The Black Mile (19 page)

 
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 else?”

 
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.”

 
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?”

 
“Late
afternoon, usually. Round about now.”

 
“When was
the last time he was here?”

 
“Yesterday
afternoon.”

 
Frank
checked his watch: a quarter after four. “Give me a beer.”

 
“Right you
are.” He pulled a pint of stout and slid it across the bar. Murphy took it and
found a spot at the back of the room.

 
He sat for
an hour. A handful of dust-covered rescue workers came in, talking about a
terrace that had taken a hit around the corner and the family of four they had
pulled out, unmarked but all of them dead. He waited another half an hour:
still no Johnson. He waited until six then gave up.

 
He put a
shilling on the bar, his card on top of it. “Call the next time he’s in here
and there’s another shilling for you.”

 
Frank went
back onto the street. The huge column of smoke looked even bigger here, this
close to the docks. He got back into his car, headed back for the West End. His
mind flickered like lightning: Duncan Edward Johnson, his hands around another
woman’s throat.