The Black Mile (21 page)

THURSDAY 12th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
40

POTS OF COFFEE AND CIGARETTES. Charlie worked all
night without a wink of kip. Bombs fell in the vicinity on two occasions, a low
bass rumble that juddered the furniture and flickered the lights. He was so
caught up in the papers that he hardly noticed them. He stayed at Gosfield
Street for two hours until Tanner had told him to get back to Savile Row and
continue with the file. There was a briefing of the men at eight o’clock and it
was the Detective Superintendent’s habit to delegate the task to his bagman. He
needed to be immersed in the facts. Frank would be at the briefing, too.
Another reason to be completely up to speed. 

 
He went
outside for a breath of fresh air. Savile Row nick was under siege. Thirty-six
bombs had fallen in the West End area overnight and the station Sergeant was
struggling to deal with a scrum of locals who wanted to know where they were
supposed to go now their houses had been flattened. Charlie squeezed between them
and went back down to the basement Inquiry Room again.

 
The papers
were spread out across two tables. Three new murders. Charlie still couldn’t
quite believe he was on the case. He would’ve given his right arm to be
involved earlier in the year; he’d made do with newspaper reports and what he’d
heard on the grapevine, the tittle tattle and rumour that went around a nick.
Now he had the entire case spread out around him. Each scrap of information
added to the picture he was building and, at the back of it all, the
possibility that he would read something and make a connection that no-one else
had made. With an investigation as big as this, the odds were good that the
killer was hidden in the papers. A name, a witness mentioning something that no-one
else had spotted, perhaps even someone who had been spoken to and disregarded.

 
He just had
to be found.

 
He read
through the files. They kept running into walls: no real breaks so far. They
had turned the lives of the dead girls upside down to try and find connections
but they had nothing: Worthing was definitely a brass, but they couldn’t say
that for sure about Jenkins; Worthing’s father died in the poor house, Jenkins’
father was a bank manager; Worthing drank heavily, Jenkins was tea-total.

 
Nothing
suggested their paths would ever have crossed.     

 
And now they
had Annie Stokes to add to the mess.

 
He fell back
on basic criminology. He had educated himself, studied sex killers: the original
Ripper; George Joseph Smith; George Chapman. He’d read treatises from shrinks
and criminologists. He’d attended lectures and kept scrapbooks of cuttings on
infamous cases. He drew conclusions: the Black-out Ripper had stopped killing
for two months, but now he was back. The fact that time had passed since his
first murder and he still hadn’t been caught had emboldened him. This sudden
orgy of fresh violence suggested he was confident of evading capture; his urges
would only have been temporarily sated. They would take hold again and again.

 
There was
only one constant with sexual sadists: once they started, they killed until
they were stopped.

 
The experts
were unanimous: most left behind a ‘signature’, something that identified them
by their technique. Some did it deliberately, seeking recognition by making
their work characteristic, but most of the time it was unintentional, habitual,
the signature involving several components. Murders didn’t have to show all
aspects of the same killer's signature to be linked and just because a murder
had things in common with another didn’t mean that the same man did both. A
signature was more about the things that happened without realisation;
subconscious nuances essential for gratification, driven by imperative and not
by choice.

 
Charlie knew
all this, held it at the front of his mind as he compared the three new murders
with the slayings from before, sifting for a signature by examining the
pathology and crime scene details. He picked out twenty-seven signature or
possible signature components, filleted them to the six most significant: seven
out of eight victims were brasses or half-brasses; seven were killed indoors;
all were killed by asphyxia; all knife wounds were cuts––stabbing was not a
feature of the killings; there was mutilation or attempted mutilation in all
eight cases; there were no indication that any of the victims struggled
sufficiently to sustain significant defensive wounds and no screams were heard.

 
Solid
similarities.

 
There were
questions to answer and angles to follow. Eddie Coyle needed to be found. He
knew Worthing and he had form for violence. He must have heard about the murder
and yet he hadn’t come forward yet. That was suspicious. And the journalist,
Drake, he needed to be investigated. Frank had put a Detective Constable to the
task but he had reported nothing of interest yet. Not good enough. There was
something there, Charlie could smell it. Drake was hiding somwething. He would
have to speak to him personally.

 
Fred
Cherrill’s latest report was delivered at half-seven. The lads from the
Fingerprint Bureau had been at Worthing’s flat in Soho all day yesterday, and
they had taken it apart piece by piece. They had eliminated prints from
Worthing and Edith Sampson. Nothing. They were at Stoke’s flat now, repeating
the task.

 
He put his
pen down, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

o         
o          o

IT WAS EIGHT WHEN HE STOPPED; the briefing was at
half-past. He took his notes and went into the gents to splash cold water on
his face. Alf McCartney came inside as he was drying his hands.

 
“Morning,
lad.”

 
“Sir.”

 
“You look
all done in.”

 
“Been up all
night.”

 
“Find
anything?”

 
“I’ve got a
few ideas.”

 
“Bill’s
asked you to deliver the briefing?”

 
“Yes, sir.”

 
“Par for the
course. Means he doesn’t have to bother himself with the detail.” He chuckled
derisively. “Nothing to worry about. I’m sure you’re up to snuff.”

 
“I’m getting
there.”

 
He walked to
the urinals. “So? What do you think?”

 
“These last
three are almost certainly the work of the same man. There are several similarities.”

 
“Excellent.
And if anything develops, you’ll let me know. At once?”

 
“Of course,
sir.”

 
“Good lad.”

 
McCartney
headed towards the C.I.D. Room and Charlie followed. Inside it was standing
room only. Tanner was at the front. Charlie went to stand alongside. The D.C.I.
had arranged with the uniform Inspector to borrow eight flatfoots to add to the
Aids and Detectives already working the case: a decent muster squad for some
good old-fashioned policing. Three more dead brasses on the patch: even with
this nonsense from Fritz, the investigation was getting the attention it
deserved.

 
Tanner
rapped on the desk.

 
“Pipe down,
men––we haven’t got anywhere yet and we’re starting to get awkward questions
from on high. I need boots on the street and you lucky fellows are it.” He
nodded at Charlie. “This is D.S. Murphy. He’s been transferred over from
Central.”

 
Charlie
stood up and cleared his throat. Men looked up at him. Frank stared up blankly.
He couldn’t supress the thought: they all know my history, the things I did to
get where I am. His legs felt empty and his stomach churned. Bob Peters nodded
encouragement.

He cleared his throat again.
“There are two men we need to speak to.” He stuck photographs on the wall:
profile and frontal, a man in his mid-thirties, slender build, heavy beard,
thick pug-nose, gimlet eyes, frizzed ginger hair. “This man’s the first, and
the most interesting. D.I. Murphy interviewed a friend of the second victim on
Monday––young lass, said Worthing was getting battered by her beau, bloke by
the name of Eddie Coyle, C-O-Y-L-E. I’ve pulled his file and he’s got form: he
did a bit for assault three years ago, copped a not-guilty for a rape and he’s
been a suspect in a couple of breakings, just not enough to charge. The Vice
Squad think he might have moved into pimping and that’s what Worthing’s
neighbour thought, so this could easily be his thing. These are his photos, and
he’s got tattoos of anchors on his forearms; he did three years in the Navy and
he’s got the souvenirs. Take a look at him, remember what he looks like. The
chances are he’s just a fellow who knocks his woman around, but we need him
crossed off the list. The girl said he works as a porter in a hotel in the West
End, no more detail than that. If you count B and Bs and guest houses, there
are 340 hotels in the West End.” The room grumbled, knowing what was coming
next; Tanner shushed them. “I’ve picked nine of you plus me and I’ve drawn up a
list. Split ten-ways, there are 34 hotels per man. Take a copy from the front,
visit each place, speak to the manager, shake things up and see if you can pin
Coyle down.”

 
The groaning
continued.

 
“The second
man is Henry Drake. Is D.C. Adams here?”

 
Adams was
the man Frank had assigned to look into Drake. “Yes, guv,” he said.

 
“What have
you found?”

 
“Not much,
to be honest. He doesn’t have a record. He’s a bachelor, lives alone. Doesn’t
seem to have many friends. He’s been at the newspaper since 1937. He was
something of a rising star until recently but he’s not been doing so well the
last few months. I spoke to his editor yesterday morning––seems he’s under some
sort of internal investigation. They reckon he might have been making up his
stories.”

 
“Anything
else?”

 
“Yes, sir.
He wasn’t all that keen to talk to me yesterday in the office––he ducked out
the back.”

“We need to put the screws
to  him,” Charlie said “He’s the only link we’ve got between Jenkins and
Worthing. Something about him isn’t right.” Charlie glanced at Frank––bringing
Drake in for questioning again was a slap in the face, the suggestion that he’d
done a bad job the first time. Too bad. He couldn’t worry about hurting his
feelings. Maybe he
had
done a bad job.

 
Adams said
he would bring him to the station.

“The Post Office have installed
a special telephone line direct to this room, so if you need any additional
information or you need your memory refreshed you can call it and get what you
need.”

 
“Any
questions?” Tanner said.

 
“When are we
going to the press, guv? I’ve had it up to here with blokes asking me for a
quote.”

 
“There’s a
conference on Thursday.”

 
“Are we
going to say it’s the Ripper?”

 
“There’s no
point in pretending it isn’t. We’ll need their help anyway. There’s going to be
an appeal for information. Someone must know something. Anything else?” The
room was quiet. “Excellent. Get to it.” 

 
The men took
their lists from the table and filed outside. Charlie knew: it was a wild goose
chase, but it was the best they could do at the moment. He had to assume the
young doxy Frank interviewed was telling the truth and that her information was
correct, but, even then, it was a stretch that Coyle was a killer, even less
likely that he was the Ripper.

 
Charlie
waited at the front until Frank got up. He looked over at him. He shook his
head and went out of the door.

 
41

THE NEWSROOM WAS FULL OF NOISE. Hitler was massing
men on the coast, waiting for the right tide. The latest news had the invasion
tonight or tomorrow morning. Henry sat at his typewriter and transcribed his
shorthand notes from the interview with Asquith.

Chattaway came to his desk. “My
office,” he said. “Now.”

Henry opened the desk drawers,
scooped notes into his bag, took down folders and tore out pages, shoved them
on top of the notes. He hurried, not knowing how long he might have. Anything
he thought he might need, he took. He knew what was coming and he wanted to be
prepared. He closed his briefcase and pushed it out of sight, under the desk.
He walked across the newsroom to Chattaway’s office.

 
“Boss?”

 
“What on earth
did you think you were doing?”

 
“What do you
mean?”

 
Chattaway’s
face suffused with red. “Yesterday. What were you doing?”

 
“Following a
story.”

 
“Which one?”

 
“I can’t
tell you.”

 
“You bloody
well can!”

 
“No, I
can’t––not until it’s finished.”

 
“It involves
Viscount Asquith?”

“Yes.”

 
“Because I
understand you went to see him?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“Right.”
Chattaway drew a breath. Henry’s confirmation almost seemed like a relief. He
spoke quietly, firmly. “Did you accuse him of sexual improprieties?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“For God’s
sake, Henry, what were you thinking?”

 
“I’ve come
across serious allegations. I had to put them to him.”

 
“What are
they?”

 
“No, I’m
sorry, Edward––I can’t say.”

 
“That’s not
good enough, Drake.”

“I can’t. And I had to speak to
him. I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it, so I didn’t tell you. There was
nothing else for it. I had no choice.”

 
“Of course
you had a choice. You could have done what I gave you to do instead of going
off and making ridiculous allegations against a very important bloody person.
Libellous allegations, Henry, let’s be plain about that. I’ve already had to
get Deakins involved. And, I mean,” he went on, sarcastically, “what an
excellent choice: Viscount bloody Asquith, who’s just signed a crucial
agreement to provide the bloody R.A.F. with the aeroplanes that might help them
keep Adolf bloody Hitler on the other side of the bloody Channel. A national
hero. How on earth you thought I’d be able to print a story like that now,
well, I really have no idea. That is an absolutely spectacular failure of
judgment. Spectacular.” 

 
“I had to
follow it up.”

Chattaway waved his hand
dismissively. “Asquith would be bad enough. I wish that was all. You know we
had the police in yesterday?”

“What for?”

 
“A Detective
Constable from Savile Row. He wanted to know all about you. He was especially
interested to find out whether you were working on the Ripper story. I told him
you better not be, seeing as I specifically took you off it three months ago
and gave it to Byatt. You’re not working on it, are you, Henry?”

 
“I’m afraid
I can’t say, Edward.”

 
“Does it
involve Asquith?”

 
Henry didn’t
answer.

 
Chattaway
breathed out; he looked weary. “It hardly matters. Cherry on top of the cake.
Deakins has finished looking at your work. All sorts of problems. Sources who
don’t exist. Misquotes. The interview with the first victim’s father, in
Newcastle? He’s never heard of you. Christ, Henry, there are half a dozen times
when you’ve filed a report from somewhere or other when we know you’ve been in
London. It’s brazen. I don’t understand it. You didn’t need to do it.”

 
Henry looked
away.

“Did you really think you’d get
away with it?”        

 
“Come on,
Chattaway. Everyone does it.”

 
Chattaway
banged a fist on the table. “There’s a line, Henry. There’s a bloody
line
.
There’s licence and there’s outright fabrication. What you’ve done is
unforgivable. Professional suicide. You haven’t given me a choice.”

 
“You’re
giving me my cards?”

 
“You’ve got
until midday to clear your desk.”

 
Henry
straightened his jacket, straightened his tie, and got up. “Thanks for being
straight with me.”

 
“Anything
you’ve been working on needs to stay here. In the building. Is that clear?”

 
“Of course,”
Henry said, thinking: no bloody way.

 
“I’m
serious, Henry––everything stays here.”

 
No bloody
way.