The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  “Late afternoon, usually. Round about now.”

  “When was the last time he was here?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  Frank checked his watch: a quarter after four. “Give me a beer.”

  “Right you are.” He pulled a pint of stout and slid it across the bar. Murphy took it and found a spot at the back of the room.

  He sat for an hour. A handful of dust-covered rescue workers came in, talking about a terrace that had taken a hit around the corner and the family of four they had pulled out, unmarked but all of them dead. He waited another half an hour: still no Johnson. He waited until six then gave up.

  He put a shilling on the bar, his card on top of it. “Call the next time he’s in here and there’s another shilling for you.”

  Frank went back onto the street. The huge column of smoke looked even bigger here, this close to the docks. He got back into his car, headed back for the West End. His mind flickered like lightning: Duncan Edward Johnson, his hands around another woman’s throat.

  CHAPTER 38

  WEDNESDAY 11th SEPTEMBER 1940

  TEN O’ CLOCK. The newspapers were full of war and the concourse at Euston station was thronged with an anxious crowd. Passengers jostled shoulder to shoulder as they waited for trains to take them out of the capital. A mixed congregation: girls in bright frocks carrying babies, men hauling shabby suitcases, soldiers in khaki. Trains ran into and out of their platforms, hundreds of passengers crammed in. Sunlight cut through lazy air and glittered against the dirty windows of empty restaurants and shops. Wooden barricades had been put up to protect the entrances to the waiting rooms.

  Henry bought a paper and walked to the platform. He sat in a compartment with a matronly woman and her brood of braying children. The guard blew his whistle and they rolled away from the buffers and into the suburbs. He unfolded his newspaper but couldn’t concentrate on it. He was frayed with nerves. He had stopped at the newsroom first thing. The porter in the lobby had telephoned to say that there was Detective Constable Adams who wanted to speak to him. Charlie had taken his bag and left the building by the back exit. He didn’t have time to waste with the police. Murphy had detained him once, and he had too much he needed to do to risk another delay. But the knowledge that the police were investigating him made him skittish. He knew keeping the story to himself was wrong. It was probably obstuction. He didn’t like to think about the risks he was taking. But he couldn’t speak to them. Not yet. He needed more of the pieces in place. He needed to write the story.

  His stomach roiled with anxiety. He gazed out of the window to distract himself. A team of army engineers were building concrete tank traps across a by-pass. Other impediments had been placed in the road: large iron objects like galvanised iron chimney pots; derelict motor cars filled with earth, baulks of timber thrust through the windows; ancient carts standing by the side of the road ready to be wheeled into place. Henry knew about the German Panzers—anyone who thought that a load of bric-a-brac dropped in the road would stop a Kraut tank was soft in the head.

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It was going to take an age to get to Coventry.

  o o o

  TWO O’CLOCK. He recognised Viscount Asquith from the newspapers. He recognised him from the photographs, too, dressed up like an SS commandant as he was being gobbled by Molly Jenkins made up like Eva Braun. He was as elegant man, long-waisted and high-shouldered with brown eyes in a blank face; a politician’s face.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Drake.”

  “Sir.”

  “How was your journey?”

  “It was fine, thank you.”

  “The trains were running?”

  “A couple of changes. Nothing too bad.”

  “No, not given the circumstances. You must be parched. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, sir, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Shall we get started then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll give you a tour. What do you say?”

  Henry’s stomach bubbled with nerves. “I’m sure that would be very interesting.”

  “Indeed, Drake, very. I’ll show you how we do things and we can talk on the way. What do you say? Come on, old chap.”

  Asquith opened his office door. “I must say, I like the sound of your story. Tremendous idea.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good to let people know we’re helping keep the Hun at bay. Massive effort going on here. Enormous. Probably do wonders for morale. Let people know we’re not just sitting around waiting, what?”

  “Quite.” They made their way down a flight of metal stairs. A hooter sounded as they entered the main floor of the factory.

  “Shift change,” Asquith said as workers swapped places at the assembly lines.

  It was a huge hall surrounded by galleries on three sides. To the right was the large area where the flying boats were being finished off, the Stranraers and Walruses. To the left were the Spitfire lines: the wing construction jigs, fuselages in various stages of completion, wheel-housings, tail units. Workers hammered and bolted, the noise echoing around the space. Red sparks cascaded as men secured panels and cut through metal casings. A painter was working on the underside of a wing, finishing the blue outer ring of the RAF roundel.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “The workers punch in at seven. The new contract’s going to require another shift, mind you. The number of aeroplanes we need to produce, it’ll need twenty-four hour working. We’re recruiting at the minute. Chances are we might have to start using women. A fine state of affairs but nothing else for it. Desperate times and all that.”

  They passed a row of tailpieces, arranged like shark’s fins across the floor. Asquith knocked a fist against one of them. “Spitfires. Have these in the air this time next week.”

  Henry feigned interested.

  “Well then,” Asquith said, “how shall we kick this off? What do you want to know?”

  “I’m afraid this is a little delicate.” Henry felt himself fumbling for the right words.

  “Go on, old chap. What is it? There are some things about the contract I’ll have to pass on—confidential financial details and such like—but you can ask what you like. Spit it out.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been absolutely truthful with you.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “About why I’m here.”

  “What are you on about, man?”

  “I’ve been shown some pictures of you. I’d rather not have to describe them.”

  “What pictures?”

  “Intimate ones. They show you in a number of—compromising positions.”

  “What the blazes do you mean?”

  “You were having relations with a woman. Several women, actually.”

  Asquith smiled again, but this time it was forced. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were dressed like a German soldier. The S.S., sir. Really, I’d rather I didn’t have to describe them. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  Asquith’s smile sank. His lips became firm and compressed and his eyes glittered darkly. “No, Mr. Drake, I really have no idea. Now, unless I can I help you with anything else, I have a business to run. Afraid we’ll have to cut this short.”

  He turned and walked back towards his office.

  Henry followed. “So you have no comment?”

  “There’s nothing to comment on.”

  “This is your chance, sir—to put something on the record. I’m going to write the story anyway. It’d be better for you to have your say now.”

  Asquith didn’t stop. “You’ll write what you like, Mr. Drake. And you’ll know, I’m quite sure, that I retain the services of some of the fiercest lawyers in London. I’ll have no compunction in suing you and your newspaper to kingdom come should you print any of these ridiculous allegations.
Now, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ve had quite enough of you—I have work to do. Good day.”

  Henry watched him climb the staircase to his office, the door closing behind him with a slam. He was rattled. He picked a way between assembly lines and piles of components to the exit and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

  CHAPTER 39

  GOSFIELD STREET WAS IN FITZROVIA, to the east of Great Portland Street. Frank drove, Tanner in the passenger seat, the Railton speeding along quiet roads. Neither spoke. The call had come in: another girl found. Frank was pensive, anticipating what they would find. They pulled up: an hysterical scene awaited them. The news had spread and pressmen had arrived. Two dozen of them, jostling against the three uniform who were trying to maintain a perimeter around number 9-10.

  They all turned as the car drew up. Cameras whirred as Frank got out, flash powder hanging in the air.

  “Is it another one?”

  “Three in five days. Is it the same bloke?”

  “Is it the Ripper?”

  They ignored the questions and went inside. Flat 4 was on the ground floor of the building, approached along a dark communal hallway, with stairs at the end that led up to the second and third floors. People had gathered in the corridor: Frank recognised Detective Sergeant Higgins and Detective Constable Blacktop from Tottenham Court Road nick. A woodentop was crouched down, his hand on the shoulder of a young girl with a tear-streaked face.

  “Gents,” Higgins said. “Another one for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes. One look and I knew it was your man.”

  Another car drew up. Bob Peters got out.

  The door to the flat was open; they went through. Inside, it was small: a sitting room at the front, looking out onto the street; a bedroom at the rear; a small kitchenette. A door from the kitchen opened onto a tiny bathroom. There were empty bottles on the floor, the table. The place was a mess.

  They went into the bedroom. It was austere. There was a night table, a tatty rug, and a chair. More bottles. The bed was on the right-hand side of the room. A woman’s head was visible, edging out from beneath bunched-up sheets. Doctor Baldie was already there.

  “I’ve made a preliminary examination.”

  “And?”

  “Been dead a while. A day, perhaps.”

  Frank moved in close. A cord had been fixed around the woman’s throat, tight enough to cut into the soft flesh beneath the chin. Frothy sputum had gathered around her nostrils and mouth. Bloodshot eyes bulged.

  “Ligature. Never used that before.”

  Baldie pulled back the black eiderdown and bedsheets.

  “Holy Mother of Mary,” Tanner said.

  Blood everywhere.

  “Cover her up.”

  Tanner looked faint.

  Frank took Blacktop and Higgins to one side. “Go on, Leonard. What do you know?”

  “Her name’s Annie Stokes,” Blacktop said. “A neighbour called us after she saw a parcel outside the flat for a couple of days. I found another neighbour—Mrs Carleton—who had a spare set of keys. So I go inside. The black-out was drawn and it was dark. I found a door but it was locked. I kicked it in, the bedroom, and then—well, you can see the rest.”

  “What then?”

  “I called the nick.”

  “And I attended,” Higgins said. “I called Savile Row. Don’t worry—save us, no-one’s been in here.”

  “Who’s the girl outside?”

  “Stokes’ daughter. She’s with the husband. Visits once a week. She turned up just before we went in.”

  “Poor little bitch,” Peters said.

  “Get a Plonk to come over from the nick and look after her. We’ll need a statement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  D.I. Law arrived with his cameras and began to take his pictures. Frank stepped out of his way.

  He exchanged glances with Peters—they didn’t need to say anything.

  Frank fell back on routine: he made sure the perimeter was secure, that nothing was touched before surfaces and items could be dusted for prints, that the handful of men who could be spared went door-to-door to ferret out witnesses. A call was placed to the coroner and to Spilsbury; they needed to get cracking on the body.

  He went outside for a fag and a think. He’d just lit up when a Railton pulled to a halt outside the apartment building.

  His brother got out, went around to the boot of the car and took out a murder bag.

  “I didn’t know Charlie was involved,” Peters said.

  Frank watched through blue-tinged smoke. “Nor did I.”

  “Are you still—”

  “Haven’t spoken to him for two months. Not since the Trial Board.”

  Charlie looked the part: a new suit, decent quality; new brogues; his hair cut short and smart.

  Alf McCartney’s protégé.

  What a joke.

  What a performance.

  Tanner joined them. “It’s a mess.”

  “Bill, what’s my brother doing here?”

  “I need him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know—Yoxford’s off, he’s replacing him.”

  “He’s got no experience.”

  “He’s been recommended.”

  “He’s only just been transferred to the Yard.”

  “You’ll have to speak to Alf McCartney if you’ve got a problem. He speaks very highly of him.”

  He fixed a look at his brother as he came along the pavement towards them.

  “Sir,” Charlie said to Tanner. “Frank, Bob.”

  He glanced at Frank.

  “Sergeant—it’s another body.”

  “I came as soon as I heard, sir.”

  “Get inside and have a look.”

  Charlie couldn’t hold Frank’s eye and looked away again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this going to be a problem, Frank?” Tanner said.

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  Frank followed Charlie inside, then stood at the side of the room and watched. Charlie set down the murder bag and went over to the bed. He knelt down beside the body, pulled back the sheet. Tanner stood beside him and studied the dead girl. Charlie took out a notebook and took notes as Tanner dictated.

  He wanted nothing to do with him. What had happened, his betrayal, it had almost been a relief. The culmination of years spent keeping inevitable conflict at bay. He felt grateful, in a way: Charlie had finally cast light on the state of their broken relationship. It was ruined, buggered, had been for years, and neither of them could pretend otherwise anymore.

  CHAPTER 40

  THURSDAY 12th SEPTEMBER 1940

  POTS OF COFFEE AND CIGARETTES. Charlie worked all night without a wink of kip. Bombs fell in the vicinity on two occasions, a low bass rumble that juddered the furniture and flickered the lights. He was so caught up in the papers that he hardly noticed them. He stayed at Gosfield Street for two hours until Tanner had told him to get back to Savile Row and continue with the file. There was a briefing of the men at eight o’clock and it was the Detective Superintendent’s habit to delegate the task to his bagman. He needed to be immersed in the facts. Frank would be at the briefing, too. Another reason to be completely up to speed.

  He went outside for a breath of fresh air. Savile Row nick was under siege. Thirty-six bombs had fallen in the West End area overnight and the station Sergeant was struggling to deal with a scrum of locals who wanted to know where they were supposed to go now their houses had been flattened. Charlie squeezed between them and went back down to the basement Inquiry Room again.

  The papers were spread out across two tables. Three new murders. Charlie still couldn’t quite believe he was on the case. He would’ve given his right arm to be involved earlier in the year; he’d made do with newspaper reports and what he’d heard on the grapevine, the tittle tattle and rumour that went around a nick. Now he had the entire case spread out around him. Each scrap of information added to the picture he was building and
, at the back of it all, the possibility that he would read something and make a connection that no-one else had made. With an investigation as big as this, the odds were good that the killer was hidden in the papers. A name, a witness mentioning something that no-one else had spotted, perhaps even someone who had been spoken to and disregarded.

  He just had to be found.

  He read through the files. They kept running into walls: no real breaks so far. They had turned the lives of the dead girls upside down to try and find connections but they had nothing: Worthing was definitely a brass, but they couldn’t say that for sure about Jenkins; Worthing’s father died in the poor house, Jenkins’ father was a bank manager; Worthing drank heavily, Jenkins was tea-total.

  Nothing suggested their paths would ever have crossed.

  And now they had Annie Stokes to add to the mess.

  He fell back on basic criminology. He had educated himself, studied sex killers: the original Ripper; George Joseph Smith; George Chapman. He’d read treatises from shrinks and criminologists. He’d attended lectures and kept scrapbooks of cuttings on infamous cases. He drew conclusions: the Black-out Ripper had stopped killing for two months, but now he was back. The fact that time had passed since his first murder and he still hadn’t been caught had emboldened him. This sudden orgy of fresh violence suggested he was confident of evading capture; his urges would only have been temporarily sated. They would take hold again and again.

  There was only one constant with sexual sadists: once they started, they killed until they were stopped.

  The experts were unanimous: most left behind a ‘signature’, something that identified them by their technique. Some did it deliberately, seeking recognition by making their work characteristic, but most of the time it was unintentional, habitual, the signature involving several components. Murders didn’t have to show all aspects of the same killer's signature to be linked and just because a murder had things in common with another didn’t mean that the same man did both. A signature was more about the things that happened without realisation; subconscious nuances essential for gratification, driven by imperative and not by choice.