by Mark Dawson
She regarded him dubiously. “And how can I help you?”
“Would it be possible to speak to your husband?”
“Afraid not. He’s at the factory. Won’t be back until the weekend at the earliest. Can I ask why you want to see him?”
He thought on his feet. “I’m researching a piece on the war effort for the newspaper. Viscount Asquith is someone I fancy my readers would like to know a little more about.”
“After the new government contract?”
“Precisely so.”
Ack-ack drilled up from Buckingham Palace Gardens: earth-shaking detonations heralded blooms of inky smoke. Henry looked up as a wing of bombers passed high overhead.
“I can’t have you standing outside in this—you must come inside.”
A chance to look inside the house; Henry couldn’t resist. He followed her into the hallway. It was a wide space, with black-and-white chequered tiles and a broad staircase leading up to the first floor. A vase of orchids was placed on an occasional table, next to a telephone. An explosion rattled the panes of glass in the door as Lady Asquith closed the it behind him. “My goodness.”
“Thank-you. You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense. It’s beastly out there. This way.”
She opened a door and went into the reception. Henry followed; the room was plush. It was double-height and had been decorated in an Oriental fashion: painted plaster walls spaced with strips of Chinese embroidery, tall bookshelves reaching to the ceiling holding volumes on history, politics and philosophy. There was a low divan and a carved lamp on a side-table, two other standing lamps with jade-green shades and long tassels. Black-out curtains had been tacked above the windows and tied back with ribbons.
“What a lovely room.”
“Thank you. My husband has a thing for the East. He was in the diplomatic service there for five years.”
Henry inspected the framed pictures on the side-table: Asquith with his wife, with two small children, one of him in racing goggles in a Morgan touring car.
Lady Asquith sat down on a Chesterfield and indicated for Henry to do the same. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me about the article for your newspaper.”
Henry sat. “It’s part of a series on the war effort. Individuals who are doing their bit. Fire-fighters on the one hand all the way to generals and government ministers. As I say, I think your husband’s story would be of great interest to my readers. His aeroplanes are making a tremendous difference.”
“Capital idea, Mr. Drake. James is not the sort of man to seek plaudits but I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you. You should go to the factory, provided the trains are still running, of course. Do you have the address?”
“I do.”
“When were you thinking of going?”
“I haven’t really thought about it. As soon as possible.”
“Well, yes—you’d best be quick. James is travelling to Scotland for the weekend.”
“Perhaps tomorrow then?”
“Splendid. I’ll arrange an appointment when I speak to him this evening, assuming the telephone is still working. Should I say two o’clock?”
“Two would be perfect.”
“That’s settled then. Can I get you a drink?”
He stood. “No, you’ve already been too kind. It sounds a little quieter outside—I better be on my way.”
“Are you sure? Something restorative before you go? Stiffen the nerves?”
“No, thank-you—really, I best get back to the office. My editor will be wondering where I am.”
“Very well. Do be careful, Mr. Drake. I was hearing on the wireless that the East End has taken a frightful beating. It’s just a matter of time before that awful man Göring decides it’s time the rest of us had our turn.”
“Thank you, madam.” She smiled at him and showed him to the door. Henry thanked her again. She closed the door and he exhaled. Her hospitality, his lies, what he knew—it had all started to make him feel uncomfortable.
CHAPTER 36
CHARLIE LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW OF THE CANTEEN. The action seemed to be over the docks again but the occasional explosion was nearer. A heavy pall of smoke and dust had been slung over the East End. The cloud dominated the horizon, the barrage balloons pink in the glow from the flames below. It had grown to such a size Charlie doubted there could ever have been a larger fire. Someone had left a copy of yesterday’s Pictorial on the table: 500 PLANES RAID LONDON: BIG FIRES. There were interviews with blitzed-out families, pictures from Silvertown adding colour. The wreckage was shocking: lines of refugees heading West, soldiers dragging dead bodies out of piles of rubble, dead-eyed firemen spraying down smoking debris. It was only a matter of time before Göring ran out of things to bomb, and then the West End would get it. The Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the theatres and museums and shops; Charlie wondered how long they would be able to take it.
He pushed his food around his plate, not hungry and unable to switch off. He had received a telephone call from Paddington: the pathologist had carried out the P.M. on Grimes. Suicide. He had ordered the toxicological examination Charlie had requested but the results wouldn’t be ready for a week but he doubted they would affect his findings. He’d found the fibres in the mouth, couldn’t explain them, but was still sure this was a self-made topping.
Charlie couldn’t settle for that.
The more he thought about it, the more he was sure: Grimes had been done by someone who wanted to make it look like he’d topped himself. The questions multiplied.
Why?
He followed his gut and extrapolated: he was going to drop someone in it when he spoke to Charlie.
How?
He was chloroformed and had his brains blown out while he was unconscious.
Who?
That was the question. Odds-on it was a crim that Grimes was in league with, someone out of Soho. Or maybe the bloke he was working with.
He needed to talk to Alf.
He finished his dinner and went back to his desk. There was a note from his boss, Sinclair: SEE ME ASAP. He went around to the D.C.I.’s office. It was full of brass: along with his guv’nor were chief Constable Nicholas Vassey and Detective Chief Inspector Bill Tanner.
“Come in, Murphy,” Sinclair called. Vassey nodded at him as he sat down. Charlie was surprised he knew him from Adam. “We were just talking about you.”
“Sir?”
“Two women have been murdered in Soho,” Vassey said. “Bloody nasty business. Some suggestion it might be the same fellow as before.”
“The Ripper?”
“That’s what we think at the moment,” Tanner said. “Fairly certain of it.”
Charlie remembered the case; he’d followed it in the papers, desperate to be involved. “We never got anywhere with him, did we?”
“We had some leads,” Tanner said, defensively. “Nothing came of them.”
“I don’t understand, sir. How does this have anything to do with me?”
“D.C.I. Tanner’s Sergeant broke his leg. Blown out of bed by a bomb, poor bugger. So he needs a new bagman. Your name’s been suggested.”
“Me?”
“You don’t want it, son?” Tanner said gruffly. “I’d heard you were as keen as mustard.”
“No, sir, I am—I’d be delighted. I’m just a little surprised.”
“You were very highly recommended by D.S. McCartney.”
“That’s very kind of him, sir.”
“That’s settled, then.”
“But what about my other inquiries?”
“What do you have on?”
“The Grimes case.”
“It’s hardly a case,” Sinclair disagreed.
“It could be, sir.”
Sinclair explained. “One of the lads from Savile Row topped himself. Alf’s got it under control. A couple of his lads over there are looking into it. I think we can probably leave it with them.”
“That’s that, then. What els
e?”
Charlie bit his tongue. “Nothing I can’t sort out.”
“Good,” Tanner said. “The Commissioner wants this cleared up pronto. We can’t afford to have this maniac running around the West End again slicing up brasses, not at the moment. The last thing we want is the public panicking about a sex killer when the Luftwaffe is doing its best to bloody well flatten everything.”
“I understand.”
“Get down to Savile Row and get your head into the file. You’ve got a fresh pair of eyes, you might spot something we’ve missed. I want a full briefing by the close of play.”
“Sir.”
“Dismissed, Sergeant.”
o o o
ALF McCARTNEY WAS SMOKING HIS PIPE in the quadrangle outside.
“Guv.”
He winked at him. “Congratulations, lad. Didn’t I say I could be a useful friend?”
“I’m grateful.”
“Let’s just say I was able to put in a good word and leave it at that. This is your chance. You deserve it. Do a decent job here, and Vassey’s promised you’ll be rewarded. Promotion to first-class Sergeant, a job in the field. Proper coppering. Everything you wanted.”
“Thank you.”
He winked. “The Winding Stair. You see the benefits now, don’t you?”
“Very much so.”
“More where that came from, too. But there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Anything.”
“Reciprocity, son. Report to me on the investigation. Bill Tanner’s a good man but we haven’t always seen eye to eye and, between you and me, he’s not the best detective you’ll ever meet. I don’t want him thinking I’m standing on his toes but I need to be kept right up to date on this. There’s a maniac on my manor—I’ve just started, the longer it goes without him being nicked, the worse it looks for me. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, sport? My reasons?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good lad.”
CHAPTER 37
FRANK PARKED THE RAILTON OUTSIDE A POLICE TELEPHONE BOX and put the engine in neutral. He’d hardly stopped at the nick this morning, taking the keys for the motor and setting out at once. He had stayed at the Section House last night, still off the booze, and thought about what he wanted to do. The last thing he needed was Tanner interrupting his plan by deciding he would be better employed elsewhere.
He’d mentioned what he was planning with Bob Peters. He said he’d cover for him at the nick.
He had a day’s grace.
Time enough.
He took out his notes, amended with details from a call to the C.R.O. They had half a dozen decent suspects from before: Terrance Moore, two-time rapist who told a cellmate he was on a mission from God to “punish women”; Alan Jules Worthington, notorious sexual pervert; George Peter Whiteside, convicted homosexual and defrocked clergyman, suspected of harbouring puritanical anti-whore rage; Julian Petersfield, alcoholic drifter with form for exposing himself to Mayfair secretaries, arrested after beating a brass he’d picked up in Wardour Street; Duncan Edward Johnson. He struck through two of the names: Worthington had been shanked in the throat in the Punishment Block at Wandsworth and was buried in an unmarked grave in the prison grounds; Whiteside was on the Moor for a ten-stretch for kiddie fiddling. Three to check: Moore, Petersfield and Johnson.
Moore first: 37 Evering Road, Hackney. The further East he drove, the worse it got. The area had taken a proper pasting, much worse than he’d expected: dozens of houses wrecked, terraces left like mouthfuls of snaggled teeth. Columns of refugees headed West and weary, red-eyed firemen sat by the side of the road, hoses dribbling dusty water into the gutter. All that guff on the radio—the BBC was having a laugh if they thought this could be put up with for long.
The house was a cheap-looking two-up, two-down, the windows smashed and boarded, shrapnel scarring the brick. Frank slipped a shillelagh inside his jacket and knocked on the door. A thin, buck-toothed man with an acne-scarred face opened up.
“Terrance Moore?”
“Who wants to know?”
Frank badged him. “D.I. Frank Murphy and you want to watch your lip. You still chasing young skirt?”
“What is this?”
“This is me asking questions and you answering them, unless you’d rather come down to West End Central in cuffs. Where were you on Friday night?”
“At home.”
“Alone?”
“With my wife.”
“Saturday?”
“Here.”
“Sunday?”
“The same, alright? She’ll vouch for me. I ain’t done nothing wrong. The Good Lord showed me the error of my ways when I was inside. I’m a reformed man.”
“That right? Your old lady know about what you used to get up to?”
“She knows everything and she is a forgiving woman, Inspector, so don’t waste your time making threats.”
“Take her to Stoke Newington nick. I need a statement from her confirming you were here.”
He went back to the car. Credible enough, even with the religious nonsense. He crossed through his name and flipped through his notes. George Whiteside lived in a Sally Army kip-shop on Old Street. Frank drove over. He wasn’t there, but the warden alibi’d him for the nights in question. They kept a curfew, and Whiteside had been tucked up by ten: signatures in the in/out book proved it. Good enough.
Back to the car, another name crossed off. One left: Duncan Edward Johnson.
The others were warm-up acts.
Johnson was the main event.
C.R.O. had provided details: naughty Duncan had been inside again, done for a scuffle in a pub down the docks. Three weeks for breaching the peace, out eleven days ago on license. Frank ran the dates through his head again. Johnson goes inside on 8th June, two days after Rose Wilkin’s murder. He comes out again on 31st August, a week before Molly Jenkins was killed.
The dates fit.
He stopped the car outside a police phone box and called his parole officer.
“Duncan Johnson—one of yours?”
“Yes, Inspector. What’s he done?”
“I’m not sure yet. Where is he?”
“I found him a room in a halfway house. Bow.”
“What do you make of him?”
“Going straight, far as I can tell. Got him a job as a gardener for the council. He sees me twice a week like he’s supposed to. He seems to be doing well. Can’t complain about anything.”
“And as a bloke?”
“Do I like him? No, can’t say that I do. He’s aloof and arrogant. But is he doing anything wrong now? No, he isn’t. What’s this about, Inspector?”
“Never mind—give me his details.”
He took down addresses for his home and work, got back into the Railton and turned back towards the East End again. He got onto the City Road and headed east. Bow: he turned onto the street with the address he’d written down. A typical halfway house: a three storey block, twenty rooms, the place full of drunks, blokes trying to go straight and blokes who said they would but knew they wouldn’t. He let himself into the lobby and checked the post-boxes on the wall. Room thirteen: HUGHES. He peeled the label back: JOHNSON underneath. He badged the caretaker.
“You had a bloke here, Duncan Johnson?”
The man checked a ledger. “Left at the weekend. He was only here for a few days. He said his P.O. had found him digs closer to his work. Happens.”
“Got a forwarding address?”
“No.”
“No idea where I can find him?”
The man shook his head.
Frank went out into the sunshine. Johnson was lying to his P.O. Not the perfect parolee he thought he was. He buzzed, allowing himself to trust his gut. Why had he suddenly changed his address? He must’ve known it was breaching the terms of his bail and he’d go straight back inside if it got out. Instinct said he was on the right track. He took out his notes and updated his angle: head to Victoria Park, speak to
his boss, see what he knew.
East, not far: he turned onto the Roman Road, then onto Grove Road. He parked on the north side of the park and went through the space where the gates used to be. The grass in the centre was knee-high—the normal gardeners had been called up and no-one was left to cut it. Ahead, acres of parkland had been turned over to cultivation and cabbages, potatoes, cauliflowers and runner-beans had been planted. Three big AAA guns sat next to a grove of trees, fresh ammo being unloaded from army trucks.
Frank asked a squaddie for directions and found the foreman’s office, a small hut a couple of hundred yards away. The man pegged him as a split straight off.
“You after one of my lads?”
“Duncan Johnson. He still work here?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Meaning?”
“He hasn’t been in for the last couple of days.”
“He resigned?”
“I just haven’t seen him. It’s not unusual. The men we have here, plenty of them are transient. Convicts, blokes with no roots. They think they can go straight, some of ‘em even make a fist of it for a while, but they’re kidding themselves most of the time. They earn peanuts, nothing like what they were used to before they got nicked. They get wind of a caper and that’s that—sucked back in. Reckon that’s what happened to Johnson. He only lasted a week.”
“He wasn’t a face.”
“What did he do, then?”
“Doesn’t matter. Did he give you an address?”
“No, and we pay cash-in-hand, so I don’t have his bank, neither. But I know where he drinks.”
Frank wrote down the names of three pubs.
“If you find him, tell unless he’s back here on Monday he’s sacked.”
Frank headed back to Bethnal Green. He worked through the pubs one by one: The Queen Victoria, closed until six; the Three Feathers, blasted by shrapnel, boards over the windows and doors; the Empress of India empty, the barman shrugging when he put Johnson’s mugshot on the bar.
“Yeah, I’ve seen him. Don’t know his name. Comes in a lot.”
“Every day?”
“Four, five times a week.”
“When?”
