The Black Mile (35 page)
67
THE CELLS AT SCOTLAND YARD were in the basement.
Frank rang the bell on the custody Sergeant’s desk.
“Alright, Frank. Who do you
want?”
“Coyle.”
“Coyle?”
“Eddie
Coyle. Been here since last night. I brought him in.”
“I’m sorry,
guv, can’t help you. Says here he’s been let out.”
“By who?”
He referred
to the Custody Book. “Odd.”
“What is?”
“It was a
couple of hours ago, before I came on shift. Doesn’t say who it was.”
o
o o
FRANK TURNED OFF BRICK LANE and parked the car a
half-dozen doors down from the entrance to Eddie Coyle’s building. It was just
after two in the afternoon and Coyle’s black-outs were still drawn. He wound
down the window, letting cold air freshen the stuffy interior. His hands ached
from clenching, his ribs throbbed, his insides roiled.
He thought
around the situation, tried to think like Regan and Timms. They had been at the
warehouse this morning to clear it out, get rid of anything that might tie the
smut to them. Magazines, pictures, Drake: all of it needed to be burnt.
They were
snipping loose ends.
Eddie Coyle
was a loose end.
They’d know
he was likely to put the bubble in, and him doing a Royal would be it for them.
They wouldn’t be able to get at him in the cells. So they arranged for
him to be released.
They were
desperate and ruthless:
The three
girls.
Duncan
Johnson.
Reginald
Dudley.
The
youngster they’d been fiddling with.
George
Grimes.
All dead.
They had no problem killing.
They’d want
to shut Coyle up. It was worth a few hours of his time.
His mind
flickered back to the evening’s fun and games. Charlie had been good. And where
Frank had let Timms get one over on him, Charlie had nailed Regan and brought
him in: a hard man who wouldn’t have thought twice about shivving him if it
meant he could stay out. Charlie had always had the brains, but now he’d added
a little steel. He wasn’t the weak sister anymore.
He spotted
Coyle just after three. Shifty, eyes flicking up and down the street, his
collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled down. Frank slid further in his
seat and Coyle didn’t make him. He shuffled down the street, stopped in front
of the door and fumbled in his overcoat for the key. He checked up and down
again, unlocked the door and went inside.
Frank waited
half a minute. He got out, went around to the back of the car, opened the boot
and pulled away the blanket covering his shotgun. He’d confiscated it from a
fence years ago and kept it there, just in case. He’d never had need for
artillery, not until now. He cracked it open and thumbed in two shells. He
closed the boot and walked quickly up the street to the door to Coyle’s
building. It was ajar. He nudged it open with the barrel and, slipping his
finger through the trigger guard, went inside.
A sound like
a firecracker.
Gunshot.
Too
late––Timms was waiting for Coyle?
It was dark.
Frank remembered the lay-out: stairs up to a landing, the door to Coyle’s rooms
the second on the left. He crept across the landing, praying for silence, the
floorboards squeaking anyway.
He raised
the shotgun.
He paused at
the door, put his ear to it.
“It’s done,
sir––You were right, he came straight here––I was waiting for him––Doesn’t
matter now, he’s not saying anything––What about Bert––Are you sure––I
understand.”
No
replies––Timms was on the telephone.
The receiver
rattled back in its cradle.
Steps
walking towards the corridor.
Frank held
the shotgun tight, the stock beneath his armpit and his finger on the trigger.
He crept backwards, into the darkness, the barrel covering the door.
The door
opened.
“Hands up,
Percy.”
Timms spun
towards his voice, raised the pistol, fired it.
The slug
missed Frank by inches and tore into the ceiling.
Frank pulled
the trigger.
Less than
five yards. He couldn’t miss.
Timms ate
buckshot, the pellets taking off his arm at the elbow. He spun around, blood
spraying from the frayed meat stub dangling from his lacerated jacket. Frank
fired again, Timms hitting the wall and tearing down the black-out across the
window.
Frank
checked inside: Coyle dead on the floor, a slug between the eyes. Cardboard
boxes had been stacked in untidy piles. One had fallen down where Coyle had
grabbed at it, spilling dirty magazines across his body. Gobbets of claret
splattered the smut.
He picked up
the receiver.
“Operator.”
“My name is
Detective Inspector Frank Murphy. I need the details of the call that was just
made from this telephone. It’s urgent.”
“One minute,
sir.”
Frank
breathed out, trying to slow his heart.
Two more
dead men.
RIP Eddie
Coyle, spared a life in chokey.
RIP Percy
Timms, spared the eight o’clock walk.
“Hello, sir.
I have a number for you.”
She read it
out.
Frank copied
it down.
Frank
dialled it.
“Hello?”
Frank’s
heart stopped.
“Hello?”
Oh no.
“Who is
this?”
No.
“Percy? What’s
going on?”
Frank put
the receiver down.
He thought
of Regan.
He thought
of Charlie.
Loose ends.
Oh, God.
He felt
sick.
He draped
his jacket over the warm shotgun and sprinted to his motor.
68
CHARLIE WENT FOR A WALK TO CLEAR HIS MIND. The
Embankment was busy, with civilian and military traffic crawling slowly. He
paused at his favourite spot next to Cleopatra’s Needle, sat down and thought.
Alf McCartney had called in sick this morning; no-one had seen him at Vine
Street since yesterday. Charlie tried to telephone his home number but just got
static; the operator said the line was down, bomb damage, wouldn’t be fixed
until tomorrow.
McCartney,
Regan, Timms, Grimes.
He couldn’t
get them out of his head.
He tried to
think of alternatives, but nothing was as compelling.
He had to
speak to Alf.
When he
returned to the Yard to collect his keys there was a note on his desk:
REGAN WANTS
TO TALK.
He screwed
it up, tossed it in the bin and went back again down to the cells. Regan knew
how things worked, and he would know there was no point in spinning a story
that would fall apart at the slightest investigation. If he wanted to save his
neck, he’d have to offer something worthwhile. Something dynamite. And what was
the harm in listening?
Regan was
pacing. Charlie unlocked the door and went
inside.
“You’ve
changed your tune.”
“What are
you doing here?”
“You wanted
to talk?”
“You what?”
“Don’t mess
me around––I don’t have time for games. Give me something useful and I’ll see
what I can do for you.”
“Weren’t you
listening before? You’re wasting your time. I’ve got nothing to say to
you.”
Behind them,
the door opened.
Charlie
turned his head.
Bob Peters
was in the doorway.
He had a
pistol in his hand.
He didn’t
say anything.
“About
bloody time,” Regan said.
He looked at
Peters, and something changed. A realisation.
He panicked.
“Oh, shit.”
Two shots:
one in the forehead, one in the throat. Regan slumped backwards, resting
against the wall. Blood gushed out of his throat in jerking spasms, then slowed
to a trickle.
“Bob?”
Regan’s left
leg thrashed, then stopped.
“What are
you doing?”
“Sorry,
Charlie.”
Peters
aimed.
“I’m sorry.”
He cocked
the trigger.
“Put it
down.”
Bob Peters
swivelled toward the voice.
It was
Frank.
A shotgun, cradled and aimed.
Peters paused,
half-lowered his arm.
“Put it
down, Bob. Now.”
“Can’t do
that, Frank.”
Frank’s aim
was steady. “It’s over, Bob. It’s all finished.”
“Aye.”
Peters
raised the gun.
Aimed at
Charlie again.
Gunshots.
CALENDAR
Daily
Mirror
, 11th February:
POLICE OFFICER MURDERED AT SCOTLAND YARD
A Metropolitan Police officer was murdered yesterday while in custody at
Scotland Yard. Mr. George Regan, a Detective Sergeant from West End Central
C.I.D., had been arrested on suspicion of corruption and was being questioned
when he was killed. His murderer was unidentified at the time of going to
press, but confidential reports suggest the man was also a serving police
officer. Sources also suggest that this man was killed as he was trying to make
good his escape.
A second officer was seriously injured.
Detective Inspector Charles Murphy was shot in the stomach. His injuries have
been described as life-threatening.
Daily
Mirror
, 12th February:
TWO MEN FOUND DEAD IN EAST END FLAT
VICTIM IS POLICE OFFICER
POLICE SEEK UNKNOWN ASSAILANT
Police have named the two men found dead at a property near Brick Lane,
E.2. Mr. Eddie Coyle and detective Inspector Percy Timms had suffered fatal
gunshot wounds. It is not known what D.I. Timms’ business was with Mr.
Coyle. Confidential police sources have indicated to this reporter that a third
man was seen leaving the property at around the time of the fatal incident.
Police are seeking to identify this man who must be considered a prime suspect
for the shootings.
Daily
Mirror
, 20
th
February:
SHOT POLICEMAN MAKES PROGRESS
The policeman shot at Scotland Yard is recovering, his doctor at Guy’s
Hospital has reported. Detective Inspector Charles Murphy was grievously
injured during the incident and it was thought his life was in the balance. It
has been revealed that his assailant was also a policeman, Detective Sergeant
Robert Peters. No motive for the attack has been provided by the police and the
investigation is said to be “ongoing.”
METROPOLITAN POLICE
Criminal Investigation Department
New Scotland Yard
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To Commissioner:
I.O: D.C.I. S.
Sinclair
Submitted at
request of: D.A.C. Clarke
Re: Corruption
at W.E. Central
Sir,
When you initiated this enquiry, you stated your hope that I would be
able to demonstrate the allegations surrounding officers at West End Central
were mistaken. I am afraid I am unable to give you that reassurance. Corruption
surely was endemic. Were they not all dead, I am satisfied that strong cases
could have been put against Detective Sergeants Peters, Regan and Timms, and
Detective Constable Grimes. You charged me with examining all possible culprits,
no matter the position. It is with regret, then, that I must report my
suspicion that Chief Constable William Murphy was involved––at the very least
he must have been aware of the illicit activity, although his close connection
to the men (particularly D.S. Peters) suggests participation. Whilst it would
be difficult to prove these cases, circumstantial evidence leads one to the
conclusion that illegal schemes were operating in ‘C’ Division and had been
operating for several years. D.S. Peter’s murder of D.S. Regan at Scotland Yard
and the attempted murder of D.I. Charles Murphy was likely a desperate attempt
to prevent the details of the conspiracy from coming to light.
I understand this is not what you wanted to
hear. Political considerations will pertain, of course, and I have deliberately
refrained from considering them. I have concerned myself only with the facts,
as I have found them.
Sincerely,
D.C.I. S. Sinclair
11
th
June
METROPOLITAN POLICE
STRICTLY
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
To: D.C.I.
Sinclair:
Subject: West End Central
Stanley,
Thank you for your report, which I read with great dismay. After
consideration, it has been decided that it does not serve the Metropolis to
have information of this nature divulged to the public during a time of war.
Please therefore ensure that any paperwork or evidence that you have gathered
during the time of your enquiry is destroyed. Please further ensure that this
matter is not discussed. The Commissioner has instructed me to put measures in
place to ensure that this debacle can never happen again––given that this is
so, one can understand his reasons for keeping it quiet. What do we stand to
gain by airing our dirty linen in public?
Regards, etc,
Tom
14
th
June
Police Gazette, 2
nd
July:
DECORATED
OFFICER RETIRES
Chief Constable William Murphy has announced his retirement. He said
that, at nearly 62, the time was right to call it a day on a glittering career.
“I’ve had a good run and I’ve enjoyed my time,” he said. “There have been many
highlights and I’d recommend the force to any young man looking for an
interesting and fulfilling career.”