The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  “When would you say that was?”

  “Just after twelve, I reckon—the last thing I can remember before nodding off was the anthem after the midnight news.”

  “Anything else?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know—”

  “Tell me. Anything might be useful.”

  “Well, see, Connie had a visitor earlier, just after the second warning went. Jackie Field. He’s a wrong ‘un, works at the Top Hat in Ham Yard. She used to tom for him. He says he got some money for her. I wouldn’t mention it save she says to me a couple of days before that she didn’t want nothing more to do with him on account of how he cut up rough with her. The way I saw it, he was around here trying to get her back working for him again, but I don’t know that for sure. I told him to clear off or I’d take my hair pin and skewer his orchestras to his leg.”

  “I see. What about this morning?”

  “What do you mean, officer?”

  “How did you find her body?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t me. I was still in bed when I heard the commotion. I didn’t recognise the fellow. The officer over there spoke to him, though.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  Frank turned to Peters. “Who found her?”

  “Some bloke—said he was a journalist. I’ve sent him to the station for a statement.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Hennessy knows.”

  The woodentop looked at his pocketbook. “Henry Drake, sir.”

  “What?”

  The man checked his entry. “Henry Drake. Said he worked for the Star.”

  Henry Drake—he was in Molly Jenkins’ diary.

  Henry bloody Drake.

  Again?

  “Get back there pronto, Hennessy. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  “Sir?”

  “Arrest him if you have to. Do it, man!”

  “Frank?” Tanner said. “Who is he?”

  “He’s been reporting on this from the start.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. But something smells bad.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE CELL WAS SMALL AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC. The narrow mattress was bloodstained and the walls were covered with graffiti. Henry sat on the edge of the mattress and fiddled with the button on his jacket. A muffled radio was playing somewhere, Bruce Belfrage reading the news on the Home Service. Footsteps passed backwards and forwards by the door; Henry’s twitchiness got worse. He hated police stations—always had, even when he visited them for work. Made you think you’d done things that you hadn’t. Done something wrong. Made you feel guilty.

  But he’d never been arrested before.

  He twisted the button again and it popped off. He swore and dropped it in his pocket. It must have been three hours they’d had him locked up. Three hours to think about the mess he was in, to plan what to say. The best way to approach things, to get through it.

  He didn’t know why he had been arrested, but he could guess.

  Worthing and Jenkins.

  Did they know?

  Could they?

  He had wondered what would be the moral thing to do. Probably to come clean. The meeting with Field and Jenkins, the connection between the two dead girls, everything.

  No.

  He’d tell them eventually, just not yet.

  Because he knew what would happen. A tame hack would slip a bobby an envelope of cash and he’d end up being scooped.

  Not likely.

  Not bloody likely.

  He’d give himself a decent head start first.

  The cell door opened.

  “Hello, Drake.”

  Henry looked at him: big, scarred face, unshaven, scruffy. D.S. Peters followed inside, shutting the door behind him.

  “What are you doing, Murphy? Why have I been arrested?”

  “Sit down.”

  He did as he was told. Murphy didn’t sit; he lit a cigarette instead.

  “I’m happy to make a statement, Inspector. I already spoke to the Constable. There’s no need for this.”

  Murphy blew smoke.

  “Why have I been arrested?”

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, Mr. Drake.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Where were you last night? Between midnight and two o’clock?”

  “At home. Asleep.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you?”

  “I live alone.”

  “Pity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why were you in Wardour Street this morning?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Answer the questions, sir,” Peters said.

  “I had an interview.”

  “With who?”

  “Miss Worthing.”

  “Constance.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about?”

  “A feature.”

  “On her?”

  “No—Soho. How it’s coping.

  “Coping?”

  “The bombing.”

  Murphy blew smoke. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “What’s a girl like her got to say about things like that?”

  “I’m speaking to lots of people.”

  “And her?”

  “No particular reason.”

  “You knew each other?”

  “No.”

  “So?”

  “We met in the pub. On Friday.”

  “Which pub?”

  “The French.”

  “Sounds like a lot of nonsense.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And I’m telling you it’s true.”

  “Your editor will confirm it?”

  “He doesn’t know anything about it—I’m doing this in my own time.”

  “But you’re still at the Star?”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “I heard you’d been suspended. Can’t say I was unhappy when I heard.”

  “Is that relevant?”

  Murphy smiled. “Might have a word with your guv’nor anyway, see what he has to say. That alright?”

  “As you please.”

  “She was dead when you arrived.”

  His mouth was dry. “That’s right.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’d arranged to meet her, as I say. The front door hadn’t been shut properly. I opened it and went up. That door was ajar too. I went inside, it was dark, there was a torch on the sideboard so I took it and shone it around. That’s when I saw her.”

  “You picked up the torch?” Peters asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Touch anything else?”

  “The light switch. It wasn’t working.”

  Murphy sucked smoke. “And?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Alright. You’ve seen the body. What next?”

  “I called 999.”

  “And waited for us to arrive.”

  “Of course.”

  He ground out the cigarette.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Anything else you want to get off your chest?”

  “No. I’ve told you everything. That’s it.”

  Murphy stared at him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “What about Molly Jenkins?”

  Henry opened his mouth, closed it, gaping. His mind scrambled. How did he know about Molly Jenkins? “Who?” he stammered, feeling the guilt on him.

  “Molly Jenkins. You know her, don’t you?”

  He didn’t know what to say. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “You never met her?”

  “Yes. No.” His hands felt clammy.

  “Yes? N
o? You don’t look so sure.”

  His hands started to sweat. “No. Sorry. Never met her.”

  “Why are you apologising?”

  “No, I’m not—it’s just—well, the name’s familiar.”

  “How’s that, then?”

  “I don’t know. It just—it just rings a bell.”

  “We found her on Sunday morning. Dead. Someone had choked her and carved her up, just like Constance.”

  He faked it: “That’s right. I read about it. That’s how I know the name.”

  Murphy stared at him. “You definitely don’t know her?”

  A bead of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. “No, sir.”

  Peters looked bemused.

  “That’s funny,” Murphy said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “There you go again—apologising.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  Murphy reached into an evidence folder and took out a diary. He placed it on the table and thumbed through it.

  He turned it around so Henry could read it.

  Flowery female script.

  He scanned down the page.

  Murphy stabbed a finger.

  He saw his own name.

  “It’s all a bit strange. Because that is you, right? Henry Drake.”

  The bead of sweat traced down into the small of his back. “Yes.”

  “9pm, Saturday. You had an appointment to meet her?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “‘Henry Drake – Saturday, 9pm.’ It’s clear, I’d say. Clear as day. What’s going on, Mr. Drake? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “It could be someone else.”

  “Come on, Mr. Drake. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  Henry closed his eyes, walls closing in all around him. “I speak to people all the time. I’m a journalist. She might have called me. Perhaps we spoke. I don’t know. I’m always looking for stories.”

  “You can see why I’m curious about you, can’t you, Mr. Drake?”

  “I—”

  “I’ll spell it out for you so we’re nice and clear. Your name is found in the diary of a murdered prostitute, then you find the body of another one yourself. All within the space of a couple of days. Lots of coincidences.”

  “You don’t think I’m a suspect?”

  “I don’t know what I think yet. Where were you on Friday night?”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “Answer the question, sir,” Peters said.

  “At home.”

  “Alone, again?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “That’s right, you said.”

  “Are we done, Frank?” Peters said.

  Murphy got up. “For now.” He stared at him again: hard, cold eyes. “I’m going to have a look at what you’ve told me. But if you’re lying to me, about either of them, about any of it, you and I are going to have a falling out. I’ll make sure you go away—you understand what I’m saying? I’ll do you so fast you won’t know what bloody day it is. The whole bit: obstruction, wasting police time, whatever I can pin on you. I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Can I go?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “Depends. A few hours. Overnight, perhaps.”

  “This is because of before, isn’t it? You’re punishing me.”

  Murphy smiled at him. “Best make yourself comfortable. Might be a while.”

  CHAPTER 33

  TUESDAY 10th SEPTEMBER 1940

  HENRY SQUINTED UP INTO THE DAWN. Murphy had kept him in the cell all night. He hadn’t been to see him again, not since he had questioned him; D.S. Peters had let him out instead. Keeping him in the cell was just making a petty little point.

  He’d been going mad with frustration.

  He left Savile Row and hurried East towards Soho and Ham Yard. Newspaper vendors were doing a brisk trade as Londoners clamoured for news of the attacks.

  The Top Hat was closed. He knocked on the door and waited. No-one answered. He looked around: the yard was empty. He followed an alley around the side of the building, disturbing rats gorging on scraps from overflowing bins. There was a door at the back of the building. Henry remembered: there was an exit from Field’s office. He leant his back against the door, steadying his nerves.

  He remembered the two men on the bridge, the punch in the guts and the hissed threat.

  Molly Jenkins dead in the street.

  Constance Worthing cut up in her bedroom.

  But he didn’t have a choice.

  He tried the handle: it was unlocked. He pushed against the door and it opened a quarter, jamming up against something inside.

  “Hello?”

  He pushed a little harder, the obstruction scraping against the floor. He called again—nothing—and opened the door enough to edge inside. The grey light from the alleyway barely silvered the edges of the thick, blacked-out darkness.

  He thumbed his lighter and cast around. The room had been ransacked: furniture had been overturned; desk drawers pulled out and left upside-down on the floor; papers were strewn everywhere. The door had jammed against a filing cabinet that had toppled onto its side. Henry stepped carefully over the debris.

  Henry opened the door to the main room. It was dark, with grey shafts of dusty light leaking in from around the edges of the black-out curtains. Chairs had been left around the edge of the dance floor and empty glasses and bottles had been left on the tables.

  He went back into the office and rifled through the debris. There was nothing of use. He slipped out of the door and into the alleyway.

  Someone had turned the place over.

  He suddenly felt vulnerable, as if he were being watched. He quickly made his way around to the front of the building. It was deserted. He hurried out of Ham Yard and back into Soho.

  CHAPTER 34

  FRANK WOKE UP IN HIS SECTION HOUSE BED. He went down to the public baths on Marshall Street to wash and shave. He thought about Drake. There were questions he hadn’t answered. Too many coincidences for him to be a complete innocent.

  He’d gone out into the West End last night, spent a couple of hours walking the streets around Piccadilly Circus, holding up three different photographs: Molly Jenkins, Constance Worthing, Eve. A couple of the brasses thought they recognised Worthing, but none of them placed Molly or Eve and none of them had much appetite for talking to him. The bombs started to come down after midnight, one blast from the direction of Liberty smashing windows in Glasshouse Street. The girls thinned out fast after that. Another one around Haymarket underlined the danger and cleared the streets completely, Hitler doing in ten minutes what the Vice Squad had failed to do in years. Frank would have stayed out, but there was no point.

  He was hungry. He stopped at the Corner House on Coventry Street for the 1s 6d breakfast: porridge, bacon and fried bread, dry toast and marmalade, a pot of tea. He paid the waitress and walked across to the nick. A newsagent’s placard announced the latest RAF victories—‘TEN DOWN FOR ONE’—like it was a cricket score. It didn’t much feel like they were winning. White plumes of smoke were still pouring into the sky from the bombs that had landed in Soho and the Eastern horizon still flickered with flame.

  He made his way to Savile Row and picked up the telephone. He dialled.

  “Hello?” Julia said.

  “Alright, love. It’s me. Are you alright?”

  “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Long night?”

  “Spent it in the Anderson.”

  He’d gone over and dug it into the garden two weeks ago. A three-foot trench with the spoil shovelled over the roof. “How was it?”

  “Cold and wet, but I’d rather be there than in the house. The window in the spare room was blown in.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

 
He wondered how to say it.

  “What are you doing?” she said, filling the silence.

  “Working.”

  She picked up on the catch in his voice. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want you to worry but there’s likely to be something in the papers about two dead girls we’ve found in Soho.” A sharp intake of breath on the line. “There’s no need to panic, love.”

  “You said he’d stopped.”

  “I’ve been out every night and there’s no sign of her. If she’s in the West End, I’d know about it. I just don’t want you to read it and think the worst. I don’t want you to worry.”

  “How can I not worry, Frank?”

  “I know.”

  “They were murdered, these girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you—”

  “Yes. It’s the same as before.”

  “Goodness.”

  “But Eve isn’t in Soho. She can’t be. I’ve been out every night for the last week. And I’ll be out again tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that, until I find her.”

  “And you’ve heard nothing?”

  “No.”

  “Then where is she, Frank?”

  “I don’t know, dear.”

  “You said you’d find her. You promised.”

  “I will.”

  He said goodbye and replaced the receiver.

  Tanner and Peters were in the mess.

  “Morning, Frank,” Peters said.

  Tanner gave him a sheaf of papers. “Spilsbury’s P.M. for Worthing.”

  He read it as the men filed in. Spilsbury pegged the cause of death as strangulation. The tiny haemorrhages in the white of the eyes, in the gums, the scalp and upper eyelids, in the lining membrane of the larynx, the engorgement of the tonsils and of the glands in the neck and the abrasions in the front of the neck.

  Frank read aloud: “The first act was that of strangulation which was continued until the deceased choked to death. Her face and throat were then cut in the position in which she was found with her head hanging over the side of the bed.”

  “Just like the others,” Peters said.