The Black Mile (5 page)

 
11

HENRY BURST INTO CHATTAWAY’S OFFICE.

 
“What’s
going on?”

 
“Henry––”

 
“Why aren’t
you publishing it?”

 
“Henry––”

 
“What’s
wrong?

 
“Sit––”

 
“Have you
even read it?”

 
“I’ve read
it.”

 
“And?”

 
“There’s a
problem.”

 
“But it’s a
good piece.”

 
“It’s not
that. It’s the report from last night.”

 
“What are
you talking about?”

 
“Sit down.”

 
Henry
didn’t. “What’s going on?”

 
Chattaway
was behind his desk. Another man sat in the sofa next to the wide picture
window; Henry didn’t recognise him.

 
“Who’s
that?”

 
“Frank
Deakins,” the man said. “From legal.”

 
“Why do we
need a lawyer here?”

 
Chattaway
shuffled uncomfortably. “The article last night–– there are some things–– well,
frankly, questions have arisen. We need to have them answered, old man.”

 
“What
questions?”

 
Deakins had
the morning paper on his lap. “This is a colourful article, Mr. Drake. Very
colourful.”

 
“What do you
mean by that?”

 
“I’m saying
that––”

 
“That’s my
job. To make things interesting.”

 
“Up to a
point.”

 
“What do you
mean?”

 
“The police
haven’t released the name of the victim yet, have they?”

 
“No.
There’ll be an announcement later.”

 
“They
haven’t released any information at all.”

 
“No.”

 
“Doesn’t it
strike you as a little strange: they’ve made so little public and yet you seem
to have found out such a lot?”

 
“That’s what
I do. Find things. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

 
Deakins put
a pair of thin spectacles on his nose and read: “‘Death stalked the streets of
Soho again last night as the Black-Out Ripper claimed a fifth victim. Police
found the body of a local woman in a one-bedroom flat. The frenzied attack
bears all the hallmarks of the psychopath who has caused terror in the West End
since his first victim on 15th May. Police have yet to release details of the
poor wretch who has fallen prey to the monster’s depraved appetite but a
neighbour said that it was well-known that she worked as a prostitute. ‘We all
knew it,’ the woman told this newspaper. ‘She had men in there at all hours.’”

 
Henry felt a
stab of nervousness. “And?”

 
“The police
have interviewed her neighbours. None of them thought she was a prostitute.”

 
“Then they
didn’t speak to my source.”

 
“Who is?”

 
“She wants
to remain anonymous.”

 
“But you
have her details in your notes?”

 
“Of course.”

 
“I’ll need
to speak with her.”

 
“Out of the
question.”

 
“It’s not a
request, Mr. Drake.”

 
Henry turned
to Chattaway. “I promised her. She’s frightened. I can’t.”

 
Deakins kept
reading: “‘Another local woman confirmed that the victim worked in Soho’s
notorious red-light district. She reported that she was seen taking a ‘large,
heavy-set man’ into her flat at around midnight. ‘I can’t stop thinking about
it,’ the woman said. ‘What if that was the Ripper? It could just as easily have
been me who’s dead up there.’ Powerful stuff.”

 
“What are
you suggesting?”

 
“I’m not
suggesting anything.”

 
“You are.
You’re insinuating––I’ve made this up.”

 
“Not at all,
Mr. Drake. I’m saying we’ll need to check your sources.”

 
“This has
come from the police, I’m afraid,” Chattaway said. “Have to take it seriously.”

 
“What?”

 
“They’ve
been on the telephone.”

 
“Saying?”

 
“That they
suspect you’ve fabricated your story.”

 
“Who said
that?”

 
“Inspector
Murphy of Savile Row.”

 
“For God’s
sake.”

 
“You know
him?”

 
“I wrote a
story about him, three years ago––he was accused of assault. I spoke to him
last night. He’s biased, Chattaway! He still bears a grudge.”

 
Deakins
folded his spectacles. “That’s as may be. But he’s raised some questions that
we need to answer.”

 
“Please––this is nonsense.”

 
Chattaway
shook his head. “We need to review your work. Deakins is going to do it. A full
check over the last six months. Everything of yours that we’ve published. And
you’ll need to provide him with your notes from last night.”

 
“This is a
vendetta. Murphy’s trying to punish me.”

 
“I’m taking
you off the news desk.”

 
“Edward––”

 
“No choice,
I’m afraid.”

 
“And the
Ripper?”

 
“I’m giving
it to Peter Byatt.”

 
“That’s
my
story, Edward. You know it is. No-one else knows as much as I do. Byatt
wouldn’t know where to start.”

 
“I’ve made
my decision, Henry. And I’d remind you to be professional. I’ll need you to
help him get started.”

 
“This is
ridiculous!”

 
“I’m putting
you on general duties. Starting with the horoscopes.”

 
“What?”

 
“Just until
we get to the bottom of this.”

 
“I haven’t
done anything wrong.”

 
Chattaway
went around the desk and opened the door for him. “Thank you, Henry.”

 
“Edward,
please––I’ve done nothing wrong.”

 
“I hope
not.”

THURSDAY, 11th JULY 1940

 
12

SCOTLAND YARD. The room was loud with an angry
hubbub, the aftermath of the verdict. Charlie closed the door behind him,
muffling the din. He had been sitting at the back and he was keen to make a
discreet exit. The result had been inevitable, so he couldn’t say he was much
surprised. ‘Guilty of acting in a manner likely to bring discredit on the
reputation of the Force, by behaving in a disorderly manner, with reference to
disciplinary code one.’ Four of the men had been sacked, just like that, their
files been sent to the DPP with the recommendation that proceedings be brought
against them for assault.

 
Fred Austin.

 
John Blatch.

 
Peter Myers.

 
Harry
Sparks.

 
Charlie
didn’t feel guilt. No remorse. They’d acted like animals. Like drunken thugs.
No place for men like that in the Metropolitan Police.

 
He hadn’t
done anything wrong.

 
He needed to
use the toilet. He went through into the gents. Frank was washing his face. He
saw him in the mirror, said nothing, and looked back down at his hands.

 
Charlie
shuffled awkwardly.

 
His brother
rinsed his hands and dried them off with the towel. He glared at him in the
mirror. “New duds? Hair cut, too. Told to look your best, were you?”

 
Charlie said
nothing.

 
“Happy?”

 
“It’s not
like that.”

 
“You didn’t
mean to ruin my career?”

 
“What are
you talking about?”

 
“Stop being
naïve.”

 
“I only
agreed to do it if they left you out.”

 
“Are you
being deliberately stupid? Jesus, Charlie. Jesus! What, you think it doesn’t
affect me? You support allegations against my boys, where’s that going to
fall?”

 
“I thought
about that. I don’t––”

 
“You thought
how it makes me look?”

 
“I––”

 
“It looks
like I lost control of the nick. It makes me look very bloody bad indeed.”

 
“They
said––”

 
“I was
supervising officer. It was always going to end at my door. They’ve docked my
pay by ten shillings a week for twenty-six weeks. No promotion for two years.
Probably already got their fingers crossed I get sick of it and sod off. Maybe
I will.”

 
“I––”

 
“Your new
mate must be very happy. Eh?”

 
“What?”

 
“McCartney.”

 
“He’s been
understanding.”

 
“I bet. What
are you getting for this?”

 
“What do you
mean?”

 
“Your
pay-off. What’s he promised?”

 
“I’m just
doing my duty.”

 
“Please.
Change the bloody record. You wouldn’t put your neck out like this without
getting something in return. You’re too clever for that. What is it? A
transfer? Promotion?”

 
“The Flying
Squad.”

 
Frank
laughed bitterly.

 
“What’s so
funny?”

 
“Maybe
you’re not that clever. Did you think about what’ll happen when you get there?
The Squad’s traditional and the Met’s a small world. The chaps will know the
blokes you’ve grassed. You’ll have your teeth put down your throat. They won’t
want anything to do with you.”

 
“That’s not
what Alf thinks.”

 
“Listen to
yourself! McCartney is an ambitious man. How do you think he made Super so
bloody quick? If he thinks you can help him, he’ll make you the centre of the
world. He’ll promise anything to get what he wants. But once you’ve served your
purpose, he’ll drop you like a stone. You wait.”

 
“Piss off,
Frank. Same as always, isn’t it? Frank knows best. You’ve never looked at
things from my point of view. Father, too. Not once. Did you ever think about
how it was for me, stuck in a bloody nick where everyone hates my guts? Every
day is torture. You both knew I was wasted there. I’ve tried to talk to him but
he won’t have it. I knew there was no point asking you.”

 
“You
never––”

 
“It’s always
about you. You, you, you. You and the Army. The war hero. You and the police.
Father couldn’t be happier, you and your bloody career. Do you know how hard it
is to be your brother? I’m just an afterthought. It’s all about you, Frank,
always has been. I’ve had enough of it.”

 
An awkward
silence fell; Charlie knew that things had changed between them, that the
shifting tensions and stresses in their relationship had solidified into
something more permanent. Something that might be malignant. He washed his
hands and dried them off. “I did what I had to do. I’m sorry that it’s not good
for you but that’s not my fault. I shan’t apologise. I’ve done nothing wrong. I
did my job. And I’d do it again.”

 
Frank
coloured with anger. “I don’t want you to apologise.” He stepped closer, right
up in his face. “But what I do want is for you to stand there and show me some
respect. I haven’t dismissed you yet, Constable, and unless I’m mistaken I’m
still your bloody superior officer.”

 
There it was
again. The arrogance. The talking down to him. The big brother. In light of
everything that had happened, he still hadn’t changed. He never would. “Not for
long,” Charlie said, stepping around him. “Sir.”

o         
o          o

MEETINGS OF THE LODGE OF FORTITUTDE, NUMBER 6, were
held in rooms above Miles Coffee House in Gerrard Street. It was the nearest
Temple to West End Central and the membership was exclusively Old Bill. Charlie
had never been so nervous; his guts felt empty, he’d been pacing the pavement,
up and down, for half an hour. He took a step towards the Coffee House,
stopped, turned back. He needed a moment, and used it to examine his reflection
in the window of a snouter, adjusting the knot of his tie and the fit of his
jacket across his shoulders. Important to look smart. Give off the right image.
A lot of the brothers, he’d heard, they insisted the rules and conventions be
followed to the letter, wouldn’t let you in if you didn’t make the effort.

 
Right. No
sense in waiting outside like a prize fool. He crossed the road and went
inside. A man came up to him: big, thirtyish, wearing a sober suit.

 
“George
Grimes.”

 
They shook
hands. Charlie knew the roles, the procedure: Grimes was Junior Steward. It was
his job to get him ready. “Charlie Murphy.”

 
“You were
uniform at Savile Row, weren’t you? Just moved to the Yard?”

 
“I’m C1 now.
Been there a couple of weeks.”

 
“I’m Savile
Row CID. You’re in good company here.”

 
Grimes
must’ve known about him giving evidence, but he didn’t say anything. That made
him feel a little better.  

 
“Alf’s
proposing you?”

 
“That’s
right. You, too?”

 
Grimes
nodded. “I’d only been at the nick a month before he got his hooks in. Everyone
knows what he’s like––he loves this stuff.”

 
“And you
don’t?”

 
“Not saying
that. I’m––well, look, just don’t expect it to solve all your problems.”

 
They opened
a door and followed a passage.

 
They reached
a small anteroom. Charlie swallowed, fought the shakes. Grimes put on a plain
white apron and fastened it around his waist. “Nervous?”

 
“Bit.”

 
“It’s not as
bad as it sounds. Just do as you’re told and you’ll be fine. Memorised your
lines?”

 
“Think so.”

 
“Good show.
Let’s get you ready.”

 
Grimes
helped him off with his jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt, rolled his right
sleeve up to the elbow, removed his right shoe and put on some sort of slipper.
He rolled up his right trouser leg, opened a small box and produced a rope,
knotted into a noose. “The cable-tie. The cord of life. Don’t worry––it’s just
ceremonial. Not going to string you up.” Grimes placed the noose around his
neck and tightened the knot until it was snug. He covered his eyes with a strip
of black cloth: the hoodwink. He knotted it behind his head and led him
forwards. “Right, you’re at the door to the Temple. You know what happens now?”

 
“I wait here
for the Senior Deacon.”

 
“Be about
ten minutes for us to get to your bit. Good luck, pal.”

 
A door
opened and closed and Charlie was alone. The hoodwink itched against his
forehead; he couldn’t see anything. Words and phrases ran through his mind.
He’d been up until four, a dozen cups of coffee to keep him awake, reading and
remembering what was about to happen. “The Ritual of the Entered Apprentice,”
it was called. It had been a mess of superstition and mumbo jumbo last night.

 
Didn’t seem
so ridiculous now.

 
Muffled
conversation came from behind the door.

 
It opened.
Charlie took a deep breath. A hand took him by the elbow and drew him forwards.