The Black Mile (22 page)

 
42

CHARLIE’S LIST had ten hotels in the vicinity of
Trafalgar Square. He visited them in order, finding the manager of each and
asking whether they had a man by the name of Eddie Coyle on their staff.

 
The first on
the list was the Royal Arms: a four storey block, dowdy and down-at-heel. He
found the manager in the office behind the desk. He’d never heard of anyone
named Eddie Coyle. Charlie insisted that he pay a visit to the kitchen so that
he could eyeball the staff. The manager acceded wearily. The cook and his men
were busy, without even the time to give him the wary once-over he had come to
expect. Charlie took out the mugshot of Coyle and compared it, without finding
a match. He apologised for wasting the manager’s time and left the hotel.

 
The Triumph.

 
The Gables.

 
The
Continental Guest House.

 
The same story
in each.

 
The siren
went at six, and the streets thinned out. The bombers were overhead again ten
minutes later. Bombs started to fall, the rumble and crash of explosions
rattling windows and doors. Charlie stopped outside the National Gallery and
consulted the list. Half of the hotels had been crossed off. He hoped one of
the detectives was having better luck.

 
He kept
working.

 
The
Connaught.

 
The
International.

 
No luck at
either.

 
The Royalty:
a shabby two-storey red brick affair around the back of the Gallery, a pub on
both sides, the name a bad joke. Charlie went inside. It was getting late:
nine-thirty and the night manager was on the desk.

 
Charlie put
his Warrant Card on the counter and introduced himself. “Do you have a man by
the name of Eddie Coyle working here?”

 
“No-one of
that name.”

 
“He’d be in
the kitchens. Would you mind if I had a look?”

 
“I told you,
we don’t have an Eddie Coyle.”

 
“I’d just
like a look, sir. Won’t be five minutes.”

 
The manager
took him down. The kitchen was hot: steam pouring from open pans on the stoves,
industrial-sized grills and ovens blazing. Six staff: the chef, sous chef, two line
cooks and two pot boys. Charlie recalled Coyle’s mugshots; none of these men
had a beard, and if any had ginger hair it was hidden under hats and hair-nets.

 
The manager
shrugged. “See? No Eddie Coyle.”

 
A flash at
the sound of the name––the line cook looked up at him, then looked immediately
back down. Charlie glimpsed blue-ink on a forearm.

 
“Sir,” he
said to the man. “What’s your name?”

 
The man
didn’t look up.

 
“Sir?”

 
“Gordon,
answer him.”

 
The bloke
was surly: “Gordon Johns.”

 
No
beard––but he could’ve shaved it off.

 
“Roll up
your sleeves, please.”

 
“What?”

 
“Your
sleeves, sir. Roll them up.”

 
Coyle
sprang: he tossed a pot of boiling water at Charlie and went for a side door.
Charlie ducked the pot, vaulted the counter and went after him. A short
corridor, rooms off it, a flight of steps down to the street, Coyle halfway
down. Charlie took them two at a time, yelling for him to stop. Coyle kicked
the door and ran out, tripped over a dustbin, landed on his face. Charlie fell
onto him; he put a knee in his back, yanked his arms back and cuffed him. He
rolled up the sleeve of his food-smeared jacket: a blue-ink anchor.

 
Coyle
bellowed. Charlie’s hands shook as he read him his rights.

FRIDAY 13th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
43

AN EIGHT O’CLOCK PRESS CONFERENCE. Charlie stood at
the back of the room as the reporters filed in: hacks with notepads at the
ready, photographers toting cameras and unfolding tripods. More than thirty of
them, with the same number again pressing at the door. He scoured the room for
Henry Drake but there was no sign of him. The atmosphere was taut, the pressmen
jawing about rumours. The staff canteen had been cleared, with a desk set out
at one end of the room and ranks of chairs set out in front of it.

 
A side-door
opened and Tanner came through, grim-faced and severe. The pressmen gathered
behind their cameras, covering their lenses with their trilbies. One called
“hats off” and fired his flash. The room was lit by a bright burst of light and
a cloud of white smoke bloomed as the powder caught.

 
Tanner
waited for the smoke to clear. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I’m Detective
Chief Inspector William Tanner. You’ve been invited today so that we can ask
for your help following three murders that took place during the past week in
Soho. Formal identification has now taken place of the victims so we can tell
you now that they were Molly Jenkins, Constance Worthing and Annie Stokes. The
cases are being investigated by a team from Scotland Yard together with local
officers.”

 
A man stood
up. “Is it the Ripper?”

 
“Is he back
again?”

 
“Questions
at the end, gents.”

 
Charlie
pushed his way towards the exit.

 
Another
flashbulb popped; Tanner squinted into it, went on: “The body of Molly Jenkins
was found in Conduit Street at around six o’clock on Saturday morning. Constance
Worthing was found in her flat on Wardour Street at around eight o’clock on
Sunday morning. We believe she was murdered between ten o’clock on Saturday
evening and three o’clock on Sunday morning. A third body, that of Annie
Stokes, was found on Tuesday afternoon. A time of death has yet to be
established. An incident room has been set up here at Savile Row.
House-to-house enquiries have been carried out and are continuing in the Soho
area. We’d also like to thank members of the local community who’ve been quick
to come forward to assist. As part of the investigation, we’re appealing to
anyone who knew the victims to make themselves known to us.”

 
“People are
saying it’s the Germans. Care to comment?”

 
“Ridiculous.
Questions at the end, please. These murders are particularly callous crimes.
They are brutal attacks and all three victims suffered multiple knife wounds.
Whoever was responsible may have been covered in blood. If any of your readers
have suspicions about anyone––maybe a friend or member of the family has been
acting out of character or has appeared anxious over the past few days––they
should contact their nearest police station.”

 
Charlie
slipped outside and made his way to the Inquiry Room. Frank and Alf McCartney
were talking.

 
He
swallowed. “Sir.”

 
McCartney
clasped him on the shoulder. “Well done for yesterday, Charlie. Finding chummy
downstairs. Very good work. Where was he?”

 
“Working at
the Royalty Hotel.”

 
“And he made
a run for it.”

 
“I caught
him outside.”

 
“You have to
ask yourself why he’d do that.”

 
“It is
suspicious.”

 
“I’ve spoken
to Tanner,” Frank said to him. “I’m doing the interview.”

 
“Your technique
goes before you. But take Charlie with you, sport. Won’t hurt to have a couple
of you in there.” 

 
Frank turned
for the door. Charlie caught him rolling his eyes.

 
“Fine, sir.”

o         
o          o

THEY WENT DOWN TO THE CELLS TOGETHER. Charlie felt
awkward and he knew Frank was feeling the same way. He looked like a dog’s
dinner, his suit rumpled and his shirt dirty. They reached the reception space
outside the cells and Frank sat down, passing a hand over his face. He looked
done in.

 
“Are you
alright?”

 
“I’m fine.”

 
“You look––”

 
“I’m fine,
Charlie. We can be professional, but that’s it. Alright?”

 
“Fine. I––”

 
“Let’s just
get it over with.”

 
He took
Coyle’s C.R.O. file and started to flip through it.

 
An interview
room served all six cells, a two-way mirror set into the wall so that observers
in the corridor could watch the proceedings inside. A uniform Constable sat
guard. Charlie peered through the two-way. Coyle was waiting. The uniform
nodded in Coyle’s direction. “Might look the part, but he’s not fooling no-one.
Tries to give out the impression he’s not bothered but you know it’s all show.
Terrified, he is. Been smoking like it’s going out of fashion.”

 
Frank closed
the file and jabbed a finger at Charlie. “Right. I do the talking. You stand at
the back and shut your mouth. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

 
“Whatever
you want.”

 
He went inside;
Charlie followed. Coyle swivelled his neck around to get a look at them.

 
“Christ’s
sake, what happened to your boat?”

 
Frank moved
around behind him. Coyle stubbed out his cigarette in a full ashtray. He
fumbled another fag from the packet, fingers shaking. Frank stood there, saying
nothing, for a long minute. Coyle couldn’t take it––his fidgeting got worse.
“Come on, squire, what’s the game?” He started to stand.

 
“Sit down.”
Frank took off his jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it over the back of the
spare chair. His shirt was filthy, with dirty crescents beneath the arms. He
withdrew three mortuary photographs of a woman from the evidence folder and
laid them face up on the table. “Take a look at that, Eddie. Go on––give it a
good look. Recognise her?”

 
“It’s
Connie.”

 
Frank didn’t
reply, opened the folder again and took out a selection of crime scene
photographs. He laid them on the table until it was covered with stark
glossies: a woman’s body laid over the bed, cuts and slices across her skin,
blood everywhere. “What about her?”

 
“C-c-connie.”

 
Frank let
the atmosphere stew him for a moment. “Why’d you run, Eddie?”

 
“What?”

 
“You
scarpered yesterday. Why was that?”

 
“I was
scared, wasn’t I.”

 
“Of what?”

 
“You lot.
The police.”

 
“Why––have
you done something wrong?”

 
“No. You
must see it all the time, you coppers. Blokes like me, you see Old Bill and you
think the worst. And then that makes you think you’ve buggered it up somehow.”

 
“Guilty
conscience, you mean?”

 
“I don’t
have no guilty conscience.”

 
“So you
haven’t buggered up?”

 
“No, sir.”

 
“So why do
you think you’re here?”

 
“I don’t
know. You tell me.”

 
“Less of the
attitude, son. You’re in all kinds of trouble. Don’t make it worse by messing
us around.”

 
“I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

 
“Yes, you
do.”

 
“I’ve had my
share of problems with Old Bill. I thought, when your man over there showed up,
I thought I was getting done again.”

 
“You do have
form, don’t you? I’ve seen your record. A couple of breakings last year. An
assault the year before that. Rape. You’re used to these cosy little chats.
What you might call an occupational hazard for a toerag like you. Not something
that’d worry you all that much, I wouldn’t’ve thought. So why are your hands
shaking now, Eddie?”

 
“I’m not––
I’m––”

 
“But then
Constance got murdered. And we know you used to knock her about. And then you
run off when we turn up to talk to you? How’d you think that looks?”

 
“I didn’t do
nothing! Honest to God, I never bloody touched her.”

 
“It all
makes you look guilty, Eddie. Guilty as sin. We found yesterday’s newspaper at
your gaff––open at the page with the article about her being topped. Don’t
pretend you don’t know what’s happened. Why didn’t you come forward? You knew
bloody well we’d want to have a word.”

 
“I didn’t––”

 
“The fake
name at the hotel. Then you tried to run. You’ve got a great big guilty sign
around your neck.”

 
“I was
seeing Connie on the side, alright?”

 
“You’re
married?”

 
“Yes, and I
didn’t want my old lady to know. We’ve got two little ones. If she knew I had a
bit on the side she’d throw me out of the house.”

“You were worried your wife would find out you had
a bit on the side so you decided not to come forward when the girl you were
screwing got murdered? Come on, Eddie, you expect me to believe that? That’s
not nearly good enough.”

 
He turned to
Charlie: “I didn’t do nothing!”

 
“You’re
talking to me,” Frank bellowed. “Look at me.” Coyle did as he was told. “That’s
better. You didn’t used to beat her?”

 
“Who told
you that?”

 
“Yes or no?”

 
He pushed
himself out of the chair. “You’ve been talking to that little bitch, ain’t you?”

 
“Got a
temper, have you, Eddie?

 
“She’s a
nasty little whore, she is.”

 
“Fly off the
handle sometimes?”

 
“You don’t
want to pay no attention to what she says. She’s a lying little slut––always
had it in for me, ever since Connie found her.”

 
Frank
slammed his palms on the table. The ashtray jumped; Coyle jumped; Charlie
jumped. “Eddie––we know you used to hit her. Don’t play games with me, son,
alright? I’m not in the bloody mood.”

 
Coyle choked
smoke, dragged in more, his hand quivering. “Alright. Once or twice. She had a
way about her. If I’d had a skinful sometimes she’d start nagging me and I’d
have to give her a quick straightener, nothing serious, just remind her who’s
boss.”

 
“When she
deserved it?”

 
“Exactly.”
He grinned, nervously, yellow teeth; all boys together. “You know what birds
can be like, squire. They get under the skin, don’t they?” 

 
Frank struck
him across the cheek with a stiff right. Coyle swung against the side of his
seat, the lit fag flying out of his mouth. “Like that?” He hit him again with a
left hook, knocking him back the other way, a streamer of bloody spit flung out
of his mouth. “Or like that?”

 
Charlie took
a step towards the table; Frank glared at him, froze him where he was.

 
“Jesus,”
Coyle was whimpering.

 
Frank placed
both hands on the table and leaned in close. “Listen to me very carefully, you
nasty little shit. I’m going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer
them. If you make me think you’re lying, just for one second, I’m going to come
down on you so hard you won’t know what day of the bloody week it is. I’ll
charge you with whatever I can think of that’ll send you down for the longest
time. If you’re not swinging before spring’s out you’ll be in stir until
nineteen-bloody-eighty. That clear enough for you?”

 
He didn’t
answer, whimpering quietly to himself.

 
“Is that
clear enough?”

 
He wiped
away trailers of spit. “I didn’t do nothing.”

 
“Then you’d
better start persuading me. How’d you meet her?”

 
“At the
Trocadero Brasserie.”

 
“Go on.”

 
“I was out
for a bit of a drink and a bit of quim, and I saw her and said hello. She said
she was there to meet a fellow she knew but he’d stood her up. I bought her a
drink and got her chatting. She let me buy her dinner. I was a bit drunk and I
don’t suppose I was feeling all that particular.”

 
“Then what?”

 
“Not much.
We’ve been seeing each other two or three times a week. Relaxed, like. Nothing
formal.”

 
“For how
long?”

 
“Couple of
months. But it wasn’t serious––we weren’t going steady or nothing like that.
We’d meet and have dinner in Soho then go back to her flat––she rented a drum
on Wardour Street. I was getting a bit bored with it all, to be honest.
Thinking of knocking the whole thing on the head.”

 
“She let you
screw her?”

 
“After about
two weeks of asking. But she had to be in the mood, see? Normally it was ‘I’m
too tired’ or some other nonsense excuse.”

 
“And that
bothered you.”

 
“Too bloody
right, it did. It’s a man’s right, ain’t it, conjugal relations with his bird.”