by Mark Dawson
Spitalfields. Frank drove slowly, the car bumping over the cobbles.
He followed the warren of streets, deeper and deeper.
“Here.”
He killed the engine and parked next to an Austin in the mouth of an alleyway.
A row of warehouses were grouped in the railway arches. Orange light glowed beneath one of the doors.
Frank stared: oranges and reds, flickering.
They were too late.
“It’s on fire.”
The doors opened.
A wall of smoke poured out.
Two men emerged from the smoke: one tall and bulky, one smaller.
Frank charged and tackled Timms to the cobbles, his arms slipping down to his ankles as he struggled. Timms managed to turn over and laid out a big right-hander; Frank took the wallop over the eye and lost his grip. Timms tried to get his feet underneath him. Frank threw himself onto him again, looping his arms around his torso and hugging tight. They both went down. Regan jumped over the mêlée, started to run—Charlie went after him.
The fire roared, waves of heat throbbing.
Timms was as strong as an ox. Frank could feel his bunched muscles through his clothes, solid, hard. He bucked beneath him, twisting his trunk around so that their positions were reversed and he was on top, scraping Frank’s crown against ground. He hung on for dear life, trying to link his fingers but Timms’ shoulders were too broad. Timms grunted with exertion, rolling them over again and managing to ride around so that he was on top, his knee pressed onto Frank’s breastbone. He punched down with right-handers, each new blow juddering Frank’s vision, black gathering at the periphery. Another punch, and another. Timms got up, laying a final kick into Frank’s ribs.
The darkness swelled.
The tethers loosened; Frank started to drift.
“Help!”
Frank opened his eyes.
“Help!”
He spat blood, pushed himself onto his hands and knees.
Shouts from inside the burning warehouse.
He clambered to his feet, the ground swinging. The fire was taking hold, flames curling up the walls and curling across the ceiling, fed by stacks of paper. Frank tripped forwards; Drake was tied to a chair, his clothes on fire. He lurched, drunk from the heat and the punches to the head. He took him by the shoulders, dragged him and the chair outside. He took off his jacket and smothered his legs.
“You’re alright. It’s over.”
Drake stank of petrol. His face was caked with soot. His hair was singed. His clothes were blackened rags.
Frank rolled over and stared up into the night. Burning, lit squares of paper spun as they rose on hot zephyrs above the buildings; black ash fell like snow all around him.
CHAPTER 64
ALBERT REGAN PUNCHED CHARLIE HARD. He fell to one knee, his glasses smashing against his brow. He got into the parked car and spun the wheels as he pulled away, leaving rubber on the tarmacadam and scraping his bumper into the back of Frank’s Austin. Charlie started the engine and stamped on the pedal. The car sprang forward as the tyres bit.
Regan skidded around the corner and then spun hard right into Quaker Street. Charlie followed fifty yards behind, the speedo showing forty-five, edging up to fifty. They were near the Goods Yard and the street was busy with workers. A dray from Truman’s brewery pulled out in front of Regan’s car. He swerved, carooming off the side of the wagon and ploughing into the wall on the opposite side of the road. Charlie slammed on the brakes, the driver of the dray shaking his fist as his terrified horse dragged the cart onto the pavement. The horse whinnied and pranced, a barrel rolling off the back and smashing open. Ale splashed across the cobbles. Regan got out, Charlie sprinting after him, north, heading up the ramp into the Yard.
Charlie gasped, the cold air burning down his throat and into his lungs. Regan must have been in his late-forties but he could still shift. Charlie blew hard, sweat stinging his eyes and blood running freely from his nose. His breath started to come in rapid wheezes and pressure grew in his chest; he knew the symptoms, his bloody asthma again.
They reached the top of the ramp: the Yard spread out, half a dozen platforms and a dozen tracks jammed with wagons and locomotives. Hydraulic lifts and cranes swept overhead, workers fussing at the cargo in the dim moonlight. A prime Nazi target—Charlie thought of Savile Row and bombs and put it out of mind. Regan sprinted between tracks, passing a wagon filled with fruit, another ripe with fish.
“Stop!” Charlie shouted between breaths. “It’s over, Bert.”
Regan didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn his head, just ploughed onwards, head down, full pelt. Charlie clawed sweat out of his eyes.
He realised, suddenly, awfully: he was unarmed. Would Regan have a weapon? A gun. Seemed more likely than not.
Regan caught his foot on a loose sleeper and pitched forwards. Charlie launched himself, his hands slapping around Regan’s waist and slipping down his legs. They bounced onto the track. Regan got up first, ran for a fence. He launched himself, trying to find a foothold. He slipped, scrabbled up again, slipped, gave up.
“Come on, Bert. Stop. It’s pointless. Everyone in the Force will be looking for you now. We know what you’ve done. It’s finished.”
Regan sneered at him. “I never did like you,” he said, slowly walking towards him. “Officious little bastard.”
“Come on, Bert.” Charlie backed up, Regan came on. “You’re in enough trouble. You don’t need any more.”
Regan reached into his jacket and pulled out a flick-knife.
He sprung the blade.
Charlie froze.
Regan rushed him.
Charlie blocked the first thrust with his left arm, the edge of the blade slicing against his wrist. Pain jagged, he caught Regan’s forearm in both hands, barging against him. The jarring impact staggered Regan and he tripped and fell backwards, dropping the knife. Charlie landed on top of him, got his forearm lodged beneath his chin and pushed. He pressed down against his windpipe, his knees and the toes of his shoes skidding in the loose gravel. Regan choked and Charlie pushed harder. Regan wriggled enough to free his arm and landed a punch on the side of Charlie’s head. He fell off him. Regan rolled for the knife.
He came forward on his knees, the metal glinting.
Charlie fumbled across the ground, his fingers scrabbling.
Regan passed the knife from hand to hand.
Charlie grasped at a half-brick.
Regan stabbed.
Charlie blocked his arm again and swung the brick. It caught Regan flush on the jaw. He crumpled onto his side. Spark-o.
Charlie fell forwards, his elbows in the shingle, and tried to find his breath. His hands were shaking. Regan lay on his back, blood running from his head, his eyes staring. Charlie took out his handcuffs and shackled his wrists together behind his back.
CHAPTER 65
FRANK WATCHED THE AUXILLARY FIREMEN wind the hose back onto its spool. They’d arrived in a taxicab, the trailer pump towed behind. There was a temporary reservoir around the corner and the men had drained it; the blaze was doused, steam and smoke issuing into the darkness, embers sizzling. Drake had gone inside, splashing through ankle-deep water, scavenging whatever he could find.
A police car from Bethnal Green had arrived before the tender, alerted by the smoke and flames. Frank in the passenger seat, his ribs aching. He checked his reflection in the mirror: a cut above his eye from where Timms had biffed him, the cut just starting to scab over, a smudge of blood in his scalp. The bastard had caught him with a proper fourpenny one. He had a right-hand like Joe bloody Louis. He was still a little fuzzy and his ribs hurt every time he drew breath; probably had a couple of broken ones from where Percy had given him a shoeing. It wouldn’t have happened ten years ago. Frank would’ve been able to take him. But Timms was fitter and Frank wasn’t a young man anymore.
Timms had decked him and run for it. Frank had started to give chase, but heard a scream from inside
the burning arch: a man, tied amidst the flames. It was Drake. Frank had had no choice but to let Timms go so he could get the hack out. There was no sign of Timms now. He had lost him.
Drake came over. “It’s almost all ruined. Either burnt or soaked. Useless all the same.”
Frank settled back, adjusting to reduce the weight against his ribs.
The driver of the police car approached.
“The fire’s out. The lads are off.”
“Very good.”
“Are you alright, Inspector?”
“I’m too old for this.”
“Are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital?”
“No thanks,” Frank said. “But I’d appreciate you radioing the Yard again.”
“Of course, sir.” The man picked up the handset and clicked the unit to send. “This is Detective Constable Harry Fredericks, 430 C, calling the Operation Room. Come in, Operation Room.”
The reply, heavy with static, crackled out of the receiver. “This is Scotland Yard. Go ahead, officer.”
“Anything on Percy Timms?”
“Negative. His wife says he’s not been home all night. A man’s been left there and an all-stations teletype has been sent but there’s nothing yet.”
“That’s the problem,” Frank said, half to himself. “He’ll know how to stay out of sight. It’s going to be impossible finding him.”
“The other one?” Drake said.
“What about Detective Sergeant Regan?”
“Just a minute, officer. I might have something on that.”
Frank regarded Drake. He looked disconsolate. Wasn’t difficult to work out why: the story he’d been chasing had been in the warehouse. All that was left of it now was sodden ash. Up in smoke.
The radio crackled again.
“D.C. Fredericks, this is Scotland Yard.”
“Go ahead.”
“D.S. Regan’s been apprehended.”
Frank swiped the handset.
“This is D.I. Frank Murphy.”
“Your brother has him, sir.”
“Tell him he’s not to go to West End Central. He’s not, under any circumstances, to take him to Vine Street. Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ve just spoken to him. He’s taking Regan straight to the Yard.”
o o o
FRANK WATCHED AS CHARLIE STEPPED DOWN from the back of the Black Maria, helping a cuffed Albert Regan negotiate the drop to the ground. Charlie’s left wrist was wrapped in a bloody bandage and Regan had a mottled bruise on the side of his head. Two uniformed men took the prisoner by the elbows and led him down to the cells.
Charlie saw Frank.
“Timms?”
“Got the better of me.”
“Who’s this?”
“Henry Drake. They had him tied up in the warehouse. Thought I better bring him here. It’s safe for him otherwise.”
Drake was white; the seriousness of his situation had dawned on him on the drive over.
“Doesn’t matter about Timms,” Charlie said. “We’ll find him.”
“You alright?”
“Just a scratch. I’ll live.”
“What happened?”
“He came at me with a knife. I managed to get my licks in first.”
Frank couldn’t help the smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.”
They went inside.
“You trump me on this, Charlie,” Frank said. “Two bent detectives—that’s your field. As far as I’m concerned, if you want Regan, he’s yours.”
“I do.”
CHAPTER 66
MONDAY, 10th FEBRUARY 1941
CHARLIE SAT DOWN FACING ALBERT REGAN.
“Where’s Timms?”
Regan’s face was a mess. One eye swollen shut; a smashed nose—both nostrils sutured. “I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“I told you, Murphy, I don’t know.”
“He’s your partner.”
“And I’ve got no idea where he is. You’re the boy genius. You tell me.”
Regan glared: grizzled, experienced, a hard man in a hard business. Charlie had heard the war stories at the Lodge, the faces he’d nicked and the scrapes he’d gotten into. And he was doing this when Charlie was still in short trousers. He tried to put it all out of his mind.
“Want to tell me what you two have been up to?”
“No thanks.”
“That smut must be worth a fortune.”
“What smut?”
“You know.”
“And I told you smut’s not my bag.”
“Come on, Bert. We’ve got you, both of you. You’ve been making and selling pornography. Open and shut as far as you’re concerned. Attempted murder on the newsman, plus who-the-Hell-knows what else. You’re finished—you know it and I know it. I’m not messing around. Come clean now and it’ll be easier in the long run.”
“No comment.”
“Who else is in it with you?”
“No comment.”
“Because I don’t think it was just the two of you.”
“Is that a question?”
“Fine. Your scheme—who else was involved?”
“No comment.”
Charlie’s chest was tight with tension. Frank was outside, watching, and, after everything, he still felt the need to impress him. “We know how it worked. You’ve got a list of clients, all of them fancy the odd dirty book now and again. Eddie Coyle arranges the girls with Jackie Field. Gregory Butters shoots them and prints the books. You, Percy and whoever else is on this with you coin it in. That about the size of it?”
“No comment.”
“Drake gets too close and you decide he has to go.”
“Drake?”
Regan was playing a straight bat and playing it well. Years of experience on the other side of the table. Charlie changed tack. “It wasn’t just smut, though, was it? You were pimping them too.”
“What?”
“Eddie explained. How did it work? A punter fancied meeting one of the girls he’d seen in a magazine and you set it up?”
“Look, Murphy, I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears cadet you can buff your reputation with. You can ask me your questions a hundred times, a hundred different ways, it won’t make any difference. I was there this morning to investigate a break-in. All this other nonsense—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He thought of his brother again, waiting outside. How would he play this?
“Let’s talk about the dead girls.”
“Dead girls?”
“Molly Jenkins. Constance Worthing. Annie Stokes.”
“That was the Ripper.”
“They worked for you, didn’t they? Modelled for you?”
Charlie noticed Regan was picking his nails; he put his hands in his lap. “No comment.”
“I know they did, Bert. I’ve seen the pictures of them together. In the books. What happened? They put the black on you?”
“No comment.”
“It’s the only thing I can think of. They must have been threatening to shop you. They wanted money or else they’d drop you in it.”
“No comment.”
“Or go to the papers?”
“No comment.”
“It doesn’t really matter, the thing is they put you in a tight spot and you and Percy decided they had to go.”
“No comment.”
Press it home. “And it was clever, I’ll give you that. Putting it on Duncan Johnson. You were both on the Ripper enquiry—you knew he was a strong suspect, so you set him up and led us right to him. Fitted him up with the girls’ ration books. Gave him to us on a plate.”
The words suddenly flowed, quickly, his taciturnity swept aside. “You want to ask your brother about Johnson. He had him pegged for the brasses right from the start. Turns out he was right. And it was you who shot Johnson, wasn’t it? So I should be thanking you, right? I mean, if that’s what you’re saying. And let me give
you a little advice. Have you thought about what this is going to do to your reputation? Shooting him made you a hero. Got you your medal, your promotion. You start making noises that Johnson didn’t do it, people are going to start talking about how you might have shot an innocent man. Not very clever. Won’t look good on your record. The press might get hold of it, and they can turn on you like that.” He tried to click his fingers but his hands were slick with sweat and they slid against each other helplessly. “You ask me, you’d be better letting sleeping dogs lie.”
“Did I touch a nerve? You look nervous.”
“Piss off.”
“What about George Grimes?”
“George is involved in this fantasy, too?”
“What happened?”
“He killed himself.”
“But he didn’t though, did he? You shot him.”
“Please.”
“Did he decide he’d had enough?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know he was involved. Him and other men from West End Central.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“The girls put it on you. You decided they were going to have to die. But George didn’t want anything to do with it. We know, Bert, see? We know he was seeing Constance Worthing.”
Regan’s cheek twitched. “I don’t know anything about George’s private life.”
“Was he was working with them? Extorting you and Percy?”
“No comment.”
“You were at his house.”
“So were you.”
Charlie tried to remember what had happened that night. “I called the Yard after midnight. What time did you and Timms get there?”
“It was last year. I have no idea.”
“No, no, doesn’t matter—it’ll be in my notebook. I remember thinking it was strange: you two there only just after the Hackney lads turned up. Couldn’t’ve been more than five minutes later. How’d you manage that, get over from the West End so quickly?”
“We were on late turn. It was in the middle of the black-out. There was no traffic.”