The Soho Noir Series

by Mark Dawson

  Henry fell into line twenty feet behind him and followed.

  Belgrave Place onto the King’s Road.

  Henry was too excited to be scared.

  He turned into Sloane Square tube. The gates were open, a clutch of people gathered at the top of the stairs, some of them with thin mattresses and pillows. The lights in the ticket hall were doused; as Henry followed him deeper into the station, the gas lamps had been lit and he was afforded a better view. He didn’t recognise the man.

  The station platform was crammed: rows of bunks were laid out, three deep, each one filled. An accordionist was playing folk songs, two elderly women from the WVS were serving tea from a steaming urn.

  The man stopped at the middle of the platform and waited for a train.

  Henry stood against the wall, hidden by a bunk.

  A District Line train rolled slowly into the platform.

  The man got on.

  Henry chose the adjacent carriage.

  He watched him through the smeared, grimy windows. The train was almost empty. He sat and waited for the doors to close.

  o o o

  THE EAST END AGAIN. Henry pressed himself into a doorway and watched the light flicker beneath the wide warehouse door. The man had led him through the warren of streets around Bethnal Green station. There were no lights anywhere and uneven cobbles had tricked his feet. The street names were invisible and he had quickly become lost.

  He’d had more than enough time to think about what he was doing. Now the excitement came with something else.

  Anticipation.

  Nerves.

  Fear.

  The street lay in the hinterland between two tall railway viaducts and a bombed-out factory. Bishopsgate Goods Yard sprawled around him: black shapes, banshee whistles from locomotives, the slow rumble of shunted rail stock, shouts and curses from banksmen who had to work in the dark. Wide double doors were accommodated in the row of railway arches to one side. Warehouses, workshops, stockrooms.

  The man had been inside for ten minutes. Probably returning Asquith’s order.

  Henry didn’t know what he was waiting for.

  He thought: what if he sees me here?

  He flashed back to the Top Hat, nightmare heat pulsing, the hot slash of the razor.

  His knees wobbled.

  A train rattled across a viaduct, muffled squares of light passing overhead, throwing out sparse illumination.

  The door scraped open and the man stepped outside. Henry held his breath. The man fitted a padlock, closed the clasp.

  He pressed himself deeper into the doorway.

  The train shuddered away, the light faded.

  The man walked back the same way.

  Henry let him go.

  He waited a minute and then crept to the warehouse. The padlock was substantial; he found a half-brick on the floor and slammed it down. Noise rang out, much too loud. He hit it again, and again. It snapped. He opened the door.

  A medium-sized room lay beyond: concrete floors, wall-to-ceiling shelves on all sides. He struck a match and held it up. An Aladdin’s Cave of smut: magazines arranged in stacks, each one fifty copies deep, the titles and dates written on index cards stuck to the top copies: Mr. Big, Long John Silver, The Modern Gigolo, Saucy Secretaries, Boys in Love. He picked up another sheaf and shuffled them: Lilliput, Gentleman’s Pictorial, Men Only, London Life.

  The match went out; he lit another.

  Saucy pictures on every page.

  He tore down another pile: prints and negatives scattered across the floor. A roll-call of the rich and famous doing the dirty with male and female whores. Cyril Raymond, Stewart Granger, Raymond Huntley, Alan Wheatley. A colour picture: Christine Norden and a well-hung man. Arthur Greenwood from the government. Asquith.

  He got down on his hands and knees and scrabbled the glossies together. He could hardly breathe from the excitement: a year’s worth of exposés, a story a week, each one more shocking than the last. All of Fleet Street would want them. He could name his price.

  “Hello, Mr. Drake.”

  He hadn’t shut the door.

  He hadn’t noticed the two men in the door.

  The man he had followed.

  And, next to him, Rat-Face with a gun in his hand.

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Henry said.

  “You don’t listen, do you?”

  Rat-Face stepped inside.

  “Shut the door, Eddie.”

  CHAPTER 59

  SUNDAY, 9th FEBRUARY 1941

  FRANK SAT AT HIS DESK, Fats Waller on the gramophone, something soothing to help him settle his thoughts. He had been up all night, unable to sleep. Marianne had cooked his favourite, liver and onions. He’d eaten the meal without even tasting it, mechanically shovelling mouthfuls while his brain spun. She hadn’t noticed, or at least she had been good enough not to say anything, but Frank had felt bad. She had dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow, but Frank couldn’t stop thinking about Butters and the magazines. The dead girls. He had closed his eyes and tried to sleep: images danced across the insides of his eyelids, filth he couldn’t switch off. The girls all had Eve’s face.

  Sleep was impossible. In the end he had given up. A pound on the dresser and back to the station, sitting in his office with a pad of paper scribbling notes and questions until the paper was full and the pencil was blunt.

  He stared at his fresh pile of notes.

  New information changed everything.

  The girls all knew each other.

  The Ripper investigation didn’t make sense any more.

  Duncan Johnson probably didn’t kill them.

  They’d killed the wrong man.

  The real killer was still on the loose.

  And then yesterday:

  Gregory Butters, photographer and printer, being paid for his smut by Eddie Coyle.

  Eddie Coyle:

  The boy-friend of Constance Worthing.

  Murder suspect. Brought in for questioning but let out again with nothing to pin on him.

  Coyle:

  Pimp who admitted he worked Worthing.

  Coyle:

  Pornographer.

  Coyle:

  Who knew more than he had told them.

  Frank needed to see him again.

  o o o

  FRANK GOT OFF THE TUBE AT TOTTENHAM COURT STATION. As he crossed Oxford Street the siren sounded. People looked at the sky, clear and blue, and walked quickly for shelter. Probably a false alarm like most of them were these days. Frank didn’t bother with it.

  He had confirmed it with Records before leaving: Eddie Coyle’s address was off Store Street. A five minute walk to a dirty alleyway, rubbish bins stacked against the walls, sludge blocking the gutters and slicking the cobbles. If there was brass in the dirty picture business, Coyle wasn’t seeing much of it.

  Frank went inside and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Delivery for Mr. Coyle.”

  The door unlocked and opened.

  “Hello Eddie. Remember me?”

  Dumb apprehension flickered across his face. “Course. The copper with the messed-up face. Phantom of the bloody Opera. What do you want?”

  “You and Constance Worthing. We need a little chat.”

  Coyle shoved the door closed; Frank blocked it with his foot, shouldered it open, fell inside, the door crashing off the wall. Frank caught his bearings: a hallway led into a single room, a bed against the wall, a gas stove, not much else. A bottle of bourbon, nine-tenths empty. He scrambled to his feet. Coyle was at the window, working the sash up. Frank caught his ankles, yanked him back in, slapped him around the side of the head, left-right-left.

  “Bloody neanderthal filth! What do you want?” His eyes swum and his breath reeked of booze.

  Frank hauled him up. “I know you remember me, Eddie. And you remember I’m not the sort of bloke to tick off.” He took the room’s single wooden ch
air, set it down and dropped Coyle into it. “I’ve got a few questions for you. You’re going to be a good boy and answer them. And you’re going to tell me the truth.”

  Frank had nicked Coyle’s eyebrow; blood trailed down his cheek, down his nose. “Piss off, you ugly prick.”

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of brass knucks. “Keep a civil tongue, friend.”

  Coyle stared at the knucks as Frank slipped them onto his right hand.

  “Piss. Off. Copper.”

  Frank flexed his fingers. “Gregory Butters. Start with him.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Right-left-right-left. The knuckleduster crunched into Coyle’s cheekbone and he fell off the chair. Frank picked him up and dropped him down again. “Let’s try again. Gregory Butters. I’ll give you a clue. Works in the East End. Takes naughty pictures. Prints books for you.”

  “Who?”

  Gutshots this time: Left-right-left. Frank took the dirty book from his pocket, pushed it in Coyle’s face, smeared his blood over a two-page spread. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve been paying him for this every month since last Christmas.”

  Coyle spat phlegm, teeth, gasped. “Alright. I know him.”

  “How?”

  “We have a business relationship. He takes pictures.”

  “And the books?”

  “Yes, yes, he prints them.”

  “So you’re in the pornography game now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pimping not enough for you?”

  “There’s more money in this.”

  “Your own little enterprise, is it?”

  “S’right.”

  “Who puts up the money?”

  “I do.”

  “Really?”

  Sibilant, air sucking through smashed teeth: “Yes.”

  “And you live in this shit-hole?”

  “You telling me how to spend my cash now?”

  “I don’t believe you, Eddie. I think you’re full of it.”

  He laughed crazily. “Nothing I can do about that.”

  Frank cocked his fist.

  “Alright, alright.”

  “Where do you sell the magazines?”

  “Mail-order.”

  “How would I join?”

  He spluttered; an attempt at bitter laughter. “You?”

  “Why not?”

  “You couldn’t afford it. You need gelt.”

  “Like Viscount Asquith?”

  Momentary doubt.

  “Eddie?”

  “People like that. Some members have more money than others. They pay for extras.”

  “Like?”

  “You’ve seen. Some pay to make suggestions, things they’d like to see, what have you, and we act them out, print them in the books. Some pay a bit more and meet girls they like. We set up parties.”

  “Orgies.”

  “If you like.”

  “And you take pictures of your special clients—so you can blackmail them.”

  “Don’t know nothing about that.”

  “Course not.”

  “I’ve answered your questions.”

  “Nearly done, then you’re free to go. Butters prints the magazines but he doesn’t store them. Where’s your warehouse?”

  “The East End.”

  “Address?”

  “Railway arches. Wheeler Street.”

  “Last few questions. Who’s behind it?”

  “I am.”

  “No you’re not. You’re just the front man. Who owns it, Eddie?”

  “I do.”

  “Come on, chum—don’t take me for an idiot. You take the subscriptions. You sort out the books. You get a cut, but that’s that. You’re just an employee. Who’s the boss?”

  “You’re wrong. It’s my business.”

  Frank punched: crisp and sudden. Coyle’s lip ripped between broken teeth and brass knucks. He gargled blood.

  “Who runs it?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Last chance.”

  He cackled.

  Frank rabbit-punched.

  “Who runs it?”

  He gasped out a laugh.

  “What’s so funny, Eddie?”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “Who runs it?”

  “Coppers.”

  “What?”

  “Coppers. Filth. Your lot.”

  “What do you mean? They’re on the payroll?”

  “No, you idiot. Not bribes. They own it. It’s theirs.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Regan and Timms. Little ginger bastard and—”

  “From West End Central?”

  “Not so hard to believe, is it? Most Old Bill are bent.” Coyle snickered. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Because you need a distraction.”

  “Alright, squire. How about this: get on the telephone to your chums in vice and ask them about the smut they found in Berwick Street before Christmas. Warehouse full of it. Ask them what happened.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Regan saw the case was dropped and made sure the smut wasn’t confiscated. We sold it on.”

  Frank took out the copy of Lilliput.

  “This one of yours?”

  “Might be.”

  “Look at it.”

  “Might be.”

  He opened it to the centrefold.

  Jenkins, Worthing, Stokes.

  “Remember this?”

  His eyes bulged wide.

  “Eddie?”

  “Never seen it before.”

  “Touched a nerve, did I?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There’s Constance.”

  “I k-k-k-know.”

  “Molly Jenkins and Annie Stokes, too. Tell me about them.”

  “Who?”

  Frank fought the flare of red, the ache in his muscles. “Maybe you’ve forgotten,” he said, calmly, firmly. “I’ll refresh your memory. They were murdered last year, just like Constance. I don’t remember you telling us that they were friendly. And I definitely don’t remember you telling us they’d all been snapped for a dirty magazine you were running.”

  “C-c-c-can’t help you.”

  Anger swelled, overflowed; Frank couldn’t keep it down any more. He picked up the chair, threw Coyle at the wall. The chair smashed and splintered, Coyle bounced out, whimpering. Frank shoved the window all the way up and hoisted him out, one hand anchored on his belt, Coyle’s legs jerking spastically. He shrieked, upside down, a two storey death drop below him, onto dustbins and shitty cobbles—a messy end. Frank shouted above the sound of the wailing siren and the traffic: “TELL ME.”

  “I p-p-p-put them in the books.”

  He let him fall another foot, swung him out and back into the wall, a faceful of brick. “What else?”

  Coyle wet himself, piss running down his body and blooming on his shirt. Frank grimaced from the strain, locked Coyle’s ankles underneath his armpit. “J-J-J-Jackie Field introduced them. We used them. I started seeing Connie. P-p-p-please. Th-th-th-that’s it.”

  The last note of the siren was sucked away on the wind.

  “WHO KILLED THEM?”

  Gabbling: “I d-d-d-d-don’t know, I swear I don’t—I heard a rumour it wasn’t the bloke you c-c-c-c-caught but it was just a rumour, I don’t know if it’s true, I can’t even remember who t-t-t-told me.”

  “Was it you?”

  Shrieking: “No, I swear.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “WHO KILLED THEM?”

  “I swear I don’t know. Please. Please.”

  Frank hauled him back in, dumped him on his arse. He crouched down, eye-balled him: “If you’re lying to me, I’ll see you hang.”

  CHAPTER 60

  CHARLIE’S DESK WAS COVERED WITH PAPER. Every n
ew piece of information was another layer of complication. He had tried to wrap himself around the problem, to see its boundaries, but the edges were blurred and fuzzy. And the problem kept growing.

  The telephone rang on his desk.

  “D.I. Murphy.”

  “It’s Frank.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to see you.”

  “Frank—what is it? I’m busy—”

  “I need your help.”

  o o o

  CHARLIE PASSED SPEAKER’S CORNER and kept going. It was a cold, fresh afternoon. Young ‘uns kicked footballs. Soldiers in uniform strolled arm-in-arm with their girl-friends. A few perambulators, scooters and fairy cycles were around and about. The cricket pitches had long been broken up with sand-heaps to prevent Jerry landing planes. Music from the bandstand swelled up, carried by the wind. The band were playing a jaunty number by Benny Goodman. The audience clapped as the song finished and the band started another tune: “Hanging Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line.”

  The Serpentine opened out before him. Charlie put his back to a tree and waited, scanning the area: a man smoking a fag, a handful of soldiers in khaki.

  The man tossed the fag away and walked across.

  “Charlie,” Frank said.

  Charlie felt awkward. Frank obviously did, too. It was two years since they had spoken, and longer than that since they had been civil to each other. The rift between them was never far from his mind; a nagging sadness that he tried to keep out of the way. It bothered him but as the time passed it had become more convenient and sensible to accept things as they were. It couldn’t get worse if they didn’t see each other.

  “Frank.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “We couldn’t do this at the Yard?”

  “It’s better here. Safer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain. Shall we walk?”

  They wandered around the excavations dug by the Engineer Corps. Diametrical trenches had been cut into the ground, fortified with stacks of green canvas sandbags. They walked in silence. Charlie regarded Frank from the corner of his eye: he looked tired. His limp was more pronounced than he remembered, a combination of the old war wound and the injuries from when Savile Row was blitzed. He was starting to look his age.