by Mark Dawson
“I spoke to Spilsbury last night,” Tanner said. “He’s certain it’s him.”
“Has to be,” Peters said.
Frank flicked through the P.M.
“Frank?” Tanner said.
He kept thinking about Drake. “Yes.”
Twenty men sat down, waiting for the briefing.
Tanner cleared his throat. “You all know about Constance Worthing. That’s two girls in three days. Wherever our man has been, he’s come back with his appetite intact. The longer it takes us to catch him, the more women are going to get killed.”
Frank stood. “This is where we stand. Spilsbury’s P.M. confirms the cause of death as asphysixia due to strangulation by hand, the same as for Jenkins. A neighbour of the dead girl, an Ivy Cecilia Poole, identified the body at 6.45pm yesterday. She says she went to her room at about 10.35 p.m. and remained there until she switched on the wire-less and heard the news broadcast. So that’d be at 11. Some minutes later, she heard the front door. She opened her door and saw the victim and a man coming upstairs. She says she heard talking voices and wire-less music coming from Worthing’s room until she retired just after 12. The body was then found by a Henry Drake.”
“The bloke from the papers?
“He says he had an appointment to interview her. I’m not sure I believe him. I had him in overnight. He doesn’t have an alibi for when she was killed. Or Molly Jenkins, either, for that matter.”
“He’s a suspect?” one of the D.C.s asked.
Frank thought about that. Did he think Drake was a suspect? He didn’t look likely—didn’t look like he had that kind of rage in him, but then, who knew? Being involved with Jenkins and Worthing made him interesting, at least. “He needs to be investigated,” he decided. “There’s something not right about him and I can’t put my finger on it. Dig around a little, see what you can find.”
“Right you are, guv.”
Frank picked up his notes. “Leonard Stanley Nash, an Estate Agent of 181 Tottenham Court Road, says he knew Worthing from 1936. Early in April 1938 he let her the front room on the first floor at 153 Wardour Street at a rent of 22/6d a week. He last saw her alive on 5/9/40. Canvassing of known prostitutes in the West End has produced not much. Ann Carew of 2 Lisle Street said she knew Worthing for the past five years and had up until a month ago seen her soliciting, the last occasion being about 11 p.m. on 25/8/40 outside the Monico Restaurant, Piccadilly. Gladys Barten of No. 2 Stourcliffe Close said that she knew Worthing for the past five years and that she was a brass. Mona Hill said that she knew she was a prostitute. She last saw her late in June outside the Monico Restaurant, Piccadilly. And that, at the moment, is that. Check around the areas I’ve named, pull your usual snouts. I’ll update the notice board with fresh leads when we get them, so keep an eye on that.”
“Are we going to the press with this, guv?”
“When we know a bit more,” Tanner said.
“And we’ll link these two with the ones before?”
“Yes. We’re going to need the papers on side for this.”
“There’ll be a right brouhaha.”
“We’ll ask them to report it responsibly.”
“Any questions?”
One of the D.C.s stuck up a hand. “I might have something, guv. Uniform found a young brass last night. She’s downstairs. Picked her up on Piccadilly. Says she knows the dead girl.”
“What’s her name?” Frank said.
He checked his notebook. “Edith Sampson.”
“Which girl does she know?”
“Worthing.”
o o o
FRANK WENT DOWN TO THE INTERROGATION ROOMS. The girl was waiting. It wasn’t Eve. Couldn’t have been much more than thirteen or fourteen but she was trying to look older, make-up plastered over her face and decked out in a tart’s get-up. She glared at Frank, defiant. The tough girl act didn’t work—the interrogation room made her look like the little waif she was, her feet swinging off the chair, toes just skimming the floor. She was all fear and uncertainty, nervous eyes and fingers fretting with the hem of her dress. Two ways to play the interview: be a right bastard, scare the shit out of her until she blabbed; or be the father figure, reassure her, earn her trust. He didn’t have the heart to be a bastard; her tough exterior looked brittle and he guessed that raising his voice would shatter it.
“I’m detective Inspector Murphy, love. You can call me Frank, if you like.”
“I—I—”
Her eyes were fixed on his burns. “Don’t worry about these. Burns from the last war. Look worse than they really are. Now, before we get started, I don’t want you to worry—you’re not in any trouble. You understand that, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Edith.”
“And your second name?”
“Sampson.”
“Right-ho, Edith. Let’s have a quick look at your Registration Card.”
She shook her head. “I ain’t got one.”
Frank tutted theatrically. “I see. How about you give me your parents’ address.”
“They’re dead.” She struggled to control the worry that was all over her face. “Are you going to send me back?”
“Back where, love?”
“Ipswich. I don’t want to go.”
“What were you doing in Ipswich?”
“They told me to go there.”
“That’s where you were evacuated to?”
“This farm. He’s a drunk and he hits me.”
“We can have a word with the council about that. How old are you?”
She fussed with her hair anxiously. “Sixteen.”
An obvious lie; Frank played along. “Well, sweetheart, if you’re sixteen, you might not have to go back. We might be able to arrange something for you in a hostel. We can sort that out afterwards. But first you need to help us. You need to be truthful. Do you understand?” She nodded. “That’s grand. You know this is all about the woman who was found in the flat in Wardour Street today, don’t you?”
She blinked back tears.
Frank placed a photograph of Worthing on the table. She turned the picture to face her, looked at it, tears rolling down her cheeks. Frank handed her his handkerchief. “That’s her. You knew her, didn’t you? You told the other policemen you recognised her?”
She nodded.
“Say yes or no, please, love.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Connie.”
“Have you known her for long?”
“Ever since I came back to London. I met her the first week I was here.”
“And when was that?”
“Six months ago,” she said, wiping away the tears.
“And you were good pals, were you?”
She tried to speak, the words mangled by sobs.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” Frank stroked her hand. “You’re doing really well. Tell me about you and Connie.”
“She used to look after me. I stayed at her flat sometimes, when her boy-friend wasn’t there. She’d cook me hot meals and let me have a bath. She didn’t like me sleeping on the street. She gave me money for meals if business was slow. She was kind to me.”
“Was she a prostitute?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry, I mean yes.”
“Did she always work on the street?”
“She weren’t no streetwalker. I hardly never saw her working like that.”
The lingo was wrong in her mouth. “When was the last time you saw her?”
She choked more sobs. “Friday night.”
“Where?”
“In the ‘Dilly. It was eleven or a half past. I was on Great Windmill Street. I’d been out since the black-out and she turned up just as I was about to call it a night. There was no punters around and I was bleedin’ freezing. She said she’d buy me a cup of coffee so we went to the All Night Café.”
“How was she?”
“Not s
o good. She was scared.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“But someone had upset her?”
“Yes.”
“Who? A punter?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“What about if you had to guess?”
“Eddie.”
“Who’s he?”
A sudden look of fierce disdain. “He said he was her boy-friend only he wears this wedding ring so I’m not sure what that’s all about. I only met him once. Nasty, he was. Horrible. Got an awful temper on him. Connie was scared of him but she didn’t know how to get away.”
“Eddie’s a violent man?”
“Hit her all the time.”
“Do you know his second name? Think carefully.”
“She never told me. He was a hotel porter, though—somewhere in the West End.”
Frank stifled a groan; a hotel porter in the West End—he wasn’t going to be easy to find. “That’s grand, Edith. You’re doing well.”
“Are we done?” She swiped tears away with the edge of her hand.
“Nearly. Do you know what Connie did last night?”
“The bombs—I weren’t going to be out on the street in that so I stayed in the shelter in Soho Square until the all-clear. It was late then and the shelter was wet and I hadn’t had no sleep so I went round to Connie’s flat to see if I could lie down there for a bit. The bedroom light was on but she wouldn’t answer the door. I waited for about twenty minutes and then I went and slept in a doorway off the Charing Cross Road.”
“Very good. Is there anything else?”
She paused.
“Anything at all. It might be helpful, sweetheart.”
“There was another man. I don’t know who he was, but I’ve seen him around more and more recently.”
“Another boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. Might have been. I know he made Connie happy.”
“Do you know his name?”
“She never said.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Big.”
“As big as me?”
“Bigger. Blond hair. Lots of it, untidy. That’s all I know so can I go now, please?” She started to get up.
“Sit down, Edith,” Frank said firmly. “This second man—what was his name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Think, sweetheart.”
“Don’t know. Please—can I go now?”
There was no way he was going to let her back out onto the streets. “You’re going to stay here for a couple of hours until someone can pop over and have a chat with you.”
“You can’t do that!” I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“You don’t have a Registration Card, love. That’s a crime. Not a serious one, and you’re not in trouble, but you’re going to stay here until we can work out the best way to look after you.”
She was still crying as Frank left her in the Interrogation Room. He went back to the inquiry room and called A4 Department. They’d send a WPC over, he’d get the Plonk to make the calls to the council and they’d work out between them how best to deal with her.
CHAPTER 35
HENRY STARED AT HIS TYPEWRITER, foolscap rolled into place, a thousand words describing yesterday’s events. Thoughts and angles swirled. Indignation fired him. Frustration cramped his stomach. He rested his fingers on the keys. He had wanted to write, to set down his experience while it was still fresh. The urge had been irresistible, the same feeling he remembered from years ago when he was young and keen, his fingers stabbing the keys urgently and the words pouring out, fizzing and buzzing. It had practically written itself.
The open door.
The darkened stair.
The blacked-out room.
The smell of blood.
The bed, the body, the mutilated face.
He tore the page from the typewriter, slipped it into his drawer and locked it away.
It wasn’t ready yet. There were depths to the story he needed to explore. Connections to be made. He’d get it all together, unpick things. He could make it better. Put Asquith into the picture and it would go from good to unbelievable.
The kind of story that would win prizes.
Fix all the damage.
Completely rehabilitate him.
The messenger pushed his cart across the office. He stopped at Henry’s desk and dropped a brown manila envelope, heavy-looking. Henry tore it open: Bernard Spilsbury’s post mortem report, MOLLY JENKINS written across the front-page, YOU OWE ME £2 scrawled below that. He opened it, skipped the early observations until he reached the report on the internal dissection, and started to read.
The face was very much mutilated. There was a cut about a quarter of an inch through the lower left eyelid, dividing the structures completely through. There was a scratch through the skin on the left upper eyelid, near to the angle of the nose. The right eyelid was cut through to about half an inch.
There was a deep cut over the bridge of the nose, extending from the left border of the nasal bone down near the angle of the jaw on the right side of the cheek. This cut went into the bone and divided all the structures of the cheek except the mucous membrane of the mouth. Further deep cuts were made from the edges of the mouth, proceeding upwards in a diagonal to two inches below the bottom of the ear. These cuts divided the upper lip and extended through the substance of the gum over the right upper lateral incisor tooth. There was on each side of cheek a cut which peeled up the skin, forming a triangular flap about an inch and a half. On the left cheek there were two abrasions of the epithelium under the left ear.
All these injuries were performed by a sharp instrument like a knife, and pointed.
The cause of death was asphysixia due to strangulation by hand. The death was immediate and the mutilations were inflicted after death.
Henry sat back in his chair. He had overheard the P.C. talking with the D.C.I. outside the flat: the preliminary cause of death for Worthing was supposed to have been strangulation, too, and he could remember seeing the reddened marks on the poor girl’s throat.
Strangled and cut.
It was him.
Both of them.
But they knew each other.
None of the previous girls had.
He looked at the P.M. again. He felt a little light-headed: dizzy from the gore, the bloody picture in his head. Molly Jenkins, blood and razored flesh. The image segued to Connie’s sordid little walk-up, the body on the bed, the sheets sodden with blood, the ghastly smile carved into her face.
Both girls done in the same way.
The same man.
Asquith?
Henry skimmed the P.M. again and compared it with his story.
Strangled.
Cut.
It must be the Black-Out Ripper again.
But—
But—
He put report in his drawer with the half-written story, locked it again, and walked quickly across the office.
Right, then.
Time to dig.
o o o
HENRY CAUGHT A BUS, chocolate-coloured rather than the usual red. One of the replacement vehicles the bus companies had brought in from the sea-side, Brighton or Bournemouth or somesuch. He paid the clippie the fare and took a seat on the top deck, watching the streets pass by through mesh-covered windows.
First things first: get Asquith on the record. He needed to put the allegations to him. He would have preferred to put the pictures on the table, cut the legs out from underneath him, make him see that a denial was pointless. That wasn’t going to be possible, at least not until Field resurfaced again. It wasn’t perfect but he couldn’t wait. Things were happening, that much was certain.
He needed to act quickly.
He looked at the scrap of paper in his hand: Eaton Square.
They turned onto Whitehall, passing the Foreign Office and the Treasury, and then the long r
un of Victoria Street.
Half past four: the siren shrieked and the bus pulled over to the side of the road beside the House of Fraser, the clippie shouting up that they’d been told by the depot to stop in the event of a raid. The customers of a hair salon emptied out into the street, one woman’s hair a pile of soapsuds fresh from the shampoo. The stores had their own shelters in the basements and frantic shoppers piled for the entrances. The nonchalance that had marked the previous alerts was gone. The cloud of smoke over the Eastern horizon was more than enough motivation for people to take the raids seriously.
Nothing else for it—he’d have to walk. A half-hour stroll through the heart of tired London: drawn black-out curtains disfigured handsome houses and offices, newspaper stands shouted grim headlines about invasion, rubbish piled against buildings, blowing in the wind. The bombers rumbled overhead, the AAA barrage going up, the whistle of falling bombs, the crump as they hit. Bells clashed and a fire engine passed the bus, racing East. Another followed, then a third, then a fourth, until the sub-station must have been empty. All of them heading East. He followed Victoria Street to the station, turned onto Buckingham Palace Road and then onto Ecclestone Street. It was quiet. The action was miles away but the locals were staying inside.
Eaton Square. It stank of old money: five-storey terraces, classical, triple bay windows. He walked to number 47: it was huge, four storeys with a dormer, white stucco walls, Italian design. There were holes in the ground where railings used to be, the metal requisitioned to make munitions. He walked up the short steps to the door and glanced through the windows on either side—a reception room, expensive furniture, rugs, empty—and rapped the knocker. He stepped back and glanced through the windows again. Lights came on and the sound of footsteps approached.
The door was opened by an elegant-looking woman. She wore a v-neck dress with softly gathered shoulder yokes. There were pearls around her neck and a silver brooch was clipped to her lapel. Everything about her looked expensive. She was middle-aged, with an obvious youthful beauty that had matured into handsomeness. “Hello.”
“Lady Asquith?”
“That’s right. And you are?”
“The name’s Henry Drake. I’m a reporter. The Star.”