The diction was street-London, but there was a trace of something else in her voice; like she was hiding a posh accent to fit in. I guessed that her particular gang in Fleet Street didn’t wear blue stockings.
“Congratulations, Miss Copeland. It normally takes people at least a couple of days to start questioning my prospects.” I made a show of checking my watch. “It took you ten seconds. Do you mind if we start somewhere simpler? Like who you are and why you’re here?”
She cocked her head and inspected me for a while. I returned the stare, noting the big features, any one of which would look out of place on an ordinary face but all together on her strong canvas of bones and angles, added up to something a little short of beautiful and a little beyond fascination. Strands of chestnut hair spilled from the jaunty beret, a tarpaulin over a briar patch.
“Where are you from?” she asked me.
“Isn’t my accent a bit of a giveaway?”
She raised her thick eyebrows. “Which part?”
“Glasgow. Sort of. Do you always answer questions with a question?”
“Do you always look a gift horse in the mouth?”
I waited. And won – this round.
“I told you on the phone I’m a reporter. I work for the Trumpet.”
“I don’t read the Trumpet.”
“Why?”
“Too many cartoons.”
She coloured. “The words aren’t bad, you know!”
“I find better ones in The Times crossword. What can I do for you?”
I prayed she had a new line. I’d been tripping over journalists since the Caldwell case blew up, each of them trying to get his angle on the story. Not that I could deflect them from what they’d planned to write before they spoke to me. I’d learned in Glasgow in my police days that you could make exactly the same statement to six newshounds, and six different fairytales would appear the next day. A waste of time, but I was prepared to waste a little more of my time just to hold the attention of Eve Copeland, ace reporter, with nice legs.
“I’m looking for a new angle on the Caldwell murders.”
I let my forehead fall on to my desk. Then I raised it with a pained look on my face. She was trying not to smile.
“That was January, three months ago. I’ve seen a hundred theories from you people, none of them based on the facts. There are no new angles. Major Anthony Caldwell was mad as a hatter and took up killing young women because he liked it. End of story.”
It wasn’t, of course; it was the beginning. But it was all that anyone was going to get out of me. She ignored my theatrics. As I raised my head she had her eyes fixed on the scar across my skull that even my red mop can’t hide. She pulled a shorthand notepad from her raincoat pocket and flicked it open. She poised a pencil over the page.
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“But you’ve known a few,” she said with a lift of a heavy eyebrow.
“I spent a few months in a loony bin if that’s what you mean. All better now.” I tapped the trailing end of the scar that terminates just above my left brow, and smiled to signify the end of that little probe.
“That’s how we ran the story. Not one of mine.” She made it clear how little she thought of her fellow hacks. “I’ve been reviewing the facts and some things don’t add up. I thought there might be a more interesting truth behind it.”
“Five murders wasn’t interesting enough?”
She stared defiantly at me. The eyes were black olives swimming in milk, and the skin round them was a soft brown with a little fat ridge beneath the lower lids; harem eyes behind the yashmak. “Not in themselves, no. They’re just numbers, unless you know something about the murderer’s mind, or the victims’. My readers want the inside story, the human story.”
“Tell them to read Tit Bits.”
“I see we start from rather different views of a newspaper, Mr McRae.”
I shrugged. “What didn’t add up?”
“Don’t tell me you’re interested?” She balanced her pad on her lap and raised both hands to her beret. She dug out a pin that had Exhibit A in a murder trial written all over it, wrenched off the cap and shook her hair out. The briar patch exploded. This woman was unscrupulous. She went on, careless of the effect on me.
“It was the sister. Not the Caldwell woman, the upper class one…” She flicked through her pad. “Kate, Kate Graveney.”
“What about her?”
“She was… unexpected. I’m good at my job, Mr McRae. Thorough. I do the leg work. My colleagues prefer to sit in the pub and make it up. I go look for myself. And I ask questions. I asked some of the girls in Soho, the working girls. It helps being a woman - at times. They told me that the classy Kate operated a little side business, she was a competitor of theirs offering a service that none of them could – or chose to – provide.”
I kept my gaze level and waited. I wondered if she’d met any of the girls from Mama Mary’s house. I’d have a word with Mary later.
“You don’t seem shocked,” she said.
“Nothing much shocks me any more, Miss Copeland. Especially if it’s made up.”
“So it’s not true.”
“Even if it were, I imagine if you were to print it you’d be sued till the Trumpet’s last blow.”
She had the grace to look rueful. “I know, I know. But there’s another thing. The word on the street – and I do mean the street – is that Kate also knew about the murders. Maybe even helped. You know what those rich society girls are like.”
“’Fraid not. I don’t throw enough cocktail parties up here. Maybe I should. What do you think?”
“I think you’re covering for this woman, but I don’t know why. Love? Sex? A gentleman protecting a lady’s reputation?”
“Will that be all, Miss Copeland?” I got to my feet.
“Call me Eve. Can I call you Danny?”
“Call me what you like, Eve. But I have work to do. If you don’t mind.”
“Wait, wait. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get taken seriously as a woman in this business?” She shoved her hair back from her face. Her big eyes suddenly lost their certainty. I sat down.
“No, I don’t. I guess it’s tough. Now all the men are back.”
She nodded. “All with their old jobs guaranteed. I don’t mind. It’s fair enough. But things changed when they were away.”
For the first time since she got here she was being sincere.
“It gave me a chance. I took it. I did anything and everything. I even got blown up in an air raid.” She reached down and pulled up her skirt. She pointed to a white scar running from her knee and disappearing up her thigh.
“I had my own daily column, for god’s sake. Then all the men came home, and bang, I’m back down the ladder. Not all the way. I still do a weekly. But I need to be ten times better than they are to get back to daily. Do you see?”
She was leaning over my desk, longing written across her exotic face. It made her suddenly vulnerable. Then I noticed; the East End accent had gone. Nothing replaced it. I mean she spoke without an accent of any sort.
I nodded. “We all need some breaks, Eve. But the Caldwell case is closed as far as I’m concerned. It’s too personal. All tied up in my memory problems and headaches. I don’t want to bring them back. Do you see?”
Her face took on new purpose. She pulled back. “OK, Danny, let’s leave the past. I can’t run to a lot of expenses, but what if I could pay you to let me inside?”
“Inside?”
“Your world. Villains and crooks. Fast women and mean men. The underworld. A Cook’s tour of the wrong side of the tracks. I want you to introduce me to thieves and murderers. There are clubs I can’t get into on my own, unless I change my profession.” She bared a set of even, white fangs. I could imagine them sunk into a story and not letting go.
I stared at her. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”
Her soulful eyes glitter
ed with wicked interest. “Take me out on a case.”
“Seedy hotels, following Mr and Mrs Smith?”
“You do more than that.”
I shook my head. “Was this the career opportunity you had in mind for me?”
“I pay you for information. I write it up and we both do well out of it.”
“You make me sound like a copper’s nark.”
“A man of principle, dispensing justice where the courts fear to tread,” she inscribed in mid-air.
I laughed out loud at the image. But then I thought about where next month’s rent was coming from. And I thought about being paid for spending more time in her lively company. Who could pass up an offer like that? I should have; I was barely over the last woman in my life, real or imagined. I needed repair time.
“Eve, it’s a deal. If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, OK? My rate is twenty pounds a week. Can your paper cover that?”
“Fifteen.”
“Eighteen plus expenses.”
She nodded and grinned and stretched out a hand. We shook. Like a regular business deal. She crammed her thatch under her beret again and skewered it to her head. I saw her to the door and watched her spiral down the stairs. I would have whistled as I walked back to my desk but it would have echoed after her, and she would have read too much into it.
I thought about the warehouse prospect and wondered if I should have mentioned it. I decided to see how my meeting went this afternoon. Then I might call and let her in on it. And, if I was honest, it wasn’t just about the money.
THREE
Tommy Chandler was short but wide. His barrel chest was constrained from exploding by taut red braces. He ran a warehouse in docklands that had largely escaped the bombs. Having one of the few intact depots should have been making Tommy a lot of money. In theory he was – but before he could bank any of it, it was disappearing. Tommy had rats in his warehouse, man-sized, and they were eating his goods. Tommy had called me a couple of days ago at his wits end. I’d agreed to go down and take a look.
It took three buses to get from my office near the Elephant across Tower Bridge and down Wapping High Street. I went upstairs not just to have a fag but to get a view crossing the bridge. It does your heart good to see the cranes bobbing all along the river. I know the docks got a hammering, but give or take some missing teeth in the river frontage, plenty of warehouses were back in business – one of them my prospective client’s. I got off in the Commercial Road and walked down the cobbles to Wapping High Street, glimpsing the river through bombsites as I went. Tommy’s yard was bustling; a horse and cart were backing up to the warehouse doors, while a van roared and squeezed me against the big wood gates on its way out. I had no doubt Tommy was the one shouting out orders. He took me inside.
“Why can’t the police stop it?”
Tommy snorted. His beefy hands pushed at his shirt sleeves in frustration. A permanent cigarette hung from his mouth and left a yellow trail up his short moustache.
“Fuckin’ coppers!” he wheezed. Tommy was a self-made man; he’d left behind none of the vocabulary of the docker.
“They come ’ere, and they ponce about and they fuckin’ throw their ’ands up in the air and say they can’t do nothin’. What are we paying these ponces for, that’s what I want to bleedin’ know?”
Tommy was pacing up and down a tiny glass office tucked into a corner of the great wood and brick building. He looked as if he was warming up for a bare-knuckle fight. Though if his chest was as bad as it sounded he wouldn’t make the first bell.
“What security measures have you taken, Mr Chandler?”
“It’s Tommy. Come on. I’ll show you.” He stormed out of his little office like a bull at a rodeo and we did a grand tour. He took me up ten flights of stairs to the top level. Despite his girth and his sixty-a-day habit he seemed to be breathing easier than me. Which would disappoint old Les at my gym. I was trying to get back to my levels of fitness in my army days by going to Les’s a couple of times a week. He was a welterweight contender before the war and now coached young kids from a big room above some shops in the Old Kent Road. Twenty minutes with a skipping rope and five rounds in the ring was still leaving me weak as a kitten. But it was a start. Maybe I needed to increase my fags to Tommy’s level.
We walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling gaps and looked down on to the great worm of the river. It was a long way to the deck of the waiting ship that sat with belly open to the plundering arms of the cranes.
Cargo boats were now returning in growing numbers from around Britain and from America and the Far East. Each of the warehouses tended to specialise. Across the river at Butler’s Wharf and Jacob’s Island, sailing clippers had been landing tea and spices from the East India Company for the last hundred and fifty years. Now, squat iron hulks rode the oily swell and burped grey smoke from their funnels. On either side of Tommy stood a coal warehouse and a scrap metal trader. Tommy took in silks from abroad and sent out cottons and lace from the north to every corner of the British Empire, what was left of it.
I watched his great cranes swing and groan, and fumble deep into the metal holds like giant fishing rods. The bales were pulled in through double doors that studded the warehouse walls from river level to where we stood, five storeys up. Groups of flat-capped men shouted and cursed below us, signing directions at the crane drivers like tic-tac men. They manhandled each haul through the doors into big barrows, then pushed them off into the building’s entrails and stored them in dark corners. It reminded me a bit of the coal mine my dad worked in, but at least these men could suck in fresh air.
I could have watched this ant heap for hours, but I was running to keep pace with Tommy. Wheezing all the way, he led me down to ground level. We scampered across the yard and emerged on Wapping High Street through huge wooden gates. For a minute or two we watched horse-drawn carts and groaning lorries bounce along the cobbles, carrying loads around London and on up country on goods trains.
“Them horses are on the way out, you know. Bleedin’ shame. Look at them beasties. Lovely. My dad had four. Great bleedin’ Clydesdales. Big as fucking warehouses themselves.”
We turned our backs on the road and traced the route in and out, starting with the gates. They rose in solid slabs of wood twenty feet in the air and about the same in width. Tommy showed me the courtyard side of the gates where spars of metal crisscrossed and reinforced the backs. He’d had huge new padlocks fitted. The keys were kept in a safe and only Tommy had the combination. Not even his three senior foremen had access. He pointed them out to me: Sid, a runty bloke with a set of dentures nicked from a horse; Stevie, a taller version of Tommy himself; and Albert, who’d left one of his arms behind at Dunkirk and used his hook to menace the dockers.
“An’ I’ve got a team of night watchmen that patrols the whole bleedin’ place every night of the week. And dogs loose in the yard. Alsatians that would rip your balls off and ask questions after.”
“And still…?”
“An’ still stuff gets nicked! It fuckin’ vanishes like piss on a fire, it does. Nobody sees nothin’. Nobody hears nothin’. It’s a fuckin’ miracle. Houdini couldn’t do no better.”
I began to have my own thoughts, but wanted to hear his. “So what do you reckon?”
“If’n I knew that, sonny Jim, I wouldn’t be bleedin’ asking your expert bleedin’ advice, would I?”
“You’ve had longer to think about this than me, Tommy. I’ve got some ideas but I’d like your insights.”
He studied me with his raging eyes, and lit another fag and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. Then he fingered his braces, stained from his fat thumbs. He pulled the elastic out and let them slap against his chest. Maybe the pain calmed him down.
“Fair ’nough. Here’s how I sees it. It’s an inside job and my own men are robbing me blind. Must have spare keys. Maybe the locksmith’s in on the act. They just walk out the bleedin’ front door. Nex’ thing they’re floggin’ it
down the lane, as bold as you like. As though their old ma had found a bit of cloth in her attic an’ didn’t have no use for it.”
His face was going purple at the thought of it. I stopped him before he blew up like a Zeppelin.
“Tommy, I think you’re right. There must be inside help. Tell me, is there any pattern to this? Do they come on particular nights or weekends or what?”
“They come when I gets a new load in, a good load, silk, or somethin’ they can flog for the most bleedin’ money, that’s when!” He lit another fag from the end of the current one.
“OK. When’s the next good load due?”
“Four days from now. Thursday morning the Clever Girl comes in from Holland. She’s out of Constantinople through the Med. She drops half the load in the Hague and the other half here. Nice stuff. The best. The bastards will be queuing up to nick it!” He thumped the wooden gate so that it shuddered.
“Not this time, Tommy. Maybe not this time. If I can have a crack at it. Me and a few mates of mine will spend the night here.”
“I’ve tried that myself. Nothing. Not even a bleedin’ mouse.”
“Of course not. You’re not hard to spot, Tommy. They just wait for you to give up and then it’s back to business.”
He was nodding furiously and smoke was coming out of his mouth like the Royal Scot. “I knows, I knows. What you gonna do, then?”
“I don’t want you to tell anyone, not even your foreman. Not even your wife!”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Some of my mates were Special Services…”
Back at the office I phoned the landlord of the George and left a message for Midge, one of my part-time, as-and-when, don’t-tell-the-taxman employees who worked for beer money and had no problem spending it. They’d been stretched in the Forces and found it hard to settle down to a proper job. Like me. Midge would get word out to the others. I needed three, though I would have preferred twenty.
I thought for a long time about making the second call. The plan I had in mind was dangerous. No, not dangerous; risky. I know Midge and co would be up for it, but why should I complicate matters by bringing a bint in on the act? A reporter at that? They would curse me black and blue. I decided to start with some small fry and see how she reacted. I picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect me to the news desk of the Daily Trumpet.
The Unquiet Heart Page 2