about it?”
“When’ll the P.M. be?”
“Not until tomorrow or Wednesday, most likely. Got a few stiffs in the queue. Heart attacks, the siren, they’re dropping like flies. Yours’ll have to wait in line.”
“He’s a policeman. It can’t be expedited?”
“Wouldn’t matter if he were the Pope. Not without a note from the coroner.”
“Would a toxicology report be included?”
“Not normally, no.”
“Can you arrange it?”
“Certainly.”
o o o
THE SIREN SOUNDED AT JUST BEFORE FOUR. They ignored it. Charlie fiddled with the embroidered edging of his apron as he waited for the meeting to start. It was a full turn-out, but that wasn’t surprising: George had been a popular member of the Lodge. Charlie glanced around the Temple. The traditional black and white checkerboard carpet; the Bible, the Carpenter’s Square and the Compasses. Two dozen brawny detectives all dressed the same, lounge suits topped by aprons: the simple folded one of the Entered Apprentice, the tassled apron worn by Fellow Craft Masons, the ornate version worn by Masters.
Alf McCartney was last into the room. The Chaplain rose and delivered a short prayer, and then McCartney stood. “We meet tonight to celebrate the life of George Grimes. He was a young man, not long on the Square, but he loved the Craft and we were fond of him. His loss is a tragedy, a sorry waste. But life goes on. The work of the Lodge goes on. That is how he would have wanted it and so that is what we are going to do. With that in mind, there will be a Festive Board after the meeting tonight. Brothers Nicholson and Burgess have arranged several crates of ale. Tonight, we drink to George’s memory.”
Suits took his seat again, next to D.D.I. John Simons. The men applauded and Charlie joined in, thinking about George and Alf and the other men at the Lodge. He’d been a Mason for two months. He’d expected to just tolerate it, use it for its benefits and that was that, but he had surprised himself by how much it had come to mean to him. Some of the things they said and did would be derided by the Profane as foolish, but they took on a special quality within the Temple. There was something about it, a fraternal association separate from the outside world, bound together by history and ritual. Like family. His own had disowned him but he had found the possibility of another.
The rest of the evening’s business was transacted. The meeting took the usual form: a ritual, a prayer, communications from the United Grand Lodge and the Provincial Grand Lodge, other minor matters.
A large ante-room adjoined the Temple and the usual Festive Board had been set up on the long table. Three crates of ale were stacked at the end of the room. Charlie took a plate and helped himself to slices of pork and turkey and a serving of salad. The spread was not as generous as before the War but it was still better than the Profane would have been able to manage. The cuts of meat were on the ration and almost impossible to find, certainly in these quantities. Another benefit of Masonry, favours owed and called in.
He followed Alf to the bar.
“Sir.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m sorry about George.”
“I’ve lost men before but you never get used to it. Always a terrible shock.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
“The way he was on the telephone. He was frightened, sir. It was more than just anxiety about the investigation.”
“So you drove over after you left me?”
“A little later. I went home first.”
“And then?”
“I knew something was wrong so I went inside. He was where you saw him. Shot.”
“What then?”
“I called the locals.”
McCartney shook his head. “I’d rather you hadn’t done that. Their jurisdiction, they’re saying. We might have been able to handle a quick enquiry from here, but now there’ll be red tape to sort out. I don’t know why you didn’t just telephone here rather than going through the Yard. Could’ve had it all straightened out without all this drama.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”
“I’m not upset.” He took out his pipe and turned it in his fingers. “Poor bloody George. What else?”
“I expect you know everything else, sir. What do Timms and Regan think?”
“They think it’s straightforward.”
“Suicide?”
“Of course. Why—you’re not sure?”
He thought about mentioning his return visit. The bag of money in the Anderson shelter, the stinking rag in the bin. It wasn’t kosher, though, breaking into a locked crime scene. He’d be on a fizzer if McCartney found out. Something to keep to himself for the time being. “They’re probably right.”
“Probably? There’s no room for equivocation, sport. What’s on your mind? Spit it out.”
“It’s just a feeling, sir. Something about it. He wasn’t behaving like he was going to do himself in.”
“You didn’t know him as well as I did. He wasn’t a particularly competent officer but he was a good lad, for all his faults. He hasn’t been himself recently. It might be that your investigation was the final straw. The more I think about it, the less surprised I am. Tragic, though. Bloody tragic.”
McCartney took out his pipe and tapped the bowl against the side of his bin, emptying blackened bits of ash.
“What will happen now?”
“It’s Regan and Timms’ case. You’ll need to surrender your file to them. They might want to talk to you, too.”
“You want me to leave it?”
“I’d rather it was handled from here, by lads who knew him. If your guv’nor gives you any gyp, tell him to telephone me.”
The room was suddenly filled with shouts and exclamations. Men gathered around the east-facing window. Charlie joined them and gawped: vapour trails headed towards the East End where a white cloud rose into the sky. It climbed several hundred feet, inky at the bottom, blackening at the edges, white-grey on top. It was growing, expanding, billowing outwards and upwards. It was smoke, not so much single columns of smoke as a huge continuous sheet slung over the East End. The sparkling bombers rearranged themselves into nose-to-tail formations and circled around and through the column. Their patterns were so precise they looked like fairground chair-o-planes. As one set of bombers left the target area another swept in to take its place.
Alf McCartney stood beside him. “That’s that, then, sport. Puts our problems into perspective. Adolf’s finally arrived.”
CHAPTER 24
MIDNIGHT. Frank made his way down Shaftesbury Avenue. The satchel over his shoulder was full of copied photographs. He had written across the bottom of each.
MISSING. EVE
MURPHY. REWARD FOR INFORMATION.
Savile Row’s telephone number printed beneath.
He glued them to lamp-posts, post-boxes, railings and walls. He left them on tables, on bars, in shop windows. He handed them to tramps and brasses and promised them a ton if they could tell him where she was. He had worked his way through a third of them so far. He was going to need more.
A couple of elderly lads in the ARP, both sporting medals from the Great War, made their way down Shaftesbury Avenue towards him. Good lads. Frank had volunteered to rejoin the Regiment the day after Chamberlain’s announcement last year; the Army medico had taken one look his gammy leg and asked how he managed with it. “I do alright,” he’d said, but the doctor’s mind was already made up. Lame. He didn’t even give him the chance to show how he coped. Damaged goods, that’s what he was. The Army didn’t want him. Stay in the Force, the doc said. Do you bit nicking crims.
“What are you doing, sir?”
Frank took out his Warrant Card and badged the wardens.
“Best get into shelter, Inspector. They’ll be back tonight.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I’m serious, sir. Find a shelter. What they’ve done to the East End— you wouldn’t credit it.”
“Thanks, lads.”
Frank left them and walked on.
The streets were empty.
The Phoney War was over. People knew what the Luftwaffe had done to Poland, the Low Countries, the French. It wasn’t hard to imagine what a five-hundred pound bomb would do to a building.
The fire on the horizon painted a vivid picture.
The siren sounded, long up and down howls.
Frank looked up at the sky.
Nothing, not yet.
He walked to Maddox Street.
He knew he would end up there.
The door opened as he approached and a man stepped onto the street. He was wearing military green. Frank moved aside to let him pass, caught his eye—the soldier ducked his head, shamed.
Marianne noticed him as she was closing the door. She waited for him in the doorway, light framing her.
“Detective Inspector.”
He nodded down the street. “Careful. The ARP’s out tonight. You’ll get in trouble.”
“Better come in quick, then.”
She shut and bolted the door behind him.
“You look done in.”
“Been out all night.”
She stood on tip-toe and kissed him.
Frank heard the rumble of engines from outside.
“Here they come again.”
Marianne re-arranged a thick drape across the door.
Engines throbbed in his gut as the planes passed overhead.
“Working late?”
“Something like that.”
“Come upstairs. I’ll make you a drink.”
A drink. That would be good. A double whiskey. A gin. Something to help him take his mind off things. But he knew he couldn’t. It would dull his mind, and he couldn’t afford that. He needed to be sharp. Clear. Focussed.
She went into the bathroom. He went into the bedroom. It was decorated in an Oriental style: thin gauze sheets hung from the ceiling, a futon on the floor. A joint smoked in the ashtray. Embers smoked in the grate. The room smelled sweet. Frank took off his jacket and shoes and sat down on the futon. The sheets were disturbed.
She came out, her make-up reapplied and her scent freshened.
“You look awful,” she said.
“Thank-you.”
“One of these days I swear you’re going to tell me what’s the matter.”
He stared at the wall.
“Drink?”
“I’m alright.”
“Suit yourself.” She took the joint and lit it, inhaling deeply. She passed it to Frank. He put it to his lips and did the same.
“You must think I’m blind. You think I haven’t noticed? Whatever it is, it’s been bothering you for weeks.”
She switched off the light, padded across the bedroom and moved the black-out aside. She opened the sash window, the breeze fluttering the edges of her negligee. The moon was bright; silvered light cast dark shadows against the wall.
“You know you can talk to me.”
She sat down next to him.
Frank looked at his hands. He was dead-beat.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
She pushed him backwards until he was laid out flat. She undressed, then straddled him. She started to unbutton his shirt.
“It’s my daughter.”
She finished with the buttons and helped him slip the shirt off. “Giving you lip?”
“I wish that’s all it was.”
“Then what?”
“We had an argument. She ran away.”
“She’s testing you, dear. Kids—you know what they can be like. Girls at her age— she’s just making a point. She’ll be back.”
“It was three months ago.”
“Oh.” She paused, unsure what to say. She undid his belt, then his trousers.
“My wife blames me. Said it was the way I treated her. She’s thrown me out of the house. I’m living in the bloody Section House.”
She kissed his neck, then down his chest.
“She’s probably right, though, Julia—probably was my fault. I’m too hard on her. Too strict. You think you’re doing the right thing for them but then, I don’t know, you wonder, did I? Did I? Was I a good father?”
A tumbling and a crash from outside; a starburst of white light was thrown across the room.
“You poor thing. Always worrying about other people. Who’s going to worry about you?”
Frank closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 25
SUNDAY 8th SEPTEMBER 1940
FRANK WOKE AND OPENED HIS EYES. He was lying on the futon, Marianne beside him. Her breathing was deep and steady. Frank rolled away from her and onto the floor.
His clothes were scattered on the floor. He dressed quietly and left a pound note on the table.
He descended the stairs, opened the door and then shut it silently behind him. It was early: cold and fresh. He caught sight of a clock: half six. Hell. Still tired, he headed east towards West End Central. He could grab a couple of hours of kip in his office.
This was the scraggier end of the West End, with cheaper hotels, a handful of shops, and buildings that had seen better days. Free French posters were stuck on walls, the streets around here popular with the Frogs. A police Railton was parked at the intersection of Mill Street and Conduit Street. The door to the car was open and Michael Fraser, a D.C. from Savile Row, was speaking into the radio. His buck, D.C. Colin Winston, was talking to a pair of men next to one of the street’s surface shelters. Two P.C.s were nearby, looking into the shelter nervously. Frank crossed over to the car. “Alright, Fraser. What’s going on?”
“Dead girl, guv.”
A tremble of anxiety. “Do we know who?”
“No, guv. Not yet.”
“Murdered?”
“Strangled and cut up. Could be him.”
“What happened?”
“We came on early-turn at six. Patrolled the manor until ten past then we got a call from the Information Room. Report of a sudden death. We were up on Oxford Street at the time so we drove down pronto. The two gents over there”—he pointed to the upset-looking men—“it was them who found the body and called it in.” He referred to his notebook. “P.C. Knowles and P.C. Miles attended, saw what was what, and called the Yard. I was just calling the nick for reinforcements.”
“Where is she?”
“The shelter, sir.”
Fraser handed Frank a torch and he headed across. He concentrated on assessing the scene, anything to distract him from the dark vortex of thoughts that whirled beneath the surface, barely contained.
Surface shelters were supposed to offer somewhere safe for those who couldn’t get underground. They were built from brick and concrete with an iron roof a
nd were propped up against the sides of buildings. Problem was, the shortage of concrete plus jerry-rigged building meant they were unstable, more likely to collapse during a bomb blast than protect from shrapnel. Frank had heard them called sandwich shelters. If a bomb hit, the walls would be sucked out and the nine-inch thick concrete slab on top would drop and crush the people inside. Messy end. No-one much liked them but, since there were few gardens in the West End where you could put an Anderson, unless you were lucky enough to have a basement there wasn’t anywhere else to go. There were three on Conduit Street, constructed so that they were partly on the footway and partly on the road. Nothing unusual about them: oblong in shape, standard design and dimensions, bare brick on the outside, whitewashed walls within. The centre structure was the largest, with an entrance at both ends. The two on the outside had single entrances where they adjoined the middle shelter. Frank stepped closer to the nearest outside shelter and looked inside: empty. The usual smells hung in the air: damp mortar, urine, sweat, dirty washing.
He stepped back outside. There was a small item in the roadway between two of the shelters: the top of an electric torch. He crouched down to examine it and noticed a pair of legs extending a short distance from the entrance of the central shelter. He approached, the narrowing distance and angle revealing more details: a pair of feet, legs, disturbed skirts. A woman, lying on her back in the gutter that ran through the shelter, her feet pointing in the direction of New Bond Street. The right leg: raised, foot resting on brickwork in the corner of the shelter. The left leg: angled on the ground in the shelter entrance.
He drew breath.
He moved in closer. Her head was turned slightly to the left, a scarf covering her face. A pile of red hair spilled onto the cobbles, bedraggled and matted in the dirty water. She was wearing a pea-green camel-hair coat, a green jumper, a brown shirt, two pairs of bloomers. Good quality clothes.
He shone the torch onto the corpse. A pair of gloves was lying on the body, palms upwards, fingers pointing towards her throat. She wore a wristlet watch on her left arm. Frank checked it: it had stopped at just after two. Lying on the floor, near the left leg, was a box of Masters safety matches and a tin of Ovaltine tablets. A green woollen hat and an electric torch—missing its top—were on the floor between the left foot and the doorway.
