The Black Mile (15 page)
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
Constable 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.”
Henry
slammed the receiver down, ran for the main road and took the next bus towards
the city. He disembarked at Tottenham Court Road, came out on Oxford Street at
a jog and hurried past the Lyons Corner House. He fought the urge to sprint. As
he turned into Wardour Street his thoughts were hopelessly distracted.
Excitement: he knew he was sitting on the biggest scoop of his career. Big? He
corrected himself: that was an understatement. Jenkins saying that Viscount
Asquith attended sex parties with prostitutes would have been big enough in
itself. But that she was murdered after telling him? That he was warned off
after meeting Field?
Big became
enormous.
Big enough
to rehabilitate him and restore his reputation.
He had to
get Worthing on the record. He didn’t know whether she would co-operate or how
much money it’d take to get her to speak. Probably didn’t even know that her
friend was dead. But he had to have her.
Soho:
anonymous doorways to walk-up brothels where you could buy a whore for the
price of the change in your pocket; shops selling blue books from Paris. Right
turn at the junction, past a warden on his morning rounds, into Wardour Street.
Henry hurried: 157, 155, 153––the address was on the left-hand side, a
four-storey terrace. Slumlord territory: half a dozen flats crammed into the
building, single rooms most likely, shared bathrooms. Each floor had two long,
narrow sash windows, the lintels discoloured with soot and dust. The front door
had luminous splashes of white paint daubed around the doorbell and keyhole for
picking them out in the black-out.
Henry went
to knock. The front door stood ajar, not quite closed. He pushed the door with
his toe and stared at the dingy hall inside, letters scattered over a frayed
doormat. Henry took a step forwards and paused, wincing, feeling acutely
self-conscious. He turned back into the street. It was quiet.
Henry
stepped inside, a door facing him at the end of a short corridor and a flight
of stairs leading up to the first floor. He picked up the pile of envelopes and
sorted through them. One of them was for Constance Worthing, Flat 3, 153
Wardour Street, W.1. He put it in his pocket and took the stairs.
Henry took
everything in: Flat 3 was at the front of the building, overlooking the street.
A line of crooked white metallic letters were affixed to the wall next to the
door: WORTHING. The door was in line with the top of the stairs. It was ajar.
Henry knocked gently: no reply. Covering his fingertips with the sleeve of his
jacket, he gently pushed the door open.
Something
was wrong.
The room had
a heavy, ominous atmosphere. The black-outs had been drawn and it was dark. He
flicked the light switch but nothing happened––the electricity meter must have
run out. There was a black-out torch on the sideboard. He took it and shone the
narrow beam around the room. Everything looked as it ought to: a collection of
cheap-looking furniture, clothes folded over the back of a chair, personal
effects placed in a neat and tidy fashion.
He shone the
torch around and picked out the divan bed.
A body was
lying atop it.
“Hello?”
He moved
closer. It was a woman.
“Connie?
Excuse me?”
She was
lying on her back with her head hanging off the left-hand side of the bed.
“Madam?”
Henry swung
the torch up and down. She was naked except for a thin cotton vest and a silk nightdress
rolled up over the body to expose the lower parts of the breasts. The sheets
were reddened with tacky, half-dried blood. He moved closer. He brought the
torch up and shone it on her face. Curved cuts, crescent-shaped and bloodied,
extended from the corners of her mouth on both sides, curling upwards towards
her ears.
Oh, God.
He crouched
down, bile churning, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
Oh, God.
He closed
his eyes. His hands were shaking. He concentrated on breathing in and out.
The moment
passed.
He opened
his eyes again and looked around the room. The wardrobe door had been forced.
He looked inside: nothing useful. There was a handbag on the sofa: black
leather, the clasp unfastened, the contents spilled out next to it. Two Post
Office Savings Bank withdrawal books in the name of Constance Worthing. A
handful of personal letters, all addressed to “Connie.” Love letters—all of
them signed ‘G.’ On the bedside table sat seven Ever Ready razor blades next to
a Roberts wire-less set. A set of keys on the mantelpiece. The easy chair next
to it, draped with clothes: a black coat, a black dress, a slip, a brassiere, a
pair of stockings and a skirt. A tweed jacket hung from a hook on the back of
the door.
Everything
looked normal. That was almost the worst part. It could be any other Soho room,
save for the dead body on the bed.
Henry
replaced the items he moved, fixed the room in his memory, and made his way
back down to the street.
o
o o
HE STOOD IN A TELEPHONE BOX AND DIALLED 999.
“Police,
please.”
“How can I
help you, sir?”
“There’s
been a murder.”
“Where are
you, sir?”
“Wardour
Street.”
“Where on
Wardour Street?”
“Number
153.”
“Do you know
who it is?”
“Her name’s
Constance Worthing.”
“Are you a
relative?”
“No. I’m––”
He paused. “I’m a friend.”
“Please wait there, sir. An
officer is on the way.”
Henry
replaced the receiver and took out his pocketbook. He flipped through the pages
until he found the number he wanted. He picked up the handset again, pushed in
a coin and dialled the number.
“Coroner’s
Office.”
“Could I
speak to Terry Deacon, please.”
“I’ll
connect you now.”
“Deacon
speaking.”
“Terry––it’s
Henry Drake. I’m up to my neck in something and I need your help.”
“Usual
terms?”
“A quid if
you can help.”
“What is
it?”
“Did you
have a dead woman in last night?”
“Had
twenty––Adolf’s work. What’s her name?”
“Molly
Jenkins. This was a murder, not from the bombing.”
“Hang on.
Here we are: Molly Jenkins. She’s down at Paddington. What about her?”
“Who’s doing
the P.M.?”
“Spilsbury.
He did it last night. Expedited. Why?”
“I need a
copy of the report.”
“No, Henry.
That’s the kind of thing that’d get me into a lot of bother.”
“I’m not
going to print anything. I just need to see it.”
“I’m really
not sure––”
“Come on,
Terry. I’d really be very grateful. Two quid. What do you say?”
A long
pause––Henry knotted the cord around his fingers until the tips were white.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“One other
thing. You’re going to get another dead woman in today: Constance Worthing,
coming in from Wardour Street. She’s been cut up pretty bad. I’m going to want
a look at her P.M. too. Another couple of quid for her, too.”
“I’ll send
them both to the office.”
“Good man.”
31
FRANK AWOKE IN THE OFFICE. He went into the
bathroom and took off his shirt. He filled the sink and scrubbed the dirt and
grit from his face and chest and beneath his arms. His shirt smelt musty, but
he didn’t have another. It’d have to do. He dressed, went into the C.I.D. room
and collected the replies to the telegrams he’d sent out last night. He scanned
them: plenty of useful background info on the dead girl. He brewed a pot of
coffee to help wake him up, sat down at his desk, and read them more carefully.
He circled interesting facts, wrote annotations into the margins, follow-up
points that needed to be addressed. The sheets were covered with ink by eight
o’clock when he was finished.
He went down
to the street and bought a copy of the Sunday Pictorial: the front page had a
picture of a demolished street. Looked like a giant had stamped on the houses,
flattened them. Twenty-five dead in that street alone, the report said. Frank
thumbed through pages. Page five: stories about the bombings that overflowed
from the front page. His eye stopped on a below-the-fold headline. There it
was: MURDERED GIRL NAMED. No story, just a picture of him standing outside the
shelter with Alex Baldie. The caption: ‘Detectives at the Conduit Street
shelter, W., where the body of Molly Jenkins was found yesterday. She had been
stabbed.’
o
o o
STANDING ROOM ONLY IN C.I.D. OFFICE: thirty
detectives, the full complement from the Ripper investigation, the room jammed
to the rafters. It was a mongrel group: men from ‘C’ and ‘D’ Divisions, reinforcements
that Bill Tanner had brought with him from the Yard, youngsters seasoned with a
handful of older hands. The men gossiped about the dead girl in resentful
tones, knowing that another Ripper victim meant long shifts until they either
had him shackled or he went quiet again. The bombing on top meant sixteen hour
days, no weekends, no leave.
D.C.I. Bill
Tanner was at the front, talking with Bob Peters.
“Frank. I
was just saying to Bob, what a bloody nuisance. Bloody Hitler.”
“Anything in
particular, guv?”
“A bomb went
off outside John’s house last night. Blew him out of bed. He’s broken his leg,
apparently. Signed off for a month. Feel bloody sorry for the bugger but I
don’t know what I’m going to do without a bagman.”
Frank
stifled a groan.
“You’ll get
a replacement?”
“Alf
McCartney says he knows someone who’d fit the bill. It’s just the damned hassle
of it, Frank. Last thing I need.”
The D.C.I.
got up and banged on the desk.
“Bad news?”
Bob Peters said.
“The D.S.
was the best way to get anything done. Tanner’s complaining––what the hell am I
going to do now?”
“The man’s a
joke.”
Frank held
out his hands: helpless.
Tanner
banged again. “Pay attention, lads. It goes without saying that this is a
priority case again. If it’s true that that the dead girl was done by our man,
it’s going to be bloody hectic around here. We want him caught and bloody
quick.” He shuffled notes. “Some of you know what happened yesterday, some of
you don’t. Frank will fill you in.”
Frank took
two pictures out of a document file and pinned them onto the board. “Yesterday
morning at around half-past five, the body of this woman was found in a surface
air raid shelter in Conduit Street. The P.M. says she was strangled and then
mutilated which is obviously the modus operandi of the Ripper. We don’t know
yet whether she was killed in the shelter or somewhere else and then
dumped––that’s something we need to find out. The mutilations are the same as
before. The body was discovered by two plumbers on their way to work. I
interviewed them, they’re not suspects. There’s no forensics at the scene––no
dabs, no footprints, nothing. We’ve gone door-to-door and we know the
boarding-house where the victim was staying. She left her luggage behind and we
got enough from that to send telegrams asking for assistance.”
The men were
all paying attention, noting down details. Frank gave them some more; he
pointed at the pictures: “Her name’s Molly Jenkins. Date of birth, February 8th
1918. The Newcastle constabulary spoke with her sister last night. She was born
in Gateshead but she lived in Brighton. National Registration Number
FFXE/226/1. Unmarried, no children. Pretty. Her sister says she always had
plenty of casual man-friends, but none who she’d say were serious. Bookish as a
kid. Qualified as a pharmacist after studying chemistry. Moved to Brighton at
nineteen to be with her parents. Worked at two chemists before studying for her
chemist and druggist diploma from Edinburgh University. She graduated in
thirty-eight and got a job at a Brighton pharmacy. Manageress. Brighton C.I.D.
spoke to the proprietor of the pharmacy last night––she handed in her notice
there in September last year, no reason given.” Frank finished his cup of
coffee, went back to his notes. “Her landlady reports she was in the habit of
travelling up to London, staying overnight, two or three times a week. Money
wasn’t a problem even though she had no job––she wore expensive clothes and
jewellery and paid the rent in cash.”
“We think
she’s a brass, then?”
“Looks
likely. We need to know for sure. She settled up on Saturday afternoon and
moved out. Brighton police are canvassing the station staff to see if any of
them recognise her. Nigel––check at Victoria and London Bridge. She got the
train from Brighton––someone must have seen her. Check with porters, station
clerks, the taxi rank.”
“Yes, guv.”
“She arrived
by taxi at the Three Arts Club, Clifford Street, at around eleven. She went out
to Piccadilly for something to eat after eleven. A waitress at the Corner House
says she recognises her. We’ve managed to substantiate that––Spilsbury found
beetroot in her stomach and the waitress remembered her having the beetroot
salad. She ate alone and left at around half twelve. We’ll assume she headed
back to the boarding-house and met her killer along the way. We’ve gone
door-to-door in the area once––I know it’s dull work but that’s what we’re
doing again today. The usual questions, lads. Did anyone hear or see anything
suspicious? It was the black-out, remember, no bugger on the streets, if she
got done outside, I can’t believe no-one heard anything. Speak to the ARP. Did
they see anything?”
“We’re going
full speed on this, lads,” Tanner said. “The boss is right behind us. Anything
you need, you’ll have. I’m arranging for extra typists upstairs to write up
your reports. Unlimited overtime. If we need any more boots on the street we’ll
bring over cadets from Hendon. This is going to be a concerted effort. We need
to catch him.”
A uniformed
P.C. opened the door.
“What is it,
Constable?”
“Sir.
There’s been another one.”
Frank’s stomach dropped.
The atmosphere in the room
ratcheted, men muttering.
“Where?”
“Wardour Street.”
The men muttered.
“Alright, lads,” Tanner said.
“You know what to do. Step to it.”
He dismissed them, and followed
Frank outside. The Area Car was waiting at the kerb. They got in, the driver
leaving rubber as they screeched across Regent Street, the siren wailing.
o
o o
THE CAR STOPPED outside number 153. A uniformed PC
was waiting outside the front door. He was white-faced. A woman in her dressing
gown shuffled nervously nearby. Frank, Tanner and Peters got out of the car.
The P.C. came over and saluted.
“What’s your
name, officer?” Tanner asked.
“George Hennessy.”
“What’ve you
got?”
“Dead woman.
Horrible, guv.”
“We better
have a look inside.”
“It’s not a
pretty sight.”
“Go on,
gents,” Peters said. “I’ll sort things out down here.”
Tanner was
ashen-faced as he turned to Frank. “After you.”
The door
opened into a hallway with a flight of stairs at one end. “It’s on the first
floor. Facing the street.” They climbed the stairs. Frank pushed the door open.
The room was
dark. He took Hennessy’s torch and shone it around the room.
Blood and
torn flesh––the girl’s face had been mutilated.
Frank felt
it simultaneously, the same as before: relief and guilt.
It wasn’t
Eve.
Someone
else’s daughter.
He squeezed
his eyes shut, opened them, and concentrated on doing his job. “Call Savile
Row.” The Constable didn’t acknowledge him, his glassy eyes unmoving from the
bed. Frank shone the torch into his face. “Constable!”
“Sorry, I––”
“Call the
nick. Have them speak to the coroner. Spilsbury needs to be here pronto. And
get Fred Cherrill, too. Looks like we might have some dabs to look at.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank and
Tanner were left alone in the room. Frank yanked the black-out aside. “Bloody
hell,” Tanner said quietly. “Bloody hell.”
Grey light
shone through dirty windows. The body looked worse in the gloom: ashen skin,
glassy eyes, brownish blood on the sheets, on the valance, on the floorboards.
Tanner
looked like he was about to be sick. “Jesus. I need some fresh air.”
“Go on, sir.
I’ll be down in a minute.”
Outside, on
Wardour Street, a delivery lorry ran past. The clinker in the tiny fireplace,
loosened by the impacts of last night’s bombs, gently collapsed into the grate.
Frank
glanced around again, fixing the details in his mind, then pulled the door shut
behind him and followed the D.C.I. downstairs. Peters had calmed things down. A
bottle of gin had appeared from somewhere and the old woman was being
encouraged to take a swig.
“Who is
she?”
“Ivy Poole,”
Peters said. “Works as an attendant at the funfair in Leicester Square. Lives
in the flat opposite the dead girl.”
Frank took
the woman by the arm and guided her to one side. “Morning, love. I’m D.I.
Murphy. You said her name was Constance?”
“That’s
right. Constance Worthing. We all knew her as Connie.”
“When was
the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday––must’ve been around eleven. I’d
decided to shelter from the bombs in my room, I’d got my shoes off and was
getting ready to settle down for the night, best as you can, anyway. I could
tell Connie was out on account of there being no light beneath her door and her
radio being off. She worked nights, if you know what I mean.”
“Go on.”
“Plenty of
the girls around here are on the game, use their rooms as lumbers to take their
mugs back to, but I expect you know all about that. I made myself a quick snack
then went upstairs to the bathroom to get me make-up off. As I came back down
again I saw her on the landing. We said hello, had a quick natter––about the
blitz, mostly, neither of us much fancied the idea of the shelter in the
Square. I said goodnight, went inside and locked my door.”
“That was
the last time you saw her?”
“Yes. I read
the newspaper for half an hour then I heard the front door open and close, then
footsteps on the stairs and Connie’s door closing. I heard raised voices before
her radio got switched on and turned up loud. She liked her radio but it wasn’t
like her to have it so loud as late as that. She wasn’t normally inconsiderate.
I wondered whether I ought to ask her to turn it down but I thought she was
probably with a bloke and she didn’t want me to hear the noise––plus she always
was a good neighbour and I didn’t want no harsh words to come between us. So I
put cotton wool in me ears instead and went off to sleep.”
“When would
you say that was?”
“Just after
twelve, I reckon––the last thing I can remember before nodding off was the
anthem after the midnight news.”
“Anything
else?”
She frowned.
“I don’t know––”
“Tell me.
Anything might be useful.”
“Well, see,
Connie had a visitor earlier, just after the second warning went. Jackie Field.
He’s a wrong ‘un, works at the Top Hat in Ham Yard. She used to tom for him. He
says he got some money for her. I wouldn’t mention it save she says to me a
couple of days before that she didn’t want nothing more to do with him on
account of how he cut up rough with her. The way I saw it, he was around here
trying to get her back working for him again, but I don’t know that for sure. I
told him to clear off or I’d take my hair pin and skewer his orchestras to his
leg.”
“I see. What
about this morning?”
“What do you
mean, officer?”
“How did you
find her body?”
“Oh, it
wasn’t me. I was still in bed when I heard the commotion. I didn’t recognise
the fellow. The officer over there spoke to him, though.”