The Black Mile (31 page)
He stuffed
the ledger into the bag, zipped it, hurried for the door.
58
HENRY DRAKE ROTATED THE COIN IN HIS FINGERS. He was
on Brick Lane, around the corner from the café and Butters’ premises. He had
started for the tube but hadn’t got far. He couldn’t leave. Rely on Murphy to
keep him informed? He wouldn’t get anything from him. He could only rely on
himself. His stomach felt empty, nerves buzzing. He traced the stippled edge of
the coin. He reached into his pocket and took out the folded square of paper
The scar
burned across his cheek.
It suddenly
felt fresh.
Final
warning. Next time you’ll end up burned. Like your mate.
He unfolded
the paper.
He had torn
out the last page of the magazine. At the bottom:
MEMBERSHIP: TELEPHONE GER 8626.
He dialled the number.
“Yeah?”
He tried a
mumble. “Like to make an order, please.”
“Name?”
“John
Asquith.”
There was a
pause; Henry felt nauseous.
“What do you
want?”
“The usual?”
“Magazines?”
“Yes.”
“Lilliput?
There’s a new one out.”
“Excellent.”
Another
pause.
“It’ll be
this evening. Alright?”
“Fine.”
“The usual
address?”
“Eaton
Square.”
A pause.
“Not Piccadilly?”
“Not today. 47
Eaton Square.”
“What’s
that, your home?”
He fought
the tremors. “Yes.”
“Make sure
you’re in. Have cash.”
The line
went dead.
He replaced
the receiver and went outside.
o
o o
EATON SQUARE WAS QUIET. A little after seven. It
was freezing cold. Henry had a seat in the garden. It offered an unimpeded view
of Viscount Asquith’s house.
He saw the
man as the siren sounded. The black-out was on, it was dark, visibility was
awful. He came around the corner carrying a briefcase. A shadow. It was
impossible to make out details in the murk; Henry watched the bounce and sway
of a shielded torch, picking a way across the road to the steps of number 47.
He crept
forwards.
The man
climbed the steps and knocked on the door. The house was empty––there’d been no
sign of activity all afternoon. He waited, then knocked again. Henry kept the
foliage of a line of shrubs between them. The man cursed, turned, went back
down the steps, and headed back in the direction from which he had arrived.
Henry fell
into line twenty feet behind him and followed.
Belgrave
Place onto the King’s Road.
Henry was
too excited to be scared.
He turned
into Sloane Square tube. The gates were open, a clutch of people gathered at
the top of the stairs, some of them with thin mattresses and pillows. The
lights in the ticket hall were doused; as Henry followed him deeper into the
station, the gas lamps had been lit and he was afforded a better view. He
didn’t recognise the man.
The station
platform was crammed: rows of bunks were laid out, three deep, each one filled.
An accordionist was playing folk songs, two elderly women from the WVS were
serving tea from a steaming urn.
The man
stopped at the middle of the platform and waited for a train.
Henry stood
against the wall, hidden by a bunk.
A District
Line train rolled slowly into the platform.
The man got
on.
Henry chose
the adjacent carriage.
He watched
him through the smeared, grimy windows. The train was almost empty. He sat and
waited for the doors to close.
o
o o
THE EAST END AGAIN. Henry pressed himself into a
doorway and watched the light flicker beneath the wide warehouse door. The man
had led him through the warren of streets around Bethnal Green station. There
were no lights anywhere and uneven cobbles had tricked his feet. The street
names were invisible and he had quickly become lost.
He’d had
more than enough time to think about what he was doing. Now the excitement came
with something else.
Anticipation.
Nerves.
Fear.
The street
lay in the hinterland between two tall railway viaducts and a bombed-out
factory. Bishopsgate Goods Yard sprawled around him: black shapes, banshee
whistles from locomotives, the slow rumble of shunted rail stock, shouts and
curses from banksmen who had to work in the dark. Wide double doors were
accommodated in the row of railway arches to one side. Warehouses, workshops,
stockrooms.
The man had
been inside for ten minutes. Probably returning Asquith’s order.
Henry didn’t
know what he was waiting for.
He thought:
what if he sees me here?
He flashed
back to the Top Hat, nightmare heat pulsing, the hot slash of the razor.
His knees
wobbled.
A train
rattled across a viaduct, muffled squares of light passing overhead, throwing
out sparse illumination.
The door
scraped open and the man stepped outside. Henry held his breath. The man fitted
a padlock, closed the clasp.
He pressed
himself deeper into the doorway.
The train
shuddered away, the light faded.
The man
walked back the same way.
Henry let
him go.
He waited a
minute and then crept to the warehouse. The padlock was substantial; he found a
half-brick on the floor and slammed it down. Noise rang out, much too loud. He
hit it again, and again. It snapped. He opened the door.
A
medium-sized room lay beyond: concrete floors, wall-to-ceiling shelves on all
sides. He struck a match and held it up. An Aladdin’s Cave of smut: magazines
arranged in stacks, each one fifty copies deep, the titles and dates written on
index cards stuck to the top copies: Mr. Big, Long John Silver, The Modern
Gigolo, Saucy Secretaries, Boys in Love. He picked up another sheaf and
shuffled them: Lilliput, Gentleman’s Pictorial, Men Only, London Life.
The match
went out; he lit another.
Saucy
pictures on every page.
He tore down
another pile: prints and negatives scattered across the floor. A roll-call of
the rich and famous doing the dirty with male and female whores. Cyril Raymond,
Stewart Granger, Raymond Huntley, Alan Wheatley. A colour picture: Christine
Norden and a well-hung man. Arthur Greenwood from the government. Asquith.
He got down
on his hands and knees and scrabbled the glossies together. He could hardly
breathe from the excitement: a year’s worth of exposés, a story a week, each
one more shocking than the last. All of Fleet Street would want them. He could name
his price.
“Hello, Mr.
Drake.”
He hadn’t
shut the door.
He hadn’t
noticed the two men in the door.
The man he
had followed.
And, next to
him, Rat-Face with a gun in his hand.
“I haven’t
seen anything,” Henry said.
“You don’t
listen, do you?”
Rat-Face
stepped inside.
“Shut the
door, Eddie.”
SUNDAY, 9
th
FEBRUARY 1941
59
FRANK SAT AT HIS DESK, Fats Waller on the
gramophone, something soothing to help him settle his thoughts. He had been up
all night, unable to sleep. Marianne had cooked his favourite, liver and
onions. He’d eaten the meal without even tasting it, mechanically shovelling
mouthfuls while his brain spun. She hadn’t noticed, or at least she had been
good enough not to say anything, but Frank had felt bad. She had dropped off as
soon as her head touched the pillow, but Frank couldn’t stop thinking about
Butters and the magazines. The dead girls. He had closed his eyes and tried to
sleep: images danced across the insides of his eyelids, filth he couldn’t
switch off. The girls all had Eve’s face.
Sleep was
impossible. In the end he had given up. A pound on the dresser and back to the
station, sitting in his office with a pad of paper scribbling notes and
questions until the paper was full and the pencil was blunt.
He stared at
his fresh pile of notes.
New
information changed everything.
The girls
all knew each other.
The Ripper
investigation didn’t make sense any more.
Duncan
Johnson probably didn’t kill them.
They’d
killed the wrong man.
The real
killer was still on the loose.
And then
yesterday:
Gregory Butters,
photographer and printer, being paid for his smut by Eddie Coyle.
Eddie Coyle:
The
boy-friend of Constance Worthing.
Murder
suspect. Brought in for questioning but let out again with nothing to pin on
him.
Coyle:
Pimp who
admitted he worked Worthing.
Coyle:
Pornographer.
Coyle:
Who knew
more than he had told them.
Frank needed
to see him again.
o
o o
FRANK GOT OFF THE TUBE AT TOTTENHAM COURT STATION.
As he crossed Oxford Street the siren sounded. People looked at the sky, clear
and blue, and walked quickly for shelter. Probably a false alarm like most of
them were these days. Frank didn’t bother with it.
He had
confirmed it with Records before leaving: Eddie Coyle’s address was off Store
Street. A five minute walk to a dirty alleyway, rubbish bins stacked against
the walls, sludge blocking the gutters and slicking the cobbles. If there was
brass in the dirty picture business, Coyle wasn’t seeing much of it.
Frank went
inside and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery
for Mr. Coyle.”
The door
unlocked and opened.
“Hello
Eddie. Remember me?”
Dumb
apprehension flickered across his face. “Course. The copper with the messed-up
face. Phantom of the bloody Opera. What do you want?”
“You and
Constance Worthing. We need a little chat.”
Coyle shoved
the door closed; Frank blocked it with his foot, shouldered it open, fell
inside, the door crashing off the wall. Frank caught his bearings: a hallway
led into a single room, a bed against the wall, a gas stove, not much else. A
bottle of bourbon, nine-tenths empty. He scrambled to his feet. Coyle was at
the window, working the sash up. Frank caught his ankles, yanked him back in,
slapped him around the side of the head, left-right-left.
“Bloody
neanderthal filth! What do you want?” His eyes swum and his breath reeked of
booze.
Frank hauled
him up. “I know you remember me, Eddie. And you remember I’m not the sort of
bloke to tick off.” He took the room’s single wooden chair, set it down and
dropped Coyle into it. “I’ve got a few questions for you. You’re going to be a
good boy and answer them. And you’re going to tell me the truth.”
Frank had
nicked Coyle’s eyebrow; blood trailed down his cheek, down his nose. “Piss off,
you ugly prick.”
Frank
reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of brass knucks. “Keep a civil
tongue, friend.”
Coyle stared
at the knucks as Frank slipped them onto his right hand.
“Piss. Off.
Copper.”
Frank flexed
his fingers. “Gregory Butters. Start with him.”
“Never heard
of him.”
Right-left-right-left. The knuckleduster
crunched into Coyle’s cheekbone and he fell off the chair. Frank picked him up
and dropped him down again. “Let’s try again. Gregory Butters. I’ll give you a
clue. Works in the East End. Takes naughty pictures. Prints books for you.”
“Who?”
Gutshots
this time: Left-right-left. Frank took the dirty book from his pocket, pushed
it in Coyle’s face, smeared his blood over a two-page spread. “Don’t lie to me.
You’ve been paying him for this every month since last Christmas.”
Coyle spat
phlegm, teeth, gasped. “Alright. I know him.”
“How?”
“We have a
business relationship. He takes pictures.”
“And the
books?”
“Yes, yes,
he prints them.”
“So you’re
in the pornography game now?”
“Yes.”
“Pimping not
enough for you?”
“There’s
more money in this.”
“Your own
little enterprise, is it?”
“S’right.”
“Who puts up
the money?”
“I do.”
“Really?”
Sibilant,
air sucking through smashed teeth: “Yes.”
“And you
live in this shit-hole?”
“You telling
me how to spend my cash now?”
“I don’t
believe you, Eddie. I think you’re full of it.”
He laughed
crazily. “Nothing I can do about that.”
Frank cocked
his fist.
“Alright,
alright.”
“Where do
you sell the magazines?”
“Mail-order.”
“How would I
join?”
He
spluttered; an attempt at bitter laughter. “You?”
“Why not?”
“You
couldn’t afford it. You need gelt.”
“Like Viscount
Asquith?”
Momentary
doubt.
“Eddie?”
“People like
that. Some members have more money than others. They pay for extras.”
“Like?”
“You’ve
seen. Some pay to make suggestions, things they’d like to see, what have you,
and we act them out, print them in the books. Some pay a bit more and meet
girls they like. We set up parties.”
“Orgies.”
“If you
like.”
“And you
take pictures of your special clients––so you can blackmail them.”
“Don’t know
nothing about that.”
“Course
not.”
“I’ve
answered your questions.”
“Nearly
done, then you’re free to go. Butters prints the magazines but he doesn’t store
them. Where’s your warehouse?”
“The East
End.”
“Address?”
“Railway
arches. Wheeler Street.”
“Last few
questions. Who’s behind it?”
“I am.”
“No you’re
not. You’re just the front man. Who owns it, Eddie?”
“I do.”
“Come on,
chum––don’t take me for an idiot. You take the subscriptions. You sort out the
books. You get a cut, but that’s that. You’re just an employee. Who’s the
boss?”
“You’re
wrong. It’s my business.”
Frank
punched: crisp and sudden. Coyle’s lip ripped between broken teeth and brass
knucks. He gargled blood.
“Who runs
it?”
“Piss off.”
“Last
chance.”
He cackled.
Frank
rabbit-punched.
“Who runs
it?”
He gasped
out a laugh.
“What’s so
funny, Eddie?”
“You don’t
know what you’re getting into.”
“Who runs
it?”
“Coppers.”
“What?”
“Coppers.
Filth. Your lot.”
“What do you
mean? They’re on the payroll?”
“No, you
idiot. Not bribes. They own it. It’s theirs.”
“Bollocks.”
“Regan and
Timms. Little ginger bastard and––”
“From West
End Central?”
“Not so hard
to believe, is it? Most Old Bill are bent.” Coyle snickered. “Cat got your
tongue?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I
lie?”
“Because you
need a distraction.”
“Alright,
squire. How about this: get on the telephone to your chums in vice and ask them
about the smut they found in Berwick Street before Christmas. Warehouse full of
it. Ask them what happened.”
“Why don’t
you tell me?”
“Regan saw
the case was dropped and made sure the smut wasn’t confiscated. We sold it on.”
Frank took
out the copy of
Lilliput
.
“This one of
yours?”
“Might be.”
“Look at
it.”
“Might
be.”
He opened it
to the centrefold.
Jenkins,
Worthing, Stokes.
“Remember
this?”
His eyes
bulged wide.
“Eddie?”
“Never seen
it before.”
“Touched a
nerve, did I?”
“Don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
“There’s
Constance.”
“I
k-k-k-know.”
“Molly
Jenkins and Annie Stokes, too. Tell me about them.”
“Who?”
Frank fought
the flare of red, the ache in his muscles. “Maybe you’ve forgotten,” he said,
calmly, firmly. “I’ll refresh your memory. They were murdered last year, just
like Constance. I don’t remember you telling us that they were friendly. And I
definitely don’t remember you telling us they’d all been snapped for a dirty
magazine you were running.”
“C-c-c-can’t
help you.”
Anger
swelled, overflowed; Frank couldn’t keep it down any more. He picked up the
chair, threw Coyle at the wall. The chair smashed and splintered, Coyle bounced
out, whimpering. Frank shoved the window all the way up and hoisted him out,
one hand anchored on his belt, Coyle’s legs jerking spastically. He shrieked,
upside down, a two storey death drop below him, onto dustbins and shitty
cobbles––a messy end. Frank shouted above the sound of the wailing siren and
the traffic: “TELL ME.”
“I p-p-p-put
them in the books.”
He let him
fall another foot, swung him out and back into the wall, a faceful of brick.
“What else?”
Coyle wet
himself, piss running down his body and blooming on his shirt. Frank grimaced
from the strain, locked Coyle’s ankles underneath his armpit. “J-J-J-Jackie
Field introduced them. We used them. I started seeing Connie. P-p-p-please.
Th-th-th-that’s it.”
The last
note of the siren was sucked away on the wind.
“WHO KILLED
THEM?”
Gabbling: “I
d-d-d-d-don’t know, I swear I don’t––I heard a rumour it wasn’t the bloke you
c-c-c-c-caught but it was just a rumour, I don’t know if it’s true, I can’t
even remember who t-t-t-told me.”
“Was it
you?”
Shrieking:
“No, I swear.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t
know!”
“WHO KILLED
THEM?”
“I swear I
don’t know. Please. Please.”
Frank hauled
him back in, dumped him on his arse. He crouched down, eye-balled him: “If
you’re lying to me, I’ll see you hang.”