The Black Mile

by Mark Dawson

  The military were everywhere. Part of the road was blocked by vehicles from the Royal Engineers Corps and barrage balloons hovered overhead, tugging against their hawsers, fat and silver against the thick grey clouds. The road itself had been fortified: pillboxes constructed and tangles of barbed wire arranged on the edges of the thoroughfare. Emergency pontoons were being constructed on the River, floating segments roped to the bank to prevent them being stolen away by the current. Twenty-five years ago: it would all have been the same. Progress? That was a bloody laugh. Nearly thirty years and they’d learned sod all.

  A young squaddie came past and Charlie remembered Frank at the garden gate, fresh khaki and a kit bag over his shoulder––seventeen years old and off to the front. He remembered the letters––letters sent home from his barracks during training, letters from Paschendaele, two a week from the hospital on while he recovered from his injuries. He remembered the letters from Ypres the best, the pride he’d felt, Frank giving the Hun what for. He’d shown them to the other boys at school; every time he read them they fanned the desire to be there with him.

  He’d only lasted six months before the gassing, but that was enough for him to make his mark. Commendations for bravery, mentions in Dispatches, the Military Medal. He’d spoken about it once and never again, one time when he was morose and full of drink. It was spare and unfinished the way he told it, but Charlie could paint in the details: the mud, the sewage, the blood, the death. Three men owed Frank their lives; three trips into a gas-filled trench burned his sacrifice deeper and deeper on his face and back.

  War hero.

  Charlie had gone to enlist on his eighteenth birthday but the Board of Doctors disqualified him. Asthma. A soldier who couldn’t run was no good to them. They could afford to be picky now the war was over. He’d been disconsolate for weeks. Felt like a blasted conchie.

  White Feather Johnny.

  He finished the tea and shook out his cup over the water. No sense thinking about Frank, it just made him angry. A tram clattered by noisily, cars buzzing alongside. It was a cold, crisp day, a stiff wind blowing in off the water. New Scotland Yard was a hundred feet further on. Three buildings on the corner of the Embankment and Northumberland Avenue. The Commissioner’s Office and the Receiver’s Office were made of old red and white brick and linked by a curving bridge, the third of Portland stone––mined by Dartmoor convicts, if you believed the story. He passed through the gates marked METROPOLITAN POLICE – COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE, went past the Bungalow, the one-storey building the Squad worked from, and into the quadrangle where a Constable was grooming a horse.

  Things were going well. Eight weeks since the hearing and it had flown. The job in C1 was dull but it had got him out of uniform. In another couple of months McCartney would transfer him onto the Sweeney and he’d get his chance to do some proper policing. A fresh start for his career.

  He liked working at the Yard. He liked the view from his seventh-floor window. He liked how he was at the centre of things. He liked, in idle moments, to dream of a career spent working proper cases here. With the Heavy Mob, in the souped-up motors Fleet Street was so excited about. Or the Murder Squad, dispatched to the provinces to solve the cases that hapless Swedes couldn’t.

  He knew how he was going to do it. Work like a demon. Keep cracking cases. Build a reputation as an outstanding detective. Investigation, interrogation: his mind was sharp, he saw connections, he knew how to apply pressure. He was born to do it. He’d made six nickings last month, one more than the rest of the lads combined. He’d work on that. Build, build, build. He allowed himself a frisson of anticipation: aim for ten collars this month. Fifteen after that. That’s how he’d make his name. He’d be the best detective they’d ever had. Everything else would follow: another transfer, somewhere he could go after the big fish.

  His father would acknowledge him them.

  Frank would.

  D.C.I. Sinclair passed him in the corridor.

  “Left something for you on your chair, sunny Jim.”

  He bristled at the endearment. “Thank-you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  He reached his desk.

  A new manila file.

  A new case––he sat down, opened it.

  It was one of D.S. Bert Packer’s files. He’d joined the Navy last week and his caseload was being redistributed.

  Charlie got this one.

  He read.

  John Baxter, proprietor of the Compton Fruit Stores in Old Compton Street, had made a complaint. He said he was being extorted by two men from Savile Row nick. According to him, they’d been on the take for six months. The usual threats: pay up or something hooky would be found on the premises, a bag of something illicit, enough to weigh off the proprietor and shut the business down. They’d been demanding two quid a week, par for the course, a useful supplement to a copper’s wage but not so much that it would cripple the mark.

  Baxter had paid.

  But then one of them came back alone and demanded a ton.

  Baxter knew his name: D.C. George Grimes.

  Charlie put his head in his hands.

  Grimes.

  One of Alf’s West End boys.

  He sat at his desk and gazed out across London, the sweep of the river, the crenelations of Westminster Palace, the barrage balloons hovering overhead like plump fish.

  He put the file down and eyed it.

  Go after one of Alf’s lads?

  A fellow Mason?

  17

  HENRY WALKED WEST FROM FLEET STREET. Canvas sandbags were stacked around lamp-posts and doorways in case incendiaries were dropped. He had half an hour to spare, and idled slowly into the middle of Waterloo Bridge. Barrage balloons hovered over the dome of St Paul’s, silver stars in the twilight. On the other side of the bridge were the Houses of Parliament, lightless, a black bulk silhouetted against the dusky gloaming. He rested his elbows on the balustrade and stared out at the view, the breeze teasing his hair.

  The night was cooling. He drew his coat around him, crossed back to the north bank and passed into Soho. It was busy. The clatter of castanets could be heard from the flamenco dancer at Casa Pepé; jungle drums rumbled from the cellar underneath St Anne’s and restaurant musicians tuned up: the zither player at the Tyrol, the accordionist at Café Bleu, pianos from the more sophisticated joints. A riot of smells: fresh bread from bakeries, hops from the pubs, menthol cigarettes in the air and vomit in the gutter. Dog ends and fag packets on the cobbles. A barrel organist turned the handle of his instrument, gazing dreamily at the off-license across the street. He played the Marseillaise and a handful of Free French stopped to listen, tossing coins into the cap at his feet.

  Ham Yard was on the cheap side of Soho, north of Shaftesbury Avenue, surrounded by near-beer bars, bottle parties and dowdy spielers. The first-floor flats were walk-ups where the Piccadilly Commandoes brought back their poor hapless Johns, a few pence for a grope, a Bradbury for a ten-minute knee trembler. Three of the Ripper’s victims had been found in those flats. The Yard itself was like the Wild West, famous for scraps, not somewhere you went unless you were half-cut or looking for trouble.

  Henry directed the shielded beam of his torch at the signs over the pavement until he found the one he wanted; ‘THE TOP HAT CLUB’, gay script set off by a tifter resting over the final ‘t.’ The line beneath it said SOHO’S SMARTEST RENDEZVOUS. Very doubtful. The sign would’ve been neon-lit but the black-out meant that was strictly off the cards. A suited doorman stepped out as Henry approached and opened the door for him. He removed his hat and went inside.

  The club was grimy and down-at-heel. It was a large room with little in the way of décor: painted hessian and dried-up palm leaves around the walls, a hardwood floor leading to a crude bar at the far end. A glitter ball spun slowly from the ceiling, scattering chequered light into darkened corners. A low stage, erected along the right-hand wall, accommodated the house band, a sign announcing them as the Jock Salisbur
y Trio. They were playing a jazzy number, shine music, and Henry didn’t care for it at all. A dozen drunken dancers moved around on the floor in front of the stage, and others sat in darkened booths, two-seater tables and dilapidated sofas with razor slashes spilling out discoloured stuffing. A handful of unaccompanied women sat at the bar. Henry watched as one of them got up. She whispered in the ear of a single bloke, he smiled drunkenly, she led him towards the back of the club, through a door and out of sight. Brasses, hardly a surprise. It looked like the kind of joint where they were on the payroll.

  Henry went to the toilet for a piss, heard moans and groans from the only cubicle. A woman gasped, the toilet door banging as someone’s arse slapped against it. Animals, Henry thought. The place was a bloody zoo. He drained his bladder, read the graffiti above the urinal: FUCK OFF FRITZ, said one; JEWS OUT, said another.

  He went back to the bar. “I’m here to see Jackie Field.”

  “And you are?”

  “Henry Drake. I have an appointment.”

  “Wait here.”

  Henry put his back to the bar. A woman sidled up to him. “Are you a naughty boy?” she asked. Blonde hair from a bottle, face caked with make-up, big scarlet lips and nails; the lipstick was sloppy and the nail varnish chipped. Henry told her politely she wasn’t his type, and she shrugged, slumped down onto a stool. The band switched to a slower number and the blokes grabbed for broads, swishing and swooping them around the dance floor, hands dipping down to the small of the back, some brave charlies groping arse, thighs pressed tight between legs. Four soused squaddies came in, hollering for drink. The doxy at the bar perked up, fixed a smile onto her face and went over to their table. They shuffled over to let her sit down. Money changed hands. She took two of them outside.

  The barman lifted a panel in the bar and Henry passed through. The doorway beyond led into a windowless office: a desk, two chairs, a sofa, a couple of filing cabinets. There were two men in the room. One was tall and skinny, early-forties, dressed in a drape jacket, vivid shoes with soles as thick as match-boxes, trousers hitched high to show off red-and-yellow socks and a bright green bow-tie. The uniform of the spiv. The second stood at the back of the room: big, well over six foot, muscular. A woman sat on the sofa wearing a pea-green camel hair coat, a rayon afternoon frock and a scarf wound fashionably tight around her head. Red hair spilled out of the back.

  “Good evening,” Henry said.

  The spiv stood up.

  “Mr. Drake?”

  “That’s right.”

  He extended a hand. “Jackie Field. Good to meet you.”

  “And you, sir.”

  “Glad you could come.”

  Field was an handsome-looking devil, his looks marked by the razor slash across his face, from the corner of his eye down to the throat. A memento from a rival. It made him look dangerous.

  Henry smiled at the woman. “And this is?”

  “Molly Jenkins.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, madam.”

  “You too.” She was small and slender. No more than six stone if she was soaking wet. Early twenties. Pretty little thing.

  The second man was leaning against the wall.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Doesn’t matter who I am.”

  His face was obscured in the murky light.

  “Are you involved with these pictures?”

  “I said you don’t need to worry about me, alright?”

  Henry could feel eyes boring into him.

  “Easy,” Field said.

  “He’s asking too many questions.”

  “It’s just business. Isn’t that right, Mr. Drake? Just business.”

  “Of course.”

  The man was nervous, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. The atmosphere was febrile and it was catching: Jenkins looked flighty.

  Only Field seemed comfortable. “What’re you drinking, Mr. Drake? I’m going to have a whiskey.”

  “A whiskey would be splendid.”

  He poured large measures and gave one to Henry. He sat down behind the desk and nodded to the spare chair.

  “Shall we get down to business? You say you have pictures of Viscount Asquith.”

  “We do.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Is the money good?” the man at the back said.

  “Very good. How are the pictures?”

  “You needn’t worry about that.” He stepped forward, the light briefly falling across his face. He dropped an envelope on the desk.

  Field handed it to Henry. “Have a dekko at these.”

  Henry slid his finger into the unsealed end and withdrew a half dozen photographs. He shuffled them slowly. They were graphic: men having sex with women, men having sex with men. Leather, masks, whips, chains, dildos. One of the pictures stood out: an orgy, half a dozen people, naked, filling a room. A man was naked, wrists and ankles chained to metal rings fixed into a bare brick wall. He was being fellated. Another man was dressed in the uniform of the SS; he was fornicating with Jenkins wearing what looked like a dirndl.

  Henry pointed at the man in uniform. “That’s him?”

  “Yes,” Jenkins said.

  “Good Lord. And that’s you?”

  “He made me dress up like that. Wanted me to look like Hitler’s girlfriend. What’s her face?”

  “Eva Braun.” He looked again. Asquith’s head was turned so that he was looking back at the camera. It was definitely him. Henry shuffled through the pictures until he found another from a better angle: he was wearing a leather cap with a Death’s Head symbol on it.

  “The other girls?”

  Jenkins leaned closer and pointed. “That’s Connie and that’s Annie.”

  “He doesn’t need to know that, Molly.”

  Field intervened again. “You know Asquith, Mr. Drake?”

  “He’s big in government. Military––his company builds aeroplanes.”

  Jenkins nodded. “He was posh. We looked him up afterwards.”

  Henry took off his glasses and squinted. Other figures were half-familiar; disguised by uniforms and accoutrements, a magnifying glass would reveal their secrets.

  “How did you get them?”

  “You don’t need to say too much,” the man said.

  “I know a fellow. A friend of his had a party last week. Not your normal party, something a little bit different.”

  Henry looked at the glossies again. “An orgy?”

  “Call it what you like. He was looking for suitable ladies to attend. He knows I’m acquainted with Molly and her friends. He wondered if I could persuade them to go.”

  Molly nodded. She identified the women in the picture: “Me, Connie, and Annie.”

  “Molly!” the man snapped.

  “And?”

  She looked back at him nervously. “We went.”

  Field pointed to the pictures. “You see what we mean?”

  “In Technicolor. What about the photographs?”

  “The friend of my friend is a prudent man. Some of his clients are powerful men.”

  “So he takes pictures of them like this?”

  “Just in case.”

  “In case he needs to put the black on them.”

  “Or in case he needs help. Legal problems, for example.”

  Henry turned to Molly. “And you stole them?”

  “We––”

  The second man interjected: “It doesn’t matter where we got them. All you need to know is that we’ve have them and that we’re selling them.”

  Field collected the photographs. “You’re interested?”

  Henry dared not show it. “Perhaps.”

  “You either is or you isn’t.”

  “I could be.”

  “We want two hundred for them.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “It’s a fair price.”

  “Too much.”

  “If you don’t want them, someone will.”

  “That kind of money, well, it’s not like
it’s just sitting around in the petty cash.”

  “He’s stalling.”

  “No, sir, I’m not. But it’s a lot of money. I’ll have to make arrangements with the editor. The accounts department. Lawyers.”

  “You can have a week.”

  Field smiled, trying to mollify. “We’re not threatening, but if you ain’t got the readies by then, we’ll have to find someone else who does. Sound fair?”

  “A week it is. Where shall we meet?”

  “Back here. Next Saturday. Nine o’clock.”

  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.