The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  Eve was, too.

  o o o

  BOB PETERS KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. “We might have something, Frank. A girl got brought into the station half an hour ago, says she was assaulted by a bloke who came up behind her and tried to strangle her. A delivery boy saw her in the doorway of the Captain’s Club, probably scared the bloke away. They’re both downstairs. You want to have a word with them?”

  Frank hurried down to the ground floor. A pretty girl, white as a sheet, was sat waiting in the interview room. A young lad was pacing next to her and a P.C. stood stiffly to the side. A cardboard box sat on the table.

  “Constable. You are?”

  “P.C. Skinner, sir.”

  He turned to the civilians. “I’m D.I. Murphy. What’s your name, love?”

  “Mary Heywood.”

  “Good evening, Miss Heywood. And sir?”

  “John Shine.”

  Frank took a seat next to the girl. “Thank you for waiting for me. I understand you’ve been attacked. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  “I had an appointment with a male friend. He’s in the services. Eight o’ clock at the Corner House on Oxford Street. He finds it hard to keep to his diary, what with last-minute duties he has to attend to, and he telephoned the bar so that they could let me know that he was going to have to cancel.”

  Frank appraised her as she spoke: thirty-ish, well presented; clean.

  “I was sat at the bar. I thought I might as well have a drink seeing as I’m out, so I ordered a gin and tonic. I finished it, paid the bill and left.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About a half past eight; I remember checking my watch. I went down Tottenham Court Road and crossed over to Bedford Street. There’s a tobacconist’s there and I’d finished my cigarettes, so I went to get some more. I was just by the entrance to the Captain’s Club when someone—some man—grabbed me from behind and pulled me into a doorway. I tried to scream but he had his hand over my mouth and he was blocking the doorway so I couldn’t get past him.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Didn’t get a good look. It was dark, he grabbed me from behind—”

  “Do your best, love.”

  “He was tall—about your height, I’d say. Well built. Strong. I pushed him, tried to get him out of the way but he didn’t move an inch.”

  “Hair colour?”

  “I couldn’t see—he had some sort of hat on. I’m afraid I’m not being very helpful.”

  “Not at all. Go on.”

  “So I bit his finger and he moved his hands down—I tried to scream, might even have managed it, I don’t know, but then he put his hands around my throat and started to squeeze. I don’t remember thinking anything, just that I couldn’t breathe and that I had to get away from him, fast as I could, but he was strong, his grip, and I couldn’t get away. I tried to find something to hit or scratch but there wasn’t anything, and he was squeezing harder and harder and I couldn’t breathe and I know I started to slide down the wall and I think I must’ve started to faint—my vision got fuzzy and then I must’ve blacked out. I can’t remember much after that.”

  “Thank you.” Frank drew a line across his notes.

  “Go on, son,” Jenkins said to Shine. “Tell the Inspector what happened after that.”

  “I was just walking past the Museum. Going to meet some pals for a drink.”

  “Time?”

  “A quarter to nine. It was quiet, hardly no-one out, then I saw this light from a doorway on the other side of the road. A torch or something, I thought, so I crossed over to have a look. I heard a scuffle going on, the light flashed on and then off again, all really quickly. I got closer and the light flashed on again, showing a woman’s legs, lying on the pavement. I called out, you know, ‘Oi! What’s your game?’, and ran over. Whoever it was dropped the torch and shot off down St Adeline Place, full pelt. Didn’t get a look at him.”

  “You chased him?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t—I could see the lady was in a bad way—she was lying on the floor, spread out and”—he lowered his voice, flushing—“and her skirt was disorganised and her blouse had been ripped. She was groaning, too. I thought I’d better help her first.”

  “Very good.”

  “I knelt down and asked what was wrong. She kept groaning, so I helped her to her feet and I says I ought to take her to Charing Cross, get a doctor to look her over, make sure nothing’s broken. She says yes, she leans on my shoulder and I helped her towards the junction.”

  “This was at around ten minutes to nine,” Skinner interjected, referring to his pocket-book. “I was at the junction with Tottenham Court Road when I saw the lady and the gentleman approaching me. I could see she was unsteady on her feet. I asked what’d happened, and Mr. Shine told me he thought she’d been attacked. I asked her whether she’d like me to accompany her to the hospital or the police station. She said the station, so I brought them here.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Go on, son,” Skinner said. “Tell him.”

  “I found this.” Shine pointed to the box on the table.

  Frank took it by its string and let it revolve: it was a gas mask case, dirty, no distinguishing marks. With a handkerchief around his fingers, he opened it: a standard-issue mask, the rubber pungent, nothing else. He tipped the box towards him and looked inside. The serial number was written on one face in black ink: HMP 525987.

  HMP: His Majesty’s Prisons.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “On the pavement—next to the doorway. I wondered if the man might have dropped it and forgotten it was there when he ran off.”

  “Thank you. Please, each of you, give a statement to P.C. Skinner. I’ll probably need to speak to you again, too.”

  Frank ran upstairs to his office, put the mask and box on the table, picked up the telephone and dialled the operator: “Get me the War Office. Quickly.”

  The call connected.

  “This is detective Inspector Frank Murphy at Savile Road police station. I have the serial number for a gas mask—I need you to check the records for me. Do you have a pen?”

  “Inspector, it’s half past ten—”

  “The owner of this gas mask might well be the man responsible for the murders of eight women. I need his name now.”

  “What’s the number, Inspector?”

  Frank recited it.

  “I’ll get onto it right away.”

  o o o

  AN HOUR PASSED. Frank sent two men to examine the scene of the attack. They came back half an hour later with Mary Heyward’s bag, found outside No. 1 Bedford Street. He briefed D.C.I. Tanner; he went to the Inquiry Room and read through field notes; he talked developments with D.I. Higgins; he read the witness statements from Heyward and Shine and drafted a list of follow-ups; he went to his office and stared at the telephone.

  Willing the call to come.

  Midnight. He picked up on the second ring.

  “I have something for you,” the clerk said.

  “It’s a prisoner’s?”

  “Yes, Inspector. They were allocated with masks, just like everyone else, between ‘38 and ‘39. The first two numbers, 5 and 2, denote Brixton. The 5987 is the prisoner’s number.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was allocated to a Mr. Duncan Johnson. Would you like his address?”

  CHAPTER 45

  SATURDAY 14th SEPTEMBER 1940

  CHARLIE WAS READY TO STAY AT THE STATION but D.C.I. Tanner had insisted he go home. The D.C.I. said he would be of more use to him fresh than exhausted after another all-night session with the files. Charlie hadn’t protested and had gratefully slumped back on his bed, the lights off so he could watch through the uncovered window as bursts of fiery light crackled behind the rooftops like lightning. The sound of engines droned overhead, a grim lullaby, and he fell asleep still clothed.

  It felt like it was just ten minutes before he awoke. It took him a moment t
o realise what it was that had stirred him: not the siren, his first thought, but a knocking on the door. It repeated as he turned bleary eyes onto the alarm clock by his bed: just before five in the morning. He slid down onto the floor, padded downstairs and opened the door.

  His father was outside.

  “Father?”

  William Murphy stepped by him into the hall.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You need to get up.”

  “Father?”

  “There’s been a breakthrough.”

  “An arrest?”

  “No, but they’re close.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You need to be at the station.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Come on, Charles—hurry. There’s a briefing at six. Get ready. I’ll drive you.”

  Charlie washed. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep and his eyes were still heavy. His father stood outside the bathroom door. “Why are you involved?”

  “Alf called me. It’s an important case, Charles. Needs to be solved. It’s not the sort of thing you leave others to do. Come on, son. There’s no time to shave. We need to get going.”

  “I’m coming,” Charlie called back.

  “I’ll be in the car.”

  Charlie found yesterday’s shirt, knotted his tie, and put on his suit.

  He locked the front door and slid into the car next to his father. The engine was already running. They headed West. Twice he jerked his head up as his chin sank down onto his chest. He needed strong coffee. The dawn’s light was just beginning to bleach the darkness on the horizon, the inky blackness above sullied by the dull oranges and reds from the fires in the East.

  “Wake up, son.”

  “God, I’m done for.”

  “You’ve got to be at your best.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Have you had any sleep?”

  “Not really. Not for a couple of days.”

  “Balance, Charles. If you exhaust yourself you won’t be any good for anything.”

  “This breakthrough. What is it?”

  “They have a name.”

  “Who?”

  “Duncan Johnson.”

  “He’s been in the frame from the start. Frank always suspected him.”

  “So did I, son.”

  “I’ve read the file.”

  “A girl was attacked tonight.”

  “Dead?”

  “No, he was disturbed before he could do any lasting damage. But they found a gas mask case at the scene. It’s registered to Johnson.”

  “He left it there?”

  “He dropped it, it got knocked off during the struggle—it doesn’t matter, it was there.”

  “The Ripper’s always been careful. I can’t believe he’d do something so stupid.”

  “People make mistakes, Charlie. It happens.”

  They drove on. The all-clear sounded as they passed King’s Cross station but the streets remained largely empty save for ARP personnel in their fortified posts, firemen passing to and from their stations and military vehicles shuttling men and equipment to AAA emplacements across the city. William Murphy was able to drive quickly, the dial touching forty as he ran the length of Oxford Road.

  “You’re going to be working with Frank today.”

  “Yes.”

  “This problem with you two—you need to sort it out.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you spoken?”

  “Not really. I don’t think he wants to.”

  “No, Charles, you’re wrong—he does. But you’re going to have to be the one who apologises. What you did—you know it was wrong.”

  Charlie stared at grey buildings spooling past the window. “I know.”

  “I’m not criticising you, son. I understand why you did it.”

  “I was useless in uniform. I told you. You wouldn’t help me.”

  “I know. I should’ve listened. But what’s done is done.” William reached a hand across the car and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “I never favoured Frank. I know you feel you have to compete with him, but I never meant for it to be like that. I’ve always been as proud of you as I am of him. And now you have the chance you’ve been waiting for. Find Johnson, Charles. Use that brain of yours. Bring him in. It’ll be the making of you.”

  He turned into Savile Row and had to slow to a crawl. A dozen other cars were jockeying to turn into the yard. Lights blazed from every window and clutches of men stood outside the lobby, smoking and talking. They drove further down the street and parked before hurrying back to the station entrance.

  Charlie pushed open the doors and went inside. He forgot about his tiredness, adrenaline fizzing him awake. Detectives were gathering in the Mess ready to be briefed. Frank and Alf McCartney were at the front, talking. Frank was fixing a mugshot to the wall.

  William Murphy went to the front. Charlie took at seat and opened his notebook. McCartney noticed him and nodded a greeting.

  His father banged on the desk. Men snapped to attention.

  “You all know this is D.C.I. Tanner’s case but we haven’t been able to get hold of him. Until we can, I’m in charge with Alf. Alright, Alf?”

  “Thank-you, guv. I’m keeping this short because you need to be out closing this case. A girl was assaulted in the West End last night. A man tried to strangle her but he was disturbed before he could do any lasting damage. We can’t be sure but it looks like the Ripper’s M.O. Now, he’s normally very careful but if it is him, he’s made a mistake this time because he left his gasmask behind. We’ve traced it back to a Duncan Johnson. He was in the frame before. We always fancied him for it and he’s got form for violence against women. We had him in for interviews but he’s a cool character and nothing stuck. D.I. Murphy’s been onto him again and there’s plenty to make us sit up and pay attention. He’s been out on bail after going inside for assault. But he’s been feeding his P.O. lines and now he’s left his job and his digs and gone missing. There’s too much here for this to be a coincidence.”

  McCartney stood again. “Usual procedure on this one, lads. We’ve had him marked as wanted at C.R.O. and his details, including his photograph, will be inserted in today’s Police Gazette and Confidential Informations. His mug shot’s going to be all over London.”

  “What about the papers, guv?”

  McCartney shook his head. “We can’t use them. We’ve had a ticking off by the government—they weren’t happy with the press conference. The public aren’t to be frightened, apparently. Fritz is doing a good enough job of that, so we’ll be keeping a lower profile from now on. But every minute this bastard is on the street increases the chance he kills another girl. We’ve got to work fast.”

  “Beat Constables are already out checking the boarding houses and the usual hostels and hotels for anybody answering his description.”

  Alf divided the room in two and then pointed at Charlie. “D.S. Murphy is going to assign antecedent checks to you men. Teams of two, please, then see Charlie at half-past for your details. All Johnson’s associates are going to be turned over, his wife, his parents, his siblings. Everyone. The men who shared a cell with him need to be questioned, plus anybody else in prison that he was chummy with. No pussy-footing, lads, we can’t afford it. A good shaking up and down often produces the most satisfactory results, so don’t stand on ceremony. Dismissed.”

  William Murphy clapped Charlie on the shoulder as he went past. “Make me proud, son.”

  Charlie got straight to work. He took Johnson’s C.R.O. file and pulled out Form C.R.O. 100A. He checked his associates and the places he frequented. He wrote down a dozen names and addresses and distributed them to the men, two each.

  The room emptied.

  “We’re getting warm,” Alf said to him.

  “Is it him?”

  “Your brother thinks so.”

  “Do you?”

  “We definitely need to talk to him.”

  CHAPTER 46
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br />   HENRY FINISHED HIS PINT. He was in the French, waiting for darkness to fall. Raiders had been overhead for a solid two hours. It wasn’t just the docks that were getting it; Göring had all of London in his sights now and he was pummelling it. Henry was nervous, and not just about the bombing. He thought a couple of drinks might settle him down. They didn’t—he just felt light-headed, his anxiety still churning. There were more police on the street than usual and he imagined they were looking for him. At least one of them was: there had been a knock on his door during the afternoon. He had crept into the sitting room and pulled back the curtain a fraction. He didn’t recognise the man waiting on the stoop but he had the officious air of a plainclothes Detective. The man had waited patiently for five minutes, as if he knew perfectly well that Henry was cowering beneath the sill. Henry waited shamefully, in anxious silence, his heart seeming uncommonly loud. Eventually the Detective gave up and turned away. Henry knew he would have to speak to them. Ignoring them could only be temporary. But he wasn’t ready yet.

  He went outside. Quiet streets, engines overhead, searchlights playing on the underside of low clouds. Henry felt a moment of nausea—the drink, his nerves. He steadied himself against the wall, waited for his stomach to settle.

  He had been fired.

  The police were looking for him.

  He thought of Asquith, the dead girls, the story.

  What in blazes was he doing?

  The risks he was taking—they suddenly felt enormous.

  He turned the corner and saw it: Ham Yard was on fire. It was out of control: huge flames, two storeys high, burning orange and red and yellow, the blackout a bad joke. The Top Hat was taking the brunt, waves of woozy heat beating out, fracturing the glass in the shop fronts opposite, singeing hair. Two policemen were blocking the way through, one of them looping a length of rope around a lamppost and stretching it across the road. Henry pushed up against a wall, thinking: Jackie Field. The booze and the heat dizzied, disorientated; he bent double and vomited.

  A small crowd had gathered.

  “Clear off!” the panicked bobby yelled over the sound of the flames. “Jerry’s still overhead. They use fires as targets.”