The Black Mile (7 page)

 
15

HENRY DRAKE’S CAT, Mr. Pickles, wrapped himself
around his legs, mewling. Henry stepped over him and into the kitchenette. It
was only a single room, rented from the old dear who owned the building for
eighteen and two a week. A mattress, a little sofa, a table and a desk. The
kitchenette was an open cupboard with a curtain strung across the entrance and
the bathroom was across the hall, shared with the other tenants. A slop-pail
stood by the foot of the bed, on the top of which floated a handful of
cigarette butts and a beer can. An empty bottle of Benzedrine tablets was on
the desk––he was going to need some more. A small strip of carpet was placed
next to the bed, on top of the oilcloth covering the rest of the floor.

 
There had
been nothing else for it. He had been running up against his overdraft before
and now he had been suspended––his pay docked––things had come to a head. He
hadn’t had a choice. He couldn’t afford his previous place. Perhaps if he had
stopped the drink and the drugs–– but that was never going to happen. He needed
them, now more than ever, and it was out of the question. He’d drifted around
rented dives until he found this place. It was a glorified kip-shop but it was
cheap and it did the trick.

 
He fed the
cat with scraps from yesterday’s fish supper, and, making sure the black-out
was pulled completely across the window, clicked on the lamp and sat down at
his desk. His Ripper materials were stacked around him, unsteady towers of
boxes and files. He’d put them into packing crates and taken them home; no
sense in leaving them in the office, and it gave him a chance to keep on with
the story after he knocked off. Stacks of paper littered the desk. Ideas.
Brainstorms. Newspaper articles torn out, circled with red ink. Off-the-record
interviews with witnesses. Information bought from hooky police: post mortem
reports, witness statements, crime scene snaps. Court transcripts. A map of
Soho was tacked to the wall: he’d circled the five crime scenes.

 
It still all
came back to the Ripper.

 
It was his
surest way back.

 
Another
murder might give him something to get his teeth into, an angle he could
follow, a final dot to join. What if he was able to find something the police
hadn’t found? A pattern that had been missed? A connection that might bring the
culprit to justice? 

 
They couldn’t
fire him then.

 
But the
Ripper wasn’t co-operating. There had been nothing new since the last girl had
been found. Murphy and the Met were floundering.

 
He plucked a
sheet of paper from the mess: a list of names and telephone numbers. He had
taken it from the front desk at the paper. It was a job for a cub reporter:
calling back the cranks and lunatics who contacted the newspaper with stories.
Nutters who saw ghosts. Paranoiacs who swore blind the next-door neighbour was
a Kraut agent. It was a job no-one else wanted, so he didn’t see the harm in
swiping it for himself. Finding a story out of the trash was a long-shot bet.

 
It was
depressing.

 
But until
something new happened in Soho, it was the best he could do.

 
He went
through to the communal telephone in the hall, thumbed in change and dialled
the first number on the list.

 
The call
connected. “Top Hat.”

 
He looked at
the name. “Jackie Field, please.”

 
“Who’s this?”

 
“Henry
Drake.”

 
“Don’t know
no Henry Drake, mate.”

 
“I’m a
journalist.”

 
The tone
changed instantly. “Hello, sir. You’re calling about the story?”

 
“How can I
help you, Mr. Field?”

 
“What paper
are you from?”

 
“The Star.”

 
“You lot
pay, right?––for good ones, I mean?”

 
“If they’re
worthwhile. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

 
“Not on the
telephone. Can we meet?”

 
“You’ll have
to give me a better idea of what it’s about. If I went to speak to everyone who
called with a story––”

 
“The fellow
from the government. The geezer who makes the aeroplanes. In the papers last
week. You know him?”

 
“Viscount
Asquith?”

 
“That’s the
fellow.”

 
“What about
him?”

 
“I’ve got
pictures of him.”

 
Henry sighed
impatiently. “Doing what?”

 
“Having
intimate relations with a brass.”

 
Henry’s
attention had been wandering; now it bore down on the conversation.

 
“What do you
say to that? The story behind it all, too, everything. I’m telling you, Mr.
Drake, it’s big. A scandal.”

 
Henry
pressed the receiver to his ear. “Where would you like to meet?”

 
“Come to the
Top Hat. Ask for me at the bar. We’ll talk then. Bring cash. It won’t be
cheap.”

MONDAY, 2nd SEPTEMBER 1940

 
16

CHARLIE SAT WITH HIS BACK TO THE EMBANKMENT,
staring out over the mottled surface of the river. He chewed his cheese
sandwich and poured out the last of the tea from his Thermos. He had an hour
for lunch but he never took more than half; he was permanently busy and there
was never time. Take this morning: a telephone call had come in, a local face
had been collared for a breaking and he wanted to arrange some preferential
treatment by spilling his guts about a bent bobby. Odds-on it was mud-slinging:
chummy flinging as much dirt as he could, hoping some stuck, hoping he could
get a few months shaved off his lagging in exchange for “co-operating with the
police.” A typical assignment on C1.

 
The military
were everywhere. Part of the road was blocked by vehicles from the Royal
Engineers Corps and barrage balloons hovered overhead, tugging against their
hawsers, fat and silver against the thick grey clouds. The road itself had been
fortified: pillboxes constructed and tangles of barbed wire arranged on the
edges of the thoroughfare. Emergency pontoons were being constructed on the
River, floating segments roped to the bank to prevent them being stolen away by
the current. Twenty-five years ago: it would all have been the same. Progress?
That was a bloody laugh. Nearly thirty years and they’d learned sod all.

 
A young
squaddie came past and Charlie remembered Frank at the garden gate, fresh khaki
and a kit bag over his shoulder––seventeen years old and off to the front. He
remembered the letters––letters sent home from his barracks during training,
letters from Paschendaele, two a week from the hospital on while he recovered
from his injuries. He remembered the letters from Ypres the best, the pride
he’d felt, Frank giving the Hun what for. He’d shown them to the other boys at
school; every time he read them they fanned the desire to be there with him.

 
He’d only
lasted six months before the gassing, but that was enough for him to make his
mark. Commendations for bravery, mentions in Dispatches, the Military Medal.
He’d spoken about it once and never again, one time when he was morose and full
of drink. It was spare and unfinished the way he told it, but Charlie could
paint in the details: the mud, the sewage, the blood, the death. Three men owed
Frank their lives; three trips into a gas-filled trench burned his sacrifice
deeper and deeper on his face and back.

 
War hero.

 
Charlie had
gone to enlist on his eighteenth birthday but the Board of Doctors disqualified
him. Asthma. A soldier who couldn’t run was no good to them. They could afford
to be picky now the war was over. He’d been disconsolate for weeks. Felt like a
blasted conchie.

 
White
Feather Johnny.

 
He finished
the tea and shook out his cup over the water. No sense thinking about Frank, it
just made him angry. A tram clattered by noisily, cars buzzing alongside. It
was a cold, crisp day, a stiff wind blowing in off the water. New Scotland Yard
was a hundred feet further on. Three buildings on the corner of the Embankment
and Northumberland Avenue. The Commissioner’s Office and the Receiver’s Office
were made of old red and white brick and linked by a curving bridge, the third
of Portland stone––mined by Dartmoor convicts, if you believed the story. He
passed through the gates marked METROPOLITAN POLICE – COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE,
went past the Bungalow, the one-storey building the Squad worked from, and into
the quadrangle where a Constable was grooming a horse.

 
Things were
going well. Eight weeks since the hearing and it had flown. The job in C1 was
dull but it had got him out of uniform. In another couple of months McCartney
would transfer him onto the Sweeney and he’d get his chance to do some proper
policing. A fresh start for his career. 

 
He liked
working at the Yard. He liked the view from his seventh-floor window. He liked
how he was at the centre of things. He liked, in idle moments, to dream of a
career spent working proper cases here. With the Heavy Mob, in the souped-up
motors Fleet Street was so excited about. Or the Murder Squad, dispatched to
the provinces to solve the cases that hapless Swedes couldn’t.

 
He knew how
he was going to do it. Work like a demon. Keep cracking cases. Build a
reputation as an outstanding detective. Investigation, interrogation: his mind
was sharp, he saw connections, he knew how to apply pressure. He was born to do
it. He’d made six nickings last month, one more than the rest of the lads
combined. He’d work on that. Build, build, build. He allowed himself a frisson
of anticipation: aim for ten collars this month. Fifteen after that. That’s how
he’d make his name. He’d be the best detective they’d ever had. Everything else
would follow: another transfer, somewhere he could go after the big fish.

 
His father
would acknowledge him them.

 
Frank would.

 
D.C.I.
Sinclair passed him in the corridor.    

 
“Left
something for you on your chair, sunny Jim.”

 
He bristled
at the endearment. “Thank-you.”

 
“Don’t thank
me yet.”

 
He reached
his desk.

 
A new manila
file.

 
A new
case––he sat down, opened it.

 
It was one
of D.S. Bert Packer’s files. He’d joined the Navy last week and his caseload
was being redistributed.

 
Charlie got
this one.

 
He read.

 
John Baxter,
proprietor of the Compton Fruit Stores in Old Compton Street, had made a
complaint. He said he was being extorted by two men from Savile Row nick.
According to him, they’d been on the take for six months. The usual threats:
pay up or something hooky would be found on the premises, a bag of something
illicit, enough to weigh off the proprietor and shut the business down. They’d
been demanding two quid a week, par for the course, a useful supplement to a
copper’s wage but not so much that it would cripple the mark.

 
Baxter had
paid.

 
But then one
of them came back alone and demanded a ton.

 
Baxter knew
his name: D.C. George Grimes.

 
Charlie put
his head in his hands.

 
Grimes.

 
One of Alf’s
West End boys.

 
He sat at
his desk and gazed out across London, the sweep of the river, the crenelations
of Westminster Palace, the barrage balloons hovering overhead like plump fish.

 
He put the
file down and eyed it.

 
Go after one
of Alf’s lads?

 
A fellow
Mason?

 
17

HENRY WALKED WEST FROM FLEET STREET. Canvas
sandbags were stacked around lamp-posts and doorways in case incendiaries were
dropped. He had half an hour to spare, and idled slowly into the middle of
Waterloo Bridge. Barrage balloons hovered over the dome of St Paul’s, silver
stars in the twilight. On the other side of the bridge were the Houses of
Parliament, lightless, a black bulk silhouetted against the dusky gloaming. He
rested his elbows on the balustrade and stared out at the view, the breeze
teasing his hair.

 
The night
was cooling. He drew his coat around him, crossed back to the north bank and
passed into Soho. It was busy. The clatter of castanets could be heard from the
flamenco dancer at Casa Pepé; jungle drums rumbled from the cellar underneath
St Anne’s and restaurant musicians tuned up: the zither player at the Tyrol,
the accordionist at Café Bleu, pianos from the more sophisticated joints. A
riot of smells: fresh bread from bakeries, hops from the pubs, menthol
cigarettes in the air and vomit in the gutter. Dog ends and fag packets on the
cobbles. A barrel organist turned the handle of his instrument, gazing dreamily
at the off-license across the street. He played the Marseillaise and a handful
of Free French stopped to listen, tossing coins into the cap at his feet.

 
Ham Yard was
on the cheap side of Soho, north of Shaftesbury Avenue, surrounded by near-beer
bars, bottle parties and dowdy spielers. The first-floor flats were walk-ups
where the Piccadilly Commandoes brought back their poor hapless Johns, a few
pence for a grope, a Bradbury for a ten-minute knee trembler. Three of the
Ripper’s victims had been found in those flats. The Yard itself was like the
Wild West, famous for scraps, not somewhere you went unless you were half-cut
or looking for trouble.

 
Henry
directed the shielded beam of his torch at the signs over the pavement until he
found the one he wanted; ‘THE TOP HAT CLUB’, gay script set off by a tifter
resting over the final ‘t.’ The line beneath it said SOHO’S SMARTEST
RENDEZVOUS. Very doubtful. The sign would’ve been neon-lit but the black-out
meant that was strictly off the cards. A suited doorman stepped out as Henry
approached and opened the door for him. He removed his hat and went inside.

 
The club was
grimy and down-at-heel. It was a large room with little in the way of décor:
painted hessian and dried-up palm leaves around the walls, a hardwood floor
leading to a crude bar at the far end. A glitter ball spun slowly from the
ceiling, scattering chequered light into darkened corners. A low stage, erected
along the right-hand wall, accommodated the house band, a sign announcing them
as the Jock Salisbury Trio. They were playing a jazzy number, shine music, and
Henry didn’t care for it at all. A dozen drunken dancers moved around on the
floor in front of the stage, and others sat in darkened booths, two-seater
tables and dilapidated sofas with razor slashes spilling out discoloured
stuffing. A handful of unaccompanied women sat at the bar. Henry watched as one
of them got up. She whispered in the ear of a single bloke, he smiled
drunkenly, she led him towards the back of the club, through a door and out of
sight. Brasses, hardly a surprise. It looked like the kind of joint where they
were on the payroll.

 
Henry went
to the toilet for a piss, heard moans and groans from the only cubicle. A woman
gasped, the toilet door banging as someone’s arse slapped against it. Animals,
Henry thought. The place was a bloody zoo. He drained his bladder, read the
graffiti above the urinal: FUCK OFF FRITZ, said one; JEWS OUT, said another.

 
He went back
to the bar. “I’m here to see Jackie Field.”

 
“And you
are?”

 
“Henry
Drake. I have an appointment.”

 
“Wait here.”

 
Henry put
his back to the bar. A woman sidled up to him. “Are you a naughty boy?” she
asked. Blonde hair from a bottle, face caked with make-up, big scarlet lips and
nails; the lipstick was sloppy and the nail varnish chipped. Henry told her
politely she wasn’t his type, and she shrugged, slumped down onto a stool. The
band switched to a slower number and the blokes grabbed for broads, swishing
and swooping them around the dance floor, hands dipping down to the small of
the back, some brave charlies groping arse, thighs pressed tight between legs.
Four soused squaddies came in, hollering for drink. The doxy at the bar perked
up, fixed a smile onto her face and went over to their table. They shuffled
over to let her sit down. Money changed hands. She took two of them outside.

 
The barman
lifted a panel in the bar and Henry passed through. The doorway beyond led into
a windowless office: a desk, two chairs, a sofa, a couple of filing cabinets.
There were two men in the room. One was tall and skinny, early-forties, dressed
in a drape jacket, vivid shoes with soles as thick as match-boxes, trousers
hitched high to show off red-and-yellow socks and a bright green bow-tie. The
uniform of the spiv. The second stood at the back of the room: big, well over
six foot, muscular. A woman sat on the sofa wearing a pea-green camel hair
coat, a rayon afternoon frock and a scarf wound fashionably tight around her
head. Red hair spilled out of the back.

 
“Good
evening,” Henry said.

 
The spiv
stood up.

 
“Mr. Drake?”

 
“That’s
right.”

 
He extended
a hand. “Jackie Field. Good to meet you.”

 
“And you,
sir.”

 
“Glad you
could come.”

 
Field was an
handsome-looking devil, his looks marked by the razor slash across his face,
from the corner of his eye down to the throat. A memento from a rival. It made
him look dangerous.

 
Henry smiled
at the woman. “And this is?”

 
“Molly
Jenkins.”

 
“Pleasure to
meet you, madam.”

 
“You too.”
She was small and slender. No more than six stone if she was soaking wet. Early
twenties. Pretty little thing.

 
The second
man was leaning against the wall.

 
“And you,
sir?”

 
“Doesn’t
matter who I am.”

 
His face was
obscured in the murky light.

 
“Are you
involved with these pictures?”

 
“I said you
don’t need to worry about me, alright?”

 
Henry could
feel eyes boring into him.

 
“Easy,”
Field said.

 
“He’s asking
too many questions.”

 
“It’s just
business. Isn’t that right, Mr. Drake? Just business.”

 
“Of course.”

 
The man was
nervous, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. The atmosphere was febrile and
it was catching: Jenkins looked flighty.

 
Only Field
seemed comfortable. “What’re you drinking, Mr. Drake? I’m going to have a
whiskey.”

 
“A whiskey
would be splendid.”

 
He poured
large measures and gave one to Henry. He sat down behind the desk and nodded to
the spare chair.

 
“Shall we
get down to business? You say you have pictures of Viscount Asquith.”

 
“We do.”

 
“Can I see?”

 
“Is the
money good?” the man at the back said.

 
“Very good.
How are the pictures?”

 
“You needn’t
worry about that.” He stepped forward, the light briefly falling across his
face. He dropped an envelope on the desk.

 
Field handed
it to Henry. “Have a dekko at these.”

 
Henry slid
his finger into the unsealed end and withdrew a half dozen photographs. He
shuffled them slowly. They were graphic: men having sex with women, men having
sex with men. Leather, masks, whips, chains, dildos. One of the pictures stood
out: an orgy, half a dozen people, naked, filling a room. A man was naked,
wrists and ankles chained to metal rings fixed into a bare brick wall. He was
being fellated. Another man was dressed in the uniform of the SS; he was
fornicating with Jenkins wearing what looked like a dirndl.

 
Henry
pointed at the man in uniform. “That’s him?”

 
“Yes,”
Jenkins said.

 
“Good Lord.
And that’s you?”

 
“He made me
dress up like that. Wanted me to look like Hitler’s girlfriend. What’s her
face?”

 
“Eva Braun.”
He looked again. Asquith’s head was turned so that he was looking back at the
camera. It was definitely him. Henry shuffled through the pictures until he
found another from a better angle: he was wearing a leather cap with a Death’s
Head symbol on it.

 
“The other
girls?”

 
Jenkins
leaned closer and pointed. “That’s Connie and that’s Annie.”

 
“He doesn’t
need to know that, Molly.”

 
Field
intervened again. “You know Asquith, Mr. Drake?”

 
“He’s big in
government. Military––his company builds aeroplanes.”

 
Jenkins
nodded. “He was posh. We looked him up afterwards.”

 
Henry took
off his glasses and squinted. Other figures were half-familiar; disguised by
uniforms and accoutrements, a magnifying glass would reveal their secrets.

 
“How did you
get them?”

 
“You don’t
need to say too much,” the man said.

 
“I know a
fellow. A friend of his had a party last week. Not your normal party, something
a little bit different.”

 
Henry looked
at the glossies again. “An orgy?”

 
“Call it
what you like. He was looking for suitable ladies to attend. He knows I’m
acquainted with Molly and her friends. He wondered if I could persuade them to
go.”

 
Molly
nodded. She identified the women in the picture: “Me, Connie, and Annie.”

 
“Molly!” the
man snapped.

 
“And?”

 
She looked
back at him nervously. “We went.”

 
Field
pointed to the pictures. “You see what we mean?”

 
“In
Technicolor. What about the photographs?”

 
“The friend
of my friend is a prudent man. Some of his clients are powerful men.”

 
“So he takes
pictures of them like this?”

 
“Just in
case.”

 
“In case he
needs to put the black on them.”

 
“Or in case
he needs help. Legal problems, for example.”

 
Henry turned
to Molly. “And you stole them?”

 
“We––”

 
The second
man interjected: “It doesn’t matter where we got them. All you need to know is
that we’ve have them and that we’re selling them.”

 
Field
collected the photographs. “You’re interested?”

 
Henry dared
not show it. “Perhaps.”

 
“You either
is or you isn’t.”

 
“I could
be.”

 
“We want two
hundred for them.”

 
“Two
hundred?”

 
“It’s a fair
price.”

 
“Too much.”

 
“If you
don’t want them, someone will.”

 
“That kind
of money, well, it’s not like it’s just sitting around in the petty cash.”

 
“He’s
stalling.”

 
“No, sir,
I’m not. But it’s a lot of money. I’ll have to make arrangements with the
editor. The accounts department. Lawyers.”

 
“You can
have a week.”

 
Field
smiled, trying to mollify. “We’re not threatening, but if you ain’t got the
readies by then, we’ll have to find someone else who does. Sound fair?”

 
“A week it
is. Where shall we meet?”

 
“Back here.
Next Saturday. Nine o’clock.”