The Black Mile (24 page)

SATURDAY 14th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
45

CHARLIE WAS READY TO STAY AT THE STATION but D.C.I.
Tanner had insisted he go home. The D.C.I. said he would be of more use to him
fresh than exhausted after another all-night session with the files. Charlie
hadn’t protested and had gratefully slumped back on his bed, the lights off so
he could watch through the uncovered window as bursts of fiery light crackled
behind the rooftops like lightning. The sound of engines droned overhead, a
grim lullaby, and he fell asleep still clothed.

 
It felt like
it was just ten minutes before he awoke. It took him a moment to realise what
it was that had stirred him: not the siren, his first thought, but a knocking
on the door. It repeated as he turned bleary eyes onto the alarm clock by his
bed: just before five in the morning. He slid down onto the floor, padded
downstairs and opened the door.

 
His father
was outside.

 
“Father?”

 
William
Murphy stepped by him into the hall.

 
“What’s
going on?”

 
“You need to
get up.”

 
“Father?”

 
“There’s
been a breakthrough.”

 
“An arrest?”

 
“No, but
they’re close.”

 
“Who is it?”

 
“You need to
be at the station.”

 
“I don’t––”

 
“Come on,
Charles––hurry. There’s a briefing at six. Get ready. I’ll drive you.”

 
Charlie
washed. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep and his eyes were still heavy. His
father stood outside the bathroom door. “Why are you involved?”

 
“Alf called
me. It’s an important case, Charles. Needs to be solved. It’s not the sort of
thing you leave others to do. Come on, son. There’s no time to shave. We need
to get going.”

 
“I’m
coming,” Charlie called back.

 
“I’ll be in
the car.”

 
Charlie
found yesterday’s shirt, knotted his tie, and put on his suit.

 
He locked
the front door and slid into the car next to his father. The engine was already
running. They headed West. Twice he jerked his head up as his chin sank down
onto his chest. He needed strong coffee. The dawn’s light was just beginning to
bleach the darkness on the horizon, the inky blackness above sullied by the
dull oranges and reds from the fires in the East.

 
“Wake up,
son.”

 
“God, I’m
done for.”

 
“You’ve got
to be at your best.”

 
“I’ll manage.”

 
“Have you
had any sleep?”

 
“Not really.
Not for a couple of days.”

 
“Balance,
Charles. If you exhaust yourself you won’t be any good for anything.”

 
“This
breakthrough. What is it?”

 
“They have a
name.”

 
“Who?”

 
“Duncan
Johnson.”

“He’s been in the frame from the
start. Frank always suspected him.”

 
“So did I,
son.”

 
“I’ve read
the file.”

 
“A girl was
attacked tonight.”

 
“Dead?”

 
“No, he was
disturbed before he could do any lasting damage. But they found a gas mask case
at the scene. It’s registered to Johnson.”

 
“He left it
there?”

 
“He dropped
it, it got knocked off during the struggle––it doesn’t matter, it was there.”

 
“The
Ripper’s always been careful. I can’t believe he’d do something so stupid.”

 
“People make
mistakes, Charlie. It happens.”

 
They drove
on. The all-clear sounded as they passed King’s Cross station but the streets
remained largely empty save for ARP personnel in their fortified posts, firemen
passing to and from their stations and military vehicles shuttling men and
equipment to AAA emplacements across the city. William Murphy was able to drive
quickly, the dial touching forty as he ran the length of Oxford Road.

 
“You’re
going to be working with Frank today.”

 
“Yes.”

 
“This
problem with you two––you need to sort it out.”

 
“I know.”

 
“Have you
spoken?”

 
“Not really.
I don’t think he wants to.”

 
“No,
Charles, you’re wrong––he does. But you’re going to have to be the one who
apologises. What you did––you know it was wrong.”

 
Charlie
stared at grey buildings spooling past the window. “I know.”

 
“I’m not
criticising you, son. I understand why you did it.”

 
“I was
useless in uniform. I told you. You wouldn’t help me.”

 
“I know. I
should’ve listened. But what’s done is done.” William reached a hand across the
car and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “I never favoured Frank. I know you feel
you have to compete with him, but I never meant for it to be like that. I’ve
always been as proud of you as I am of him. And now you have the chance you’ve
been waiting for. Find Johnson, Charles. Use that brain of yours. Bring him in.
It’ll be the making of you.”

 
He turned
into Savile Row and had to slow to a crawl. A dozen other cars were jockeying
to turn into the yard. Lights blazed from every window and clutches of men
stood outside the lobby, smoking and talking. They drove further down the
street and parked before hurrying back to the station entrance.

 
Charlie
pushed open the doors and went inside. He forgot about his tiredness,
adrenaline fizzing him awake. Detectives were gathering in the Mess ready to be
briefed. Frank and Alf McCartney were at the front, talking. Frank was fixing a
mugshot to the wall.

 
William
Murphy went to the front. Charlie took at seat and opened his notebook.
McCartney noticed him and nodded a greeting.

 
His father
banged on the desk. Men snapped to attention.

 
“You all
know this is D.C.I. Tanner’s case but we haven’t been able to get hold of him.
Until we can, I’m in charge with Alf. Alright, Alf?”

 
“Thank-you,
guv. I’m keeping this short because you need to be out closing this case. A
girl was assaulted in the West End last night. A man tried to strangle her but
he was disturbed before he could do any lasting damage. We can’t be sure but it
looks like the Ripper’s M.O. Now, he’s normally very careful but if it is him,
he’s made a mistake this time because he left his gasmask behind. We’ve traced
it back to a Duncan Johnson. He was in the frame before. We always fancied him
for it and he’s got form for violence against women. We had him in for
interviews but he’s a cool character and nothing stuck. D.I. Murphy’s been onto
him again and there’s plenty to make us sit up and pay attention. He’s been out
on bail after going inside for assault. But he’s been feeding his P.O. lines
and now he’s left his job and his digs and gone missing. There’s too much here
for this to be a coincidence.”

 
McCartney
stood again. “Usual procedure on this one, lads. We’ve had him marked as wanted
at C.R.O. and his details, including his photograph, will be inserted in
today’s Police Gazette and Confidential Informations. His mug shot’s going to
be all over London.”

 
“What about
the papers, guv?”

 
McCartney
shook his head. “We can’t use them. We’ve had a ticking off by the
government––they weren’t happy with the press conference. The public aren’t to
be frightened, apparently. Fritz is doing a good enough job of that, so we’ll
be keeping a lower profile from now on. But every minute this bastard is on the
street increases the chance he kills another girl. We’ve got to work fast.”

 
“Beat
Constables are already out checking the boarding houses and the usual hostels
and hotels for anybody answering his description.”

 
Alf divided
the room in two and then pointed at Charlie. “D.S. Murphy is going to assign
antecedent checks to you men. Teams of two, please, then see Charlie at
half-past for your details. All Johnson’s associates are going to be turned
over, his wife, his parents, his siblings. Everyone. The men who shared a cell
with him need to be questioned, plus anybody else in prison that he was chummy
with. No pussy-footing, lads, we can’t afford it. A good shaking up and down often
produces the most satisfactory results, so don’t stand on ceremony. Dismissed.”

 
William
Murphy clapped Charlie on the shoulder as he went past. “Make me proud, son.”

 
Charlie got
straight to work. He took Johnson’s C.R.O. file and pulled out Form C.R.O.
100A. He checked his associates and the places he frequented. He wrote down a
dozen names and addresses and distributed them to the men, two each.

 
The room
emptied.

 
“We’re
getting warm,” Alf said to him.

 
“Is it him?”

 
“Your
brother thinks so.”

 
“Do you?”

 
“We
definitely need to talk to him.”

 
46

HENRY FINISHED HIS PINT. He was in the French,
waiting for darkness to fall. Raiders had been overhead for a solid two hours.
It wasn’t just the docks that were getting it; Göring had all of London in his
sights now and he was pummelling it. Henry was nervous, and not just about the
bombing. He thought a couple of drinks might settle him down. They didn’t––he
just felt light-headed, his anxiety still churning. There were more police on
the street than usual and he imagined they were looking for him. At least one
of them was: there had been a knock on his door during the afternoon. He had
crept into the sitting room and pulled back the curtain a fraction. He didn’t
recognise the man waiting on the stoop but he had the officious air of a
plainclothes Detective. The man had waited patiently for five minutes, as if he
knew perfectly well that Henry was cowering beneath the sill. Henry waited
shamefully, in anxious silence, his heart seeming uncommonly loud. Eventually
the Detective gave up and turned away. Henry knew he would have to speak to
them. Ignoring them could only be temporary. But he wasn’t ready yet.

 
He went
outside. Quiet streets, engines overhead, searchlights playing on the underside
of low clouds. Henry felt a moment of nausea––the drink, his nerves. He
steadied himself against the wall, waited for his stomach to settle.

 
He had been
fired.

 
The police
were looking for him.

He thought of Asquith, the dead
girls, the story.

What in blazes was he doing?

The risks he was taking––they
suddenly felt enormous.

 
He turned
the corner and saw it: Ham Yard was on fire. It was out of control: huge
flames, two storeys high, burning orange and red and yellow, the blackout a bad
joke. The Top Hat was taking the brunt, waves of woozy heat beating out,
fracturing the glass in the shop fronts opposite, singeing hair. Two policemen were
blocking the way through, one of them looping a length of rope around a
lamppost and stretching it across the road. Henry pushed up against a wall,
thinking: Jackie Field. The booze and the heat dizzied, disorientated; he bent
double and vomited.

 
A small
crowd had gathered.

 
“Clear off!”
the panicked bobby yelled over the sound of the flames. “Jerry’s still
overhead. They use fires as targets.”

 
Henry spat
phlegm, got closer. “I’m a reporter. What happened?”

 
The copper
didn’t look at him. “Probably an incendiary. They’ve dropped tons of ‘em
tonight. Half of Soho’s going up.”

 
“Is anyone
inside?”

 
“They were
closed, thank Christ. No public, but I don’t know about anyone else. Good as dead
if they are, though. It’s a bloody inferno. Get away from here, mate. Jerry
will drop bombs straight on top of this. We’re sitting bloody ducks.”

 
Two
auxiliary fire tenders clattered around the corner. The bobbies pulled the
cordon aside and let them through. AFS men unspooled hoses, tapped temporary
reservoirs, tried to dampen the flames. Henry stared into the fire, bright
enough to leave doppler traces across his vision, crisp his eyebrows. The
firemen yelled out a warning, darted back; the first floor collapsed, dust and
smoke mixing with golden motes of light that carried on the hot wind.

 
There was no
point in standing around. He put the heat to his back and staggered away until
the burning building was behind him. He braced himself against a wall and
hawked up more acid phlegm.

 
“Excuse me.”

 
A man had
approached, gliding up like a ghost.       

Henry took a step forwards,
details resolving out of the gloom: a pulled-down trilby covering most of his
face. He looked for the second man, knowing what was coming, but he was already
too late: hands grabbed him, turned him, shoved him hard into a doorway. His
shoulders crashed against the door as a hand snaked up towards his face and
swiped down––the flash of a razor glinting in the firelight. He felt the sting
as the blade sliced into his flesh and fell to his knees, the sudden pain
blinding him.

 
“Final
warning. Next time you’ll end up like your mate. Brown fucking bread.”

The men disappeared into the
heat haze. Henry fell into the dirt, his cheek feeling like a red-hot poker had
been laid across it. He raised himself onto his knees and touched his face; his
palm came away wet with blood.