The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  The Bishop of Westminster was presiding.

  “And he said to me: these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”

  Ashes to ashes.

  Memorials and funerals: eight brasses, twelve coppers, thirteen if you counted Bill Tanner.

  Dust to dust.

  “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

  He scratched at a sweaty itch inside the bandage around his head. The blast had perforated both eardrums, and only now was his hearing returning properly. There were cuts and bruises across his body but, apart from his leg, he’d been lucky. A joist had fallen across him, propped up by the rubble, and it had sheltered him from the worst of the debris. Others had been less fortunate. A notice board in the porch held a list of names. Police Constable Keith Hanes had been killed outright: he had escorted Duncan Johnson to the Black Maria—a shard of shrapnel punched though his windpipe and he’d drowned on his own blood. Six men bought their tickets when the canteen wall fell onto their card school. Five more were killed during a briefing as they came on turn. Another dozen had been injured badly enough to have been signed off work for the rest of the year. Plenty of others were walking wounded, like him. The nick, only open for a few months, was going to have to be torn down and rebuilt. West End Central had moved back to Vine Street, the station it had already outgrown.

  A decimated complement of men in an outdated station.

  One big mess.

  Alf McCartney was in the front row, next to the Commissioner. Charlie was in the row immediately behind Suits, their father and Bob Peters next to him.

  “And all the angels stood round about the throne, and about the elders, and the four living creatures, and fell before the throne on their faces, and worshipped God, saying, Amen; Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever. Amen.”

  The Bishop stepped back from the lectern. The Commissioner stepped up.

  “On Sunday the fifteenth of September, a German mine fell on West End Central and we lost twelve men. Twelve colleagues and friends. Twelve husbands and partners. Twelve sons. Such a loss is difficult to bear yet bear it we must, for the sake of the Metropolis of which we are sworn to protect. These men swore to do their duty and they died in honour of that proud oath. Whilst it is right that we mourn them, their sacrifice should be celebrated, too, as further evidence, if evidence be needed, that the men of the Metropolitan police are the finest in the world.” Applause rang out around the church. The Commissioner let it swell and fall. “There will be other losses in this conflict, perhaps ones even harder to bear than this, yet bear them we must and bear them we will.”

  More applause—the Commissioner milked it. Charlie turned and looked behind him. Frank watched as he scanned pews, his brother’s eyes passing over him. Disappointment flickered as he turned back. Frank knew he was looking for him.

  “But even in our saddest hour, there is still cause, if not for joy, then for hope. We were recently challenged by a spate of vicious, evil murders across the West End. The officers responsible for the successful conclusion of that investigation are present today. In uniquely difficult circumstances, facing a major enquiry in the midst of the enemy’s bombing campaign, each acquitted himself with the skill and dedication the public has come to expect from the officers of His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. I would like to publicly express my gratitude to those men, especially Alf McCartney, William Murphy, Bob Peters, Frank Murphy, Malcolm Slater, Colin Winston, Albert Regan and Jimmy Lucas. Gentlemen: you have done us, and yourselves, proud.”

  More applause. The Commissioner had showered his gratitude: the canteen gossip had Alf McCartney in line for Chief Constable when Bill Murphy called it a day. Albert Regan was being made Inspector for helping to apprehend Johnson and shooting Reginald Dudley. Frank had been offered a commendation but he’d turned it down. He didn’t care. Ambition. It was a mug’s game. A game for Charlie to play.

  “As you all know, D.C.I. Bill Tanner lost his life when a bomb fell on his street on the night that the inquiry was finally resolved. It was Bill’s case from very early on, and the only consolation that can be drawn from his passing is that his work found its reward with the apprehension of Duncan Johnson. There is one other officer who deserves our praise and thanks. Charles Murphy comes from a long line of police. He joined in 1930, and in those ten years he has served in C Division before taking up his current posting in the Central Office. He served as Bill Tanner’s Sergeant and performed with distinction, conducting a brilliant interrogation of the suspect. But it was later that Charles displayed the spectacular bravery that we honour today. The bomb fell on Savile Row as the suspect was being transferred to Brixton on remand. Charles was escorting him to the van. In the confusion that followed, Duncan Johnson attempted to escape. Charles gave pursuit and was shot. Injured and facing the likelihood of death, he continued the pursuit and reapprehended him. It is my pleasure to ask Detective Sergeant Murphy to come forward.”

  Warm applause: Frank watched from the back as his brother hugged their father and shook Bob Peters by the hand. He hobbled forwards, moving slowly with a stick.

  “It is my honour and privilege today to present him with our highest honour: the King’s Police Medal.”

  The Commissioner held out an open box, the medal resting inside on a velvet backing. Charles took his hand and turned, like a professional, to the front, beaming a politician’s smile; smoke puffed as photographers fired their cameras: tomorrow’s front pages assured.

  “It is also my great pleasure to promote Charles to Inspector. At the age of thirty-five, he becomes the youngest D.I. in living memory, reaching that rank faster even than his father. Charles will return to Scotland Yard where he will continue a remarkable career with command of internal discipline. Congratulations, Charles. You are a credit to the Force. I have no doubt that you will continue to be so.”

  Applause swelled again. Frank pushed himself off the wall and hobbled towards the door.

  PART FOUR

  “DIRTY PICTURES”

  — January 1941 —

  CALENDAR

  — 1940 —

  Daily Mail, 16th September:

  SOHO NIGHT-CLUB BURNS DOWN

  BLAZE “SUSPICIOUS” SAY FIRE SERVICE

  A Soho night-club burnt down last night in a fire that police are describing as suspicious. The “Top Hat” Club, in Ham Yard W.1., was completely destroyed in the blaze which also damaged nearby properties. Two appliances from Covent Garden Fire Station arrived within minutes of the alarm being raised. They were later joined by an Auxiliary Fire Service appliance. The fire was brought under control by 3am. An investigation was launched to discover the cause of the fire but a spokesman for the Fire Service said that it was not caused by the bombing. It is unknown whether there were any casualties.

  Daily Mail, 17th September:

  BODY FOUND IN SOHO NIGHT CLUB FIRE

  REMAINS “TOO BURNT” FOR IDENTIFICATION

  A police spokesman has revealed that a body was discovered in the remains of the Top Hat Night-Club, the W.1. venue that was razed to the ground by fire on Monday morning. “The body was extremely badly burnt,” the spokesman said. “Identification has so far proven to be impossible.”

  Daily Express, 17th December:

  MAN ACCUSED OF EIGHT MURDERS

  “BLACK-OUT RIPPER” TRIAL BEGINS

  The trial of the man accused of being the “Black-Out” Ripper began today at the Old Bailey in London. Duncan Johnson wore a black suit with a white shirt and dark-coloured
tie as he appeared in court flanked by police officers. Johnson, of no fixed abode, denies murdering eight prostitutes between May and July this year. Ten men and two women were sworn in as the jury for the trial.

  The Times, 22nd December:

  “BLACK-OUT RIPPER” FOUND GUILTY

  Duncan Johnson has been found guilty of murdering eight women in London. Johnson, 47, of no fixed abode, denied during his trial that he had killed them. Jurors at the Old Bailey unanimously found him guilty of all eight murders and he will be sentenced on Friday.

  The Times, 22nd December:

  “RIPPER” SENTENCED TO HANG

  — 1941 —

  Lilliput, 15th January:

  DOWN AND OUT

  Illicit Love in Suburbia

  By Henry Drake

  She was like all the others—a young girl desperately in need of money, with nothing to offer in the way of collateral except herself! ‘You have to give me more time,’ she pleaded. ‘I'll be able to pay next week, I swear. Please, if my husband finds out about the rent, he'll—well, I just don't know what he'd do.’ ‘I'd have to have a special reason for bending the rules,’ he replied softly, allowing his gaze to travel down the length of her ripe body. ‘Very special.’ Awareness crept into her eyes and colour flooded her pale cheeks. She hung her head for a moment and trembled. Then, wetting her lips, she glanced over at the couch and door. He smiled and rose from behind the desk. ‘I'll lock it so we won't be disturbed.’ The young housewife nodded listlessly and began to unbutton the front of her well-filled blouse.

  The Times, 5th February:

  “RIPPER” EXECUTION DUE TOMORROW

  CHAPTER 52

  THURSDAY, 6TH FEBRUARY 1941

  HENRY ABSENT-MINDEDLY TRACED HIS FINGERTIP along the raised length of the scar. Just like Jackie Field: it ran from the edge of his cheekbone down to the side of his chin. On either side were evenly spaced dimples, the eyelets where the surgeon’s needle had stitched the cut together. The fellows on the crime desk said that gangsters called it a bootlace face. They did it on the racecourses, thugs slashing their rivals. A moment’s work for a lifetime’s reminder. A razor stitched into the brim of a cap, or embedded in a piece of palmed cork. The cut was losing its lividity but it would never completely fade; it would always be there, a reminder: some stories were best left unwritten.

  Spitalfields, the heart of the East End. He was waiting in the printer’s small office. The place was medium-sized, and Henry had observed it as he was led through by a female assistant. Probably used to be a small warehouse, sub-divided by partitions so that there was space for the press, a photographic studio, a couple of offices. His briefcase was next to him, on the floor. He reached down, opened it, and withdrew the manila envelope. His new story was inside. The usual nonsense: ingenuous waif, adrift in the suburbs, taken advantage of by rapacious admirer. He’d long-since learned to swallow his pride. Smut—it was the only writing he was good for these days. Fleet Street wouldn’t touch him. He’d even been knocked back by the provincials he had approached—the bloody provincials—his reputation preceding him like a noisome stench.

  He’d heard about the job in the pub. A man he knew was pals with a fellow who printed the magazines. He was looking for saucy stories to fill out the spaces between the pictures. Henry had written a couple, they fit the bill, he got the job. Two pounds a week. Not enough to live on, but enough to keep his head above water.

  “Let’s have it, then.”

  The printer’s name was Butters. Henry didn’t know much more than that. He was an unpleasant, oleaginous chap, and he didn’t look forward to these meetings.

  He put the envelope on the desk.

  “What’ve we got this week?” he said, tearing the envelope and pulling out the copy. “Let’s have a look.”

  “The usual.”

  He read quickly, his mouth moving. “Whatever you say. I don’t reckon anyone notices. I always prefer the pictures myself. Wait here. I’ll get your money for you.”

  His mind wandered.

  Four months since his slashing.

  Four months since the Top Hat had been burned down. The body inside had been tied to a chair, too burnt for identification. Foul play was obvious and a murder enquiry began. Jackie Field was nowhere to be found and the obvious assumption was made. That was as far as the police could go—the investigation got nowhere and was finally shelved.

  Henry knew it was Jackie Field.

  He knew who did it, too.

  He didn’t have the courage to go to the police. The scar on his face reminded him of threats hissed into his ear and so he did nothing.

  Four months—he kept his head down. He tried to forget about Asquith, the dead girls, Jackie Field, the police, all of it. Doing otherwise would just get him killed. He wrote pornographic stories, collected his two quid, pretended none of it had ever happened.

  Henry looked around the office. A pile of magazines was stacked on the desk. He took the one on the top.

  A blue cover, plain apart from the title:

  Lilliput.

  He’d never seen the magazines before.

  He opened it, started flicking: women in states of undress, set out in artistic poses.

  Some in costumes, some stark naked.

  He reached the middle: a two-page spread.

  He gaped.

  A ménage a trois across the fold.

  Molly Jenkins.

  Connie Worthing.

  Annie Stokes.

  Naked, posed with feather boas and nothing else, on a divan.

  He stared at the picture.

  His hands shook.

  He heard Butters outside—he stuffed the magazine into his briefcase.

  “Two quid for that rubbish. You’re having a bloody laugh, mate. Here you are.”

  Henry put the notes into his wallet.

  “You alright, squire?”

  “What?”

  “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” Henry said.

  “Off you go then. See you next week.”

  Henry stayed where he was. “The magazines—where are they sold?”

  “Here and there.”

  “What? Shops?”

  “What’s all this—”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen them.”

  “And what? You like seeing your name in print? Give it a rest. This ain’t high art, mate. You’re writing for a stroke mag.”

  “I was just curious.”

  “Well don’t be. You stick your nose where it’s not wanted, you’re liable to have your feelings hurt when you get told to shove off. Alright?”

  “Of course.” He rose. “Sorry. Thanks for the money.”

  “Same time next week. And come up with something different, alright? The same old schtick, it’s getting a bit stale.”

  CHAPTER 53

  FIVE MONTHS OF WAR. Pentonville looked battered, bruised and tired. The bombers had done their worst and the capital had survived, but the long drudge of conflict had sucked the life away. Most districts still bore the evidence of the battering they had endured—plenty had empty patches where buildings had been hit and the wrecks pulled down, weed-choked spaces where children played. Here was no different. Every street had suffered some sort of indignity: houses flattened by direct hits; windows smashed by shrapnel and boarded up; shop fronts scarred and tatty with no paint to freshen them up. There wasn’t the money or time or will to start to make good the damage.

  Protestors had gathered at the gates of the prison. Frank looked straight ahead as he waited for the gates to open, ignoring their chants and hymns. Liberal nonsense.

  Frank knew what he thought.

  An eye for an eye.

  You got what was coming to you.

  He drove through the archway and parked the car next to his father’s. The old man was waiting for him, sitting in the passenger side, smoking his pipe through the open door.

  “Francis.”

  “Father.�
��

  “How are you?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Your leg?”

  He had winced as he put his weight down. “Getting better.”

  “Doesn’t look it.”

  “It’s a bit sore, now and then. But I’m fine.”

  They set off towards the main block.

  “What about Eve?”

  Frank shook his head.

  Eight months now, and all they had had of her were scraps and whispers, street rumours from prostitutes and snouts, unreliable witnesses who would tell a bogey anything if they thought he could grease the wheels for them. The picture on the crumpled handbills was a dagger to the gut; a snapshot of a happy girl in a gingham dress, an ice cream, the penguins at London Zoo. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? He wondered: she was at that age where they grew up fast. The cusp of womanhood. It changed the way they looked. Would he even recognise her if she passed him on the street? He didn’t know.

  “We’ll find her, son.”

  Frank nodded. People had always said that—but he knew they were starting to doubt it.

  “What time are they weighing him off?”

  “Midday.”

  “Press here yet?”

  “Plenty. Not that he’s said anything. Still denying it.”

  “He’s still saying it’s a fit-up?”

  “The same old story.”