“Thank you,
madam.”
Frank turned
to Peters. “Who found her?”
“Some
bloke––said he was a journalist. I’ve sent him to the station for a statement.”
“What was
his name?”
“Hennessy
knows.”
The
woodentop looked at his pocketbook. “Henry Drake, sir.”
“What?”
The man
checked his entry. “Henry Drake. Said he worked for the Star.”
Henry
Drake––he was in Molly Jenkins’ diary.
Henry bloody
Drake.
Again?
“Get back
there pronto, Hennessy. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”
“Sir?”
“Arrest him
if you have to. Do it, man!”
“Frank?”
Tanner said. “Who is he?”
“He’s been
reporting on this from the start.”
“You think
he’s involved?”
“I don’t
know. But something smells bad.”
32
THE CELL WAS SMALL AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC. The narrow
mattress was bloodstained and the walls were covered with graffiti. Henry sat
on the edge of the mattress and fiddled with the button on his jacket. A
muffled radio was playing somewhere, Bruce Belfrage reading the news on the
Home Service. Footsteps passed backwards and forwards by the door; Henry’s
twitchiness got worse. He hated police stations––always had, even when he
visited them for work. Made you think you’d done things that you hadn’t. Done
something wrong. Made you feel guilty.
But he’d
never been arrested before.
He twisted
the button again and it popped off. He swore and dropped it in his pocket. It
must have been three hours they’d had him locked up. Three hours to think about
the mess he was in, to plan what to say. The best way to approach things, to
get through it.
He didn’t
know why he had been arrested, but he could guess.
Worthing and
Jenkins.
Did they
know?
Could they?
He had
wondered what would be the moral thing to do. Probably to come clean. The
meeting with Field and Jenkins, the connection between the two dead girls,
everything.
No.
He’d tell them
eventually, just not yet.
Because he
knew what would happen. A tame hack would slip a bobby an envelope of cash and
he’d end up being scooped.
Not likely.
Not bloody
likely.
He’d give
himself a decent head start first.
The cell
door opened.
“Hello,
Drake.”
Henry looked
at him: big, scarred face, unshaven, scruffy. D.S. Peters followed inside,
shutting the door behind him.
“What are
you doing, Murphy? Why have I been arrested?”
“Sit down.”
He did as he
was told. Murphy didn’t sit; he lit a cigarette instead.
“I’m happy
to make a statement, Inspector. I already spoke to the Constable. There’s no
need for this.”
Murphy blew
smoke.
“Why have I
been arrested?”
“You’ve got
some explaining to do, Mr. Drake.”
“I’ve done
nothing wrong.”
“Where were
you last night? Between midnight and two o’clock?”
“At home.
Asleep.”
“Can anyone
vouch for you?”
“I live
alone.”
“Pity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why were
you in Wardour Street this morning?”
“I don’t
understand.”
“Answer the
questions, sir,” Peters said.
“I had an
interview.”
“With who?”
“Miss
Worthing.”
“Constance.”
“That’s
right.”
“What
about?”
“A feature.”
“On her?”
“No––Soho.
How it’s coping.
“Coping?”
“The
bombing.”
Murphy blew
smoke. “Really?”
“Yes.
Really.”
“What’s a
girl like her got to say about things like that?”
“I’m
speaking to lots of people.”
“And her?”
“No
particular reason.”
“You knew
each other?”
“No.”
“So?”
“We met in
the pub. On Friday.”
“Which pub?”
“The
French.”
“Sounds like
a lot of nonsense.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t
believe you.”
“And I’m
telling you it’s true.”
“Your editor
will confirm it?”
“He doesn’t
know anything about it––I’m doing this in my own time.”
“But you’re
still at the Star?”
“No thanks
to you.”
“I heard
you’d been suspended. Can’t say I was unhappy when I heard.”
“Is that
relevant?”
Murphy
smiled. “Might have a word with your guv’nor anyway, see what he has to say.
That alright?”
“As you
please.”
“She was
dead when you arrived.”
His mouth
was dry. “That’s right.”
“What
happened?”
“I’d
arranged to meet her, as I say. The front door hadn’t been shut properly. I
opened it and went up. That door was ajar too. I went inside, it was dark,
there was a torch on the sideboard so I took it and shone it around. That’s
when I saw her.”
“You picked
up the torch?” Peters asked.
“Yes.”
“Touch
anything else?”
“The light
switch. It wasn’t working.”
Murphy
sucked smoke. “And?”
“I don’t
think so.”
“You don’t
think so?”
“No. I
didn’t.”
“Alright.
You’ve seen the body. What next?”
“I called
999.”
“And waited
for us to arrive.”
“Of course.”
He ground
out the cigarette.
“Is there
anything else you want to tell me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Anything
else you want to get off your chest?”
“No. I’ve
told you everything. That’s it.”
Murphy
stared at him.
“Are you
sure?”
“Quite
sure.”
“What about
Molly Jenkins?”
Henry opened
his mouth, closed it, gaping. His mind scrambled. How did he know about Molly
Jenkins? “Who?” he stammered, feeling the guilt on him.
“Molly
Jenkins. You know her, don’t you?”
He didn’t
know what to say. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t
know her.”
“You never
met her?”
“Yes. No.”
His hands felt clammy.
“Yes? No?
You don’t look so sure.”
His hands
started to sweat. “No. Sorry. Never met her.”
“Why are you
apologising?”
“No, I’m
not––it’s just––well, the name’s familiar.”
“How’s that,
then?”
“I don’t
know. It just––it just rings a bell.”
“We found
her on Sunday morning. Dead. Someone had choked her and carved her up, just
like Constance.”
He faked it:
“That’s right. I read about it. That’s how I know the name.”
Murphy
stared at him. “You definitely don’t know her?”
A bead of
sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. “No, sir.”
Peters
looked bemused.
“That’s
funny,” Murphy said.
“I’m sorry?”
“There you
go again––apologising.”
“You’re
confusing me.”
Murphy
reached into an evidence folder and took out a diary. He placed it on the table
and thumbed through it.
He turned it
around so Henry could read it.
Flowery
female script.
He scanned
down the page.
Murphy
stabbed a finger.
He saw his
own name.
“It’s all a
bit strange. Because that is you, right? Henry Drake.”
The bead of
sweat traced down into the small of his back. “Yes.”
“9pm,
Saturday. You had an appointment to meet her?”
“I don’t
know what that means.”
“‘Henry
Drake – Saturday, 9pm.’ It’s clear, I’d say. Clear as day. What’s going on, Mr.
Drake? What aren’t you telling me?”
“It could be
someone else.”
“Come on,
Mr. Drake. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
Henry
closed his eyes, walls closing in all around him. “I speak to people all the
time. I’m a journalist. She might have called me. Perhaps we spoke. I don’t
know. I’m always looking for stories.”
“You can see
why I’m curious about you, can’t you, Mr. Drake?”
“I––”
“I’ll spell
it out for you so we’re nice and clear. Your name is found in the diary of a
murdered prostitute, then you find the body of another one yourself. All within
the space of a couple of days. Lots of coincidences.”
“You don’t
think I’m a suspect?”
“I don’t
know what I think yet. Where were you on Friday night?”
“This is
ridiculous!”
“Answer the
question, sir,” Peters said.
“At home.”
“Alone,
again?”
“I already
told you that.”
“That’s
right, you said.”
“Are we
done, Frank?” Peters said.
Murphy got
up. “For now.” He stared at him again: hard, cold eyes. “I’m going to have a
look at what you’ve told me. But if you’re lying to me, about either of them,
about any of it, you and I are going to have a falling out. I’ll make sure you
go away––you understand what I’m saying? I’ll do you so fast you won’t know
what bloody day it is. The whole bit: obstruction, wasting police time,
whatever I can pin on you. I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks.”
“I’m not
lying.”
“Then you
don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Can I go?”
“Not yet.”
“How long do
I have to stay here?”
“Depends. A
few hours. Overnight, perhaps.”
“This is
because of before, isn’t it? You’re punishing me.”
Murphy
smiled at him. “Best make yourself comfortable. Might be a while.”
TUESDAY 10th SEPTEMBER 1940
33
HENRY SQUINTED UP INTO THE DAWN. Murphy had kept
him in the cell all night. He hadn’t been to see him again, not since he had
questioned him; D.S. Peters had let him out instead. Keeping him in the cell
was just making a petty little point.
He’d been
going mad with frustration.
He left
Savile Row and hurried East towards Soho and Ham Yard. Newspaper vendors were
doing a brisk trade as Londoners clamoured for news of the attacks.
The Top Hat was closed. He
knocked on the door and waited. No-one answered. He looked around: the yard was
empty. He followed an alley around the side of the building, disturbing rats
gorging on scraps from overflowing bins. There was a door at the back of the
building. Henry remembered: there was an exit from Field’s office. He leant his
back against the door, steadying his nerves.
He remembered the two men on the
bridge, the punch in the guts and the hissed threat.
Molly Jenkins dead in the
street.
Constance Worthing cut up in her
bedroom.
But he didn’t have a choice.
He tried the handle: it was
unlocked. He pushed against the door and it opened a quarter, jamming up
against something inside.
“Hello?”
He pushed a little harder, the
obstruction scraping against the floor. He called again––nothing––and opened
the door enough to edge inside. The grey light from the alleyway barely
silvered the edges of the thick, blacked-out darkness.
He thumbed his lighter and cast
around. The room had been ransacked: furniture had been overturned; desk
drawers pulled out and left upside-down on the floor; papers were strewn
everywhere. The door had jammed against a filing cabinet that had toppled onto
its side. Henry stepped carefully over the debris.
Henry opened the door to the
main room. It was dark, with grey shafts of dusty light leaking in from around
the edges of the black-out curtains. Chairs had been left around the edge of
the dance floor and empty glasses and bottles had been left on the tables.
He went back
into the office and rifled through the debris. There was nothing of use. He
slipped out of the door and into the alleyway.
Someone had
turned the place over.
He suddenly felt vulnerable, as
if he were being watched. He quickly made his way around to the front of the
building. It was deserted. He hurried out of Ham Yard and back into Soho.