The Black Mile (4 page)

 
9

CHARLIE REACHED THE SIGN OVER the pavement of Berwick
Street: Bloom’s Sausages. A Jewish business: smoke oven in the basement,
snack-bar on the ground floor, dressmakers upstairs. A metal urn held gallons
of tea, a hob curled smoke into a blackened vent and the griddle spat burning
fat. A dozen stools were fixed to the floor around a central table and booths
were fitted to the wall, the red leather upholstery held together with
criss-crossed grids of black tape. A half-dozen punters were eating breakfast:
workers from the warehouses, blokes off the markets. Plates full of kosher
smoked meat hash, challah toast, shakshuka, pickled cabbage, diced cucumber and
tomatoes.

 
Nerves: he
knew what he had decided to do would be unpopular; with the men at the nick,
with his father, with Frank. Tough––there was nothing else he could do. It was
this or the Labour Exchange. A difficult conversation, a couple of months lying
low––it’d be worth it. If he played his cards right, he stood to do more than
just keep his job.

 
Bloom’s was
on the other side of Regent Street to the nick––it wasn’t local, and Charlie
was glad of that. He didn’t want to bump into anyone who knew him. He fretted
at a table in the back as Detective Superintendent Alfred McCartney brought
over two cups of tea.

 
“Does your
father know you telephoned me?”

 
“No, sir.”

 
“Your
brother?”

 
“No-one
does.”

 
“Probably
best to keep it that way.”

 
“I agree.”

 
“We haven’t
really spoken before, have we?”

 
“No, sir.”

 
“Your old
man’s a good copper. My guv’nor twice, you know. My Sergeant when I was made
Winter Patrol––must’ve been 1910––thirty years ago. Jesus Christ.”

 
Charlie
stirred his tea. The small-talk made him uncomfortable

 
“What about
you? I looked at your record. You’ve been in uniform a long time.”

 
“Fourteen
years, sir.”

 
“Never
fancied the C.I.D.?”

 
“Oh,
yes––I’d love to.”

 
“So why
not?”

 
“I’ve never
been asked.”

 
“Really?
You’re father wasn’t able to pull any strings for you?”

 
“He was
against it.”

 
“Nepotism?”

 
“That’s what
he said.”

 
“You can
understand that.” McCartney eyed him. “Are you on the level?”

 
“I’m
sorry––”

 
“Are you on
the Square?”

 
Charlie
tumbled it: Masonry. He had no truck with all that mystical nonsense, the weird
get-ups and whatever foolish thing it was they worshipped. He’d rather be at
home with his books than at one of their silly-arsed rituals. But maybe it
could be helpful, and he had nothing against anything that might give him a
leg-up. Everyone knew how being in the Craft greased the pole.

 
“I’ve never
been asked.”

 
McCartney
gave him a wink. “Well––an ambitious officer like you, that’s something to keep
an eye out for.”  

 
A waitress
brought over two plates of fried salami and scrambled eggs. McCartney sliced
the meat into neat portions.

 
“Shall we get
down to it?”

 
“Yes, sir.”

 
“You heard
what I had to say this morning?”

 
Charlie had
stood at the back of the mess. Standing-room only; a three-line whip as the new
D.S. tore strips out of the men. “Yes, sir.”

 
“And you
were there last night?”

 
“I saw it
all.”

 
“What I said
is true: the Commissioner is furious. So am I.”

 
I bet you
are, Charlie thought. Not the sort of incident you’d want to mark your
promotion. Indiscipline. A mess full of drunken men. A dozen injured prisoners
threatening to sue. “Sir, can I speak frankly?”

 
“I prefer
it.”

 
“What
happened was a disgrace. The public need to trust us, especially now. We have
to show them that they can. Empty measures won’t be enough. You said that heads
would roll. I agree.”

 
“You’d be
prepared to speak to that?”

 
“Yes, sir, I
would.”

 
“What about
your brother?”  

 
Charlie
paused. “What about him?”

 
“Come on,
sport. He was in it up to his eyeballs. Three of the Italians identified him.
He was involved.”

 
“I can’t
speak against him, sir.”

 
“What if I
was to say we left him out?”

 
“No
charges?”

 
“Nothing
formal. A bar on promotion, a temporary deduction from his wages.”

 
“That’s it?”

 
“If you give
me the others.”

 
“And them?”

 
“As you say,
a trial board won’t be enough. They’ll be disciplined and dismissal. The
Commissioner is prepared to countenance their sacrifice in order to protect the
reputation of the Force. It won’t pain me to lose them. They’re lazy, drunken
grifters.” He chewed languorously. “What do you say?”

 
“I’ll do
it.”

 
“Good man.”

 
“And me?
What do I get?”

 
McCartney
smiled as he mopped salami around the plate. “Your report said you were
ambitious. Good for you, sport, good for you.” He loaded his fork and put it
into his mouth. “There’ll be compensations to make up for your inconvenience.
The Commissioner’s gratitude. And I can be a valuable friend.”

 
He pressed:
“But what does that mean, sir?”

 
“You say you
have a yen to join the C.I.D.?”

 
Charlie
nodded.

 
“An officer
is moving on from the Flying Squad next year. There’ll be a vacancy for a
young, vigorous thief-taker to fill his shoes. I could have you transferred.
Would the Sweeney be of interest?”

 
Butterflies:
“Very much.”

 
“Before you
agree, you need to understand the consequences if you speak out.”

 
“I do, sir.”

 
“I need you
to be sure. You’ll be roundly hated by the rank and file. They’ll see you as a
snake––that doesn’t dissuade you?”

 
“No.”

 
“Good man.
In that case, you’ll be transferred to C Department with immediate effect.”

o         
o          o

MCCARTNEY LED HIM OUTSIDE. “You understand what
you’ll be doing at the Yard?”

 
C
Division––internal discipline. Investigating complaints. Chasing crooked
colleagues. Hardly a glamorous posting, and not one likely to engender
goodwill. “I believe so.”

 
“It’s
dangerous work.”

 
“How so?”

 
“Spiritually
dangerous. Temptation. You investigate a man who’s lost his way, he’s liable to
tempt you with whatever it is that caused his own problem: money, mostly.
Women.”

 
“I’ll be
careful.”

 
McCartney
ignored him. “But that’s the job, isn’t it? The police. The lads put themselves
in harm’s way every day. London’s a cesspit, Charlie, with all manner of filth
floating in it. Pederasts and perverts and degenerates––the scum of the earth.
A good copper takes precautions. What I said earlier––you were interested?”

 
“Very, sir.”

 
“Working on
the Sweeney will put you in temptation’s way. Chummy will offer all sorts so
you turn a blind eye––financial inducements, the pleasures of the flesh. The
Mysteries of the Craft will keep you clean. The All-Seeing Eye of the Great
Architect will watch over you. The world has turned its back on morals and
decency. Whores hawking the mutton all across Soho, homosexuals squealing in
Piccadilly Circus. This is the heart of the bloody Empire, Charlie. Christ, go
to the Windmill and you can pay pennies to see that bloody bastard van Damm’s
birds take their kit off and the Attorney General says there’s nothing he can
do about it.”

 
“I’m really
very interested.”

 
“That’s
settled, then. I’ll propose you at my lodge. We’ll have you sorted, no time at
all.”

 
“Thank you,
sir.”

 
“Excellent.”
McCartney took out his wallet and took out a pound note. “Get yourself a proper
haircut. Short, back and sides. And go to Henry Poole. Savile Row. They make my
suits. Best in London. I’ll telephone them this afternoon and let them know
you’re coming. They’ll sort you out with a proper whistle. Tell him to put it
on my account.”

 
“Thank you,
sir. I don’t know what to say.”

 
“Think
nothing of it, old sport. Don’t go into work this morning. We can’t have you at
Savile Row when the men find out what you’re going to do. Take a day off.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

“Report to the Yard at tomorrow.
Nine sharp. We need to start preparing your testimony.”

 
10

FRANK WENT INTO HIS OFFICE AND SHUT THE DOOR. He
picked up the telephone and had the operator connect him to the Yard. He filed
a Missing Persons report and dialled his home number.

 
“Eve?”

 
“No, it’s
me, darling.”

 
“Have you found
her?”

 
“Not yet.”

 
“She wasn’t
with him?”

 
“She was
there earlier. I just missed her.”

 
“So where is
she now?”

 
“He doesn’t
know.”

 
“You believe
him?”

 
“He wasn’t
lying.”

 
Julia
sobbed. “We’ve lost her.”

 
“Calm down,
darling. We haven’t. She’ll come back or I’ll find her. One or the other.”

 
“It’s your
fault, Frank,” she cried. “If you hadn’t lost your temper this would never have
happened.”

 
Frank’s
knuckles whitened around the receiver. “I’ll find her, love. I’ll speak to you
later.”

 
He put the
receiver down.

 
Frank looked
at the files on his desk. The crime scene photographs had slipped out of their
folder: a leg, a clasped hand. He felt his stomach curdle. The Ripper was out
there, hiding in the blackout. Picking off victims. Leaving strangled bodies
for them to find.

 
There was a
knock on the door.

 
“What?”

 
“Alright,
Frank?”

 
Harry
Sparks. Jesus, Harry. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. He was
completely out of control last night. It must’ve been the sauce, Frank thought.
He’d been steaming drunk. He’d seen Harry lose his rag before when he was
boozed but yesterday was something else. He’d been like a wild animal in the
station. They’d had to drag him off the Wop who spat at him, no excuse for that
sort of nonsense but the poor bastard really got paid. He was unconscious on
the floor when they finally got them out of the way, blood on his face like
it’d been poured over him.

 
“Where were
you this morning?”

 
“Why?”

 
“McCartney
had the whole nick in the mess.”

 
“What for?”

 
“Last
night––the Wops have lawyered up. They’re bringing proceedings for battery.
He’s spitting tacks about it.”

 
“Give it a
couple of days. It’ll blow over.”

 
“He just got
promoted. It doesn’t look good on him, does it? He said anyone involved will
get their cards. I can’t afford that––Jesus, the way the old lady gets through
cash, we’d be on the street in five minutes.”

 
“Relax,
Harry.” Frank raised his hands. “It’s not going to happen. It’s all
bluster––all for effect. He can threaten all he wants but unless him or the
Wops get someone to back it up it won’t matter. And who’s going to grass on a
mate, eh? No-one. Trust me: it’ll blow over.”

 
“Maybe.”        

 
He thought
about the Ripper. The fifth girl. The investigation. He didn’t have time to
baby-sit Sparks.

 
“Are you
alright, Frank?”

 
“I’m fine.”

 
“You look
distracted.”

 
“I had an
argument with Eve last night. She’s been seeing Harry Costello’s boy.”

 
Sparks
laughed. “What?”

 
“It’s not
funny.” Frank glared at him; Sparks stopped laughing.

 
“Which one?”

 
“Joseph.”

 
Sparks shook
his head. “He’s a little bastard. Nicked him for pinching coupons last year.”

 
“His file’s as
long as his bloody arm.”

 
“And you had
a word with her?”

 
“Told her
she had to knock it on the head. She

ignored me.”

 
“She’s at
that age.”

 
“I clouted
her.”

 
“You were
right to.”

 
“No, I
wasn’t, Harry. And I feel awful about it.”

 
“Don’t be
daft. Have to show them who’s boss. Discipline. Hardly your fault.”

 
“No. I
shouldn’t have done it, and now she’s done a runner.”

 
“She’s just
playing up.”

 
“She went to
see him and he told her to clear off. She hasn’t gone home. I’ve looked
everywhere, her friends, everywhere I can think of. And there’s a bloody
psychopath out there.”

 
Harry took
Frank’s coat from the hook and tossed it at him. “Come on then,” he said. “I’ll
give you a hand.”