by Mark Dawson
The left leg, flexed at the knee, was extended and abducted. The right leg was raised, the hip abducted and the knee semi-flexed, the heel of the foot resting on a ledge. There were signs of scratching on the heel of the shoe. Whatever had happened to her, she’d put up a fight. The damage to the shoe was probably caused during a struggle, perhaps as she scrabbled for purchase while being forced to the ground.
Oh, Christ.
He knelt down over the body. He took the edge of the woman’s scarf between forefinger and thumb and lifted it up.
Oh, shit.
Her throat had been sliced wide open. The incision went deep, from ear to ear. Blood slicked down across the skin, gathered between the cobbles, tacky, damp.
He’d seen this before.
He directed the light onto her face.
Her mouth had been sliced on both sides, bloody incisions that cut up into the cheeks, almost to the earlobes. Flaps of skin hung down, the mouth widened horribly, a grisly rictus. There were red-tinged bruises around her throat and bruises on her face. Save the mutilations, she would have been pretty. A sweet face. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling.
Eve’s face sank down over the dead girl’s.
Empathy was suddenly too easy.
He steadied himself with a hand on the damp floor. He felt cold all over. Emptiness, anger, terror. Relief. Guilt. Hot blood roared in his temples, a dizzying rush of it and his balance deserted him. He closed his eyes until it returned.
He stepped outside. D.C. Fraser came over. “Are you alright, sir?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get down to the nick. Have Doctor Baldie sent over and as many men as they can spare.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then call the Yard. Detective Chief Inspector Tanner needs to be here as soon as possible.”
Frank pointed to the nearest uniform. “You, I want a crime scene perimeter from the shelter to three feet out into the road. No-one goes inside perimeter unless they’re Old Bill or I say they can. Especially reporters. If anyone tries, arrest them. And I’ll need to talk to your two fellows over there.” Biliousness suddenly struck.
“Sir?”
“I’m fine,” he spat. He managed to hold it down and looked around: there was a coffee shop fifty yards up the road. “Keep an eye on the shelter,” he managed to say. “Send the men to the café.” The biliousness got worse. He wanted to run but he didn’t, walking quickly up the street. He pushed open the door to the café and walked straight through to the back. Hit the first door: occupied. Hit the second: empty. He stumbled inside. Bent double over the khazi and voided his guts. Last night’s grub sloshed out in chunks. The stench of stomach acid. He spat the taste away and rested his forehead on the china rim. He filled up the sink and splashed cold water over his face. The sudden shock helped to calm him down.
He gargled with water and spat it out. He sat in a cubicle, NO LOUSY JEWS OR COMMUNISTS HERE scrawled across the partition. He took out his comb and arranged his hair, straightened his shirt collar and tightened the knot of his tie.
o o o
7AM. THE CAFÉ WAS A DOWN-AT-HEEL PLACE, ten stools lined up against the counter and half a dozen tables and chairs crammed against one another. Behind the counter was a stove, a huge coffee urn, a blackboard with the day’s specials and two Fridgidaires holding cold drinks and sandwiches. A broken slot machine stood against the wall. The room was full of steam from the urns, condensation misting the windows. The two plumbers from outside were sitting down at a window table. Frank ordered three cups of tea and took them over. He put the mugs down and slid into the seat.
“Get those down you. Sweet enough to stand spoons in.”
“Thanks, guv,” the man adjacent to him said. His hands were shaking as he took the mug and raised it to his lips. He was as white as a sheet.
Frank swallowed the tea, letting it disguise the taste of the vomit in his mouth. “Detective Inspector Murphy, West End Central. And you two are?”
“Harald Batchelor,” said the first man.
“William Baldwin.” He was younger. An apprentice, probably, sixteen or seventeen.
Frank took out his pocketbook and noted their names. “Alright, gents. You discovered the body?”
“Yes, guv,” Batchelor said.
“Tell me what you saw this morning. Everything. Don’t miss anything out—it might not seem it, but it could be important.”
Batchelor took a long swig of his tea. “We were doing a job at Dover Street. Just after five. Blocked drain in a restaurant. Early start—they get breakfast going at six and they needed it sorted. It only took ten minutes to do. We’ve got plenty of other jobs this morning so we had a quick cup of tea and left there, must have been quarter past. We’re supposed to be over Cricklewood way so we was headed over to Edgware Lane to get the train.”
“Which way did you come?”
“Up Dover Street, through the Square, into Davies Street.”
“Which side of the street?”
“Over there. The left-hand side. I saw something lying in the gutter—the top of a torch or a cycle lamp. Lying between two of the air-raid shelters.”
“I went and picked it up,” Baldwin said. “As I was crouched down there I saw something in the shelter.”
“Well, I went to have a look. I could see it was a bloody body, couldn’t I? The girl.”
“It was bleedin’ horrible, what they did.”
“Poor little bitch.”
The two men both looked down, pale, and stared into their teas.
“Go on, lads. What next?”
“Well she obviously weren’t moving so I run to the builder’s on Brutton Street and telephoned 999. Then I went back to the shelter and waited until the Constables arrived.”
“Was there anyone else on the street when you found the torch?”
“No, sir. It was empty.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“Only the top of the torch. Nothing else.”
Frank nodded. He believed them, and he doubted he’d get anything else from them this morning. Details might come back as the fright receded, but that would take time. “Alright, chaps. Thanks for waiting. That’s all I need for the moment. But go to Savile Row station this afternoon so we can take your statements properly. Alright?”
One of the P.C.s had called Savile Row to have them send over the woodentop who’d been patrolling the beat last night. He would have been on late turn —the poor bugger would hardly have had his head on his pillow before they yanked him out of bed. He was a war reserve Constable; Arthur Cyril Williams, 403 “D” WR. He sat down opposite Frank, red-eyed and grouchy. Another two cups of tea, plenty of sugar. Frank asked him about his rounds last night. Williams commenced duty at ten, being posted to number thirteen beat: Savile Row, Conduit Street, New Bond Street, Oxford Street, Davies Street, Berkeley Square, back to Savile Row and repeat. He’d do the circuit three times every night. He said he passed the surface shelters for the first time just after eleven. Shone his torch inside—all empty, quiet, he heard nothing. He took refreshments at Albermarle Street Section House between one and two. Didn’t notice anything at two-thirty and four, although he didn’t look inside again. Frank noted all this down even though it added nothing. No leads. It might help with the time of the assault, unless he’d had a kip half-way through his shift and was fibbing about his movements now, covering up to avoid a bollocking from his skipper.
Frank tried to remember back to last night. It had been dark and the black-out was well-observed. It would have been simple to miss things. Chances were good that Williams had walked past the body once, probably twice, without seeing her.
o o o
FRANK PAID UP AND LEFT THE CAFÉ. Outside, reinforcements had arrived. One of the original bobbies was setting up a crime-scene lamp at the entrance to the shelter. The other was marshalling a couple of elderly ARP wardens—they’d found a length of r
ope from a nearby builders’ yard and were arranging a perimeter. A handful of rubber-neckers were gathered behind the Railton, a few press-men among them. The bobbies kept them at a distance. Frank reminded himself that he’d need to be on the uniform hard about making sure the case was run properly. The last thing he wanted was an unhappy coroner complaining about how the early hours were handled. He needed to get everything right, first time. Once he released the scene it would be spoilt in seconds.
A nearby church rang eight o’clock as Alexander Baldie, the Divisional Surgeon, arrived. The Constable turned on the lamp and they went in. Baldie pulled a pair of gloves over his hands, sank to his haunches and examined the body. He performed a perfunctory search for a pulse. “I’m pronouncing life extinct at”—he checked his pocket-watch—“two minutes after eight.” Baldie stood and shook his head. “What do you reckon?”
Frank sighed. He knew what Baldie was suggesting. “I don’t know, Alex.”
“It looks the same.”
“You’ve called for Tanner?”
“He’s on his way.”
D.I. Law from the Yard’s Photographic Bureau arrived, his Sergeant carrying his bulky equipment. Frank pointed them towards the shelter and shook a couple of cigarettes out of the packet, lighting one for Baldie and then his own.
“Thanks, Frank.” He inhaled. “I’ll say one thing for him. He has a bloody bastard sense of timing. If he keeps up at the same time as Adolf invades—”
“There’s no way in Hell we’ll catch him.”
“Maybe we should wait a month. Leave it to the bloody S.S.”
Frank sucked the smoke all the way down. He looked up into the sky: the sun was bright and there was warmth in the air despite the early hour. He let the smoke rise out of his mouth, uncurling upwards. A Yard Meteor slowed at the perimeter and edged beneath the rope.
“Here we go.”
The driver reversed it into a space and D.C.I. Tanner and his bagman got out.
“Murphy. What do you say? Another one?”
“It looks like it, sir.”
“Christ. That’s all we need.”
“The doctor and I were just saying the same thing. It’s not the best timing.”
“You think it’s him?”
“There are a lot of similarities.”
“Dash it all. I thought this nonsense was over and done with. Three months and not a whisper. The Commissioner is not going to be happy.” He took off his overcoat and handed it to his Sergeant. “Not happy at all. Who found her?”
“Two builders. They were just walking through on the way to the station at twenty before six. They called 999 and the two P.C.s over there attended. D.C. Winston and D.C. Fraser arrived at ten past six. I arrived at twenty before seven.”
“And the builders?”
“I interviewed them. They’re not suspects. I’ll let you have a transcript when I’ve had it typed up. And I’ve told them to go to the station this afternoon.”
“Capital. Can you supervise? Get things started? Door-to-door, the usual drill.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Splendid. I need to give some thought to strategy. Don’t need to have my thinking cluttered by minutiae.”
“I’ll get cracking right away.”
Tanner clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. All hands to the pump again, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” He had almost forgotten how grating Tanner’s chummy clubbiness could be.
“Right then. I best go and have a look. What’s she look like?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather unpleasant.”
Tanner grimaced. He was known to have a weak stomach. The blokes laughed at it: a Murder Squad ‘tec who couldn’t stand the sight of blood. “Come on,” he murmured to his D.S. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Frank leaned against the side of a building as they ducked into the shelter. Flashes lit it up from inside, D.I. Law taking his snaps.
“Is he as bad as they say?” Baldie asked.
“Probably worse. He’s hopeless. Couldn’t investigate his way out of a paper bag.”
“Rather you than me, then. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll have a report for the file by the end of the day.”
Frank finished the cigarette and ground the cherry beneath his shoe. Down to work. ‘The Golden Hour,’ the first hour in a murder hunt: evidence present and uncontaminated; witnesses remembering with reasonable clarity what they saw or heard; no chance for the villain to clear up mistakes. Not that whoever was responsible for doing away with the girl had made any blunders, at least no obvious ones. Unlikely to be any dabs. No forensics. Not a dicky bird. The victim wasn’t co-operating much, either: no identification on her person. There was only one thing for it: good old-fashioned shoe leather.
More reinforcements. The station sent as many blokes as could be spared: two D.C.s, two war reservists, two Aids. Six blokes. Pitiful for a murder-hunt, but Frank was grateful to get them. A uniform came over with a copy of a street atlas from one of the cars. Frank divided the area into beats, assigned a man to each territory, dictated a list of questions he wanted asking: did you hear a woman scream during the night? Have you noticed any suspicious people loitering in the area? Have you used the shelter in the past twenty-four hours?
He instructed the reservists and Aids to go house-to-house.
Start with Conduit Street.
North.
Grosvenor Street, Maddox Street, Avery Street.
South.
Anderson Street, Curzon Street.
East.
Old Burlington Road, Savile Row.
An LCC ambulance turned into the road. It slowed and parked next to the Area Car. The stretcher-bearers disembarked, moaning loudly about having to carry a stiff, about how they’d have to disinfect the ambulance after dropping the body at the mortuary. Frank watched as they tied plastic bags over the girl’s head and hands, wrapping her in a plastic sheet and then sliding the body onto a splayed-open canvas bag, belting and buckling it around her. She was lifted delicately onto the stretcher and transferred to the ambulance.
Men started to return. Nothing. Frank told them to regroup and go round again.
A P.C. returned from Clifford Street.
A lucky break.
A woman in the boarding-house at number seventy-six had said that a young woman had reserved a room for the night but hadn’t returned. The P.C. took Frank there. He knocked on the door and a middle-aged woman opened it. Frank gave her the once-over: a frumpy, middle-aged, curtain-twitching housefrau.
“I’m detective Inspector Murphy. And you are?”
“Catherine Rosser.”
“Good morning, Mrs Rosser. You’re the manager here? The”—he looked down at his notes—“the Three Arts Club?”
“That’s right.”
“The officer explained to you what we’re doing here, didn’t he?”
“You’re trying to identify someone?”
“A body was found this morning in Conduit Street. We need to find out who she is. You said there was someone who didn’t return to take their room last night?”
She pointed to the uniform. “I told him.”
“I know you did, ma’am,” Frank said, with an encouraging smile. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me again.”
“She turned up just after eleven—I say that because the wireless news had just finished. Arrived in a taxi and sent it away outside. Pretty girl, good figure. Had a nice smile, I thought. She asked if we had hospitality for the night. She told me she was just stopping in town last night before going up north somewhere. Liverpool or something. Turns out we had a vacant room and she took it. I was busy with sorting out the black-out, didn’t have much time for chit-chat. She said she’s stayed at number twenty-six before and knew the area. Well, I gave her a key and showed her the room. She asked me if she could get a meal. I said no—we shut the kitchen at eight and I was about to go off to bed, blow me if I had the energy to go down and cook. She said it didn’
t matter, she knew a place in Piccadilly that’d still be open. Must’ve been a quarter past by that time and the only restaurant that’s open later than eleven is the Corner House. I suppose that’s where she was thinking of going—she didn’t say, mind.”
“And after that?”
“Nothing. I don’t think she came back. The room was untouched this morning. She never slept in the bed and her suitcase was unopened.”
“Did she give a name?”
Rosser got up and went to a table by the door, flicked through a registration book. “Jenkins. No first name.”
“What did she look like?”
“Good-looking, like I was saying. Early twenties. Slender.”
“What colour was her hair?”
“Red.”
“Height?”
“Not tall—no more than five foot three. Dainty little thing.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A light coloured camel-coat—can’t remember if it was short or long. Green. And a scarf on her head. One of those turban-hats. Not cheap, I shouldn’t think.”
Sounded like the dead girl. “How did she seem?”
“A little agitated, maybe. Jumpy. Don’t know why. Maybe she was worrying about Hitler and the invasion. Can’t blame her, though, can you—she wouldn’t be the only one who’s upset about that. I was saying to Mr. Rosser last night—”
“You said that she left some luggage behind?”
“It’s in the room. Haven’t touched it.”
Frank followed her to a small bedroom. Two items had been left on the bed: a suitcase and a small brief case. The suitcase: clothes, neatly folded; a toilet bag; a pair of shoes; paperback books—Mrs Miniver, Kitty Foyle. A tag on the handle read M JENKINS.
The case was a gold-mine. A clothing ration book in the name of a Miss Molly Jenkins registered to an address in Brighton.
Molly Jenkins.
Photographs: it was definitely her. A picture of Molly standing by the penguin enclosure at London Zoo; one next to the boating lake in Regent’s Park; another at Bar Italia in Soho, an anti-Mussolini notice on the wall behind her. Smiling at the person behind the camera. Happy. She was pretty, even more so when she smiled. She had a friendly face. Warm eyes.
