‘I’ve been here before.’
The barman placed two pints of dark stout porter on the counter and wiped away the overspill with a damp rag. Harmsworth handed me my pint, placed some coins on the bar and then headed for his table. I followed, pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. Beyond the window pane, the black Thames lapped at the wharf, the splash of its ebb and flow punctuating the murmur of conversation at the half-dozen tables.
The hack took a long sip, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘Pleasure,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Harmsworth?’
The newspaperman leaned forward and placed his hands on the table either side of his glass.
‘As I said this afternoon, it’s more what we could do for each other. Now, I’ve been told by one of your colleagues that you’re a young man with his wits about him, and that you’ve a promising future ahead. Who knows, you might make inspector one day.’
I said nothing, happy to bask in the honeyed glow of his blandishments.
‘Now, there’s been many a copper who’s had his career made by a few good stories in the papers … Likewise, a bad article or two can ruin a man’s reputation …’ he paused, letting the last sentence hang in the air. ‘And I know how hard it is to make ends meet on a beat copper’s wage …’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said.
Harmsworth stared at me, unsure if I really was that naive or just feigning it.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we can be of use to each other. Call it a partnership of sorts.’
I sipped my beer.
‘I was hoping you might consider meeting every so often, just now and again, for a drink and a chat. I’ve a good many contacts, and I hear things which might be useful to an ambitious young copper.’
‘And in return?’
Harmsworth gave me a smile that looked like it had slipped off the face of a cherub. ‘In return, maybe you could see your way clear to passing me some details on cases you might be involved with. Cases which the wider public might be interested in.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well I don’t need to tell you, this Bessie Drummond business – terrible news – but our readers would love to know the inside story. I’m told you’re one of the officers who found her.’
I shook my head. ‘She was found by other tenants in her house. They summoned the police. I was just one of the first officers on the scene.’
‘There you go. You see? You’re already putting the record straight. All I’m asking is that now and again you share some details that might be pertinent to the case.’
‘All in the interest of giving your readers the truth,’ I said.
Harmsworth downed a long sip and placed his glass back on the table. ‘Exactly! You’d be remunerated for your trouble, of course. We always look after our friends. Cigarette?’ He fished a packet of Pall Malls from his pocket.
I declined and took another sip. Gooch’s words suddenly rang in my head like a death knell.
‘Some rags print precious little but bile about perfidious foreigners and treacherous Jews every week …’
‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘Word is, the killer’s an immigrant.’
‘We’ve several suspects.’
Harmsworth’s eyes widened. ‘Really? Because what I heard was that you’d eliminated most everyone from your inquiries save this Jew.’
‘If you know so much already, why d’you need me?’
‘Corroboration. You’re involved with the case, first-hand. It would be helpful if you could confirm the man’s name.’
Something told me that Harmsworth’s original source hadn’t mentioned Vogel’s name, either because he didn’t know it or because he was holding out for more money.
‘And what would you do with that information?’ I asked. ‘Print it as fact in tomorrow’s paper that this Jew murdered an Englishwoman? I’ve told you already, we’ve other suspects.’
Harmsworth remained placid. ‘Our readers have a right to know what goes on. If one of those foreigners has killed an Englishwoman, then the public should be told. All these people coming over here from God knows where. People are scared.’
I drank my beer. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘People are scared, and I’m not sure printing a half-baked story is going to reassure them.’
‘That’s why I want as much of the detail as I can get. You give me the chap’s name and I’ll see you right to the tune of a fiver. How does that sound?’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I said. ‘How about you wait till we’ve caught and charged someone and then I’ll give you the full story … for free.’
Harmsworth shook his head. ‘And let some other bastard get the scoop on the Jew? It doesn’t work that way, lad.’
TWENTY-FIVE
I walked back to Wapping High Street. The rain, heavier now, poured down in sheets, off rooftops and onto the pavement. My digs were a half-hour’s walk away and I’d have happily paid twice the going rate for a hackney cab, but at nine at night, cabs in Wapping were as rare as honest politicians. Instead, buttoning my coat against the wind, I set off up Wapping Lane towards the Ratcliffe Highway.
I didn’t know what to make of my conversation with Harmsworth. All my life I’ve been an outsider, certainly from the day my mother died and my father packed me off to boarding school. I’ve never understood what drives the powerful to oppress the weak, or what need the many have to harass those different from them. Maybe it was just easier: to blame someone else, someone different, for all the shit that happened to you. Someone who couldn’t answer back and point out the obvious: that your troubles were mostly caused by people who looked like you, not people who were different. Maybe that was why I’d always been on the side of the underdog. Some called it contrarian. I just thought of it as being decent. As such, I found it repellent that Harmsworth might wish to use me as an accomplice to peddle his half-truths and distortions. At the same time, part of me felt flattered that a journalist might deem me worthy of attention, and the thought of seeing my name in the papers sent a frisson of excitement through my shoulders. Looking back, I’m not proud of it, but as I say, I was young. And stupid.
I reached my door, still playing the matter over in my head. Wiping the rain from my face, I reached into my pocket for the key to the front door. A voice called out behind me.
‘Constable Wyndham.’
I turned to find a thin figure standing across the road, silhouetted by the light from a street lamp. The voice was familiar, and as he crossed the street towards me I recognised his profile, which is to say I recognised his nose.
‘Archibald Finlay,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d be consoling your mate Tom Drummond on his loss. Don’t tell me you just happened to be passing by my door.’
Finlay gave a laugh that descended into a cough. ‘No, Constable. I was asked to come here to invite you to meet some gentlemen who’ve requested the pleasure of your company.’
‘I seem to be very popular this evening,’ I said, ‘though I’m not sure I fancy spending any more time trudging around in this weather.’
The rain dripped off the end of Finlay’s flying buttress of a hooter. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘it’ll be worth your while.’
‘Well, since you put it like that, how can I refuse?’
We headed north, and it didn’t take a genius to work out where we were going, though who we were meeting and why were more of a mystery. Twenty minutes later we were on the Bethnal Green Road, walking up towards the lights of the Bleeding Hart pub. The poor stag on the board above the door looked even more despondent than usual, and given the weather, I didn’t blame it.
The wooden doors creaked as Finlay pushed them open, then swung back behind us. The Bleeding Hart was busier than the Turk’s Head had been, with standing room only and an atmosphere like Liverpool Street station at rush hour. A scrum of men crowded the bar, their heads lost in a haze of cigarette smoke.
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‘Quite a party,’ I said. ‘What are we celebrating?’
Finlay snorted. ‘It’s not a celebration, it’s a wake. Another drubbing for the Irons.’
‘You’d think they’d be used to it,’ I said. As long as the sun rose in the east, the chances were that West Ham United would have some sort of crisis by Christmas. ‘So who am I here to meet?’
‘Not here, Mr Wyndham,’ said Finlay. ‘You’re an important man, your meeting’s in the back room. Invitation only.’
I followed as he pushed his way through the mass of bodies towards a door at the back. Beside it, on a chair that under him looked like it had been made for a child, sat a man with a face the colour of a swede and a body the size of a cavalry horse. He rose, gave Finlay a nod and turned the knob on the door, smothering it in the palm of one hand as if it were a golf ball.
The back room at the Bleeding Hart meant only one thing. The gentlemen who wanted to see me were none other than the Spillers, Yorkshire’s very own Brothers Grimm.
The room was larger than I’d expected. The size of the bar outside and then some. It was also much less crowded. A few men, dockers judging by the size and the smell of them, sat around a nearby table playing cards under the light of a hurricane lamp. Finlay paid them no regard and continued on, past an empty billiard table and a counter being polished by a bored-looking barman, to a booth in the corner on which sat a fat candle.
‘’Ave a seat, Constable,’ said Finlay, breaking into a mirthless laugh and pointing to the maroon-leathered bench on one side of the table. ‘Make yourself at ’ome. The boys’ll be down shortly.’
He made to leave.
‘Finlay,’ I said, once he was five paces away.
He stopped in his tracks and turned. ‘Yeah?’
‘This is a pub, right?’
‘That’s right. What of it?’
‘Well, how about you fetch me a drink? It’ll help me get comfortable.’
He shook his head as though in pity.
‘Beer do you?’
‘How about something more special? I’m an invited guest, after all. Why not a whisky?’
‘Whisky?’ Finlay snorted. ‘You look like you’re just out of short trousers.’
From somewhere behind me a voice rang out.
‘Get the man a whisky …’
Finlay’s expression melted instantly into a melange of obedience and fear.
‘ … And bring the bottle.’
‘At once, Mr Spiller,’ said Finlay, shuffling quickly back towards the bar.
I turned to see the figure of a man, the unmistakable silhouette of Martin Spiller accompanied by the sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps. We’d never met before, which is to say we hadn’t been introduced, but I knew who he was. Everyone in Whitechapel knew who he was.
He was dressed in brown trousers, braces and an open-necked white shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal forearms like summer hams. He carried himself with a poise that was impressive for a big man and suggested his bulk consisted of muscle rather than fat.
‘Good of ye to come down ’ere, Constable Wyndham,’ he said, taking a seat on the banquette opposite, ‘especially on a night as filthy as this.’
The candlelight danced across his face, the flame reflecting in hard, dark eyes and throwing shadows over his short hair and thickset features.
‘May I call ye Sam?’
I tasted salt on my lips.
‘Be my guest.’
From the billiard table came the sudden thud of balls being dropped onto baize. I turned to see another figure, shaven-headed and even larger than the man in front of me, lean over and begin racking the balls.
‘Don’t mind Wesley,’ said Martin. ‘He likes to start the evening with a round or two of billiards. Lord knows he needs the practice.’ Spiller broke out into a smile which, if its intention was to put me at my ease, fell short by a distance.
Finlay returned from the bar with a bottle and two glasses and placed them on the table. He bent over to remove the stopper.
‘Leave it,’ said Spiller.
Wordlessly, Finlay retreated into the shadows. Spiller, his eyes still trained on me, lifted the bottle and poured two large doses of liquid amber. The smell of naphtha filled the air. He pushed one glass towards me, then lifted his own.
‘Cheers,’ he said, then took a decent swig. I followed suit.
I felt the warmth of the whisky ease down my throat and settle in my stomach.
From the billiard table came the crack of cue striking ball, then the clatter of a dozen more scattering.
‘D’you play?’ asked Spiller. ‘Billiards, that is.’
‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘Never had the opportunity.’
‘You should take it up. It’s a gentleman’s sport. And from what I hear you’re a bit of a gentleman yourself, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
Spiller placed his glass back on the table. ‘Come now, lad, the son of a schoolmaster, nephew of a magistrate, schooling at some posh place out in the country, and of course the clincher … your hands: nails all neat and trimmed. Hardly the hands of a docker, are they, son?’
I was impressed, less with the deduction about my hands, and more with the fact that he’d done his homework. He obviously had access to my file at Leman Street. I saluted him with my glass, then took another sip of whisky.
‘So I’m wonderin’ how a fine young gentleman such as yourself ends up a beat copper in the East End o’ London.’
‘It’s a long, tragic story,’ I said. ‘Actually, not that long, but I’ll save you the details. Let’s just say my prospects were curtailed by a chronic lack of funds.’
Spiller nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve seen that before. Respectable family, all shiny teeth but no trousers. So why not join the army or the Church? Ain’t that what your sort do if they’ve such … curtailed prospects?’
‘I considered the army,’ I said. ‘Join up and see the world … Except the places the army seems to go aren’t really the sorts of places I want to see. Now if the army had invaded Venice or Florence, it might have been a different story. And as for the priesthood, it’ll be a sad day for Christendom when the Almighty decides He needs my help managing His flock.’
Spiller gave a laugh, then downed the rest of his whisky. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
‘You’re no doubt wondering why we asked you here.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Well, finish your drink and we’ll get on to it.’
I did as ordered and downed the rest of my drink.
‘Wesley!’ Spiller called out.
The man-mountain at the billiard table took a shot, then straightened and turned towards us.
‘Would you be so kind as to join us?’ said Martin. ‘And another glass over here,’ he said, directing his gaze to the bar.
Wesley Spiller rested his cue against the wall, then came over and took a seat beside his brother as the barman placed a fresh glass on the table in front of him. Martin filled his brother’s glass, refilled mine and made the introductions.
‘Wesley, this is Constable Sam Wyndham, from the station in Leman Street. Sam, my brother Wesley.’
The familial resemblance was clear in the coldness of the eyes and the square set of the jaw.
‘Wesley here has received some information which may be of interest to you,’ said Martin.
‘Tha’s right,’ said his brother.
‘We understand you’re looking for a Yid by the name of Vogel,’ Martin continued.
I took a sip of whisky. ‘News travels fast.’
Martin feigned disappointment. ‘Now, now, Constable. Let’s not be churlish. We all know that some of your colleagues are rather loose with their tongues. And remember, we’re trying to help you.’
‘Go on.’
‘It just so happens that one of Wesley’s acquaintances says he might know the whereabouts of this Vogel.’
‘Where?�
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Martin paused.
‘I suppose I don’t need to tell you what it would mean if you were to be the one to bring in Bessie Drummond’s killer. I’m sure the papers would have a field day. I can see the headlines – “Hero copper catches East End killer”. You’d be famous.’
‘And what would you want in return?’
‘Not much,’ said Martin innocently. ‘All we’d ask is you advance us a similar courtesy in the future. Maybe pass on the odd bit of chat you might come across here or there.’
‘You want me to pass you information?’
‘If you could, just now and then, as we would do for you.’
Maybe it was the drink, but despite my better judgement, I felt the seductiveness of his words. They were offering me the chance to catch Bessie’s killer, or at the very least, our prime suspect in her murder, and in the face of such an opportunity, my reservations about Vogel’s potential guilt were evaporating like the last drops of whisky in my glass. And all they wanted in return was a titbit here and maybe a tip-off there. But I was still wary.
‘Why would you tell me this?’
‘Come now, Constable. An innocent woman’s been murdered. It’s the duty of every patriotic Englishman to help the police bring the killer to justice.’
‘I meant, why me? You gentlemen clearly have several friends in the force already. Why not pass the information to one of them?’
The brothers exchanged a look.
‘You see, Sam,’ said Martin, ‘in our game you can never have too many friends. We were told you were working on the case and we thought you might be appreciative of the tip.’
‘Probably be a promotion in it for you,’ added Wesley.
I couldn’t help but consider it. Arresting Vogel would certainly help me make an ally of Gooch of the Yard, and that couldn’t hurt. He had stressed the urgency of collaring Vogel after all. With the press ready to print a story about an Englishwoman being murdered by a foreign Jew, a story that would no doubt lead to hostility, not just against the perpetrator but against all of the Jews in the East End, our chances of stopping tempers flaring, and possibly averting a bloody riot, would be immeasurably better if we could say that we’d already arrested the key suspect.
Death in the East Page 16