The Black Mile

by Mark Dawson

  “In Soho? Greek Street?”

  “Half-ten. A table at the back. Just you.”

  “Alright. Half-ten. You want to give me an idea what it’s about?”

  The line clicked, and was silent.

  o o o

  CHARLIE CAUGHT ALF MCCARTNEY on the steps of West End Central. “I was just going home,” he said.

  “Glad I caught you.”

  “What happened with Grimes?

  “He didn’t come and see you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you nick him?”

  “Yesterday. Baxter told him to come to the club. I pulled him after he took the cash.”

  “Idiot. I can’t believe he’d be so foolish.”

  “He’s hardly the first, guv.”

  “No. What did he say?”

  “Not much. He knows he’s buggered but he kept schtum.”

  “The other man?”

  “Wouldn’t say.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “That’s it, sir. He called me an hour ago. He wants to meet.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Half past ten. What should I do?”

  “What does he want to talk about?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where?”

  “Soho.”

  “Come on then, old sport. I’ll come with you.”

  o o o

  THEY SAT AT A TABLE IN THE BACK. They had hurried across Soho, McCartney grim-faced. They had been here for half an hour.

  “He’s not coming,” McCartney said. “What time did he say?”

  “Half past.”

  “It’s a quarter to. They’ll be calling last orders soon.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He’s wasted our time.”

  “Why didn’t you have him at the bloody Yard?”

  “He said he couldn’t. Said it was dangerous.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I think he was worried about meeting someone.”

  “Old Bill?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what else to think.”

  “Why on Earth would he be afraid of that?”

  “His partner?”

  “Worried what he might do?”

  “If he thought George was going to turn King’s on him–– you never know.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I can’t wait all night. Stay until they close up. If he doesn’t turn up, find him. Tell him we can help straighten out his problems. And if he tries to bugger off again, put him in a cell. Lock him up until I get there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McCartney left him with his thoughts.

  It’s not safe.

  Being there yesterday was bad enough.

  Grimes was frightened.

  The barman called time. Charlie got up.

  It wasn’t the investigation.

  It was something else.

  22

  CHARLIE FOUND A POLICE BOX and picked up the telephone. He called Central Records. The night clerk picked up after several rings and he asked for Grimes’ address.

  Lavender Grove, London Fields, E.8.

  Charlie got into his Humber and drove. London Fields was a decent area, pleasant terraces facing each other on either side of tree-lined streets. Prosperous––the coppering business was treating Grimes suspiciously well. Charlie parked on the opposite side of the road to the house and got out.

  He clicked on his torch, opened the front gate and walked up to the door. All of the lights were either doused or hidden behind black-out curtains. He walked down the short gravel path, shining the shielded beam of light at the windows. The black-outs were in place. He went back and knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again and waited. Still nothing. He squatted down and peeked in through the letterbox: an electric light lit up the hallway and the static from a radio could be heard from inside. Nothing else. “Hello?” he called into the letterbox.

  He turned the doorknob. It was locked.

  The front door to the neighbouring house opened. “What are you doing?” an elderly man in a dressing gown called over the dividing wall. “It’s two in the flaming morning.”

  An elderly woman appeared behind him. Charlie took out his warrant card, held it up and lit it with his torch. “Police, sir. Have you seen the man who lives here tonight?”

  “Didn’t see him, but we heard him come in.”

  “When?”

  “Must’ve been a couple of hours ago, I reckon.”

  “Three hours, I’d say.”

  “We’d just finished listening to the news. We heard the door shut.”

  “Have you seen or heard anything since then?”

  “Nothing unusual.”

  “You haven’t seen him leave?”

  “No, but if something’s the matter, George gave us a spare key. We looked after the house for him if he went away.”

  The woman went inside and returned with a key. Charlie took it and unlocked the door. He opened it. “Hello?” he called out, but there was no reply.

  He went inside.

  Light shone beneath the door to the living room.

  He opened it.

  Grimes was sitting in an armchair. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe, open to the waist, the sleeves rolled up. Shaving foam covered one half of his face. There was a small wound on the side of the head: the size of a shilling, blackened around the edges. Blood and brains had sprayed against the wall. A gun was on the floor.

  The old woman had followed him inside and was now halfway into the living room. She screamed. Charlie shooed her back into the hall. “Go back to your house.”

  “He’s––he’s––”

  Charlie pushed her gently into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  “Call Scotland Yard. Give them this address, tell them Detective Sergeant Charles Murphy from C Department requests immediate assistance.” The woman fell back against her husband, her hand covering her mouth. “Detective Sergeant Charles Murphy, C Department.”

  “Yes.”

  “And tell them to call Savile Row station to report that George Grimes has been found dead.”

  “I––”

  “Go on––now!”

  He followed them outside, pushed the door closed and went back into the lounge. Static hissed from the radio. He clicked it off and sat in the sofa opposite the armchair. He stared at Grimes. The investigation might’ve been enough of a motive to do away with himself. He must’ve known he’d lose his job, that he’d probably be looking at corruption charges. He probably thought he’d end up doing a stretch. The bench never looked kindly on crooked policemen and McCartney was right, coppers in stir always had it especially bad. Running into faces he’d put away. A bloke who bore a grudge, a homemade shiv–– Thinking about it like that, you could believe it. Suicide didn’t seem so strange.

  But why call him?

  Why arrange to meet, then top himself?

  And the way he’d sounded.

  Not safe.

  Being there yesterday was bad enough.

  Questions.

  It all smelt hooky.

  He looked at his watch. Next door would call 999; the Yard would call the Hackney police; it’d take the fellows there fifteen minutes to come, twenty at the outside. He had twenty minutes, if he was lucky, to examine the crime scene before the Hackney lot arrived to bugger it up.

  He breathed out, settling his thoughts. The body wasn’t going anywhere; he’d get to that last. He put on the pair of thin cotton gloves he carried in his coat pocket and made an inspection of the room, starting at the periphery and moving inwards in a decreasing circle: a few photographs and an empty bottle of scotch on the sideboard; a woman’s coat laid across the back of a chair; a pair of shoes and Grimes’ suit tossed on the floor; the gun. He turned out the trouser pockets: a handful of change, a money clip, a leather wallet. The wallet held a few extra notes. Charlie put it back into the suit pocket. He picked u
p the gun by the corner of the butt: a Webley Mk VI, Metropolitan Police divisional station standard issue. He opened the chamber; five rounds in the six-round cylinder. The other one had gone through Grimes’ head. He put the gun back on the floor.

  “Alright, George. Let’s have a look at you.”

  He leant in close: the right eye stared ahead. Gravity had pulled the left one deep into the socket. The gunshot entry wound was on his right temple. A wider, jagged exit wound was adjacent on the other side of the head. He followed the splatter of blood across the room, finding small shards of skull and brain matter along the trajectory. He compared angles, satisfied himself that the track was consistent with where the gun appeared to have been fired. He examined the splatter on the wall closely, the symmetry suggesting a ninety-degree hit, consistent with the position of the body and the wound. Grimes shot himself sitting down.

  The windows were shut and locked. Nothing was out of place. Nothing suspicious. He went over to the body again. He laid his palm flat against Grimes’ chest. Even through the thin cotton gloves, he could still feel plenty of heat. He manipulated the fingertips: no rigor. He hadn’t been dead for long. Less than an hour, certainly.

  He searched the rest of the house.

  Bedroom: more clothes strewn over the floor, another bottle of booze on the nightstand. Grimes certainly had a thirst on him. He opened the wardrobe and poked around inside: more suits, a couple of woman’s dresses. He brought out a small suitcase. He opened it on the bed: packed with a change of clothes, a toilet bag and forty pounds. Decent money. He put the suitcase back in the wardrobe and closed the door. Bedside tables: women’s frillies in one drawer. Add that to the ladies’ coat downstairs: George was shacked up.

  Second bedroom: bank statements in a folder inside the desk. Three hundred and fifty six pounds in an account at Barclays in Soho Square was serious money. No straight copper would have that kind of dough. Charlie already thought Grimes was bent. Now he knew for sure: he was very bent.

  Bathroom: a bath had been drawn and was still full of tepid water. A razor had been placed on the side of the bath, next to a bowl of shaving foam and a brush. Both were wet. The cabinet contained aftershave, some cotton wool and a bottle of prescription sleeping tablets.

  Downstairs again.

  Kitchen: empty cans, wrappers, dirty plates in the sink. A packet of Senior Service fags on the counter, a couple left inside. Charlie was checking the window when two dark figures passed on the pavement outside.

  He went back into the lounge: two detectives pushed through the door and came into the hallway. Charlie showed them his warrant card and they reciprocated: a D.C. and a D.S. from Stoke Newington C.I.D.

  “Bloody hell. What a mess.”

  “He’s a detective, from Savile Row. I was investigating him for corruption. He didn’t arrive for a meeting, I came and found him like this.”

  “We’ll need a statement.”

  “Of course. I’m just going to catch a breath of air.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  A half a mile away, on the roof of Stoke Newington Police Station, the siren slowly cranked up its eerie howl. The curtains flicked back next door, the face of the old woman pressed against the window. Charlie looked up into the sky: nothing disturbed the black.

  o o o

  THE HACKNEY LADS MARSHALLED the scene and Charlie watched. They did it efficiently, by the book, and he stayed out of the way. Two men checked the house: they found the suitcase, the money, the statements. Downstairs, the police surgeon arrived and pronounced life extinct.

  “What time?” Charlie asked.

  “Couple of hours ago. Around midnight.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Suicide. No question about it.”

  Charlie went outside. He put his back to the wall and breathed in deep. He lit a cigarette and thought of George Grimes, dead in his armchair, his brains blown across the room. He looked back at the house. One of the local slips came down the path. He nodded at Charlie as he passed, heading for his car and the radio.

  Another car, a Meteor, pulled up. Two men got out. More detectives. He couldn’t see them in the darkness so he swung up his torch and directed light into their faces: Percy Timms and Albert Regan, Sergeants from Savile Row.

  “Get that out of my face, pal,” Timms said, shielding his eyes.

  Regan squinted at him. “Who are you?”

  “Charlie Murphy. Sorry––I couldn’t see you.”

  “Grimes?”

  “He’s inside.”

  “And?”

  “Shot himself.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “What are you doing here, chaps?”

  “The Hackney lot called.”

  A third car drew up. Alf McCartney got out.

  The Super looked harried. “Lads,” he said. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s shot himself.”

  McCartney removed his hat.

  “Did he call you again?”

  “No, sir. I came to see if I could find him, like you said.”

  “And you did.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  McCartney clenched his jaw.

  “Right.” Timms took off his hat. “Come on, Albert. Let’s have a ready-eye.”

  Charlie started towards the front door behind them.

  McCartney took him by the shoulder.

  “Guv?”

  “Go home, Charlie. Get some sleep. I’ll look after it from here.”

  PART THREE

  “BLACK SATURDAY”

  –– September & November 1940––

  SATURDAY 7th SEPTEMBER 1940

  23

  CHARLIE MURPHY PUSHED THE COVERS ASIDE. The pitiful scene in George Grimes’ living room repeated itself whenever he closed his eyes: Grimes slumped in his armchair, his dressing gown open to the waist, his eyes staring dumbly, the side of his head caved in. He was dog-tired but there was no point in staying in bed; he wouldn’t be able to sleep again now and there were things he needed to do. He got up, showered and dressed. He poured himself a bowl of wheaties and polished off the last slice of the mock apricot pie that he had bought at the corner shop on Wednesday. Couldn’t get real apricots now. Grated carrots and plum jam instead, the shopkeeper’s wife had told him.

  He checked his watch as he opened the communal door: a quarter before six. He got into his car and drove East again. The streets were quiet and he wound down the window, cool air whipping into the car and helping him shake off the fugue of his wasted night. He passed Liverpool Street station and turned onto the Kingsland Road, squeezing the throttle down and staking advantage of the clear run. The Humber was certainly a luxury, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be feasible to run it when petrol went on the ration, but it was certainly useful for getting about town and now, with the road empty and the sun rising above the rooftops of the low buildings on either side, it was enjoyable.

  He parked in front of Grimes’ house, got out of the car and took out his murder bag from the boot. The door to the house was locked. He took out his lock pick, knelt before the door and examined it: no sign it had been forced––the panel was clean and undamaged, without the dent a booting-in would have left. The lock was in one piece, too. Charlie slid his pick and a small tension wrench into the lock and lifted the pins one by one until they clicked.

  He turned the handle, opened the door and went inside.

  He turned around and read the handwritten note on the door: DON’T FORGET: IDENTITY CARD, RATION BOOK, GAS MASK. A coat and hat on a hatstand, shoes neatly placed, a handful of loose change and a set of keys on the telephone table. Everything looked normal, domestic, as if Grimes would be back shortly. Charlie ran his finger across the surface of the table. It was sad and pathetic. He shut the front door and flicked through the address book next to the telephone. Nothing stood out.

  Charlie went through into the sitting room. He put down the murder bag and surveyed again: the blood-soaked armchair, the blood on t
he floor around it, the splatter on the wall. He took out his notebook and wrote SUICIDE? at the top of a blank page. He moved through the house again, picturing the scene, trying to imagine what might have happened. What did he know about Grimes? He was under investigation on serious charges, so it was certainly likely that he was depressed, worried about the mess he was in. That all made perfect sense. Charlie pictured the scene from last night: Grimes was in a dressing gown, there were flecks of shaving foam on his cheeks and half of his face was clean of whiskers. He would have undressed. Drawn a bath. Started to shave. What then? He got out of the bath before he was finished, put on a dressing gown, went into the sitting room, took out a gun he had probably swiped from the armoury at work, sat down, shot himself.

  No.

  Didn’t make sense.

  Too many questions.

  He noted them one by one: why would Grimes call and ask to see him and then top himself? Why call him when he had already taken a gun from work? Why start to shave but finish halfway through? If he was making himself presentable before putting a bullet in his head, surely he would have finished the job?

  The last question suggested he was interrupted.

  He wrote MURDER? across the top of the next page, and walked the house again. A different movie played: this time, Grimes telephoned him, made the appointment, and came back to the house. It was a Friday night––perhaps he had planned to speak to Charlie and then go out for a few jars to help forget his troubles. He would have got into the bath and started to shave. There was a knock on the door. He put on a robe, went to answer it. No signs of forced entry confirmed Grimes had let him––or them––into the house. So, if he was killed, it could be assumed that he knew his murderer well enough to let him inside.

  Charlie continued. Grimes and his visitor or visitors went through into the sitting room. A discussion ensued––something was said, things took a turn for the worse, for the violent. George was a big bloke and wouldn’t have gone down without an almighty scrap, so they––and Charlie decided there would have been more than one of them––must have subdued him first. But there were no marks on George’s body save the gunshot: no other head trauma, no defensive marks. Perhaps they knew him, perhaps he trusted them. So, somehow, they put him in the armchair, put a gun to his head and made it look like suicide.