3
P.C. CHARLIE MURPHY STOOD AT THE CORNER of Frith
and Old Compton Street, nervously regarding the angry crowd. The two Italians
from the restaurant complained as they were manhandled into the back of the
Black Maria. No-one paid their protests any heed: the locals slammed their
fists against the side of the van, whooping and hollering about Fat Musso. Two
soldiers left in the café said they’d be out in their own time, saying they had
drinks to finish. They were getting it in the neck, men saying they ought to be
ashamed.
“Consorting with the enemy.”
“Not fit to wear the uniform.”
“Leopolds!” a man wearing an Old
Contemptibles badge spat at them. “Quislings!”
The atmosphere was fervid.
Someone threw a brick through the window; the crowd roared its approval.
Charlie fretted with the strap
of his baton. His throat was dry. “I don’t like the look of this, gaffer.”
“Shut it,” Sergeant Cullen said.
“There aren’t enough of us.”
“Pull yourself together man.”
Drinkers were starting to come
out of the pubs. Plenty were sauced and antsy and they were absorbed into the
crowd, swelling the numbers, lacing the atmosphere with drunken venom. Charlie
looked around: locals had appeared in doorways and first-floor windows.
Charlie’s stomach felt hollow and his palms itched. What if a spark lit the
fuse? What would they do then? They were going to need reinforcements. They
were going to need to go in mob-handed.
“
Viva Il Duce!
” someone
yelled.
“There’s one!”
“Do him!”
Charlie swung about; the speaker
was hanging half off a lamppost, two sheets to the wind, raving drunk. He let
go and staggered into the middle of the street, his arm aloft in an SS salute.
Jeers and boos. “Bloody Wop!”
“Bloody greaser!”
The man taunted them.
“Lynch him!”
One of the locals ran at the
man, tackled him around the waist and drove him down to the cobbles. The two
rolled for position, exchanging punches. The crowd roiled towards them.
Cullen blew his whistle. “In we
go!”
Charlie was shoved forwards by
the man behind. He ducked as an old crone emptied her chamber pot from a window
overhead. Excrement slopped over one poor copper; others followed suit and soon
the cobbles were slippery with shit and piss. Someone threw a punch; officers
retaliated with flailing batons, swishing lefts and rights. Charlie went for
his own baton but his palm was wet with sweat and he fumbled it, dropped it
into the morass of legs. He was buffeted again, knocked out of the way. A
fusillade of rotten vegetables, half-bricks and stones sailed down onto them.
Shots were fired into the air. Charlie ducked instinctively, someone yelling
that they were blanks. He stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his knees. He scrabbled
for grip, the cobbles slick, his hands and feet skidding and his legs splaying
out behind him. A man toppled against him, knocked him harder to the ground.
His forehead slid through sewage: his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
“Get up, Murphy!”
He scrambled to his feet.
“Go on!” Cullen yelled at him.
“Get stuck in!”
Charlie stepped away.
Cullen grabbed him by the lapels
and shoved him against the wall of a shop.
“What the bloody hell are you
doing, son?”
“I can’t––”
Cullen shoved him towards the
melee. “Get over there!”
Charlie backed away.
“Murphy!”
He turned, and started to run.
“What are you going to be like
when Hitler starts dropping bloody bombs?” Cullen yelled after him. “You’re
finished in the police, son! You hear me?––finished!”
4
HENRY DRAKE FELT THE FAMILIAR BUZZ OF EXCITEMENT as
he crossed the cordon thrown up between the four circuses of Piccadilly,
Oxford, Cambridge and St Giles.
Soho.
The Black Mile.
Ten years ago––his first pint in
the Caves de France, he’d been entranced: a lunatic magic in the air,
possibilities around every corner, dirty promises in every doorway. The fellows
from the paper preferred the pubs on Fleet Street, but he never felt settled
there. Didn’t fit in. He’d stay for a round or two to show willing before heading
for the Mandrake or the Gargoyle or the shebeens where you could drink all
night if you knew where to look and you had the right face.
It felt dangerous––more than
usual. Packs of men, threes and fours, loitered on the corners, roaming gloomy
alleys. Aggression slow-burned, only a tiny spark needed for an explosion.
The stalls on Berwick Street
market were closing. Before the black-out, they’d be open all night, too, lit
by acetylene lamps or naphtha flares hung overhead by the traders. Business was
brisk. Polish and Russian stallholders barked out last offers. Housewives
fingered bits of lace, silk and felt. Milliners from Dean Street picked up hat
shapes. Rat-faced businessmen stood atop soap boxes and auctioned off remnants
of cloth. A hunchback read horoscopes with the aid of a pencil and a printed
list of prophecies. A vagrant hawked wilting flowers from a metal bucket.
Fences tried to shift moody gear.
Crime in the West End had gone
through the roof in the last six months. Churchill could yammer on about how
everyone was pulling together until he was blue in the face; let him come to
the West End and see what he thought then. Just last night three stories had
been lifted from the Crime Book at West End Central: a breaking at the offices
of the White Star Merchant Line, the thief filching two hundred quid’s worth of
merchant navy clothing coupons; five hundred bottles of illegally-produced
perfume found in the gents at Euston station, the receiver probably getting
spooked on the way to picking them up and abandoning them; a thousand rounds of
Sten gun ammo meant for the Home Guard half-inched from an army truck parked on
Rathbone Place. Rape and assault up, too. It had always been possible to buy
anything and see everything in Soho. Now, the way things were, you could get
your throat cut as promptly as on a ship on the China Seas.
Lorna Yoxford had been found in
a room overlooking the market.
Henry turned onto Old Compton
Street: Polledri’s had been smashed up and set on fire, the furniture thrown
out into the street and mangled. Flames curled up the walls and smoke issued
through the broken windows. Glass glittered and singed copies of the menu blew
down the street on dusky zephyrs.
He went past the police guard.
The road ahead had been sealed, a rope tied across it, looped around the dead
gaslights to create a makeshift cordon. Pressmen gathered at it, notepads
proffered, cameras being set up. “No flashes, gents,” an ARP warden said. He
knew he was going to be ignored.
Henry cursed: too late for a
scoop.
Too late for anything other than
scrambling to get in line.
Damn it.
He filtered through the crowd
and rooted for scraps.
The victim’s name was Rose
Wilkins.
The body had been found by a
lady friend.
Likely she was a brass.
A detective exited the premises.
“Mr. Murphy!”
Murphy was hard to miss: a
little over six foot; well built; mustard gas scars on the right side of his
face and throat, disappearing beneath his shirt collar.
“Inspector Murphy!”
He looked over and paused; Henry
elbowed through the crowd.
“Inspector!”
Murphy’s expression changed: a
weary tolerance of the pressmen curdled into annoyance.
“Evening, Inspector.”
Murphy said nothing.
“Another one?”
Murphy said nothing.
“Is it him?”
“No comment, Mr.
Drake.”
He raised the cordon. A police
Railton waited for him, engine idling.
“What’s her name?”
“No comment.”
“I heard it’s Rose. Is that
true?”
“No comment.”
“Who found her?”
Murphy stepped under the
rope.
“Was she strangled?”
Another detective went into the
building.
“And cut? Like the others?”
Murphy opened the car door.
“Come on, Murphy. Give me
something.”
He turned back to him. “You’ve
got some neck.”
“What?”
He ignored him.
“What––Johnson?”
“Think I’d talk to you after
that?”
“I was doing my job.”
“That’s what you lot always say.
You don’t think about the consequences. It isn’t that you made my life
difficult. My suspension hurt the investigation. Made it less likely we’d catch
him. Made it even more dangerous for girls like that poor bitch up there.”
Glass shattered somewhere in a
nearby street. Men howled.
“He said you beat him. I was
entitled to ask questions.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. And I’m
entitled to tell you to piss off. Good night to you, Mr. Drake.”
Murphy got into the car, leaving
Henry on the kerb. The driver sped away, the shielded lights pricking a way
through the gloom. Henry stood, watching.
He looked down at his notepad: a
blank page stared back.
Not good enough.
He needed more.
Needed to get back to Fleet
Street.
Needed to start writing.
5
EVEN AFTER ELEVEN YEARS ON THE FORCE, Charlie still
hadn’t quite gotten used to the smell of a nick: the mixture of scrubbing soap,
disinfectant and typewriter ribbons. He went into the locker room and took off
his jacket. It stank of excrement; he filled a sink and stuffed the jacket in.
He took off his glasses and sloshed cold water in his face. He stared into the
mirror: icy blue eyes, ginger hair, a slender face with sharp points at the
chin and cheekbones. He looked tired and frightened.
The atmosphere in the mess was
rowdy. Charlie’s father had been at the nick for thirty-nine years. The party
to mark his promotion to Chief Constable was in full swing. A makeshift bar had
been set up, bottles donated by browbeaten Soho licensees arrayed across it: scotch,
whiskey, rum, two kegs of ale. A record player played show tunes, the men
whooped and hollered. The old man was popular and the turnout was good, men
working on getting drunk. Charlie looked around glumly as he passed through the
room: George Watson and Peter Howard waltzing together; Ian Jules unconscious
on the floor; Fred Barwick with a boot polish Hitler ‘tache, goose-stepping
across the room. They were all boozed.
Bob Peters caught Charlie’s eye;
he brought over a pint for him. “Quite a party, Bob.”
“Your old man’s got a lot of
history here.”
“How is he?”
“I’ve known him almost as long
as you’ve been alive. I’d normally say you’ve got as much chance of getting him
to cry as getting blood from a stone. Don’t know about tonight––haven’t seen
him this emotional your mother passed.”
Charlie remembered Peters coming
to the house for dinner when he and Frank were boys. Uncle Bob. The two of them
were as thick as thieves. Bill Murphy had nurtured a tight, loyal group of
adjutants. Bob was closest but there were plenty of others: Malcolm Slater, a
red-faced booze-hound as big as a bear, thumping a pitcher of mild on the table
and poured it into mugs; Albert Regan; Flip Donald.
“Are you alright, Charlie?”
“Course.”
“You look glum.”
“I just wish I had the same
relationship with him as you lot do.”
“Don’t be daft. He thinks the
sun shines out of your arse.”
“But––”
“He’s known most of those blokes
for years. Christ, we’ve been bucks for coming on forty––he might as well be my
brother for the difference it makes. Working with a fellow in a job like this,
it brings you closer. War stories: cases you’ve worked, scraps you’ve had with
chummy, villains you’ve put away. Breathing each other’s farts while you wait
in the back of a surveillance van. He knows more about me than my own bloody
missus does. But that’s how it is––it’s normal.”
“So why doesn’t it work for me?”
“You’ve always been aloof.
That’s how you are. It was the same when you were at school––they all said how
you kept to yourself. You and your books. Your old man gets on with everyone.
Frank’s the same. Different strengths and weaknesses.”
It was his own fault. It’d
bothered him for as long as he could remember. His father and brother had
banter, jokes, drunken conversation. He couldn’t trade like that, and even when
he was included in conversations with the lads it was usually as a punchline:
arrests he’d buggered up; mistakes he’d made. He looked at them, their easiness
with life, and felt brittle.
“Has he said anything about the
C.I.D.?”
“You asked about it again?”
“Last week.”
“Bloody hell, Charlie, we talked
about this.”
“You talked.”
“And I stand by it: stick to
uniform. Get some seasoning. Wait for your opportunity.”
“I can’t wait, Bob. I’m not made
for it. If I don’t get into plainclothes I’m finished.”
“He can’t help––doesn’t matter
that he’s made Chief Constable, there are some things he can’t do. You’re not
going to waltz onto the Flying Squad just because he says so.”
“But––”
“Let’s assume he gets you
recommended for C.I.D. First, there’d be a year minimum as an Aide. Let’s
assume you can stand making coffee and running errands for a year; whatever
post they offer after that will be shitty, freezing your arse off in the rain
on surveillance detail or pushing paper around in Records. Assume you’re still
interested after that, you’d have to think a transfer to the Squad would take
another five years and lots of brown-nosing to do it. You’re thirty-five now?”
“Yes.”
“You’d be forty, minimum. You’re
already old for D.C. Forty would be ancient. Young Turks buzzing around, ten
years head start, they’ll out-rank you in months. Think you could take orders
from some spotty little toerag from Peckham?”
He shrugged. “So what do I do?”
“You know what I think. You’re
too clever for all this. Look at the law. Your old man could set you up with a
place in chambers tomorrow. A criminal set. Something to tax that brain of
yours. Good money. You’d be earning more than both of us put together in no
time.”
“It’s not about money. I want to
work cases.”
He chuckled. “You never did take
a hint. You’re damned good, Charlie, and you’ve got potential. But you’re a
cold fish. Your Dad and Frank, they have a way about them. They’re leaders––men
will follow them. You’re not. Neither am I, if it’s any consolation––there’s a
reason I’ve been stuck in his wake for twenty years.” He chuckled again as he
looked at him over the rim of his pint. “Still haven’t persuaded you, have I?”
“No.”
“Go on then. He’s coming over.
See what he says. But we’re off soon. The Assistant Commissioner’s hosting
dinner and we’re already late.”
His father was putting on his
overcoat.
“Father.”
“Charles.” He clapped him on the
shoulder. “Good turn-out. You’d almost think they liked me.”
“Could I have a word?”
Alf McCartney joined them.
McCartney was the Detective Chief Inspector on ‘C’ Division; he was replacing
his father as Detective Superintendent. McCartney was a snappy dresser. The
lads called him ‘Suits’ on account of his flashy duds. He was in an expensive
suit, all grey except for a red silk tie with a solid silver tie-pin. Patent
leather tassel loafers looked like they cost more than Charlie earned in a
month. He also had a reputation for ambition; you had to be ruthless to have
made detective super by forty-five. Everyone knew it: you didn’t want to stand
in the way of Alf McCartney. He was a go-getter. A riser.
“We should be going, sir.”
Charlie shuffled. “A quick word
before you go, father?”
“I’m sorry, Charles––we’re
late.”
“About the C.I.D.?”
He sighed, impatient. “Still
this?”
“Just a word with the D.I.,
that’s all. It wouldn’t take five minutes and it’d make all the difference.”
“You know what I think. If you
want to be a detective you have to make it off your own back. Walk your beat,
make arrests, people will notice. For God’s sake, Charles, it’s Soho. There’s
no better spot to make a reputation for good coppering.”
“You’d do it if Frank asked.”
He father shrugged helplessly.
“Fine. I spoke to Cullen.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t think you’re ready.”
“I disagree.”
“How many arrests did you make last
week?”
“A fence––moody watches on the
market.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“And you can’t see that’s not
enough? Unless you roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty with the other
men, the brass won’t think you’ve got the gumption for it. And he says you don’t
get involved. You don’t go out drinking with the others when you’re off turn
and you don’t have any friends.”
“I have my studies.”
“Being bookish won’t help.”
“It’ll make me a better
policeman. I’m learning things they don’t teach at bloody Hendon.” He clenched
his teeth, frustrated that the old man couldn’t see his point, or wouldn’t.
“I’m wasted in uniform. You know I am.”
“You have the brains for an
outstanding career. It doesn’t have be in the Force.”
“I told him that,” Peters said.
“I said the law.”
“The bar would be perfect.”
“Frank was on the C.I.D. after
three years. He made D.S. in six.”
“Frank has excellent instincts,
Charles.”
“And I don’t?”
“I didn’t say that. You have
strengths he doesn’t. Your mother’s brains, and you’re ambitious.”
“But––”
He put up his hands,
exasperated. “It’s not a race––I’m proud of you both.”
“Is that your last word,
father?”
“It is.”
“Bill––we have to go.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,
Charlie.”
His father, McCartney and Peters
left. The others turned away; no need to socialise with him now that the old
man and the new broom were gone. The same old story. He took a drink and sat
down at an empty table. A couple of the lads from earlier saw him and laughed:
hapless Charlie Murphy, the butt of everyone’s jokes. Nothing changed. Seven
years in the job and he was still a punchline, a lesson in how not to do
things. The opposite of his hero brother.
An angry shout went up from the
Charge Room.
He thought about the nonsense in
Soho. Peters was right, Cullen was right: he wasn’t cut out for uniform. Cullen
and his knuckleheads loved it: rough-housing with chummy, putting their weight
about, battering protestors. Legalised thuggery. Bullies with a badge. They
could keep it. He had no interest. He’d more to offer than they did. His gifts
were wasted on the beat. He knew, and had known for years: his future was in
plainclothes.
Charlie stood alone and overhead
conversations: the prisoners were an Italian fifth column, Adolf and Musso’s
secret advance guard; one of them had pulled a shiv on Mike Silver, stabbed him
through the arm.
The station fizzed. Booze made
it worse. Tinderbox volatile.
Time to go.
The Charge Room was full of
noise: jeering, angry shouts. The Custody Sergeant, George Treadaway, was
fretting by the door.
Charlie looked down the
corridor: cells on either side, all of them full, Italian names chalked up on
the blackboard.
Polledri.
Franco.
Malletti.
Bertoreli.
Polledri.
A dozen drunken officers were
crammed in the corridor: obscene gestures, shouted abuse.
An Italian accent: “Bloody
pigs!”
“Watch your mouth, you greasy
Wop.”
Someone started to sing the
Italian anthem.
“Salve o popolo d’eroi!”
Other men joined in the
singing.
“Salve o patria immortale!”
A dozen men bellowing out
Mussolini’s fascist ditty.
“Son rinati i figli tuoi!”
Charlie saw Frank, overcoat on,
coming from outside. Harry Sparks was with him.
“Con la fe’ nell’ideale!”
A bottle was thrown against the
wall.
“Damn Eye-Ties!”
The noise went louder.
“That’s enough lads.” His
brother was the ranking officer; no-one was listening. “Simmer down.”
The crowd swirled.
The noise yammered.
Someone had swiped the cell
keys; the doors were opened one after another. The prisoners were dragged out.
Frank elbowed his way inside.
“Alright, lads, enough.”
Sparks hawked a mouthful of
phlegm and spat it at the nearest prisoner. The Italian threw a punch; Harry
caught it on the side of the chin, absorbed it, rugby-tackled the Wop and drove
him right across the cell. Harry went crazy, hammering lefts and rights, the
Italian pinned to the wall, his face a crimson mask. Men whooped and cheered.
The Italians started screaming
blue murder and the coppers went for them, men reaching for saps and
truncheons, others settling for their fists and knees. An officer worked a
bloke with his sap, backhand and forehand, the man on his knees, teeth spraying
out of his mouth. Another swung his truncheon; an Italian caught it in the
face, blood and spit splattering.
A punch landed on Charlie’s
forehead; everything blurred. He fell against a couple of blokes, took a punch
to the jaw and punched back, his knuckles stinging. He tripped. Three coppers
gathered around one man, half-crouched as they swung their saps down again and
again. He stopped moving, save for spastic twitchings, each blow smacking like
it was hitting into rotten watermelon.
Charlie scrambled away on hands
and knees.