The Black Mile (20 page)

WEDNESDAY 11th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
38

TEN O’ CLOCK. The newspapers were full of war and
the concourse at Euston station was thronged with an anxious crowd. Passengers
jostled shoulder to shoulder as they waited for trains to take them out of the
capital. A mixed congregation: girls in bright frocks carrying babies, men
hauling shabby suitcases, soldiers in khaki. Trains ran into and out of their
platforms, hundreds of passengers crammed in. Sunlight cut through lazy air and
glittered against the dirty windows of empty restaurants and shops. Wooden
barricades had been put up to protect the entrances to the waiting rooms.

 
Henry bought
a paper and walked to the platform. He sat in a compartment with a matronly
woman and her brood of braying children. The guard blew his whistle and they
rolled away from the buffers and into the suburbs. He unfolded his newspaper
but couldn’t concentrate on it. He was frayed with nerves. He had stopped at
the newsroom first thing. The porter in the lobby had telephoned to say that there
was Detective Constable Adams who wanted to speak to him. Charlie had taken his
bag and left the building by the back exit. He didn’t have time to waste with
the police. Murphy had detained him once, and he had too much he needed to do
to risk another delay. But the knowledge that the police were investigating him
made him skittish. He knew keeping the story to himself was wrong. It was
probably obstuction. He didn’t like to think about the risks he was taking. But
he couldn’t speak to them. Not yet. He needed more of the pieces in place. He
needed to write the story.

His stomach roiled with anxiety.
He gazed out of the window to distract himself. A team of army engineers were
building concrete tank traps across a by-pass. Other impediments had been placed
in the road: large iron objects like galvanised iron chimney pots; derelict
motor cars filled with earth, baulks of timber thrust through the windows;
ancient carts standing by the side of the road ready to be wheeled into place.
Henry knew about the German Panzers––anyone who thought that a load of
bric-a-brac dropped in the road would stop a Kraut tank was soft in the head.

 
He closed
his eyes and tried to sleep. It was going to take an age to get to Coventry.

o         
o          o

TWO O’CLOCK. He recognised Viscount Asquith from
the newspapers. He recognised him from the photographs, too, dressed up like an
SS commandant as he was being gobbled by Molly Jenkins made up like Eva Braun.
He was as elegant man, long-waisted and high-shouldered with brown eyes in a
blank face; a politician’s face.

 
“Good
afternoon, Mr. Drake.”

 
“Sir.”

 
“How was
your journey?”

 
“It was
fine, thank you.”

 
“The trains
were running?”

 
“A couple of
changes. Nothing too bad.”

 
“No, not
given the circumstances. You must be parched. Can I offer you a drink?”

 
“No, sir,
I’m fine. Thank you.”

 
“Shall we
get started then?”

 
“Of course.”

 
“Tell you
what, I’ll give you a tour. What do you say?”

 
Henry’s
stomach bubbled with nerves. “I’m sure that would be very interesting.”

 
“Indeed,
Drake, very. I’ll show you how we do things and we can talk on the way. What do
you say? Come on, old chap.”

 
Asquith
opened his office door. “I must say, I like the sound of your story. Tremendous
idea.”

 
“Thank you,
sir.”

 
“Good to let
people know we’re helping keep the Hun at bay. Massive effort going on here.
Enormous. Probably do wonders for morale. Let people know we’re not just
sitting around waiting, what?”

 
“Quite.”
They made their way down a flight of metal stairs. A hooter sounded as they
entered the main floor of the factory.

 
“Shift change,”
Asquith said as workers swapped places at the assembly lines.

 
It was a
huge hall surrounded by galleries on three sides. To the right was the large
area where the flying boats were being finished off, the Stranraers and
Walruses. To the left were the Spitfire lines: the wing construction jigs,
fuselages in various stages of completion, wheel-housings, tail units. Workers
hammered and bolted, the noise echoing around the space. Red sparks cascaded as
men secured panels and cut through metal casings. A painter was working on the
underside of a wing, finishing the blue outer ring of the RAF roundel.

 
“Impressive,
isn’t it?”

 
“Very.”

 
“The workers
punch in at seven. The new contract’s going to require another shift, mind you.
The number of aeroplanes we need to produce, it’ll need twenty-four hour
working. We’re recruiting at the minute. Chances are we might have to start
using women. A fine state of affairs but nothing else for it. Desperate times
and all that.”

 
They passed
a row of tailpieces, arranged like shark’s fins across the floor. Asquith
knocked a fist against one of them. “Spitfires. Have these in the air this time
next week.”

 
Henry
feigned interested.

 
“Well then,”
Asquith said, “how shall we kick this off? What do you want to know?”

 
“I’m afraid
this is a little delicate.” Henry felt himself fumbling for the right words.

 
“Go on, old
chap. What is it? There are some things about the contract I’ll have to pass
on––confidential financial details and such like––but you can ask what you
like. Spit it out.”

 
“I’m afraid
I haven’t been absolutely truthful with you.”

 
“How’d you
mean?”

 
“About why
I’m here.”

 
“What are
you on about, man?”

 
“I’ve been
shown some pictures of you. I’d rather not have to describe them.”

 
“What
pictures?”

“Intimate ones. They show you in
a number of––compromising positions.”

 
“What the
blazes do you mean?”

 
“You were
having relations with a woman. Several women, actually.”

 
Asquith
smiled again, but this time it was forced. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I still
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 
“You were
dressed like a German soldier. The S.S., sir. Really, I’d rather I didn’t have
to describe them. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

 
Asquith’s
smile sank. His lips became firm and compressed and his eyes glittered darkly.
“No, Mr. Drake, I really have no idea. Now, unless I can I help you with
anything else, I have a business to run. Afraid we’ll have to cut this short.”

 
He turned
and walked back towards his office.

 
Henry
followed. “So you have no comment?”

 
“There’s
nothing to comment on.”

 
“This is
your chance, sir––to put something on the record. I’m going to write the story
anyway. It’d be better for you to have your say now.”

 
Asquith
didn’t stop. “You’ll write what you like, Mr. Drake. And you’ll know, I’m quite
sure, that I retain the services of some of the fiercest lawyers in London.
I’ll have no compunction in suing you and your newspaper to kingdom come should
you print any of these ridiculous allegations. Now, sir, if you don’t mind,
I’ve had quite enough of you––I have work to do. Good day.”

 
Henry
watched him climb the staircase to his office, the door closing behind him with
a slam. He was rattled. He picked a way between assembly lines and piles of
components to the exit and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

 
39

GOSFIELD STREET WAS IN FITZROVIA, to the east of
Great Portland Street. Frank drove, Tanner in the passenger seat, the Railton
speeding along quiet roads. Neither spoke. The call had come in: another girl
found. Frank was pensive, anticipating what they would find. They pulled up: an
hysterical scene awaited them. The news had spread and pressmen had arrived.
Two dozen of them, jostling against the three uniform who were trying to maintain
a perimeter around number 9-10.

 
They all
turned as the car drew up. Cameras whirred as Frank got out, flash powder
hanging in the air.    

 
“Is it
another one?”

 
“Three in
five days. Is it the same bloke?”

 
“Is it the
Ripper?”

 
They ignored
the questions and went inside. Flat 4 was on the ground floor of the building,
approached along a dark communal hallway, with stairs at the end that led up to
the second and third floors. People had gathered in the corridor: Frank
recognised Detective Sergeant Higgins and Detective Constable Blacktop from
Tottenham Court Road nick. A woodentop was crouched down, his hand on the
shoulder of a young girl with a tear-streaked face.

 
“Gents,”
Higgins said. “Another one for you.”

 
“Are you
sure?”

 
“Oh yes. One
look and I knew it was your man.”

 
Another car
drew up. Bob Peters got out.

 
The door to
the flat was open; they went through. Inside, it was small: a sitting room at
the front, looking out onto the street; a bedroom at the rear; a small
kitchenette. A door from the kitchen opened onto a tiny bathroom. There were
empty bottles on the floor, the table. The place was a mess.

 
They went
into the bedroom. It was austere. There was a night table, a tatty rug, and a
chair. More bottles. The bed was on the right-hand side of the room. A woman’s
head was visible, edging out from beneath bunched-up sheets. Doctor Baldie was
already there.

 
“I’ve made a
preliminary examination.”

 
“And?”

 
“Been dead a
while. A day, perhaps.”

 
Frank moved
in close. A cord had been fixed around the woman’s throat, tight enough to cut
into the soft flesh beneath the chin. Frothy sputum had gathered around her
nostrils and mouth. Bloodshot eyes bulged.

 
“Ligature.
Never used that before.”

 
Baldie
pulled back the black eiderdown and bedsheets.

 
“Holy Mother
of Mary,” Tanner said.

 
Blood everywhere.

 
“Cover her
up.”

 
Tanner
looked faint.

 
Frank took
Blacktop and Higgins to one side. “Go on, Leonard. What do you know?”

 
“Her name’s
Annie Stokes,” Blacktop said. “A neighbour called us after she saw a parcel
outside the flat for a couple of days. I found another neighbour––Mrs
Carleton––who had a spare set of keys. So I go inside. The black-out was drawn
and it was dark. I found a door but it was locked. I kicked it in, the bedroom,
and then––well, you can see the rest.”

 
“What then?”

 
“I called
the nick.”

 
“And I
attended,” Higgins said. “I called Savile Row. Don’t worry––save us, no-one’s
been in here.”

 
“Who’s the
girl outside?”

 
“Stokes’
daughter. She’s with the husband. Visits once a week. She turned up just before
we went in.”

 
“Poor little
bitch,” Peters said.

 
“Get a Plonk
to come over from the nick and look after her. We’ll need a statement.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

 
D.I. Law
arrived with his cameras and began to take his pictures. Frank stepped out of
his way.

 
He exchanged
glances with Peters––they didn’t need to say anything.

 
Frank fell
back on routine: he made sure the perimeter was secure, that nothing was
touched before surfaces and items could be dusted for prints, that the handful
of men who could be spared went door-to-door to ferret out witnesses. A call
was placed to the coroner and to Spilsbury; they needed to get cracking on the
body.

 
He went
outside for a fag and a think. He’d just lit up when a Railton pulled to a halt
outside the apartment building.

 
His brother
got out, went around to the boot of the car and took out a murder bag.

 
“I didn’t
know Charlie was involved,” Peters said.

 
Frank
watched through blue-tinged smoke. “Nor did I.”

 
“Are you
still––”

 
“Haven’t
spoken to him for two months. Not since the Trial Board.”

 
Charlie
looked the part: a new suit, decent quality; new brogues; his hair cut short
and smart.

 
Alf
McCartney’s protégé.

 
What a joke.

 
What a
performance.

 
Tanner
joined them. “It’s a mess.”

 
“Bill,
what’s my brother doing here?”

 
“I need
him.”

 
“Excuse me?”

 
“You
know––Yoxford’s off, he’s replacing him.”

 
“He’s got no
experience.”

 
“He’s been
recommended.”

 
“He’s only
just been transferred to the Yard.”

 
“You’ll have
to speak to Alf McCartney if you’ve got a problem. He speaks very highly of
him.”

 
He fixed a
look at his brother as he came along the pavement towards them.

 
“Sir,”
Charlie said to Tanner. “Frank, Bob.”

 
He glanced
at Frank.

 
“Sergeant––it’s another body.”

 
“I came as
soon as I heard, sir.”

 
“Get inside
and have a look.”

 
Charlie
couldn’t hold Frank’s eye and looked away again. “Yes, sir.”

 
“Is this
going to be a problem, Frank?” Tanner said.

 
“No, sir.
Not at all.”

 
Frank
followed Charlie inside, then stood at the side of the room and watched.
Charlie set down the murder bag and went over to the bed. He knelt down beside
the body, pulled back the sheet. Tanner stood beside him and studied the dead
girl. Charlie took out a notebook and took notes as Tanner dictated.

 
He wanted
nothing to do with him. What had happened, his betrayal, it had almost been a
relief. The culmination of years spent keeping inevitable conflict at bay. He
felt grateful, in a way: Charlie had finally cast light on the state of their
broken relationship. It was ruined, buggered, had been for years, and neither
of them could pretend otherwise anymore.