The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  One of the doxies looked young. She fiddled with the ankle-strap of her kitten heel shoe. She was just a girl, he thought, frittering away her childhood. A drunk relieved himself against the wall in the corner, the stream of piss running back through the shelter along the gutter, disappearing into a drain. Sister Ann, a Tom who’d worked Soho for years, tried to get a sing-song going but no-one was in the mood. Someone hissed at her to put a sock in it and she gave up.

  Frank went deeper inside, stepping carefully between feet and legs. He warned the drunk that if he caught him pissing in a shelter again he’d have him for exposure. There was nowhere to sit, except for the floor. Frank sank to his haunches and leaned back against damp bricks. He tried to imagine what Molly’s last moments must have been like. The empty shelter. The Ripper closing his hands around her neck. Squeezing. He saw flashes of a struggle: he pushed her down to the floor, she kicked her feet for purchase and scratched her shoes, he put his hands around her throat, choking her. Frantic gasps for breath before she stopped breathing and went limp.

  When she was quiet he took out his knife.

  A bomb fell nearby. A deep booming rumble was followed by the sound of pebbles washing onto a beach, a building collapsing. More people arrived, cramming inside. Nervous conversations began. Everyone was frightened. Frank took out a picture of Molly, lit it with his torch and went through the shelter, person by person, showing the picture around. Did they recognise her? Had they seen her in the area last night? He drew blanks.

  He took out a picture of Eve.

  None of them had seen her, either.

  Frank left the shelter and walked down towards Piccadilly Circus. He turned into Great Windmill Street, passed the Windmill Theatre where you could see Vivian van Damm’s naked birds, stock-still in case the Attorney General shut them down, the jimmers clambering down to the front rows to get a better look. The raid hadn’t completely cleared the streets: a few dolled-up tarts in nylons and garters were abroad, waiting on street corners or pressed into doorways, pocket torches shone on faces and then down to show stockinged legs and ankles on high heels. “Are you a naughty boy, dearie?” Cigarette tips glowed. Smiles and soft words. Frank knew the drill: a fiver for the night, the opening offer—she’s having a laugh, she’d accept a quid soon enough—then follow her back to her place or into the nearest doorway if it’s a wall job, hand over the dough, get what you’d paid for together with a dose of the clap so bad it’d peel your jewels right off.

  He saw a girl he recognised in an all-night coffee shop on Glasshouse Street. A bottle-blonde Frenchie who’d come over from Marseilles as a teenager, married a sailor for the passport, and worked Mayfair for the Malts ever since. He bought a couple of coffees.

  “Hello, Frank,” she said. “Just having a break. You got a smoke?”

  “Evening, Yvette.” He gave her one of the coffees and handed her his last fag.

  “Bless you.” She gestured outside. “What about all this? What a mess.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Quiet. Couple of soldiers, that’s all. Everyone’s worried about the bombs.” She held up the fag.

  Frank lit it for her. “What are you doing in Soho? Off your patch, isn’t it?”

  “Gino’s moved some of us over here. You’d have to ask him why.”

  Yvette was a pro and she knew the ropes. You didn’t arrest the girls unless they were annoying pedestrians and, even then, they didn’t take it personally. A quick trip to Marylebone Police Court in the morning, a two quid fine, back on the beat the same night. Business overheads, that’s what they said. Frank had nicked Yvette half a dozen times since she’d worked the West End. And he’d coshed the Johnson who’d slapped her around trying to get her to join his stable. They had an understanding since then: he looked out for her, she kept her ear to the ground.

  “Any sign of your girl?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “I’ve seen the pictures. You’re sure she’s in London?”

  “She’s here somewhere. Just don’t know where.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, love.”

  “Thanks.”

  She got up and reached for her coat.

  “Be careful. A girl got done in last night.”

  “I heard. More worried about old Adolf, to be honest. But thanks. You’re a sweetie.”

  Frank moved down to Piccadilly. It looked different in the black-out: lights doused, windows boarded up and Eros gone, supposedly lying on a mattress in County Hall if you believed the papers. He walked vaguely, no destination in mind. He turned into Brewer Street and then back on himself, sharp left into Glasshouse Street. A girl was leaning against the wall. “Hello, dearie,” she said. “Want to come home with me?” She turned a torch up at him. “Jesus, your face!”

  Frank examined her: prematurely aged, crow’s feet wrinkling her eyes, breath reeking of booze. He didn’t know her. “You’d best get off the street. A girl got topped in Mayfair last night.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the burns; he gently pushed her arm down. “Did you hear me? It’s not safe.”

  “Can’t afford to be choosy what days I work. I’ve got two little ‘uns back home and there’s rent and meals to pay.”

  “Be careful, then.” He gave her a handful of pennies. “Stay around the Circus—there’s more bobbies around there.”

  “Why would I want to be where the filth go?” She went north towards Old Compton Street.

  Frank turned onto Wardour Street and walked back down to Shaftesbury Avenue. He leant against a wall and propped himself up, gathering his strength. He didn’t know why he still did this, wandering around Soho like a ghost. A month ago there had been sightings of a girl who might have been Eve, but by the time he’d arrived she was gone. But he couldn’t stop looking. Especially not now.

  Lack of sleep hit like a sledgehammer. He drifted into the courtyard of St Anne’s and slumped onto a bench. He struggled with heavy eyelids, the sound of distant explosions carrying him to sleep.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE DOOR TO THE TOP HAT WAS STILL OPEN. A barman was drying pint pots and couple of cheap-looking women were in the booths, drinking. The place was dead.

  “Mr. Field here?” he said to the barman.

  “Not back yet.”

  “Best have a drink, then.” He took the gin to a booth. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty: no sign of Field. Molly Jenkins was having second thoughts; Field was scared. Frustration bubbled in his gut like an ulcer. The story suddenly looked shaky.

  There was no point waiting. Henry asked to the barman to tell Field he’d be back tomorrow and hurried home. He crossed Waterloo Bridge. Fire appliances, ambulances and ARP vehicles clattered past, all headed east, sirens wailing. The flames were hundreds of feet tall, devouring the dockside warehouses on both banks. He thought of those Movietone newsreels from the Scandinavian countries where they didn’t always have darkness at night. Perpetual twilight: it was like that. Hard to take your eyes off it. The sound of aeroplane engines—an up-and-down chugging like a car struggling up a hill—filled the air. There was no lull—as one bomber passed overhead, another replaced it. That fat queen Göring must have put together a queue of Heinkels and Dorniers ten miles long, all of them waiting for their chance to tip their bombs onto the city, the moon lighting the way, the burning warehouses the bull’s-eye.

  He set off across the Bridge. He had just gained the south bank when a thin man in a trilby overtook him and them stepped into his path.

  “Excuse me.”

  Henry stopped. The thin light touched the man’s outline: rat-faced, sallow; he caught a red tie and shiny spring-sided boots. “Excuse me, where’s the nearest shelter?” Henry saw the second man, the one behind him, a ghostly reflection in a window. Too late. Strong hands grabbed him from behind, turned him, shoved him into an alley and held him. The bloke was big, built like a gorilla, scars on his cheeks. His breath smelt of gin and cigarettes.

  Rat-face leaned in: “That chap yo
u met tonight, you stay away from him. Steer clear. Bad apple, alright? Could get you into a lot of trouble. Dangerous. Understand, squire?”

  “I don’t—”

  The second man punched him in the gut, hard. He went down, wheezing, gulping air.

  “I don’t wanna see you round Soho no more.” He kicked him in the stomach, the air gasping out. “We won’t be so nice next time.”

  CHAPTER 29

  MONDAY 9th SEPTEMBER 1940

  FIVE IN THE MORNING. The all-clear sounded as Charlie finished his breakfast. It’d been a heavy night. A couple of bombs sounded as if they’d fallen in the area and, after that, it had been difficult to sleep. He sat at the kitchen table with the radio on, the announcer reading the news: four hundred people, at least, had lost their lives. Two thousand seriously injured. London’s docklands on fire, hundreds of East End houses smashed. Balham and the Elephant and Castle also hit. Hitler lost eighty-six of his planes. The RAF, twenty-two. The announcer seemed to think that that was a decent bag for a spot of bombing.

  Charlie went out to the car. He turned the corner and there it was, the bomb he’d heard landing nearby: the Red Lion smashed to pieces by a direct hit. All that was left was a battered frame, a heap of masonry, floorboards and dirt. Dust still filled the air, yellow dust, clouds of it. An emergency reservoir had been set up on the corner of the street. Puddles had gathered on the tarmac and ash coated the walls of nearby buildings. Muddy tracks led to the doused wreckage from where the firemen had hauled their hoses. Charlie stopped as an ambulance pulled out in front of him and stared, open-mouthed at the debris of ruined lives: a child’s toy, a perambulator blown into a tree, a cooking-stove. A stairwell had been exposed, together with a patchwork of variously patterned wall-papers in rooms stripped of their walls. Bewildered survivors milled around, coloured ochre from head-to-foot. Brickdust—it matted their hair, discoloured their skins and ruined their clothes. He knew the landlord and his wife but he didn’t recognise them now. They all looked the same. Wardens and bobbies co-ordinated the scene, and men from the Heavy Rescue Squad lugged the debris and looked for survivors. Fat chance. Ghoulish to gawp, he thought, but he couldn’t help it.

  He bumped over the firemen’s plump hoses and drove to Paddington mortuary. He’d called again last night to try and expedite Grimes’ P.M. but it was no good, not without the coroner’s say-so. Now the bombs had started to fall he knew bodies would be coming in thick and fast. Normal timetables would be out of the window. There was no guarantee that the body would be taken care of before the end of the week. He parked the car outside the mortuary. Alf was happy to leave George to Regan and Timms to investigate. And he was probably right. It probably was a suicide; the poor bloody bastard had plenty of reason to do himself in. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the telephone call. It had rattled around his head all night as the bombs kept him up, staring at the wall.

  There were questions that he needed to settle.

  He took his murder bag from the boot and walked across the grounds to the door of the mortuary. Locked. He rapped on the window. The caretaker came over. He held his Warrant Card up to the glass. The old man squinted at it and, satisfied, opened up.

  “Can I help you, officer?” His breath stank of cheap whiskey.

  “I need a few minutes. Need to examine one of the bodies.”

  The man clucked his tongue. “You know I can’t do that. Against the rules, innit?”

  Charlie took a shilling out of his pocket and held it up. “Just look the other way, chum. And if anyone asks, I wasn’t here. Is that alright?”

  The man put his hand out. “Ten minutes. Which one?”

  Charlie told him and followed into the dark mortuary. The smell of death was strong in the sterile conditions of the room: neither pleasant nor unpleasant, it was a waxy odour somewhere between furniture polish and old grease that seemed, almost, to have its own texture and warmth. The caretaker opened the door to the large walk-in fridge. The space was filled with dead bodies: some were in leather sheaths, most in large paper bags.

  The caretaker checked the tags attached to the feet of the bodies until he found the one he wanted. He undid the leather clasps and opened the bag. “All yours.”

  A plastic bag had been pulled over Grimes’ head to prevent contamination during transit. Charlie wheeled the gurney into the main room, undid the bag and carefully tugged it off. He loosened the plastic sheet wrapped around the rest of the body and made a quick examination. Post mortem lividity was developing, the darker colours staining the bottom of the trunk and the limbs as the blood slowly settled. Charlie lifted up one of Grimes’ arms and turned it. He unfastened the clasps of his bag, took out fingerprint cards and an ink pad. He held up Grimes’ index finger and rolled it, from nail to nail, across the pad. Charlie repeated the motion on one of the cards, and then did the same for the right thumb, and then both thumb and index finger of the left hand. He examined the prints carefully—all were clear and without smudges—and filed the cards in his bag.

  The gunshot had demolished one side of Grimes’ head, brain and dried blood matted together inside the wound. Half of his face had been shaved with large patches untroubled by the razor. He stooped and stared at a strand of fabric that had been caught in the bristles beneath the nose; he picked up a pair of tweezers, removed it and examined it with a magnifying glass. It looked like cotton, fluffy, the kind of material that could be found in a towel or a bathrobe. He forced Grimes’ half-locked jaws apart, keeping them open with a tongue depressor while he shone his torch into the mouth. He saw identical fibres caught in the top and bottom incisors, and another stuck to the roof of the mouth.

  Charlie replaced the sheet and the bag and folded Grimes back in the plastic sheet. He left the caretaker another shilling on the way out and stepped carefully through the grounds back to his car. Charlie sat, resting his forehead against the wheel as he tried to think. Something was wrong. The more he tugged at the loose threads, the more they unravelled.

  The telephone call.

  The rag in the bin and the strands in the mouth.

  The money in the shelter.

  Something was wrong.

  CHAPTER 30

  HENRY DRAKE WENT DOWN TO THE NEWSAGENT’S for the morning papers, took a table in the café and ordered breakfast. He took out the Star and unfolded it, flicking absent-mindedly through the pages until his attention was caught by a headline just before the middle of the paper:

  POLICE NAME MURDERED GIRL

  Police have named the woman murdered in a central London surface air-raid shelter yesterday as Molly Jenkins, 22, a chemist from Brighton. Searches will go on in the West End to-day for clues that might help identify the killer.

  He stared at the story.

  It had Peter Byatt’s by-line.

  He read it again.

  Byatt had told him yesterday that he was going out to report on a murder. Henry remembered what he had said: the body had been found on Conduit Street. Jenkins hadn’t missed their appointment because she was frightened. It hadn’t been a case of second thoughts, either.

  She missed it because she was dead.

  The muscles in his legs felt weak.

  He felt sick.

  Monday: a prostitute comes to him with a story and pictures.

  The story is explosive.

  She is dead by Saturday.

  Molly had mentioned there were three of them. Henry furrowed his brow, trawling for the name of the other girls.

  Field had gone to find one of them.

  Connie.

  That was it.

  Connie.

  Constance?

  Constance what?

  He strained his memory for information that would give him a chance of finding her.

  She lived in Soho—Wardour Street.

  He left his eggs untouched, went outside and into a telephone box. He dialled.

  “Central Records Office. Name and rank, please.”

  “Detective Co
nstable Howarth, 930 F. Telephone number”—he read out the number off the dial of the telephone—“2453.”

  “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “An address, please. I have a first name only. Connie. Possibly Constance. Probably has form for prostitution. Address in Wardour Street, W.1. As quick as you like. It’s extremely urgent.”

  Five minutes.

  Henry waited in the booth. A man knocked impatiently on the glass—Henry jabbed a finger down the street in the direction of another box, then blocked the door with his back. Molly Jenkins had been scared, Field had said. With good reason. Henry didn’t know what to think. Should he be shocked? Excited? Frightened?

  He was onto something. He was certain of that.

  The man outside knocked angrily on the door.

  Henry opened the door a crack. “Piss off, chum. Can’t you see I’m waiting for a call?”

  The man gave him the finger and left.

  Ten long minutes.

  The telephone rang. Henry snatched it up.

  “I have something for you, detective.”

  Henry pushed the Star against the window, took out a pencil and jammed the phone between chin and shoulder. “Go ahead.”

  “The only Connie in Wardour Street we’ve got is Constance Worthing, form for prostitution as long as your arm.”

  “Address?”

  “Number 153.”