by Mark Dawson
“It’s bad news,” Alf said. “We can’t be certain exactly what’s happened yet, but Jerry dropped a bomb on Bill Tanner’s house. Bermondsey. He was probably aiming for the gas works and fell short. The street’s a right mess. We haven’t been able to find Bill—no-one knows where he is.”
“You think—?”
“Don’t know. But until we hear otherwise, he’s off the enquiry.”
“Who’ll replace him?”
“Bernard Shipman’s in the frame. But we’ll see.” McCartney placed a report signed off by D.C. Malcolm Slater face up on the table. The ink was still wet. McCartney tapped it with his finger. Charlie read it:
METROPOLITAN POLICE
Criminal Investigation Department
New Scotland Yard
To Detective Superintendent:
At 23.15 on the 13th September 1940, D.D.I. Murphy (Tottenham Court Road) with D.S. Regan and D.C.s Slater and Winston (West End Central) located Duncan Johnson at 19 Appleby Road, Canning Town, a property registered to one Reginald Dudley. The two suspects were found with a young girl, identity presently unknown, the presumption being that the suspects were in the process of sexually assaulting her. During the apprehension of the suspects, two shots were fired by D.S. Regan and Reginald Dudley was killed (this report compiled before attendance of home office pathologist). Duncan Johnson was successfully apprehended. A detailed examination of the premises is presently underway but given the property’s state of the disrepair it is not expected to be completed for some hours.
DC Malcolm Slater
“That’s excellent news.”
“Indeed. But we have a problem.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped. “Where’s D.C.I. Shipman?”
“Doing a murder for Yorkshire Constabulary and not due back until tomorrow evening, and that’s only if the train’s running.”
He knew where this was going. “But Johnson is downstairs.”
“And we can’t hold him until tomorrow evening before we speak to him. It has to be done tonight.”
“Sir—”
“Even if Shipman was here, he won’t have the first idea what this is about save what he’s read in the linens.”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t want to show his nerves but they must have been bloody obvious. He turned to his father. “What about Frank?”
He shook his head. “Not for this.”
“He has more experience on this than I do.”
“You know he can’t. Johnson’s already complained about him once. If I put him in the same room as Johnson there’s no knowing what’ll come out of it. He saw what he was up to when they pulled him—he’ll be thinking of Eve, there’s no guarantee he won’t have him up against a wall with a gun in his mouth. You saw what he was like with Eddie Coyle. He’s struggling with this. You know I’m right. We can’t take the risk.”
Alf pressed it home. “You have the best working knowledge of the file. Come on, old sport. You know we’re right. It’s got to be you.”
“Bloody hell.” Elation and fear, fear and elation: he thought he was going to throw up.
“Do this and you can write your own transfer. The Murder Squad. The Sweeney. Whatever you want, it’ll be yours, plus a promotion and a medal.” He didn’t need to say anything else—Charlie thought of the Lodge, the promises Alf had made and the promises he had kept. “This is your moment, lad. Are you game?”
He thought of stripes on his shoulder. “I want to do it my way.”
“Get a result and I don’t care if you do it in a dress.”
“Johnson knows he’s in a lot of trouble,” his father said. “He’s looking at a ten just for the girl Frank found him with. He’ll knows what it’s like for nonces in stir—he’s done it once and he might not have the stomach to go through it again. And the way blokes like him think, he might want to put his hands up for the dead girls. Claim the credit, if you like. The three he’s done here, the five from before—that’s eight dead brasses, more than anyone’s ever topped before. Maybe he thinks he’s got nothing to lose—he admits what he’s done and goes to the noose the most famous killer in history. Maybe that’s what he’s wanted all along.”
Charlie nodded: maybe.
“There’s no rush. Take a couple of hours to read up on his file—we don’t have enough to make it easy to nail him for the murders. The gas mask is about as far as we can go and that’s circumstantial. You’re going to have to bluff him. Anything we get from the house, I’ll let you know. We’ll be outside watching through the two-way. Come out whenever you need a chance to think. If you want anyone else in the room with you for a change of pace, let me know. We’re all behind you, son.”
“Who else has spoken to him?”
“No-one.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Fine.”
He felt a bead of sweat rolling slowly, coldly, down the middle of his spine.
“Are you alright?”
A deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“You can do it, son.”
“Good luck, sport.”
“I’ll do my best.”
o o o
HE ASKED TO DO IT HIS WAY and Suits gave him all the leeway he needed—or, he thought, more than enough rope to hang himself with if he buggered it up. A confession was a unlikely, a cliché from Saturday morning matinees. But if he played Johnson right, nudged him and tickled him and cajoled him—teased and flattered him in just the right measure—then he could extract things, little bricks, he could build with. Supports and buttresses that could turn suppositions and hunches and guesses into indictments you could hang a man with. Bob Peters and his father had taught him the tricks, years ago, a precocious youngster who wanted to learn and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They played the suspect and he questioned them, penetrating lies, piercing deceits, learning how to find the pressure points. He honed with books, theories and lectures. His work on C Division added seasoning. Now his instincts were needle sharp.
He thought of his father, in the car.
The chance you’ve been waiting for.
Find Johnson, Charles.
Bring him in.
It’ll be the making of you.
Background first. He took his time with the file, carefully painting a picture. It was five in the morning before he was ready to go. The delay suited him: physical evidence recovered from the crime scene would be valuable in the interrogation and, even more important, psychological studies said nocturnal suspects were least comfortable in the early hours.
He wanted Johnson as uncomfortable as possible.
He had a uniform collect Johnson from his cell and told the man to walk him past the enquiry room. He made sure the door was open and men were inside, working. The Constable walked slowly, Johnson getting a look at the charts and lists and photographs on the walls, the mug-shot from his C.R.O. file stuck on a blackboard with his name written beneath in fresh two-inch caps. It said they were onto him. It said the game was up. The officer took him to the interrogation room and shut him in—Charlie let him stew for another half an hour. Let him think the whole of the Met was ranged against him. Let him wonder how much they knew.
Five-fifteen.
He went down. It was busy. The Station Sergeant was chalking up names on a blackboard in the Charge Room. Adjacent columns recorded cell numbers and the crimes the occupants were suspected of committing: four cells were occupied by soused squaddies picked up in the ‘Dilly overnight, sleeping off their benders before they were let out with fleas in their ears; another provided temporary accommodation for a Tom; a couple of the Meat Rack rent boys were screeching in the one next to that. A typical haul for a weekday night in the West End.
An entry in the middle of the blackboard read JOHNSON, Duncan: Murder.
Charlie ignored Polari curses from the screeching queens and walked down a corridor of identical cells: wooden benches with thin mattresses on top, toilets next to the foot of the benches with brass handles to flush them an
d buttons for the prisoners to call the Sergeant that could be switched off if they were misused. Whitewashed walls scratched with graffiti. The stink of stale urine.
The interrogation room was plain, a table and two chairs. Outside: Alf McCartney and his father, watching through a two-way.
An audience for his big-time debut.
Charlie skimmed his notes, took a deep breath
His father squeezed his shoulder and took him to one side. “You can do this, Charlie. You’re a bloody good officer. You’re ambitious, you’re driven and you’ve got a brilliant brain. Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, father.”
“Go on—show everyone else how good you are.”
He went inside.
Johnson stood.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Charles Murphy.”
“Murphy?”
“I’m his brother. Sit down.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Why? Do you want to be?”
“Of course not.”
“Then sit down.”
“My friend was shot.”
Charlie ignored him.
“My friend was shot!”
He began the soliloquy he had planned: “You’re in a lot of trouble, Duncan. We’ve got quite a mess to sort out this morning.”
“Didn’t you bloody hear me?”
“Let me give you some free advice: be quiet and listen—you’ll get your chance to speak in a moment. If you want to make a complaint, I’ll go and get the Commissioner himself. But you need to know exactly where I’m coming from. You need to know that I’m good at what I do. Very bloody good. You need to know that I’ve been doing this a long time and you can count the cases I haven’t cracked on the fingers of one hand.” The bluff was audacious and he felt young and stupid and obvious halfway through; he winged it and hoped he came across strong. “I’ve had people in here in situations like yours and some of them lied to me. Most of the ones who did got hung.”
“Then get me a lawyer.”
“You might want to think about that. If that’s what you want I can get you one, but that’ll be the end of things. There won’t be anything that I can do for you. If you tell me you want one I’m going to go outside and start drafting your charge sheet.” He looked at his watch. “It’s half-five in the morning and London got pasted again last night. Assuming we can even contact a brief, assuming he’s willing to act for you and assuming he’s able to get over here, by the time he arrives there’ll to be nothing left to talk about. Because I’ll have charged you by then. He’ll rubberstamp things, that’s it. You’ll be on your way to Brixton. That’s what will happen—but it’s your right, of course. Do you want a lawyer, Duncan?”
Johnson frowned—he said nothing.
“Or we can have a chat. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
Johnson stared at Charlie—cold eyes that gave nothing away.
“This is your chance to tell your story. Before anything else gets added. Set it all out, just how you want it. What happened?”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Why not?”
Johnson ignored the question.
Charlie changed tack: “There are two dozen bobbies out there who want to lynch you for the things you’ve done. They’ve seen the crime scene pictures, some of them have daughters—I’m deadly serious, Duncan, some of them want to string you up in the yard right now, get it over with. Lucky for you I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you a fair shake.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve got nothing to say.”
“For Christ’s sake, man, tell the truth. I’ll be honest: we both know there’s no way I can save you from the noose, but I can get you out of here without you being beaten to a pulp first.”
He looked up: “What?
“Oh, you’re listening now?”
“What do you mean? The noose?”
“You’ve done murder, Duncan. What did you expect?”
“Murder? She’s not dead.”
“They’re all dead.”
“She was alive when I was nicked. She was, I—”
“What?”
“The girl.”
Charlie tumbled it. “We’re not talking about her, Duncan. She’s going to get you ten years, but that’s the least of your troubles. I’m talking about the others. The prostitutes. The ones you killed.”
He went white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Duncan. You think I was born yesterday?”
“I don’t—”
“Molly Jenkins. Constance Worthing. Annie Stokes.”
“I don’t—”
“Louisa Hart. Henrietta Clarke. Freda Williams.”
He shook his head. “Not this again.”
“Lorna Yoxford. Rose Wilkins.”
“This is ridiculous. I thought you lot had got the message last time. It’s not me.”
“Where were you Thursday evening? Around ten?”
“I was with Reginald.”
“But your gas mask case was found in the West End, in the same spot where a young woman was subjected to a serious sexual assault.”
“No it wasn’t. My gasmask is in the house.”
“This woman was pushed into a doorway and her assailant tried to strangle her. Exactly like all those other poor girls.”
“My mask is at home. I can tell you exactly where it is.”
“We’ll know soon enough. The house is being searched now.”
“It’ll be there.”
“Was she going to be the next one?”
“Listen, alright? We’ve been through this a hundred times. That has nothing to do with me. You can threaten me with it as much as you want but we both know I’m going to walk out of here again, just like before.”
“She’s made a statement. The boy who found her, he’s made one too. He saw you run off. Obvious what happened: you came up behind her, started to strangle her, but then the boy disturbed you before you could finish her off and you made a run for it. Only this time you panicked and left your gas mask behind. Sound about right?”
“No, I—”
“They both got a good look at you,” he lied. “Confident they won’t pick you out of an identity parade?”
“I was at home yesterday, with Reginald. Ask—” He didn’t finish the sentence: no-one could ask Reginald Dudley anything, no-one would ask him anything again—a .38 slug had splattered Reginald Dudley’s head all over the walls. “Ask the girl. She’ll tell you.”
Charlie shook his head. “You want the girl you raped to alibi you? You’ve got some balls, Duncan, I’ll give you that. You’ve got some neck.” Johnson started to say something—Charlie raised his hand. “Don’t bother, it won’t make any difference what she says. You’re in this up to your neck. Too deep for that. Give it some thought for a minute—I’ll be back.”
Charlie got up and went outside.
He had a bigger audience: his father, McCartney, Dickie Farr, Bob Peters, Percy Timms, Albert Regan, Malcolm Slater, Jimmy Lucas and half a dozen men on the early turn were gathered around the two-way to watch the show. Frank was at the back.
“I said he’d be difficult,” McCartney said.
“I’m not getting very far.”
“You’re doing fine,” his father said.
He felt sweat in the small of his back. “I’m not sure.”
“He’s a fine actor but he’s frightened. Don’t let him fool you.”
“I’m just not sure—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Frank exclaimed, “Get him out of there—he’s completely out of his depth.”
“No, Francis—he’s doing fine.”
“Let me do it. I’ll have him singing in five minutes.”
“Really?” Charlie spat. “How would you do that? Beat him black and blue until he says what you want him to say?”
“You don’t think that’s what he deserves?”
“That’s not the poi
nt.”
“You feel sorry for him?”
“No—this gets done properly so his confession isn’t ruled inadmissible when he says it was beaten out of him by a copper with form for that kind of thing. But I wouldn’t expect a neanderthal like you to understand what that means.”
Frank surged forward and his fist flashed, too quick for Charlie to get his hands up. The blow caught him flush on the jaw.
He staggered.
Their father stepped between them. “Frank! Jesus! You’re on the same side, remember?”
Charlie spat out blood and managed to hold his glare; Frank shook his head derisively. He kicked open the door and went through it.
Charlie could feel the side of his face swelling.
“Are you alright?
His head throbbed. “Just give me a minute, father.”
“We don’t have a minute, son. Can you go back in?”
Charlie ignored the throbbing. “I’ll be fine.”
“You need to pay attention. Something’s turned up.”
Alf McCartney held up two clear evidence bags.
Charlie took them: inside, two ration books.
He read the names on the front covers:
Constance Worthing.
Annie Stokes.
Blood-stains on them both; blue aluminium powder revealing fingerprints.
“Where did these come from?”
“Dudley’s house,” Regan said. “In the bedroom.”
Bob Peters stepped in. “We’ve got him, Charlie. Between these and the gas mask, he’s finished.”
“What about the mask—he said his was in the house.”
“Couldn’t find one.”
“He was bluffing,” his father said. “There’s no way out for him now. But he needs to put his hands up and admit he did it. It’d be best for everyone if we can avoid a trial. We don’t need the distraction of preparing for that, not at the moment. Bloody hell, London doesn’t need the distraction. Whatever it takes—break him. You’re nearly there, son. Make him confess. Get him to plead guilty and he’ll be scragged and out of mind in two months.”
Charlie took a moment to compose himself.
