The Black Mile (12 page)

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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 rope 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.

 
“Is it her?”

 
Frank closed
the suitcase. “Miss Rosser, would you be able to come to the mortuary and
identify the body tomorrow?”

 
26

HENRY DRAKE LISTENED TO THE HOME SERVICE for news
of the raid, but there was nothing, just never-ending patriotic music. Keep the
spirits up, he supposed, now that the shooting had started for real. He
listened, but none of it registered––his mind was buzzing. He had been working
all day: preparation for the interview tonight. He had a list of questions he
needed Molly Jenkins to answer. The more he thought about what she had said the
more questions he had.

 
Who was
behind the pornography?

 
Who else,
save Asquith, was involved?

 
Questions.

 
The newsroom
was busy. Peter Byatt was at his desk, the telephone receiver pressed to his
ear, scribbling furiously in his notebook. He replaced the receiver in its
cradle, got up and grabbed his coat.

 
“What is
it?”

 
“There’s
been a murder.”

 
“The
Ripper?”

 
“That’s what
they reckon.”

 
“Where?”

 
“Conduit
Street. Got to dash, old chap.”

 
Henry
watched him go. He swallowed bile.

 
It was his
story.

 
No, he
reminded himself.

 
He could do
better.

 
He checked
his watch: half-six. Time to be off. He collected his jacket and stepped
outside. Dusk was falling.

 
A buzzing
was in the air; it grew until it was everywhere, an ear-splitting cacophony of
engines. A V-shaped formation of planes passed right overhead, flying
north-east. Looked like Heinkels. The Jerry machines glinted in the half-light.
Another formation followed, then another. Henry counted sixty planes, bombers
hemmed in by fighters. The sky was full, each machine leaving a white gossamer
trail behind it. They looked like black fish in a dark blue pond.

 
A heavy pall
of smoke and dust was rising from the East End. Cloud dominated the horizon,
the barrage balloons pink in the glow from flames below. Henry doubted there
could ever have been a larger fire. Fire appliances sped through the streets,
heading East. Steely-eyed firemen in oilskins clung to the running boards of
the engines, the terrible spectacle on the horizon a grim prediction of the
hellishness they were being sent into.

 
Soho. It was
eerie––a Saturday night like this, after a day of pleasant weather, the boozers
would usually have been jammed with thirsty crowds spilling onto the street.
But tonight it was like a ghost-town. Most of the drinkers were shut and the
streets were empty. He walked to Ham Yard. Quiet. The door to the Top Hat was
open. He went inside. Music played quietly. Jackie Field was sat in one of the
booths.

 
“Evening,”
Henry said.

 
“You’re
late.”

 
“It’s mayhem
out there.”

 
Field
shrugged truculently.

 
Henry said,
“On your own?”

 
“You’re a
bright penny.”

 
“I was worried
you might not be here, you know, the raid––”

 
“No bloody
Kraut’s shutting me down. We’re open tonight, tomorrow night, every bloody
night until they march in here and tell me to close. Once people realise this
is a fuss about nothing they’ll want somewhere for a drink. Somewhere to
relax.”

 
“Where’s
Molly?”

 
“How’m I
supposed to know? I’m not her bloody keeper.”

 
“I need her
to be here. I need her to go on the record. I’ve got plenty of questions.”

 
“She’ll be
here.”

 
“Fine.”
Field was definitely on edge. He changed tack. “Maybe you could give me some
background.” He shrugged.

 
“What do you
mean?”

 
“How do you
know her?”

 
“She was one
of my girls.”

 
“You were
her pimp?”

 
“I provide
my customers with a service. The gentlemen who come here, time to time they
gets to be a bit lonely. Molly used to help me in this regard.”

 
They sat in
an awkward silence.

 
“Have you
got my money?”

 
“I’ve got
it.”

 
Half-six:
still nothing. Henry went outside. There were no planes overhead now but the
bells of fire appliances clanged noisily, everything being sent East. He
visited the tobacconist on Great Windmill Street. The fellow was shutting up
early, but he sold him a packet of Pall Malls. Henry returned to the club and
opened the cigarettes. Jackie Field smoked two, one after the other.

 
“Are you
alright? You look nervous.”

 
“Course I’m
alright.”

 
“You’re
smoking like a chimney”

 
“Don’t be so
bloody soft.”

 
“Your hands
are shaking.”

 
“I’m not
nervous.”

 
Henry
checked his watch. “Look, it’s seven. I can’t stay here all night. She isn’t
coming, is she?”

 
Field ground
a cigarette in the ashtray. He said nothing.

 
“When’s the
last time you saw her?”

 
“Yesterday.
She called in.”

 
“And?”

 
He exhaled
wearily. “And she was having second thoughts, alright? She was scared. I told
her to come in today and we’d sort it out. Get the money on the table, enough
for her to stop tomming, she’d realise what she’d be missing out on if she got
cold feet.” 

 
“Who
would’ve got to her?”

 
“Who’d you
think? The bloody Malts.”

 
“But you
said––”

 
“I’m not
scared of them. It’s all bark with them. No bloody bite. Far as I’m concerned
they can all piss off. But it ain’t all about me, is it? They can cut rough with
the girls. A razor across the face? A bit of acid? No punter wants to get
intimate with a girl who’s had her boat done in, do they? Molly’s worried about
what they might do to her.”

 
“Do you
still have the pictures?”

 
He shook his
head. “She’s got them.”

 
“You said––”

 
“I know what
I said, but she never gave them to me. He wouldn’t let them out of his sight.”

 
“He?”

 
“The bloke
she was with.”

 
“The big
chap?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“Who was
he?”

 
“He wouldn’t
say.”

 
“What about
the other girls?”

 
“Annie’s a
drunk. God knows where she is. Pissed in the gutter somewhere. Connie––” He got
up and took a coat from over the arm of the chair. “Actually, that’s not a bad
idea. She lives in Wardour Street. I’ll see if I can find her. She might know
where Molly is. Come back here in a couple of hours.”