The Black Mile

by Mark Dawson

Henry nodded. “He was in the pictures. They were dynamite, Inspector. Asquith was dressed up as a Nazi. He was having relations with Jenkins. Stokes and Worthing were in the pictures, too. All of them. All together.”

  “They knew each other?”

  “I got the impression they did. I went to a meeting to talk about buying the pictures. Jenkins was there. There was talk of the others. They were selling the pictures together.”

  “Did you buy them?”

  “She was murdered the night before we were due to meet again. I read about it the morning afterwards. I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence, so I went to find Worthing.”

  “You went to her flat.”

  “And found her body.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I was frightened.”

  “Bollocks. You didn’t want to the story to get out.”

  Shame burned. “They warned me off.”

  “Stokes might’ve died because you kept your mouth shut.”

  Henry gestured to the scar on his face. “They beat me and then they cut me. They told me to stay away. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You should’ve told us.”

  Henry looked away.

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know who they were. Two men.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Jenkins was with two men when I met her. One of them wouldn’t give me his name. The other was a fellow called Jackie Field. His club burned down with the body of a man inside it. Field hasn’t been seen since. You don’t need the brains of Lloyd George to work it out.”

  “Why now, Drake? You’ve sat on this long enough.”

  “I couldn’t prove anything before. I only saw the pictures once. And I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He tapped the book. “But now there’s something to go on.”

  Murphy stared into the middle distance.

  “What should I do?”

  “You’re going to show me where you got this. Tomorrow. I’m going to have a look.”

  56

  TEA AND BISCUITS CHEZ GRIMES. They had a two-up, two-down in shabby Hackney, half a mile from George’s place in London Fields. George had obviously liked to stay close to Mum and Dad. A chintzy front room, flock wallpaper, a sofa covered with an antimacassar, framed pictures of George on the sideboard. Nancy switched on the wireless and stood listening to the Home Service: the Australian PM had arrived for talks with Churchill; Anthony Eden was touring the Balkans to drum up support. Charlie was too buzzed to care. Joseph Grimes took a step-ladder from the outside shed and opened up the loft. Charlie’s stomach did butterflies. He sipped his tea, tried to stop his hands from shaking.

  Nancy had met him outside, linked her arm through his as she walked him to the door. “A friend of George’s is a friend of ours”, she’d said, two in the afternoon and already smelling of gin; he felt queasy, told himself it was nerves but he knew it was guilt at selling the old dear a line.

  I am the man who investigated your son.

  I am the man who saw his brains spread across his sitting room walls.

  The loft hatch slammed shut. “I knew I put it up there,” the old man said, bringing a box into the sitting room.

  Charlie opened it. A dress, a coat, some shoes. He searched each carefully. There was an address book in the coat pocket.

  He held it up. “Have you looked inside?”

  “No, officer. Didn’t know it was there.”

  Charlie took opened it: handwritten entries, a letter per page.

  A: Angela, Annie, Annette.

  Annie Stokes.

  He flicked.

  B,C,D,E,F.

  Anticipation and excitement grew––he knew what he was going to find.

  G,H,I,J,K,L.

  M: Michael, Manda, Molly.

  Molly Jenkins.

  Flashbacks: two dead bodies, an empty surface shelter and a room that reeked of blood.

  “Anything helpful?” Nancy said.

  “Maybe. I’ll take this with me if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. What have you found?”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Officer? Please?”

  Her face was full of hope.

  But he couldn’t say. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “If you need anything else, you’ll let us know?”

  “Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

  o o o

  VERNON WHITE AND RODERICK CARLYLE, the D.C.s who made up his little team, sat in Charlie’s office at Scotland Yard, notepads on their laps. Two young, enthusiastic men he’d hand-picked from uniform. His men.

  “There’s something for us to look into.” He turned to a sheet of notes he had scribbled: brainwaves, thoughts linked by lines and ringed with circles, stream of consciousness stuff. “In September last year I received a complaint from a Soho businessman about George Grimes, a D.C. working out of Savile Row nick.”

  “I knew him, guv.”

  “I investigated the complaint, found he was extorting the man, arrested and charged him. Straightforward case. But then he telephoned me and said he wanted to talk, said he had information. He stood me up so I went around to his house, found him with his brains on the walls and a police revolver on the floor. Do you remember it?”

  “Yes, guv. Suicide, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what we said then but I’ve come across evidence that makes me doubt it. I can’t say what that evidence is yet. You’ll have to trust me.”

  “Are you re-opening the file?”

  “Unofficially. We’re going to pick at a few of the loose threads and see if anything unravels. When I interviewed the businessman, he said there were two policemen shaking him down. Grimes and one other. Grimes wouldn’t give anyone else up.”

  “Why lie about that?”

  “Loyalty, fear, whatever. I want to see if there’s anything in it. So I’m going to go back to Field and take another statement. You two are going to look at the men.” He put a list down on the table. “These are the fellows who were serving at West End Central C.I.D. when Grimes died. There are nine of them. Vernon, you take Timms, Regan, Slater and Winston; Roddy, take Donald, Regan, Lucas, Fraser. I want full background checks on each of them. Everything you can find out. Maybe something comes up that we can follow-up on. And keep it hush-hush, at least for the moment. I don’t want this getting to brass until I know whether it’s worth making a fuss about.”

  “What about Alf McCartney?”

  “What?”

  “He was at Savile Row then.”

  “I’ll think about that. Alright?”

  White and Carlyle nodded that they were happy: solid investigators and loyal to a T.

  Carlyle said, “If it wasn’t suicide, what then? You think someone did him in?”

  Charlie looked down at the sheet of notes: an arrow from George to Constance Worthing. Arrows to two other dead girls.

  “Keep an open mind.”

  SATURDAY, 8th FEBRUARY 1941

  57

  FRANK FOLLOWED HENRY DRAKE as they crossed Bishopsgate and headed into Spitalfields. It was a mixed area. Parts of it were decent, the fringes of the city, money lapping around the place, but you only needed to walk a couple of streets and everything changed. A real melting pot, one-hundred per cent mongrel. Hasidic Jews in their black silk overcoats and round fur hats. Irish bruisers drinking on stoops. A scattering of coloureds: Somalian stevedores from the cheap flophouses on Cheshire Street who worked the docks, North African seaman from the freighters. There’d been a flood of Jewish immigrants since fascism swept Europe; Frank wondered what old Adolf would have made of a place like this. The heart of the shtetl.

  “How far is it?”

  “Not far. Round the corner.”

  They slowed as they passed into the busiest stretch of the market. Traders pushed wooden carts, shouting prices in Yiddish. The sound of haggling in half a dozen different languages moulded into an anarchic hubbub.
On either side: bookstores for rabbinical study, beigel shops, the Great Synagogue advertising LONDON HEBREW TALMUD TORAH CLASSES FOR JEWISH CHILDREN, tailors’ premises, kosher butchers, cabinet makers, the Russian Vapour Baths. The locals were savvy and marked him for Old Bill. Passers-by observed him warily, some tipping their hats, others crossing the street.

  Drake turned into an alley and stopped at a plain door. “Here.”

  Frank pointed down the alley. “Wait there.”

  He knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  He knelt down, pushed open the letter box and peered inside.

  Cameras on tripods, a bed beneath twin arc lights. Beyond that, a large room with a printing press.

  “Looks like it’s empty.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We’ll wait for him.”

  A Jewish café was opposite the mouth of the alley. Frank went inside and ordered cheese sandwiches and two bottles of ginger beer. They sat down at the window and waited.

  Drake fiddled with the bottle cap. “Say they did know each other––”

  “The five girls before were random. We know that.”

  “So this was someone else?”

  “We can’t say that for sure.”

  “But it might have been.”

  “There’d be questions to answer.”

  “What about Johnson?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I read the case––you found their belongings in his house. The ration books–– how else would they have got there?”

  “He always denied seeing them before,” Frank said. He swore blind he’d never seen them before. Right until the end.”

  Drake looked puzzled. “Someone left them there?”

  “That’s what he said. I don’t know.”

  “But if it wasn’t him?”

  “I know. The Ripper hasn’t been caught.”

  Frank turned his face away. The Ripper was still on the street. Still hunting.

  And he still had no idea where his daughter was.

  Drake turned to the glass.

  “Murphy.”

  Frank turned. A man and two women turned into the alley. The bloke was big, clumsy-looking, with an unruly mop of yellow hair.

  “That’s him?”

  “With the blond hair.”

  Frank stared at him.

  “What?”

  “He looks familiar.”

  The man who printed the handbills of Eve.

  He searched his memory for a name: Butters.

  He stopped at the door, unlocked it and went inside. Frank only caught glimpses of the girls: young, pretty.

  “Do you need me?” Drake said.

  “Not now.”

  “So?”

  “Leave this to me now, alright? Don’t get involved.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m serious, Mr. Drake. It’s dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “Then leave it to me. Just go home.”

  “You’ll let me know what happens?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your story.”

  Frank prepared himself.

  Ten minutes to be safe. He followed the alley to the door, put his ear to it and listened: animal moaning, a man’s voice giving direction. He knelt down, pushed open the letter-box and looked inside. The two girls on a bed, naked. Butters behind a camera shooting pictures.

  Red mist.

  Frank took a step back and put his size ten through the panel. The lock splintered, the girls screamed. Butters spun, lost his balance, tripped over the tripod. Frank was onto him in two strides, picked him up by the lapels and flung him at the wall; he slammed into shelves, flasks of photographic chemicals crashing down, liquid running across the floor. Frank grabbed him, planted him face down, put a knee in his back and yanked his wrists together and up. “If you struggle, I’ll break your bloody arms.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Butters squealed.

  He turned to the girls. “Put some clothes on.”

  “What are you doing? What have I done?”

  Frank yanked his wrists up, felt the bones creak.

  “I’m just a photographer. Please.”

  “Just a photographer.” He wanted to keep yanking, wanted the bones to fracture and snap. “If I let you up are you going to behave yourself?”

  “Yes. I swear.”

  Frank let go of his wrists. He raised his knee from his back and stood. Butters got to his knees, rolling his shoulders.

  Frank took the moment to look around: a small space, bare wooden boards and mouldy walls; a ratty divan pushed to one side; a desk; a sink; shelves on every other wall, photographic equipment and flasks of chemicals. The two girls had gathered their clothes and had fled to anteroom.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have some questions.”

  “Wait a minute–– I know you.” He squinted at him. “That’s it––I printed pictures for you. The missing girl. Your daughter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I remember. Pretty girl.”

  “I’d be careful what you say.”

  “What are you? Police?”

  “Clever boy.”

  “Let me see your credentials.”

  “Are you having a laugh?” Frank chuckled. “My credentials?”

  “That you are who you say you are.”

  Frank drove his fist into his gut. “That do for you? Bloody credentials. Bloody nerve.”

  Butters retched.

  Frank grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up.

  “I’ve got some questions and you’re going to give me honest answers. If you don’t, I’m going to come back and find you and make your life a living hell. Taking advantage of those poor judies in there––I’ve got enough to put you away for a year, two if I slip the Judge a note saying what a nasty little cowson you are. We understand each other, don’t we?”

  “Y-y-yes, officer.”

  “Good.” He held up the copy of the magazine Drake had given him. “Tell me about this.”

  “Lilliput? Dirty pictures. Erotic stories. Smut. What do you want to know?”

  “You print it here?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank indicated the set. “And you take the pictures?”

  “Some of them.”

  “And the others?”

  “I’m given them.”

  “And then what?”

  “I put it together.”

  “Is it your business?”

  “I wish.”

  “So who owns it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “There’s a man, we work on it together.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I can’t––”

  “You’ve got a bloody short memory, son. You reckon you’d be able to do time on the Moor? Soft lad like you?”

  “Alright, alright. Eddie Coyle.”

  “What?”

  “That’s his name. Eddie Coyle.”

  EDDIE COYLE.

  Hell.

  Eddie Coyle:

  Constance Worthing’s boy-friend.

  Constance Worthing’s pimp.

  “What is it?”

  “Keep going.”

  “Eddie tells me what he wants, he gives me some photographs, I shoot some others, I pay a bloke to write smut for it. I put it all together, I print the books, I deliver them, he pays me. That’s it as far as I’m concerned. That’s all I know.”

  “Coyle sells it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  “Mail-order. He’s got a list. Some kind of subscription club. Don’t ask me about it because I swear I don’t know anything else.”

  “When did it start?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been doing it for a year.”

  Frank indicated the girls in the other room. “Where do you find them? Coyle?”

  “A man I know. He finds them fo
r me.”

  “How?”

  “Train stations. Bus stations. Shop doorways, for all I know. I don’t ask questions, alright? The way I see it, the less I know, the better.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gino. He’s a Malt. And I don’t know his surname––something Wop, I don’t remember, I’ve only just started working with him. I had another fellow a year ago but it went wide. Had to start again.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Field. Jackie Field. He used to run a nightclub.”

  Jackie Field: tried to sell pictures of Asquith to Drake. Then found girls for the smut. What was going on?

  “Alright, Butters. You’re doing well. I’ve got one more question for you. Give it to me straight and I’m gone in ten minutes. Mess me around and you’re coming back to the nick.”

  “Fine. Just get on with it.”

  He opened Drake’s magazine to the centre-spread.

  Jenkins.

  Worthing.

  Stokes.

  “This picture––when was it taken?”

  “I–– I don’t know.”

  He shoved it in his face. “When?”

  “No, really––I can’t recall.”

  Frank pointed at the divan. “Do you take me for an idiot? It was taken in this room. They were sat on that.”

  “I don’t know––”

  “When?”

  “I don’t––”

  Frank closed a fist. “WHEN?”

  Butters reached up to a shelf, took a glass flask, smashed it against Frank’s forehead: toner ran into his eyes, blinding him. Shrieks and screams from the girls. He couldn’t see a thing, grabbed the shelf, tearing it from the wall, more flasks shattering. He swiped his hand across his eyes, rubbing glass into his skin and blood into the chemicals, squinting through the blurred haze: Butters out the door and into the alley, the girls right behind him. Pain jagged razors into his eyes; Frank palmed his way along the wall to the sink, filled the basin and dunked his head. Blood and bits of glass mixed with the water. He pulled up, cuts revealed on his forehead and his cheeks, fresh blood already running from his scalp.

  Into the alley: Butters long gone. The girls long gone.

  Back inside.

  Quick: Butters probably fetching reinforcements.

  He went to the desk and pulled the drawers, tipped them upside down and went through the debris: bills for photographic equipment, doodled ideas for shot set-ups, bundles of pound notes, lists of names. He found a ledger and scanned it: lists of businesses and figures printed neatly next to them: five pounds here, fifteen pounds there, twenty-five pounds. Bloody good money to be made in porn. He ran his finger down the list; one name repeated again and again. He flipped pages; the same name, two dozen times.