The Black Mile (8 page)

WEDNESDAY, 4th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
18

HE PUT A BRAVE FACE ON as he walked through the
C.I.D. office at West End Central. It was a large room on the second floor, a
dozen desks facing each other, filing cabinets spread around. Corkboards held
wanted posters, roster sheets, crime reports and various other memoranda.
Large-scale maps of Soho, Mayfair and Fitzrovia––‘C’ Division’s manor––were
pinned up with coloured markers indicating recent crime reports. Red pins:
robberies. Blue pins: brasses. Yellow pins: assaults. Five purple pins had been
added to mark out the Ripper’s territory, and an entire wall had been spared for
his particular paraphernalia.

 
He hadn’t
been back to the factory since the night of the beatings. The men lounged
around, some of them smoking, a couple throwing darts at a dartboard. He wasn’t
expecting a friendly welcome and he didn’t get one.

 
“Bloody
snake,” muttered Georgie McCann.

 
“Rubberheel.”

 
Charlie kept
his chin up, kept walking.

 
Particle-board walls at the back formed a
small office where his brother sat

 
Frank wasn’t
there.

 
Small
mercies.

 
He went
upstairs. Alf McCartney had taken his father’s office. He had replaced the old
furniture, re-arranged things, new pictures on the walls, the desk facing the
window now rather than facing away.

 
“Charlie,”
he said, clasping his hand. “How are you, my boy?”

 
“Good, thank
you, sir.”

 
“I’m hearing
good things.”

 
“Really,
sir?”

 
“You’ve made
a fine impression. Keep it up and the sky’s the limit.” McCartney took his pipe
and lit it.

 
Charlie sat
down.

 
McCartney
strolled over to the window, the sunlight flashing off his ruby tie-pin. He
took out a pouch of tobacco and filled the bowl of his pipe. “To what do I owe
the pleasure?”

 
“I’ve been
given a case. One of the lads was running it, he’s joined the Navy, I’ve got
it.”

 
“What does
it have to do with me?”

 
“It’s about
a couple of the lads here.”

 
McCartney
groaned. “Who?”

 
“George
Grimes.”

 
He looked
dismayed. “George?”

 
“I’m afraid
so.”

 
“And?”

 
“Don’t know
the other one yet.”

 
“What’ve
they done?”

 
“Extortion.
Threatened a businessman that if he didn’t give them money they’d stitch him
up.”

 
“Who’s
saying this?”

 
“The owner
of the fruit store on Old Compton Street. He doesn’t have a reason to lie about
this. He knows he’s taking a risk complaining.”

 
“So why take
it?”

 
“He’s been
paying for a while. Regular amounts. But George put the squeeze on him––a
hundred quid. He says he can’t afford it. The way he sees it, he has two
choices: have them sorted or tell them he can’t pay and get fitted up.”

 
McCartney
sighed. “What’ve you done?”

 
“Not much. I
had a look at Grimes. He’s living well beyond his means: new car, big house,
all a bit flash. It doesn’t look good. I thought if you had a problem here
you’d appreciate a warning. Especially because he’s in the Craft.”

 
“He’s not
been himself for weeks. He’s missed meetings, too.”

 
“I thought
that.”

 
“Stray from
the path and you open yourself up to temptation. I’ve seen it happen before,
Charlie.”  McCartney sucked on the pipe thoughtfully. “You’ve a wise head
on your shoulders. You’ve done the right thing.”

 
“What should
I do?”

 
“Bring him
in. Scare him, make him confess, but don’t charge him.”

 
“Sir?”

 
“The balloon
will go up. The lads will find out he’s been nicked and that’ll be that––the
fellow he’s been working with will go to ground and we’ll never get him. No––we
keep it on the hush-hush. If I’ve got a cancer in this nick I want it cut out.
All of it.”

 
“And
George?”

 
“I know
him––I brought him to the Craft, Charlie, like you, and he doesn’t have the
gumption for this on his own. This other chap, he’s the one we want. He’s
polluted George’s mind, taken his focus away from the Lodge. Tell George to
report to me. Tell him if he co-operates, I’ll see he gets off easy. A fine,
maybe demotion back to uniform, but he won’t be charged and he won’t get his
cards.”

 
“Yes, sir.”
Charlie stood.

 
“Good lad. I
knew you had the makings of a fine officer. You take the Craft seriously.
Heartening to see in a young man. You won’t go wrong if you keep on the path.
Your future is assured.”

 
“Thank you,
sir.”

 
“Now, if
only we can persuade George the same.”   

 
Charlie
saluted.

 
Felt like
he’d dodged a bullet.

 
So why did
he still feel uneasy?        

 
19

HENRY DRAKE TOOK A DESK IN RECORDS and shut the
door. Chattaway was chairing the editorial meeting. A bit of time when he
wouldn’t be disturbed. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number for
the C.R.O. at Scotland Yard.

 
“This is
Detective Constable Howarth, 930 F,” he said. “I want to check on a fellow,
name of Jackie Field, F-I-E-L-D, aged between 30 and 35, height six foot one.
No address. Suspicion he might be involved in prostitution. My number is
BRI-2452.”

 
“I’ll call
you back, Detective.”

 
An old
trick: the C.R.O. clerks were too busy to check credentials. As long as you
sounded kosher, it was free information. He knew plenty of hacks who took
advantage of it.

 
Down to
work: getting to know Viscount Asquith.

 
He took out
Debrett’s:

ASQUITH. THE 4TH VISCOUNT ASQUITH, Stallingborough, Co Lincoln;
Recognised by Lord Lyon King of Arms and matric arms, served in Great War
1916-18, with Royal Corps of Signals, in the Far East, b. 10 Nov. 1890, educ.
Stowe, Trin. Coll. Camb. (BA), and Aberdeen Univ. (BSc), m. 1stly 21 April,
1916, (m. diss. by div. 1931) Jane Euphemia Beatrice, only dau. of late Lewis
Reynolds, of Lynton Hall, Sexela, Natal, S Africa, and of Mrs. Wallace of
Candacraig (see that family), no issue. He m. 2ndly, 16 May, 1932, to Ione
Bruce Melville, formerly wife of Hamish Mackenzie Kerr, only dau. of late Capt.
Robert Bruce Melville Wills of Birdcombe Court, Nailsea, Somerset.

 
Memb Ctee on
Jt Statutory Instruments 1939—

Arms—Arg., on a chevron engrailed cotised gu.,
between three torteaux as many mullets of the field. Crest-Issuant from a
coronet composed of four mullets gu. and as many torteaux alternately set on a
rim or, a demi-stork wings expanded, arg.

 
Clubs—Travellers’; Shropshire (Shrewsbury).

 
Images ran
wild: Asquith dressed like a SS Commandant, caught in the act with a whore
dressed like Eva Braun.

 
He tore the
page and stuffed it into his pocket.

 
He skimmed
through press cuttings: nothing to back up what he’d seen in the pictures.
Asquith was as clean as a whistle. His marriage was idyllic, he was a doting
father to his two children. Next to nothing on his personal life: a house in
Chelsea, Neville Chamberlain a neighbour; marriage to his childhood sweetheart
in ’30; two children; liked sports cars and good wine. Little else,
unsurprising given he was said to be jealous of his privacy.

 
No
suggestion he’d ever been involved with the police.

 
No
suggestion of a predilection for working girls.

 
No
scuttlebutt whatsoever.

 
He dug up
everything he could find on his professional life. The government held him in
high regard and had just awarded him a huge RAF contract for the manufacture of
airframes. His company, Asquith Aviation, had two big factories in the
Midlands. It was responsible for turning out airframes for the RAF’s fighters,
Hurricanes and Spitfires.

 
Henry tore
out the pages.

 
The
telephone rang. He picked it up on the second ring.

 
“Records
here. Right then, Detective Constable––Jackie Field a.k.a. John Francis Field.
36 years old. Done two short stints for assault, one for pimping. Latest
information lists him as being involved with the Top Hat club in Ham Yard, some
suggestion that he’s been selling moody booze there, another suggestion it’s a
hotspot for vice. Sound like your man?”

 
“Just like
him. Thank you.”

o         
o          o

SIX O’CLOCK. The staff in the Accounts Department
went home for the night at a half past five, but Henry preferred to wait a
little, to be cautious. No sense in taking chances that could be avoided. The
newsroom was quieter than before as the shifts changed, and no-one noticed as
he got up and crossed to the cashier’s office. He tried the door; it was open.
He went inside and found the cashbox where the float was kept. Sources needed
paying, expenses needed meeting, palms needed greasing––Henry thumbed off two
hundred pounds and put them in his pocket. He took another ten, because he
thought he was owed it.

 
He took his
coat and left the office. He had money in his pocket. He needed a drink.

THURSDAY, 5th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
20

CHARLIE WAITED. A queue led into Compton Fruit
Stores, customers squabbling over the delivery of oranges that were hard to
find now Hitler’s wolfpacks were picking off the convoys. French and Italian
matrons shuffled across the sawdust-covered floor, bartering with the assistant
for the treats beneath the counter. Memories came back to him: his father
showing Frank and him dozens of different cheeses and three-shilling flasks of
Chianti in straw skirts. You hardly found them now and the exotic
produce––pimentos, aubergines, olive oil, almond pasties, candied fruits––it
was all gone.  

 
The door
opened and Baxter’s glance flicked away nervously. Charlie felt the tension in
his shoulders grow. George Grimes was a big bugger. Much bigger than him. No
way to know how he would react. He made a play of inspecting a tin of pilchards
as Grimes passed on the way to the counter. Grimes summoned Baxter with his
fingers. The two men started to talk, too quiet for Charlie to make anything
out.

 
Didn’t
matter.

 
Baxter
reached down and took out an envelope. Pushed it across the counter. Just like
Charlie told him.

 
Grimes took
it.

 
Bingo.

 
Charlie
moved towards him.

 
Baxter
turned away.

 
Charlie took
a deep breath, took his handcuffs from his inside pocket and closed the
distance. He took Grimes by the wrist.

 
The big man
turned around. “Oi!” he said.

 
Charlie
slapped on a bracelet. “George Grimes, I am going to arrest you for
corruption.”

 
“What?” He
jerked his arm.

 
“You’re
under arrest.”

 
“Charlie?”

 
“Easy,
George.”

 
“Please,
Charlie––what’re you doing?”

 
“Easy.”

 
“Charlie,
please.”

 
“You are not
obliged to say anything, unless you wish to do so, but anything you say may be
given in evidence.”

 
“Here––we
can share the money. There’s a ton here. Or take it––yes, go on, all of it.
Just don’t take me in.”

 
Baxter
concentrated on the till.

 
“Come on,
George. We need to have a chat.”

o         
o          o

CHARLIE WATCHED THROUGH THE TWO-WAY MIRROR into the
interrogation room as Grimes did a bad job of hiding his nervousness. The big
man was white-faced. He was nervous, tugging at a loose thread on his jacket,
scratching his neck, turning anxiously to the door whenever he heard someone in
the corridor outside. Charlie liked to stew them for a bit, give them a chance
to think about what they might’ve done and what they might’ve let themselves in
for. A woodentop he’d braced last week in Harrow had confessed to taking
back-handers from a bookie at the dogs as soon as Charlie had walked in the
door. He’d only wanted to talk to the silly bugger about a teacher at the
school who’d been fiddling with his little charges. A visit from C1 often had
that effect on policemen with something to hide. But a big bruiser like Grimes,
the kind of copper who would’ve got results just by looking at chummy, sitting
with his hands beneath his thighs, rocking gently on his chair––not what
Charlie had expected at all.

 
He picked up
the telephone and dialled Savile Row. He connected to Alf McCartney’s
secretary.

 
“I’ve been
trying to speak to the detective superintendent all morning. Is he there?”

 
“Afraid not,
sir.”

 
“Do you know
where he is?”

 
“I’m sorry,
sir, I don’t.”

 
“When will
he be back?”

 
“I don’t
know. Perhaps I could give him a message when he gets back?”

 
“Never mind.
Thank you. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

 
He had his
instructions––Alf had been clear. He went inside. Grimes stood up, managed an
unconvincing smile and extended a hand. Charlie shook it; George’s little
finger was curled inside, the Masonic grip. It was something Charlie enjoyed in
the Lodge, a small gesture that spoke of unity and belonging, but now it felt
wrong. Like George was reminding him of his responsibilities. He dropped his
hand. “Let’s get started, George.”

 
“Can we just
get this squared away? Come on, old fellow. Please––this isn’t necessary.”

 
Charlie took
out a packet of Embassy and opened it. “Smoke?”

 
“I don’t.”

 
“I shouldn’t
either. Bad habit.” He took a fag and lit it, left a second on the table.

 
“Can’t we
sort it out?”

 
“What? Gloss
it over?”

 
“Just don’t
write it up.”

 
“You slip me
a fiver and I pretend it never
happened?”       

 
“I was
thinking a ten.”

 
“I don’t
think so.”

 
“It’s not
what you think.”

 
“Really?
What do I think?”

 
Grimes
started to speak, then hesitated. “I–– I don’t know.”

 
Charlie
pointed, “That’s a nice watch. Do you mind?”

 
Grimes undid
the clasp and passed the watch over the table. It was heavy, the kind of weight
that usually went with pricey bits of tom. “Nice. Must’ve set you back an arm
and a leg.”

 
“Take it. Go
on––it’s yours.”

 
“How much?
Forty notes? Fifty?”

 
“It weren’t
cheap.”

 
“Expensive
for a copper.”

 
“Go on, take
it. It’d look good on you, I reckon.”

 
“Another
bribe, George?”

 
“No, course
not.”

 
“How’d you
manage to put together that kind of dough? Get lucky on the pools or
something?”

 
“You know I
didn’t.” He shifted in his chair.

 
Charlie
opened up the folder he had in front of him and made a play of running his
finger down a list of numbers. All for show: everything he needed was in his
head. “You’re on four quid a week, aren’t you? I’m just wondering how you
manage to get the money for an expensive piece of kit like that when you’re
earning four quid a week. I mean, you’d have to take a couple a week out for
rent, six bob for housekeeping, another quid for you to have a few beers with
the lads––you see where I’m going with this, don’t you? You’re not left with
much at the end of the week.”

 
Grimes
smiled pathetically. “Come on, old man. We can sort this out, can’t we? I’d do
the same for you, honestly I would, if you ever found yourself in a pickle.”

 
“I’ve got a
list of questions for you as long as your arm and you need to answer them. Like
what were you doing today?”

 
Grimes
started to say something, then stopped, thinking better of it. Confusion fell
across his face. His fists clenched.

 
“Come on,
George. Think about it. It’ll be easier for you if you co-operate.”

 
Grimes
looked down at the table and shook his head. He sniffled.

 
“Why don’t
you talk to me––we’re both Masons, George. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve
been missing meetings.”

 
More
snivels.

 
“Baxter told
us what’s been going on.”

 
“You needn’t
believe him.”

 
“You’ve been
threatening to fit him up with stolen property unless he gave you this.” He
tapped the envelope on the table with his pen.

 
Grimes put
his head in his hands and sobbed. Charlie stared at him, baffled: he’d expected
anger, aggression, the table thumped and violent threats. But George, who could
probably tear the telephone directory in hands as big as hams, was crying like
a baby. Charlie felt bad going on, twisting the knife. “I already know what’s
in the envelope. I gave it to Baxter. Marked a couple of the notes on the
bottom, too, just in case you were daft enough to take it.” He opened the
envelope and took out the money, pointing to the scrawls he had made. “Are you
sure you don’t have anything to say? Come on, George––come clean. It’ll help.”

 
Tears fell
between his fingers.

 
Charlie was
wrong-footed. “Baxter said you and another copper were on his case. Who is it?”

 
Nothing.

 
“There were
two of you. Tell me who your mate is. Get it off your chest. It’ll be a
relief.”

 
“Please.
Please. I can’t have this happen to me. Not now. We’re so close. So bloody
close.”

 
“Close to
what?”

 
“You don’t
understand––it’ll be the end of me. I’m serious––I’m done for.”

 
“George,
calm down. What is it, man?”

 
“They’ll do
me in.” He reached across the table and grabbed Charlie by the wrist. “I’m
begging you.”

 
Charlie
shook his arm free and stood up.

 
“Begging me
isn’t going to help. But what happens to you isn’t my decision.”

 
“What do you
mean? Whose is it?”

 
“Alf.”

 
“He knows?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“What did
you tell him?”

 
“Everything.”

 
“What did he
say?”

 
“He wants to
talk to you. And you might want to think about coming clean to him. Give him
what he wants and he’ll look after you. If you don’t–– keeping your mouth shut
is just going to make things worse. You’ll go away, George. A year, maybe two.”

 
“Where is
he?”

 
“He’s not at
the station today.”

 
“So you’re
not going to charge me?”

 
“Not now.
But if I let you out and you don’t go and see him first thing tomorrow, that’ll
be that. I’ll throw everything at you. Alright?”

 
“First thing
tomorrow.”

 
“Do I have
your word?”

 
“As a
Mason.”

 
Charlie
opened the door. “Go on, then. Clear off.”