The Black Mile (17 page)

 
34

FRANK WOKE UP IN HIS SECTION HOUSE BED. He went
down to the public baths on Marshall Street to wash and shave. He thought about
Drake. There were questions he hadn’t answered. Too many coincidences for him
to be a complete innocent.

 
He’d gone
out into the West End last night, spent a couple of hours walking the streets
around Piccadilly Circus, holding up three different photographs: Molly
Jenkins, Constance Worthing, Eve. A couple of the brasses thought they
recognised Worthing, but none of them placed Molly or Eve and none of them had
much appetite for talking to him. The bombs started to come down after
midnight, one blast from the direction of Liberty smashing windows in
Glasshouse Street. The girls thinned out fast after that. Another one around
Haymarket underlined the danger and cleared the streets completely, Hitler
doing in ten minutes what the Vice Squad had failed to do in years. Frank would
have stayed out, but there was no point.

 
He was
hungry. He stopped at the Corner House on Coventry Street for the 1s 6d
breakfast: porridge, bacon and fried bread, dry toast and marmalade, a pot of
tea. He paid the waitress and walked across to the nick. A newsagent’s placard
announced the latest RAF victories––‘TEN DOWN FOR ONE’––like it was a cricket
score. It didn’t much feel like they were winning. White plumes of smoke were
still pouring into the sky from the bombs that had landed in Soho and the
Eastern horizon still flickered with flame.

 
He made his
way to Savile Row and picked up the telephone. He dialled.

 
“Hello?”
Julia said.

 
“Alright,
love. It’s me. Are you alright?”

 
“I can
barely keep my eyes open.”

 
“Long
night?”

 
“Spent it in
the Anderson.”

 
He’d gone
over and dug it into the garden two weeks ago. A three-foot trench with the
spoil shovelled over the roof. “How was it?”

 
“Cold and
wet, but I’d rather be there than in the house. The window in the spare room
was blown in.”

 
“I’ll fix
it.”

 
He wondered
how to say it.

 
“What are
you doing?” she said, filling the silence.

 
“Working.”

 
She picked
up on the catch in his voice. “What is it?”

 
“I don’t
want you to worry but there’s likely to be something in the papers about two
dead girls we’ve found in Soho.” A sharp intake of breath on the line. “There’s
no need to panic, love.”    

 
“You said
he’d stopped.”

 
“I’ve been
out every night and there’s no sign of her. If she’s in the West End, I’d know
about it. I just don’t want you to read it and think the worst. I don’t want
you to worry.”

 
“How can I
not worry, Frank?”

 
“I know.”

 
“They were
murdered, these girls?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“Do you––”

 
“Yes. It’s
the same as before.”

 
“Goodness.”

 
“But Eve
isn’t in Soho. She can’t be. I’ve been out every night for the last week. And
I’ll be out again tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that, until
I find her.”

 
“And you’ve
heard nothing?”

 
“No.”

 
“Then where
is she, Frank?”

 
“I don’t
know, dear.”

 
“You said
you’d find her. You promised.”

 
“I will.”

 
He said
goodbye and replaced the receiver.

 
Tanner and
Peters were in the mess.

 
“Morning,
Frank,” Peters said.

 
Tanner gave
him a sheaf of papers. “Spilsbury’s P.M. for Worthing.”

 
He read it
as the men filed in. Spilsbury pegged the cause of death as strangulation. The
tiny haemorrhages in the white of the eyes, in the gums, the scalp and upper
eyelids, in the lining membrane of the larynx, the engorgement of the tonsils
and of the glands in the neck and the abrasions in the front of the neck.

 
Frank read
aloud: “The first act was that of strangulation which was continued until the
deceased choked to death. Her face and throat were then cut in the position in
which she was found with her head hanging over the side of the bed.”

 
“Just like
the others,” Peters said.

 
“I spoke to
Spilsbury last night,” Tanner said. “He’s certain it’s him.”

 
“Has to be,”
Peters said.

 
Frank
flicked through the P.M.

 
“Frank?”
Tanner said.

 
He kept
thinking about Drake. “Yes.”

 
Twenty men
sat down, waiting for the briefing.

 
Tanner
cleared his throat. “You all know about Constance Worthing. That’s two girls in
three days. Wherever our man has been, he’s come back with his appetite intact.
The longer it takes us to catch him, the more women are going to get killed.”

 
Frank stood.
“This is where we stand. Spilsbury’s P.M. confirms the cause of death as
asphysixia due to strangulation by hand, the same as for Jenkins. A neighbour
of the dead girl, an Ivy Cecilia Poole, identified the body at 6.45pm yesterday.
She says she went to her room at about 10.35 p.m. and remained there until she
switched on the wire-less and heard the news broadcast. So that’d be at 11.
Some minutes later, she heard the front door. She opened her door and saw the
victim and a man coming upstairs. She says she heard talking voices and
wire-less music coming from Worthing’s room until she retired just after 12.
The body was then found by a Henry Drake.”

 
“The bloke
from the papers? 

 
“He says he
had an appointment to interview her. I’m not sure I believe him. I had him in
overnight. He doesn’t have an alibi for when she was killed. Or Molly Jenkins,
either, for that matter.”

 
“He’s a
suspect?” one of the D.C.s asked.

 
Frank
thought about that. Did he think Drake was a suspect? He didn’t look
likely––didn’t look like he had that kind of rage in him, but then, who knew?
Being involved with Jenkins and Worthing made him interesting, at least. “He
needs to be investigated,” he decided. “There’s something not right about him
and I can’t put my finger on it. Dig around a little, see what you can find.”

 
“Right you
are, guv.”

 
Frank picked
up his notes. “Leonard Stanley Nash, an Estate Agent of 181 Tottenham Court
Road, says he knew Worthing from 1936. Early in April 1938 he let her the front
room on the first floor at 153 Wardour Street at a rent of 22/6d a week. He
last saw her alive on 5/9/40. Canvassing of known prostitutes in the West End
has produced not much. Ann Carew of 2 Lisle Street said she knew Worthing for
the past five years and had up until a month ago seen her soliciting, the last
occasion being about 11 p.m. on 25/8/40 outside the Monico Restaurant,
Piccadilly. Gladys Barten of No. 2 Stourcliffe Close said that she knew
Worthing for the past five years and that she was a brass. Mona Hill said that
she knew she was a prostitute. She last saw her late in June outside the Monico
Restaurant, Piccadilly. And that, at the moment, is that. Check around the
areas I’ve named, pull your usual snouts. I’ll update the notice board with
fresh leads when we get them, so keep an eye on that.”

 
“Are we
going to the press with this, guv?”

 
“When we
know a bit more,” Tanner said.

 
“And we’ll
link these two with the ones before?”

 
“Yes. We’re
going to need the papers on side for this.”

 
“There’ll be
a right brouhaha.”

 
“We’ll ask
them to report it responsibly.”

 
“Any
questions?”

 
One of the D.C.s
stuck up a hand. “I might have something, guv. Uniform found a young brass last
night. She’s downstairs. Picked her up on Piccadilly. Says she knows the dead
girl.”

 
“What’s her
name?” Frank said.

 
He checked
his notebook. “Edith Sampson.”

 
“Which girl
does she know?”

 
“Worthing.”

o         
o          o

FRANK WENT DOWN TO THE INTERROGATION ROOMS. The
girl was waiting. It wasn’t Eve. Couldn’t have been much more than thirteen or
fourteen but she was trying to look older, make-up plastered over her face and
decked out in a tart’s get-up. She glared at Frank, defiant. The tough girl act
didn’t work––the interrogation room made her look like the little waif she was,
her feet swinging off the chair, toes just skimming the floor. She was all fear
and uncertainty, nervous eyes and fingers fretting with the hem of her dress.
Two ways to play the interview: be a right bastard, scare the shit out of her
until she blabbed; or be the father figure, reassure her, earn her trust. He
didn’t have the heart to be a bastard; her tough exterior looked brittle and he
guessed that raising his voice would shatter it.

 
“I’m
detective Inspector Murphy, love. You can call me Frank, if you like.”

 
“I––I––”

 
Her eyes
were fixed on his burns. “Don’t worry about these. Burns from the last war.
Look worse than they really are. Now, before we get started, I don’t want you
to worry––you’re not in any trouble. You understand that, don’t you?”

 
She nodded.

 
“What’s your
name?”

 
“Edith.”

 
“And your
second name?”

 
“Sampson.”

 
“Right-ho,
Edith. Let’s have a quick look at your Registration Card.”

 
She shook
her head. “I ain’t got one.”

 
Frank tutted
theatrically. “I see. How about you give me your parents’ address.”

 
“They’re
dead.” She struggled to control the worry that was all over her face. “Are you
going to send me back?”

 
“Back where,
love?”

 
“Ipswich. I
don’t want to go.”

 
“What were
you doing in Ipswich?”

 
“They told
me to go there.”

 
“That’s
where you were evacuated to?”

 
“This farm.
He’s a drunk and he hits me.”

 
“We can have
a word with the council about that. How old are you?”

 
She fussed
with her hair anxiously. “Sixteen.”

 
An obvious
lie; Frank played along. “Well, sweetheart, if you’re sixteen, you might not
have to go back. We might be able to arrange something for you in a hostel. We
can sort that out afterwards. But first you need to help us. You need to be
truthful. Do you understand?” She nodded. “That’s grand. You know this is all
about the woman who was found in the flat in Wardour Street today, don’t you?”

 
She blinked
back tears.

 
Frank placed
a photograph of Worthing on the table. She turned the picture to face her,
looked at it, tears rolling down her cheeks. Frank handed her his handkerchief.
“That’s her. You knew her, didn’t you? You told the other policemen you
recognised her?”

 
She nodded.

 
“Say yes or
no, please, love.”

 
“Yes.”

 
“Do you know
her name?”

 
“Connie.”

 
“Have you
known her for long?”

 
“Ever since
I came back to London. I met her the first week I was here.”

 
“And when
was that?”

 
“Six months
ago,” she said, wiping away the tears.

 
“And you
were good pals, were you?”

 
She tried to
speak, the words mangled by sobs.

 
“It’s
alright, sweetheart.” Frank stroked her hand. “You’re doing really well. Tell
me about you and Connie.”

 
“She used to
look after me. I stayed at her flat sometimes, when her boy-friend wasn’t
there. She’d cook me hot meals and let me have a bath. She didn’t like me
sleeping on the street. She gave me money for meals if business was slow. She
was kind to me.”

 
“Was she a
prostitute?”

 
“Uh-huh.
Sorry, I mean yes.”

 
“Did she
always work on the street?”

 
“She weren’t
no streetwalker. I hardly never saw her working like that.”

 
The lingo
was wrong in her mouth. “When was the last time you saw her?”

 
She choked
more sobs. “Friday night.”

 
“Where?”

 
“In the
‘Dilly. It was eleven or a half past. I was on Great Windmill Street. I’d been
out since the black-out and she turned up just as I was about to call it a
night. There was no punters around and I was bleedin’ freezing. She said she’d buy
me a cup of coffee so we went to the All Night Café.”

 
“How was
she?”