by Mark Dawson
Frank cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Look—” Charlie began.
“No, let me. Some of it was my fault. Some was yours. But we need to put it behind us.”
“I should never have testified.”
“I shouldn’t have reacted.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“So am I. But it’s water under the bridge.”
“I—”
“What’s done is done. Alright?”
Frank looked him square in the eye and extended a hand. Charlie took it. Frank gripped hard, his eyes never wavering. “I know how well you’re doing. I’m proud of you. You mightn’t believe me, but I always have been. You’ve made yourself into a bloody good copper. I just want you to know that.”
Charlie tried to speak, but his throat was blocked.
Frank nodded, and released his hand.
They set off again.
“What’s going on, Frank?”
“I need your help.”
“You said.”
“I’ve been looking into smut. Mail order.”
“Not really my thing. You should see vice.”
“I wish it was that easy. Remember Henry Drake?”
“Jog my memory.”
“Reporter. Wrote about the Ripper.”
Charlie said he remembered.
“He came to see me. You better take a look at this.” Frank opened his briefcase and took out a slim book with a pale-blue cover. Charlie took it and flicked through. “Middle pages.” The centrefold was smeared with blood but the picture behind was clear enough.
“Jesus, Frank.”
Charlie stared, agape: Molly Jenkins, Annie Stokes and Constance Worthing. A double-page spread.
“You see?”
“They all knew each other. We never thought— I mean, we never—”
“We never found a link between any of the other victims, either, the five from before. We always had him picking random judies off the street. Except it doesn’t look like these three were random. If this was the Ripper, it would’ve been a complete change.”
Charlie’s mind was dizzied. “So—I don’t know, Frank, I’m struggling. So..?”
“The week before she died, Drake says Jenkins offered him pictures of the three girls. Some sort of orgy they had going on with Viscount Asquith. Blackmail shots, from the sound of it, two-way glass, fake mirror, whatever, they managed to get hold of them, trying to sell them. Drake was going to meet her again the day before we found her.”
“Jesus—”
“She was with a Soho clubman—Jackie Field. Sounded like he was the one who was trying to put the sale together. I knew him—he’s pond life. He went missing last year. His place burned down, they found a body inside. The girls, Field—”
“Someone did away with them? To keep them quiet?”
“Can’t be a coincidence.”
“But Johnson—”
“I know—if I’m right, it wasn’t him.”
“But we—”
“He still had it coming, one way or another. You weren’t there when we collared him. You didn’t see what he’d done. No. He had it coming.”
Charlie gazed out over the water. That didn’t make what happened right. He grasped. “What about the evidence we found?”
“I’ve got an idea about that. I found the man who’s printing the porn—man called Butters. He coughed that Eddie Coyle is behind it.”
“Worthing’s boyfriend?”
“He’s got a smut business now. He runs it day-to-day but he says Percy Timms and Bert Regan are behind it all. Do you know them?”
“Of course.”
He felt a flutter of anxiety:
Senior men.
Brother Masons.
Friends of Alf.
“And?”
“Between you and me, I can’t say the idea of the two of them up to no good is beyond the pale. We’re already looking into the C.I.D. at West End Central.”
“For what?”
“You remember George Grimes? I was investigating him before I was transferred onto the Murder Squad last year—Regan and Timms took over the case after I moved. He was turning over businesses in Soho. I found his body. They said it was suicide but that’s not what it looked like—everything about it said it wasn’t. It’s always bothered me but I never got the chance to review it again until this week. Turns out Grimes was stepping out with Connie Worthing.”
“I thought she was with Eddie Coyle?”
“I’ve seen a picture of them together. His parents confirmed it. No question about it.”
“Was he friendly with Timms and Regan?”
“We were all at the same Lodge.”
“Can you look into them?”
“I am. Albert Regan’s not doing too badly for himself. Got a nice little place in Barnes with a sports car in the drive.”
“Not a policeman’s motor?”
“Hardly. American. Nice. Doesn’t look like he’s short of the odd shilling. Might be a perfectly good reason for it, but it’s a bit queer.”
“What about his records?”
“Clean as a whistle. Excellent annual reports. Excellent arrest rates. He’s passed the Inspectorship exams with flying colours and there’s a letter of recommendation from McCartney that he be promoted as soon as a slot opens up. He’s a riser.”
They stopped at a bench and sat.
“What do you reckon?”
Frank paused, arranging his thoughts. “What about this: Timms, Regan and Grimes set up the smut business. They get Coyle to operate it for them—we know he’s a pimp, he arranges the girls. Jenkins, Worthing and Stokes are recruited. They’re photographed for the magazine.”
“And that’s how Grimes meets Worthing. Fine.”
“There’s a side-line in sex parties. The girls go to one and get hold of photographs Timms and Regan take in case they need to blackmail the guests. The girls realise they’re worth a lot of money. They try and sell them to Drake.”
“Jackie Field?”
“He knows Jenkins. We know he was a pimp, too—maybe he ran one of them. Maybe Coyle worked with him to get the girls. And then they roped him in to help sell the snaps.”
Charlie took over. “Timms and Regan find out. They can’t afford the attention the pictures would bring. The girls have to be kept quiet. They kill them. Field, too.”
“Grimes?”
Charlie thought about that.
Frank spoke first. “He double-crosses them. He’s dragged in with Worthing and her mates. Regan and Timms find out. So he has to go, too.”
They walked on. Charlie tried to wrap his mind around it. “Timms and Regan were on the Ripper enquiry. The first one.”
“We all were.”
“So they know the file—they stage the deaths to make it look like him. They know how he did it.”
Frank shook his head wryly.
“What?”
“It makes sense. Regan was there—when we took Johnson, he was there. We arrested him together. He shot Reginald Dudley and tried to do Johnson. Encouraged me do it when I stopped him.”
“Dudley could have alibi’d Johnson.”
“Exactly. So Regan plants the evidence.”
“And we hang Johnson. Very neat and tidy.” He paused, thinking. “Is it possible?”
The siren sounded. That long, up-and-down wailing. The band lost their concentration and the music petered out. Women fussed and walked briskly to the shelters, clasping their children’s hands and tugging them along. Blokes walked with a bit of a swagger, didn’t want to look frightened in front of their women.
“We might be able to do something ourselves,” Frank said. “Coyle said there was a place where they kept the smut. In the East End. We should take a look.”
“When?”
“When it’s dark.”
Charlie thought about it. There wasn’t much of a case: the word of a pimp and smut peddler against two decorated detectives. Rumours and supposition
. “We’ll never get a warrant.”
“No time for that anyway.”
“No.”
“I’ll pick you up. Be on the Embankment at ten.”
CHAPTER 61
CHARLIE WALKED BACK TOWARDS SCOTLAND YARD, thoughts swirling as he juggled the new information. Timms and Regan and Grimes, moonlighting as smut peddlers and pimps. Jenkins and Worthing and Stokes. Connections between them flickered, red lines joining them, the possibilities compelling but difficult to credit. Three coppers pushing pornography around London.
Prostitution.
Blackmail.
Murder.
Three dead brasses.
One dead detective.
Dusk was falling as he reached the Yard. He climbed the stairs, pausing at the door. Alf McCartney was in Charlie’s office. Charlie watched as Alf poked through papers on his desk.
He opened the door loudly.
“Charlie.”
“Sir. Can I help you?”
“Haven’t seen you for a while. Where have you been hiding?”
“More work than hours in the day.”
“Not even time for the Lodge? I’ve told you before: one needs regular contact with the Craft. I’ve seen good men fall into the darkness when they neglect their responsibilities.”
“Of course, sir. I know. I’m going tomorrow night.”
“Splendid. There’ll be a warm welcome for you.”
“You’re off the manor tonight—can I help?”
“You’ve re-opened the investigation into George’s death.”
How did he know that?
“New evidence has come to light,” he said.
McCartney kneaded his forehead roughly; Charlie noticed for the first time how tired he looked. “I’ll be honest with you, sport. I was disappointed when I heard. The West End has been a bloody jungle for the last twelve months; we had a shooting and three rapes last night and I’m trying to forget the hundreds of outstanding petty offences we’re never even going to be able to get to. I don’t remember the men ever being so busy, Vine Street is too small for us and morale is dreadful. The Commissioner is shouting down the telephone at me that the statistics are unacceptable, says he wants improvements in the clear-up rate or heads are going to roll. The last thing I need is my best detectives being distracted by an investigation that, as far as I’m concerned, was satisfactorily handled two years ago.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t agree. It wasn’t satisfactorily handled. Nothing was done after I was reassigned. There are a lot of questions that weren’t answered. They were brushed under the carpet.”
McCartney laughed wryly. “I’m sure Bert Regan will appreciate that assessment of his efforts.”
“Well, quite.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“No, that’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Charlie said he would.
McCartney left.
Charlie shut the door and put his back to it. He closed his eyes.
Alf McCartney went to the Lodge with Regan, Timms and Grimes.
He was the Master Mason.
CHAPTER 62
“COME ON. WAKE UP.”
Hands shook him.
“Wake up.”
A hard slap across the cheek.
He jerked awake.
He opened his eyes.
A light bulb had been lit.
Two men were in the room.
Rat-Face and the big man, the man who had cut him. The big man was leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. At his feet were two large jerry cans with funnelled spouts, the sort used to carry spare petrol in the boot of a car.
“You awake now?”
A revolver was laid out on the table.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Regan,” Rat-Face said. “That’s Timms.”
“What do you want?”
Regan knelt down in front of the chair and looked up at him. “You don’t learn, do you? We warned you enough. But you can’t take a hint.”
“I don’t—”
“You’re going to tell me everything you know about the doxies who got done in Soho. Jenkins, Worthing, Stokes. Everything.”
“Why?”
“I’m asking the questions today, my old cully. Don’t piss me off, alright? That wouldn’t be clever, given your circumstances. You’ll end up worse than your mate Jackie.”
“You killed him?”
“He thought he could muscle us out of Soho,” Timms said. “Wasn’t very clever.”
“He was very silly. We can’t have that, see, a pushy little toerag spiv with ideas above his station and no bloody respect.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Capital. Be good and we’ll get on fine. Now—everything you know. Out with it.”
His voice caught. “I don’t really know anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just what I’ve read. In the papers.”
“What were you doing around here last night?”
“I—I was following up a tip.”
“Yeah? What kind of tip?”
“Can’t say.”
“I see—Percy.”
The other man pushed himself off the wall. He picked up the jerrycan. He unscrewed the cap.
“This place is going up tonight,” Regan explained. “If you mess me around, you’ll be in it when it does.”
Henry looked at the jerrycan; his sphincter loosened.
“Last chance, sunshine.”
Henry couldn’t take his eyes off the can. His voice quivered: “I know what I read in the papers. I know the police think the same man killed them. The five from before and the three last weekend. The Ripper. That’s all—I don’t know anything else.”
“Right-ho. Fair enough.” He nodded to Timms; he hefted the jerrycan and upended it, pouring petrol over him. It sloshed over his head, his shoulders.
“Please. No. Please.”
It pooled in his lap, ran down his legs, into his shoes.
Timms leaned in close. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”
“No, I—”
“You don’t need to answer that. I know you are.”
“I’ll t-t-tell you.”
He took a book of matches from his pocket.
“Please.”
Henry swum with panic, distortions turning the room inside out, blurring and bending and hazing.
“Please.”
Regan lit the match.
“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!”
Regan let the match burn down to his fingertips and blew it out.
“Off you go then.”
“Jackie Field and Molly Jenkins were trying to sell me pictures. Viscount Asquith was at a party. He was intimate with Jenkins.”
“Did you see the pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any of them?”
“No. We were due to have another meeting but she was killed before we could.”
“This meeting—who was there?”
“Field, Jenkins and another bloke.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t give me his name.”
“Tall? Big fellow?”
“Very big.”
Regan looked over his shoulder at Timms and chuckled. “I knew it.”
“Cheeky bastard.”
“So you have the meeting, you see the photographs, what then?”
“I saw Asquith. He denied it.”
“Tell anyone else?”
“Not at work.”
“And?”
“I told the police yesterday. I saw a picture of the three girls together. I knew I was out of my depth. I panicked.”
A sudden gout of bile rushed up his gullet and he vomited, the hot fluid burning the back of his throat and nose and splattering over his legs.
“Jesus,” Regan said, springing back. Timms laughed. “Shut it, you bastard, he nearly got my bloody shoe
s.”
Henry spat out the last of the phlegm, long dribbled streamers that stuck to his chin.
“What a bloody mess.”
“Cost me a pretty penny, they did.”
Timms chuckled.
Regan crouched down again. “Finished?”
Henry nodded.
“Who did you see yesterday?”
“Frank Murphy.”
Regan stood and cracked his knuckles.
“Please, that’s all. Let me go.” He started to cry. “I won’t say anything.”
“What do you reckon?” Timms said.
“I reckon he’s telling the truth.”
“And?”
“Don’t reckon it makes a bit of difference.”
Timms picked up the open petrol can.
Henry tore against the ropes.
Regan took a second and unscrewed the top.
Henry yanked, tearing muscle.
They poured the contents across the room: on the furniture, on the magazines, on the floor.
He screamed.
Regan poured more petrol over him. “Can’t say you weren’t warned.”
The petrol ran into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He yanked and jerked.
“That ought to do it,” Timms said.
Regan took out the matches again.
CHAPTER 63
FRANK DROVE. Ten at night and the road was clear. He buried the pedal, touching sixty downhill, the engine whining. An army truck hauling an artillery piece pulled out of a side road as he sped along the Embankment; he swung the car into the other lane and overtook it, the driver thumping the horn as he arrowed past, the olive green quickly fading into a drab smudge in his mirrors. His eyes ached from lack of sleep and the cut on his forehead stung from where Butters had gashed him with the flask. No time to worry about either.
Charlie was waiting outside the Yard, stamping his feet against the chill.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Frank said as he pulled away again.
“I am.”
“But if we’re wrong?”
“We’re not wrong.”
No, Frank thought. They weren’t.
He turned in the road and headed East. He looked over to the passenger side. Charlie had set his face to the road and stared at it, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he ground his teeth. He was taking the bigger gamble here. If Coyle was lying, and they were wrong, and they got caught, they would both find trouble. They would both lose their jobs. Frank could handle that. Truth be told, he was probably ready for a change. It would be worse for Charlie.