The Black Mile (9 page)

FRIDAY, 6th SEPTEMBER 1940

 
21

IT WAS A HALF PAST SIX. Charlie was getting ready
to leave when the telephone on his desk rang.

“Hello, Sergeant. I have George
Grimes for you.”

 
“Did he say
what he wanted?”

 
“Said he
needs to talk to you.”

 
Charlie
threw his coat across the back of his chair and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Put him through.”

 
The operator
connected them.

 
A burst of
static.

 
“Hello?”

 
“Murphy
here.”

 
“Hello?”

 
“Murphy
here. What do you want, Grimes?”

 
“I need to
talk to you. It’s urgent.”

 
“Speak to
your brief, George. If there’s anything worth me hearing, he can organise a
meeting.”

 
“No, I can’t
tell anyone else. It’s too dangerous. It has to be you.” 

 
“What do you
mean dangerous?”

 
“Not on the
telephone. Please––can we meet?”

 
Something
was wrong.

 
“Please.”

 
“Alright––Monday?”

 
“Has to be
tonight.”

 
Charlie
looked at his watch: coming up to seven. “Be here for nine.”

 
“I’m not
coming to the Yard.”

 
“Why not?”

 
“Can’t. It’s
not safe. Being there yesterday was bad enough.”

 
“What do you
mean, man?––it’s bloody Scotland Yard.”

 
“You know
the Pillars of Hercules?”

 
“In Soho?
Greek Street?”

 
“Half-ten. A
table at the back. Just you.”      

 
“Alright.
Half-ten. You want to give me an idea what it’s about?”

 
The line
clicked, and was silent.

o         
o          o

CHARLIE CAUGHT ALF MCCARTNEY on the steps of West
End Central. “I was just going home,” he said.

 
“Glad I
caught you.” 

 
“What
happened with Grimes?

“He didn’t come and see you?”

“No.”

“Did you nick him?”

“Yesterday. Baxter told him to
come to the club. I pulled him after he took the cash.”

“Idiot. I can’t believe he’d be
so foolish.”

“He’s hardly the first, guv.”

“No. What did he say?”

“Not much. He knows he’s
buggered but he kept schtum.”

“The other man?”

 
“Wouldn’t
say.”

 
“Where is he
now?”

“That’s it, sir. He called me an
hour ago. He wants to meet.”

“Tonight?”

“Half past ten. What should I
do?”

“What does he want to talk
about?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where?”

“Soho.”

“Come on then, old sport. I’ll
come with you.”

o         
o          o

THEY SAT AT A TABLE IN THE BACK. They had hurried
across Soho, McCartney grim-faced. They had been here for half an hour.

 
“He’s not
coming,” McCartney said. “What time did he say?”

 
“Half past.”

 
“It’s a
quarter to. They’ll be calling last orders soon.”

 
“I’m sorry,
sir. He’s wasted our time.”

 
“Why didn’t
you have him at the bloody Yard?”

 
“He said he
couldn’t. Said it was dangerous.”

 
“Meaning
what?”

 
“I think he
was worried about meeting someone.”

 
“Old Bill?”

 
He shrugged.
“I don’t know what else to think.”

 
“Why on
Earth would he be afraid of that?”

 
“His
partner?”

 
“Worried
what he might do?”

 
“If he
thought George was going to turn King’s on him–– you never know.”

 
“Perhaps.”

 
“What do you
want me to do?”

 
“I can’t
wait all night. Stay until they close up. If he doesn’t turn up, find him. Tell
him we can help straighten out his problems. And if he tries to bugger off
again, put him in a cell. Lock him up until I get there.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

 
McCartney
left him with his thoughts.

 
It’s not
safe.

 
Being there
yesterday was bad enough.

 
Grimes was
frightened.

 
The barman
called time. Charlie got up.

 
It wasn’t
the investigation.

 
It was
something else.

 
22

CHARLIE FOUND A POLICE BOX and picked up the
telephone. He called Central Records. The night clerk picked up after several
rings and he asked for Grimes’ address.

 
Lavender
Grove, London Fields, E.8.

 
Charlie got
into his Humber and drove. London Fields was a decent area, pleasant terraces
facing each other on either side of tree-lined streets. Prosperous––the
coppering business was treating Grimes suspiciously well. Charlie parked on the
opposite side of the road to the house and got out.

 
He clicked
on his torch, opened the front gate and walked up to the door. All of the
lights were either doused or hidden behind black-out curtains. He walked down
the short gravel path, shining the shielded beam of light at the windows. The
black-outs were in place. He went back and knocked on the door. No answer. He
knocked again and waited. Still nothing. He squatted down and peeked in through
the letterbox: an electric light lit up the hallway and the static from a radio
could be heard from inside. Nothing else. “Hello?” he called into the
letterbox.

 
He turned
the doorknob. It was locked.

 
The front
door to the neighbouring house opened. “What are you doing?” an elderly man in
a dressing gown called over the dividing wall. “It’s two in the flaming
morning.”

 
An elderly
woman appeared behind him. Charlie took out his warrant card, held it up and
lit it with his torch. “Police, sir. Have you seen the man who lives here
tonight?”

 
“Didn’t see
him, but we heard him come in.”

 
“When?”

 
“Must’ve
been a couple of hours ago, I reckon.”

 
“Three
hours, I’d say.”

 
“We’d just
finished listening to the news. We heard the door shut.”

 
“Have you
seen or heard anything since then?”

 
“Nothing
unusual.”

 
“You haven’t
seen him leave?”

 
“No, but if
something’s the matter, George gave us a spare key. We looked after the house
for him if he went away.”

 
The woman
went inside and returned with a key. Charlie took it and unlocked the door. He
opened it. “Hello?” he called out, but there was no reply.

 
He went
inside.

 
Light shone
beneath the door to the living room.

 
He opened
it.

 
Grimes was
sitting in an armchair. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe, open to the
waist, the sleeves rolled up. Shaving foam covered one half of his face. There
was a small wound on the side of the head: the size of a shilling, blackened
around the edges. Blood and brains had sprayed against the wall. A gun was on
the floor.

 
The old
woman had followed him inside and was now halfway into the living room. She
screamed. Charlie shooed her back into the hall. “Go back to your house.”

 
“He’s––he’s––”

 
Charlie
pushed her gently into the hall and closed the door behind him.

 
“Call
Scotland Yard. Give them this address, tell them Detective Sergeant Charles
Murphy from C Department requests immediate assistance.” The woman fell back
against her husband, her hand covering her mouth. “Detective Sergeant Charles
Murphy, C Department.”

 
“Yes.”

 
“And tell
them to call Savile Row station to report that George Grimes has been found
dead.” 

 
“I––”

 
“Go
on––now!”

 
He followed
them outside, pushed the door closed and went back into the lounge. Static
hissed from the radio. He clicked it off and sat in the sofa opposite the
armchair. He stared at Grimes. The investigation might’ve been enough of a
motive to do away with himself. He must’ve known he’d lose his job, that he’d
probably be looking at corruption charges. He probably thought he’d end up
doing a stretch. The bench never looked kindly on crooked policemen and
McCartney was right, coppers in stir always had it especially bad. Running into
faces he’d put away. A bloke who bore a grudge, a homemade shiv–– Thinking
about it like that, you could believe it. Suicide didn’t seem so strange.

 
But why call
him?

 
Why arrange
to meet, then top himself?

 
And the way
he’d sounded.

 
Not safe.

 
Being there
yesterday was bad enough.

 
Questions.

 
It all smelt
hooky.

 
He looked at
his watch. Next door would call 999; the Yard would call the Hackney police;
it’d take the fellows there fifteen minutes to come, twenty at the outside. He
had twenty minutes, if he was lucky, to examine the crime scene before the
Hackney lot arrived to bugger it up.

 
He breathed
out, settling his thoughts. The body wasn’t going anywhere; he’d get to that
last. He put on the pair of thin cotton gloves he carried in his coat pocket
and made an inspection of the room, starting at the periphery and moving
inwards in a decreasing circle: a few photographs and an empty bottle of scotch
on the sideboard; a woman’s coat laid across the back of a chair; a pair of
shoes and Grimes’ suit tossed on the floor; the gun. He turned out the trouser
pockets: a handful of change, a money clip, a leather wallet. The wallet held a
few extra notes. Charlie put it back into the suit pocket. He picked up the gun
by the corner of the butt: a Webley Mk VI, Metropolitan Police divisional
station standard issue. He opened the chamber; five rounds in the six-round
cylinder. The other one had gone through Grimes’ head. He put the gun back on
the floor.

 
“Alright, George.
Let’s have a look at you.”

 
He leant in
close: the right eye stared ahead. Gravity had pulled the left one deep into
the socket. The gunshot entry wound was on his right temple. A wider, jagged
exit wound was adjacent on the other side of the head.  He followed the
splatter of blood across the room, finding small shards of skull and brain
matter along the trajectory. He compared angles, satisfied himself that the
track was consistent with where the gun appeared to have been fired. He examined
the splatter on the wall closely, the symmetry suggesting a ninety-degree hit,
consistent with the position of the body and the wound. Grimes shot himself
sitting down.

 
The windows
were shut and locked. Nothing was out of place. Nothing suspicious. He went
over to the body again. He laid his palm flat against Grimes’ chest. Even
through the thin cotton gloves, he could still feel plenty of heat. He
manipulated the fingertips: no rigor. He hadn’t been dead for long. Less than
an hour, certainly.

 
He searched
the rest of the house.

 
Bedroom:
more clothes strewn over the floor, another bottle of booze on the nightstand.
Grimes certainly had a thirst on him. He opened the wardrobe and poked around
inside: more suits, a couple of woman’s dresses. He brought out a small
suitcase. He opened it on the bed: packed with a change of clothes, a toilet
bag and forty pounds. Decent money. He put the suitcase back in the wardrobe
and closed the door. Bedside tables: women’s frillies in one drawer. Add that
to the ladies’ coat downstairs: George was shacked up.

 
Second
bedroom: bank statements in a folder inside the desk. Three hundred and fifty
six pounds in an account at Barclays in Soho Square was serious money. No
straight copper would have that kind of dough. Charlie already thought Grimes
was bent. Now he knew for sure: he was very bent.

 
Bathroom: a
bath had been drawn and was still full of tepid water. A razor had been placed
on the side of the bath, next to a bowl of shaving foam and a brush. Both were
wet. The cabinet contained aftershave, some cotton wool and a bottle of
prescription sleeping tablets.

 
Downstairs
again.

 
Kitchen:
empty cans, wrappers, dirty plates in the sink. A packet of Senior Service fags
on the counter, a couple left inside. Charlie was checking the window when two
dark figures passed on the pavement outside.

 
He went back
into the lounge: two detectives pushed through the door and came into the
hallway. Charlie showed them his warrant card and they reciprocated: a D.C. and
a D.S. from Stoke Newington C.I.D.

 
“Bloody
hell. What a mess.”

 
“He’s a
detective, from Savile Row. I was investigating him for corruption. He didn’t
arrive for a meeting, I came and found him like this.”

 
“We’ll need
a statement.”

 
“Of course.
I’m just going to catch a breath of air.”

 
“Right you
are, sir.”

 
A half a
mile away, on the roof of Stoke Newington Police Station, the siren slowly
cranked up its eerie howl. The curtains flicked back next door, the face of the
old woman pressed against the window. Charlie looked up into the sky: nothing
disturbed the black.

o         
o          o

THE HACKNEY LADS MARSHALLED the scene and Charlie
watched. They did it efficiently, by the book, and he stayed out of the way.
Two men checked the house: they found the suitcase, the money, the statements.
Downstairs, the police surgeon arrived and pronounced life extinct.

 
“What time?”
Charlie asked.

 
“Couple of
hours ago. Around midnight.”

 
“Suicide?”

 
“Suicide. No
question about it.”

 
Charlie went
outside. He put his back to the wall and breathed in deep. He lit a cigarette
and thought of George Grimes, dead in his armchair, his brains blown across the
room. He looked back at the house. One of the local slips came down the path.
He nodded at Charlie as he passed, heading for his car and the radio.

 
Another car,
a Meteor, pulled up. Two men got out. More detectives. He couldn’t see them in
the darkness so he swung up his torch and directed light into their faces:
Percy Timms and Albert Regan, Sergeants from Savile Row.

 
“Get that
out of my face, pal,” Timms said, shielding his eyes.

 
Regan
squinted at him. “Who are you?”

 
“Charlie
Murphy. Sorry––I couldn’t see you.”

 
“Grimes?”

 
“He’s
inside.”

 
“And?”

 
“Shot
himself.”

 
“Bloody hell.”

 
“What are
you doing here, chaps?”

 
“The Hackney
lot called.”

 
A third car
drew up. Alf McCartney got out.

 
The Super
looked harried. “Lads,” he said. “What’s happened?”

 
“He’s shot
himself.”

 
McCartney
removed his hat.

 
“Did he call
you again?”

 
“No, sir. I
came to see if I could find him, like you said.”

 
“And you
did.”

 
“I’m afraid
so.”

 
McCartney
clenched his jaw.

 
“Right.”
Timms took off his hat. “Come on, Albert. Let’s have a ready-eye.”

 
Charlie
started towards the front door behind them.

 
McCartney
took him by the shoulder.

 
“Guv?”

 
“Go home,
Charlie. Get some sleep. I’ll look after it from here.”