by Mark Dawson
“But maybe you’d been to see George before me?”
A flash of anger that wasn’t quick enough to be real: “For God’s sake, George was a friend and now you’re saying I did him, too? What else are you going to accuse me of?”
“You waited for him. He let you in—there was no sign of the door being forced, so he must have known whoever did him. You knocked him out and shot him, made it look like he’d done it himself. Then you waited for him to be discovered and came back so you got the investigation. But I was already there.”
“I’ve had enough of this. Either charge me or let me out. But this interview is finished.”
“Don’t think we’ll be letting you out, Bert.”
“Then charge me. But you better have more than this bloody innuendo.”
Charlie walked out. Frank and Drake were watching outside.
“Well done,” Frank said.
Charlie smelled his own sweat. “No. He’s right. We’ve got nothing. And this is taking too long. Timms is still out there, cleaning everything up. There’ll be nothing left soon.”
“Coyle might know where he is. I’ll go and speak to him.”
“What if there are others involved?”
“At the station?”
“What about Alf McCartney?”
“Alf?”
“He wasn’t happy about me doing Grimes’ topping. And then I got moved to the Ripper enquiry before I could find anything. Alf organised the switch. And then he puts Regan onto the case and lets him run it down. Didn’t think about it at the time. I’d been on at him for a transfer but it wasn’t as if I was in line for it and it was asking a lot to put me straight onto the Murder Squad.”
It sounded credible.
The more he spoke, the more sick he felt.
“You’re both on the Square. I thought he moved you because of that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it was because I was asking difficult questions and he wanted me out of the way.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I saw him last night. He was going through my desk. What if he found out we were onto the warehouse and told Regan and Timms? Get them to burn the place before we arrive.”
“Ask him,” Frank said, pointing at Regan. “I’ll go and speak to Coyle.”
Charlie walked back in.
Regan squinted, a one-eyed sneer.
“What about Alf?”
“What about him?”
“Come on, Regan. Give me something. I know he’s behind it. When did it start?”
Regan started to laugh.
“Give me Alf and I’ll make sure it goes easier for you.”
He was laughing so hard he could barely catch breath.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re not half as clever as you think you are, pal. Not half.”
CHAPTER 67
THE CELLS AT SCOTLAND YARD were in the basement. Frank rang the bell on the custody Sergeant’s desk.
“Alright, Frank. Who do you want?”
“Coyle.”
“Coyle?”
“Eddie Coyle. Been here since last night. I brought him in.”
“I’m sorry, guv, can’t help you. Says here he’s been let out.”
“By who?”
He referred to the Custody Book. “Odd.”
“What is?”
“It was a couple of hours ago, before I came on shift. Doesn’t say who it was.”
o o o
FRANK TURNED OFF BRICK LANE and parked the car a half-dozen doors down from the entrance to Eddie Coyle’s building. It was just after two in the afternoon and Coyle’s black-outs were still drawn. He wound down the window, letting cold air freshen the stuffy interior. His hands ached from clenching, his ribs throbbed, his insides roiled.
He thought around the situation, tried to think like Regan and Timms. They had been at the warehouse this morning to clear it out, get rid of anything that might tie the smut to them. Magazines, pictures, Drake: all of it needed to be burnt.
They were snipping loose ends.
Eddie Coyle was a loose end.
They’d know he was likely to put the bubble in, and him doing a Royal would be it for them. They wouldn’t be able to get at him in the cells. So they arranged for him to be released.
They were desperate and ruthless:
The three girls.
Duncan Johnson.
Reginald Dudley.
The youngster they’d been fiddling with.
George Grimes.
All dead. They had no problem killing.
They’d want to shut Coyle up. It was worth a few hours of his time.
His mind flickered back to the evening’s fun and games. Charlie had been good. And where Frank had let Timms get one over on him, Charlie had nailed Regan and brought him in: a hard man who wouldn’t have thought twice about shivving him if it meant he could stay out. Charlie had always had the brains, but now he’d added a little steel. He wasn’t the weak sister anymore.
He spotted Coyle just after three. Shifty, eyes flicking up and down the street, his collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled down. Frank slid further in his seat and Coyle didn’t make him. He shuffled down the street, stopped in front of the door and fumbled in his overcoat for the key. He checked up and down again, unlocked the door and went inside.
Frank waited half a minute. He got out, went around to the back of the car, opened the boot and pulled away the blanket covering his shotgun. He’d confiscated it from a fence years ago and kept it there, just in case. He’d never had need for artillery, not until now. He cracked it open and thumbed in two shells. He closed the boot and walked quickly up the street to the door to Coyle’s building. It was ajar. He nudged it open with the barrel and, slipping his finger through the trigger guard, went inside.
A sound like a firecracker.
Gunshot.
Too late—Timms was waiting for Coyle?
It was dark. Frank remembered the lay-out: stairs up to a landing, the door to Coyle’s rooms the second on the left. He crept across the landing, praying for silence, the floorboards squeaking anyway.
He raised the shotgun.
He paused at the door, put his ear to it.
“It’s done, sir—You were right, he came straight here—I was waiting for him—Doesn’t matter now, he’s not saying anything—What about Bert—Are you sure—I understand.”
No replies—Timms was on the telephone.
The receiver rattled back in its cradle.
Steps walking towards the corridor.
Frank held the shotgun tight, the stock beneath his armpit and his finger on the trigger. He crept backwards, into the darkness, the barrel covering the door.
The door opened.
“Hands up, Percy.”
Timms spun towards his voice, raised the pistol, fired it.
The slug missed Frank by inches and tore into the ceiling.
Frank pulled the trigger.
Less than five yards. He couldn’t miss.
Timms ate buckshot, the pellets taking off his arm at the elbow. He spun around, blood spraying from the frayed meat stub dangling from his lacerated jacket. Frank fired again, Timms hitting the wall and tearing down the black-out across the window.
Frank checked inside: Coyle dead on the floor, a slug between the eyes. Cardboard boxes had been stacked in untidy piles. One had fallen down where Coyle had grabbed at it, spilling dirty magazines across his body. Gobbets of claret splattered the smut.
He picked up the receiver.
“Operator.”
“My name is Detective Inspector Frank Murphy. I need the details of the call that was just made from this telephone. It’s urgent.”
“One minute, sir.”
Frank breathed out, trying to slow his heart.
Two more dead men.
RIP Eddie Coyle, spared a life in chokey.
RIP Percy Timms, spared the eight o’clock walk.
“Hello, sir. I have a
number for you.”
She read it out.
Frank copied it down.
Frank dialled it.
“Hello?”
Frank’s heart stopped.
“Hello?”
Oh no.
“Who is this?”
No.
“Percy? What’s going on?”
Frank put the receiver down.
He thought of Regan.
He thought of Charlie.
Loose ends.
Oh, God.
He felt sick.
He draped his jacket over the warm shotgun and sprinted to his motor.
CHAPTER 68
CHARLIE WENT FOR A WALK TO CLEAR HIS MIND. The Embankment was busy, with civilian and military traffic crawling slowly. He paused at his favourite spot next to Cleopatra’s Needle, sat down and thought. Alf McCartney had called in sick this morning; no-one had seen him at Vine Street since yesterday. Charlie tried to telephone his home number but just got static; the operator said the line was down, bomb damage, wouldn’t be fixed until tomorrow.
McCartney, Regan, Timms, Grimes.
He couldn’t get them out of his head.
He tried to think of alternatives, but nothing was as compelling.
He had to speak to Alf.
When he returned to the Yard to collect his keys there was a note on his desk:
REGAN WANTS TO TALK.
He screwed it up, tossed it in the bin and went back again down to the cells. Regan knew how things worked, and he would know there was no point in spinning a story that would fall apart at the slightest investigation. If he wanted to save his neck, he’d have to offer something worthwhile. Something dynamite. And what was the harm in listening?
Regan was pacing. Charlie unlocked the door and went inside.
“You’ve changed your tune.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You wanted to talk?”
“You what?”
“Don’t mess me around—I don’t have time for games. Give me something useful and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Weren’t you listening before? You’re wasting your time. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
Behind them, the door opened.
Charlie turned his head.
Bob Peters was in the doorway.
He had a pistol in his hand.
He didn’t say anything.
“About bloody time,” Regan said.
He looked at Peters, and something changed. A realisation.
He panicked. “Oh, shit.”
Two shots: one in the forehead, one in the throat. Regan slumped backwards, resting against the wall. Blood gushed out of his throat in jerking spasms, then slowed to a trickle.
“Bob?”
Regan’s left leg thrashed, then stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorry, Charlie.”
Peters aimed.
“I’m sorry.”
He cocked the trigger.
“Put it down.”
Bob Peters swivelled toward the voice.
It was Frank.
A shotgun, cradled and aimed.
Peters paused, half-lowered his arm.
“Put it down, Bob. Now.”
“Can’t do that, Frank.”
Frank’s aim was steady. “It’s over, Bob. It’s all finished.”
“Aye.”
Peters raised the gun.
Aimed at Charlie again.
Gunshots.
CALENDAR
Daily Mirror, 11th February:
POLICE OFFICER MURDERED AT SCOTLAND YARD
A Metropolitan Police officer was murdered yesterday while in custody at Scotland Yard. Mr. George Regan, a Detective Sergeant from West End Central C.I.D., had been arrested on suspicion of corruption and was being questioned when he was killed. His murderer was unidentified at the time of going to press, but confidential reports suggest the man was also a serving police officer. Sources also suggest that this man was killed as he was trying to make good his escape.
A second officer was seriously injured. Detective Inspector Charles Murphy was shot in the stomach. His injuries have been described as life-threatening.
Daily Mirror, 12th February:
TWO MEN FOUND DEAD IN EAST END FLAT
VICTIM IS POLICE OFFICER
POLICE SEEK UNKNOWN ASSAILANT
Police have named the two men found dead at a property near Brick Lane, E.2. Mr. Eddie Coyle and detective Inspector Percy Timms had suffered fatal gunshot wounds. It is not known what D.I. Timms’ business was with Mr. Coyle. Confidential police sources have indicated to this reporter that a third man was seen leaving the property at around the time of the fatal incident. Police are seeking to identify this man who must be considered a prime suspect for the shootings.
Daily Mirror, 20th February:
SHOT POLICEMAN MAKES PROGRESS
The policeman shot at Scotland Yard is recovering, his doctor at Guy’s Hospital has reported. Detective Inspector Charles Murphy was grievously injured during the incident and it was thought his life was in the balance. It has been revealed that his assailant was also a policeman, Detective Sergeant Robert Peters. No motive for the attack has been provided by the police and the investigation is said to be “ongoing.”
METROPOLITAN POLICE
Criminal Investigation Department
New Scotland Yard
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To Commissioner:
I.O: D.C.I. S. Sinclair
Submitted at request of: D.A.C. Clarke
Re: Corruption at W.E. Central
Sir,
When you initiated this enquiry, you stated your hope that I would be able to demonstrate the allegations surrounding officers at West End Central were mistaken. I am afraid I am unable to give you that reassurance. Corruption surely was endemic. Were they not all dead, I am satisfied that strong cases could have been put against Detective Sergeants Peters, Regan and Timms, and Detective Constable Grimes. You charged me with examining all possible culprits, no matter the position. It is with regret, then, that I must report my suspicion that Chief Constable William Murphy was involved—at the very least he must have been aware of the illicit activity, although his close connection to the men (particularly D.S. Peters) suggests participation. Whilst it would be difficult to prove these cases, circumstantial evidence leads one to the conclusion that illegal schemes were operating in ‘C’ Division and had been operating for several years. D.S. Peter’s murder of D.S. Regan at Scotland Yard and the attempted murder of D.I. Charles Murphy was likely a desperate attempt to prevent the details of the conspiracy from coming to light.
I understand this is not what you wanted to hear. Political considerations will pertain, of course, and I have deliberately refrained from considering them. I have concerned myself only with the facts, as I have found them.
Sincerely,
D.C.I. S. Sinclair
11th June
METROPOLITAN POLICE
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To: D.C.I. Sinclair:
Subject: West End Central
Stanley,
Thank you for your report, which I read with great dismay. After consideration, it has been decided that it does not serve the Metropolis to have information of this nature divulged to the public during a time of war. Please therefore ensure that any paperwork or evidence that you have gathered during the time of your enquiry is destroyed. Please further ensure that this matter is not discussed. The Commissioner has instructed me to put measures in place to ensure that this debacle can never happen again—given that this is so, one can understand his reasons for keeping it quiet. What do we stand to gain by airing our dirty linen in public?
Regards, etc,
Tom
14th June
Police Gazette, 2nd July:
DECORATED OFFICER RETIRES
Chief Constable William Murphy has announced his retirement. He s
aid that, at nearly 62, the time was right to call it a day on a glittering career. “I’ve had a good run and I’ve enjoyed my time,” he said. “There have been many highlights and I’d recommend the force to any young man looking for an interesting and fulfilling career.”
EPILOGUE
— May 1941 —
CHAPTER 69
FRIDAY, 16th MAY 1941
FRANK MURPHY PAID THE RENT. He said it was blood money that needed to be put to good use. The building was just off Seven Dials—Henry could hear the cries of the stallholders on Covent Garden market from the window. He hadn’t left the office for three days straight—he worked until he fell asleep at the desk, woke with the scrape of the barrows each morning, started working again. A single room with a desk, a chair and a narrow sofa. No-one knew where he was. Murphy had warned him to be careful. What he was doing was dangerous. He hadn’t needed telling twice.
Boxes full of Ripper case notes were stacked on the floor, five high, filling the space. Murphy had taken them out of the archive for him.
Documents blurred into one another.
It was a goldmine.
The Ripper files, alone, would have been enough. Weeks worth of stories. A four-page exposé with follow-ups until Christmas.
Hanged for Crime He Didn’t Commit.
Black-Out Ripper Uncaught.
Maniac Still on London’s Streets.
Angles he never would have dreamed of.
But Murphy gave him more.
He had searched the houses of Regan and Timms.
Buried in Timms’ back garden: £4,943, a shotgun, two revolvers, ammunition.
