by Mark Dawson
He went outside for a breath of fresh air. Savile Row nick was under siege. Thirty-six bombs had fallen in the West End area overnight and the station Sergeant was struggling to deal with a scrum of locals who wanted to know where they were supposed to go now their houses had been flattened. Charlie squeezed between them and went back down to the basement Inquiry Room again.
The papers were spread out across two tables. Three new murders. Charlie still couldn’t quite believe he was on the case. He would’ve given his right arm to be involved earlier in the year; he’d made do with newspaper reports and what he’d heard on the grapevine, the tittle tattle and rumour that went around a nick. Now he had the entire case spread out around him. Each scrap of information added to the picture he was building and, at the back of it all, the possibility that he would read something and make a connection that no-one else had made. With an investigation as big as this, the odds were good that the killer was hidden in the papers. A name, a witness mentioning something that no-one else had spotted, perhaps even someone who had been spoken to and disregarded.
He just had to be found.
He read through the files. They kept running into walls: no real breaks so far. They had turned the lives of the dead girls upside down to try and find connections but they had nothing: Worthing was definitely a brass, but they couldn’t say that for sure about Jenkins; Worthing’s father died in the poor house, Jenkins’ father was a bank manager; Worthing drank heavily, Jenkins was tea-total.
Nothing suggested their paths would ever have crossed.
And now they had Annie Stokes to add to the mess.
He fell back on basic criminology. He had educated himself, studied sex killers: the original Ripper; George Joseph Smith; George Chapman. He’d read treatises from shrinks and criminologists. He’d attended lectures and kept scrapbooks of cuttings on infamous cases. He drew conclusions: the Black-out Ripper had stopped killing for two months, but now he was back. The fact that time had passed since his first murder and he still hadn’t been caught had emboldened him. This sudden orgy of fresh violence suggested he was confident of evading capture; his urges would only have been temporarily sated. They would take hold again and again.
There was only one constant with sexual sadists: once they started, they killed until they were stopped.
The experts were unanimous: most left behind a ‘signature’, something that identified them by their technique. Some did it deliberately, seeking recognition by making their work characteristic, but most of the time it was unintentional, habitual, the signature involving several components. Murders didn’t have to show all aspects of the same killer's signature to be linked and just because a murder had things in common with another didn’t mean that the same man did both. A signature was more about the things that happened without realisation; subconscious nuances essential for gratification, driven by imperative and not by choice.
Charlie knew all this, held it at the front of his mind as he compared the three new murders with the slayings from before, sifting for a signature by examining the pathology and crime scene details. He picked out twenty-seven signature or possible signature components, filleted them to the six most significant: seven out of eight victims were brasses or half-brasses; seven were killed indoors; all were killed by asphyxia; all knife wounds were cuts––stabbing was not a feature of the killings; there was mutilation or attempted mutilation in all eight cases; there were no indication that any of the victims struggled sufficiently to sustain significant defensive wounds and no screams were heard.
Solid similarities.
There were questions to answer and angles to follow. Eddie Coyle needed to be found. He knew Worthing and he had form for violence. He must have heard about the murder and yet he hadn’t come forward yet. That was suspicious. And the journalist, Drake, he needed to be investigated. Frank had put a Detective Constable to the task but he had reported nothing of interest yet. Not good enough. There was something there, Charlie could smell it. Drake was hiding somwething. He would have to speak to him personally.
Fred Cherrill’s latest report was delivered at half-seven. The lads from the Fingerprint Bureau had been at Worthing’s flat in Soho all day yesterday, and they had taken it apart piece by piece. They had eliminated prints from Worthing and Edith Sampson. Nothing. They were at Stoke’s flat now, repeating the task.
He put his pen down, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
o o o
IT WAS EIGHT WHEN HE STOPPED; the briefing was at half-past. He took his notes and went into the gents to splash cold water on his face. Alf McCartney came inside as he was drying his hands.
“Morning, lad.”
“Sir.”
“You look all done in.”
“Been up all night.”
“Find anything?”
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
“Bill’s asked you to deliver the briefing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Par for the course. Means he doesn’t have to bother himself with the detail.” He chuckled derisively. “Nothing to worry about. I’m sure you’re up to snuff.”
“I’m getting there.”
He walked to the urinals. “So? What do you think?”
“These last three are almost certainly the work of the same man. There are several similarities.”
“Excellent. And if anything develops, you’ll let me know. At once?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good lad.”
McCartney headed towards the C.I.D. Room and Charlie followed. Inside it was standing room only. Tanner was at the front. Charlie went to stand alongside. The D.C.I. had arranged with the uniform Inspector to borrow eight flatfoots to add to the Aids and Detectives already working the case: a decent muster squad for some good old-fashioned policing. Three more dead brasses on the patch: even with this nonsense from Fritz, the investigation was getting the attention it deserved.
Tanner rapped on the desk.
“Pipe down, men––we haven’t got anywhere yet and we’re starting to get awkward questions from on high. I need boots on the street and you lucky fellows are it.” He nodded at Charlie. “This is D.S. Murphy. He’s been transferred over from Central.”
Charlie stood up and cleared his throat. Men looked up at him. Frank stared up blankly. He couldn’t supress the thought: they all know my history, the things I did to get where I am. His legs felt empty and his stomach churned. Bob Peters nodded encouragement.
He cleared his throat again. “There are two men we need to speak to.” He stuck photographs on the wall: profile and frontal, a man in his mid-thirties, slender build, heavy beard, thick pug-nose, gimlet eyes, frizzed ginger hair. “This man’s the first, and the most interesting. D.I. Murphy interviewed a friend of the second victim on Monday––young lass, said Worthing was getting battered by her beau, bloke by the name of Eddie Coyle, C-O-Y-L-E. I’ve pulled his file and he’s got form: he did a bit for assault three years ago, copped a not-guilty for a rape and he’s been a suspect in a couple of breakings, just not enough to charge. The Vice Squad think he might have moved into pimping and that’s what Worthing’s neighbour thought, so this could easily be his thing. These are his photos, and he’s got tattoos of anchors on his forearms; he did three years in the Navy and he’s got the souvenirs. Take a look at him, remember what he looks like. The chances are he’s just a fellow who knocks his woman around, but we need him crossed off the list. The girl said he works as a porter in a hotel in the West End, no more detail than that. If you count B and Bs and guest houses, there are 340 hotels in the West End.” The room grumbled, knowing what was coming next; Tanner shushed them. “I’ve picked nine of you plus me and I’ve drawn up a list. Split ten-ways, there are 34 hotels per man. Take a copy from the front, visit each place, speak to the manager, shake things up and see if you can pin Coyle down.”
The groaning continued.
“The second man is Henry Drake. Is D.C. Adams here?”
&n
bsp; Adams was the man Frank had assigned to look into Drake. “Yes, guv,” he said.
“What have you found?”
“Not much, to be honest. He doesn’t have a record. He’s a bachelor, lives alone. Doesn’t seem to have many friends. He’s been at the newspaper since 1937. He was something of a rising star until recently but he’s not been doing so well the last few months. I spoke to his editor yesterday morning––seems he’s under some sort of internal investigation. They reckon he might have been making up his stories.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. He wasn’t all that keen to talk to me yesterday in the office––he ducked out the back.”
“We need to put the screws to him,” Charlie said “He’s the only link we’ve got between Jenkins and Worthing. Something about him isn’t right.” Charlie glanced at Frank––bringing Drake in for questioning again was a slap in the face, the suggestion that he’d done a bad job the first time. Too bad. He couldn’t worry about hurting his feelings. Maybe he had done a bad job.
Adams said he would bring him to the station.
“The Post Office have installed a special telephone line direct to this room, so if you need any additional information or you need your memory refreshed you can call it and get what you need.”
“Any questions?” Tanner said.
“When are we going to the press, guv? I’ve had it up to here with blokes asking me for a quote.”
“There’s a conference on Thursday.”
“Are we going to say it’s the Ripper?”
“There’s no point in pretending it isn’t. We’ll need their help anyway. There’s going to be an appeal for information. Someone must know something. Anything else?” The room was quiet. “Excellent. Get to it.”
The men took their lists from the table and filed outside. Charlie knew: it was a wild goose chase, but it was the best they could do at the moment. He had to assume the young doxy Frank interviewed was telling the truth and that her information was correct, but, even then, it was a stretch that Coyle was a killer, even less likely that he was the Ripper.
Charlie waited at the front until Frank got up. He looked over at him. He shook his head and went out of the door.
41
THE NEWSROOM WAS FULL OF NOISE. Hitler was massing men on the coast, waiting for the right tide. The latest news had the invasion tonight or tomorrow morning. Henry sat at his typewriter and transcribed his shorthand notes from the interview with Asquith.
Chattaway came to his desk. “My office,” he said. “Now.”
Henry opened the desk drawers, scooped notes into his bag, took down folders and tore out pages, shoved them on top of the notes. He hurried, not knowing how long he might have. Anything he thought he might need, he took. He knew what was coming and he wanted to be prepared. He closed his briefcase and pushed it out of sight, under the desk. He walked across the newsroom to Chattaway’s office.
“Boss?”
“What on earth did you think you were doing?”
“What do you mean?”
Chattaway’s face suffused with red. “Yesterday. What were you doing?”
“Following a story.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You bloody well can!”
“No, I can’t––not until it’s finished.”
“It involves Viscount Asquith?”
“Yes.”
“Because I understand you went to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Right.” Chattaway drew a breath. Henry’s confirmation almost seemed like a relief. He spoke quietly, firmly. “Did you accuse him of sexual improprieties?”
“Yes.”
“For God’s sake, Henry, what were you thinking?”
“I’ve come across serious allegations. I had to put them to him.”
“What are they?”
“No, I’m sorry, Edward––I can’t say.”
“That’s not good enough, Drake.”
“I can’t. And I had to speak to him. I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it, so I didn’t tell you. There was nothing else for it. I had no choice.”
“Of course you had a choice. You could have done what I gave you to do instead of going off and making ridiculous allegations against a very important bloody person. Libellous allegations, Henry, let’s be plain about that. I’ve already had to get Deakins involved. And, I mean,” he went on, sarcastically, “what an excellent choice: Viscount bloody Asquith, who’s just signed a crucial agreement to provide the bloody R.A.F. with the aeroplanes that might help them keep Adolf bloody Hitler on the other side of the bloody Channel. A national hero. How on earth you thought I’d be able to print a story like that now, well, I really have no idea. That is an absolutely spectacular failure of judgment. Spectacular.”
“I had to follow it up.”
Chattaway waved his hand dismissively. “Asquith would be bad enough. I wish that was all. You know we had the police in yesterday?”
“What for?”
“A Detective Constable from Savile Row. He wanted to know all about you. He was especially interested to find out whether you were working on the Ripper story. I told him you better not be, seeing as I specifically took you off it three months ago and gave it to Byatt. You’re not working on it, are you, Henry?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, Edward.”
“Does it involve Asquith?”
Henry didn’t answer.
Chattaway breathed out; he looked weary. “It hardly matters. Cherry on top of the cake. Deakins has finished looking at your work. All sorts of problems. Sources who don’t exist. Misquotes. The interview with the first victim’s father, in Newcastle? He’s never heard of you. Christ, Henry, there are half a dozen times when you’ve filed a report from somewhere or other when we know you’ve been in London. It’s brazen. I don’t understand it. You didn’t need to do it.”
Henry looked away.
“Did you really think you’d get away with it?”
“Come on, Chattaway. Everyone does it.”
Chattaway banged a fist on the table. “There’s a line, Henry. There’s a bloody line. There’s licence and there’s outright fabrication. What you’ve done is unforgivable. Professional suicide. You haven’t given me a choice.”
“You’re giving me my cards?”
“You’ve got until midday to clear your desk.”
Henry straightened his jacket, straightened his tie, and got up. “Thanks for being straight with me.”
“Anything you’ve been working on needs to stay here. In the building. Is that clear?”
“Of course,” Henry said, thinking: no bloody way.
“I’m serious, Henry––everything stays here.”
No bloody way.
42
CHARLIE’S LIST had ten hotels in the vicinity of Trafalgar Square. He visited them in order, finding the manager of each and asking whether they had a man by the name of Eddie Coyle on their staff.
The first on the list was the Royal Arms: a four storey block, dowdy and down-at-heel. He found the manager in the office behind the desk. He’d never heard of anyone named Eddie Coyle. Charlie insisted that he pay a visit to the kitchen so that he could eyeball the staff. The manager acceded wearily. The cook and his men were busy, without even the time to give him the wary once-over he had come to expect. Charlie took out the mugshot of Coyle and compared it, without finding a match. He apologised for wasting the manager’s time and left the hotel.
The Triumph.
The Gables.
The Continental Guest House.
The same story in each.
The siren went at six, and the streets thinned out. The bombers were overhead again ten minutes later. Bombs started to fall, the rumble and crash of explosions rattling windows and doors. Charlie stopped outside the National Gallery and consulted the list. Half of the hotels had been crossed off. He hoped one of the detectives was having better luck.
He kept working.
The Connaught.
The International.
No luck at either.
The Royalty: a shabby two-storey red brick affair around the back of the Gallery, a pub on both sides, the name a bad joke. Charlie went inside. It was getting late: nine-thirty and the night manager was on the desk.
Charlie put his Warrant Card on the counter and introduced himself. “Do you have a man by the name of Eddie Coyle working here?”
“No-one of that name.”
“He’d be in the kitchens. Would you mind if I had a look?”
“I told you, we don’t have an Eddie Coyle.”
“I’d just like a look, sir. Won’t be five minutes.”
The manager took him down. The kitchen was hot: steam pouring from open pans on the stoves, industrial-sized grills and ovens blazing. Six staff: the chef, sous chef, two line cooks and two pot boys. Charlie recalled Coyle’s mugshots; none of these men had a beard, and if any had ginger hair it was hidden under hats and hair-nets.
The manager shrugged. “See? No Eddie Coyle.”
A flash at the sound of the name––the line cook looked up at him, then looked immediately back down. Charlie glimpsed blue-ink on a forearm.
“Sir,” he said to the man. “What’s your name?”
The man didn’t look up.
“Sir?”
“Gordon, answer him.”
The bloke was surly: “Gordon Johns.”
No beard––but he could’ve shaved it off.
“Roll up your sleeves, please.”
“What?”
“Your sleeves, sir. Roll them up.”
Coyle sprang: he tossed a pot of boiling water at Charlie and went for a side door. Charlie ducked the pot, vaulted the counter and went after him. A short corridor, rooms off it, a flight of steps down to the street, Coyle halfway down. Charlie took them two at a time, yelling for him to stop. Coyle kicked the door and ran out, tripped over a dustbin, landed on his face. Charlie fell onto him; he put a knee in his back, yanked his arms back and cuffed him. He rolled up the sleeve of his food-smeared jacket: a blue-ink anchor.