He knelt down and picked up a
girl’s dress, torn at the shoulder, heavy with the smell of urine and stained
with semen. He put it back, picked up a pair of small shoes and re-arranged
them neatly. He stood, his knees creaking, and fastened his raincoat. He was
tired. A few more things to do, he thought. A couple more jobs and then I can
sleep.
He took out
his pistol and crouched down next to Dudley’s body. He aimed back at the door
and, waiting until the noise of the bombers overhead was at its loudest, fired
a single shot into the doorframe, splintering it. He laid the pistol in
Dudley’s lap, next to his outstretched hand.
He went back
downstairs. “I’m going to the hospital. I’ll have some more men sent down.
You’re going to need help. This is a shit-hole.”
“Fine, guv,”
Winston said. “We’ll crack on.”
Frank walked
through the broken down door and flagged the attention of one of the remaining
drivers.
“Let’s go.”
“Where to,
Guv?”
“Wherever
they took the girl.”
o
o o
HE WAITED OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ROOM and peered
through the slats in the blind. She was propped up in a hospital bed while a
doctor and a paediatric nurse examined her. They’d put her in the back of an
ambulance and driven her to the kiddie hospital on the Hackney Road. Ten
minutes of patient coaxing by a W.P.C. revealed her name was Georgina; the
plonk tried to get more out of her but she clammed up. Didn’t matter: a search
of the missing persons register at the Yard supplied the rest: full name
Georgina Howard; fifteen years old; missing two weeks; parents––Eric and Ida––a
place outside Isleworth, Middlesex. Frank called the nick and ordered a man
from the C.I.D. to drive out and deliver the mixed news: good, their daughter
had been found alive and in one piece; bad, she'd never be innocent again.
Midnight.
Frank lit a
cigarette and greedily sucked smoke. He didn’t feel anything: no jubilation,
not even relief. He wanted to go back to Savile Row, but he knew he really
couldn’t. Too much to tidy up here. Tanner could interrogate Johnson. The
D.C.I. would get the credit anyway, so what did it matter? That was the price
the Murder Squad demanded. Anything to add to their aura, anything to buff
their halos. Frank was too tired to care.
And Charlie
on the Murder Squad. Couldn’t have landed in a better spot.
The doctor
left the nurse in the room and stepped out. “She’s in shock. I don’t want to
think what that poor little mite’s been through but she’s not ready to talk
about it yet.”
“Doesn’t
matter. She can have as long as she wants. One of the men who did it to her is
dead and the other one is going to get hung; she’ll never have to see the
inside of a nick if she doesn’t want to, let alone the Bailey.”
“I’m not
saying she won’t be able to talk. Usually, I’d expect to see mental recovery
after a couple of days. I’ll telephone when I think she might be up to speaking
to an officer.”
“Appreciate
it.”
“Parents?”
“On their
way. A car’s picking them up. Should be here within the hour.”
“Splendid.”
The doctor went back inside. Frank peered through the slats again––Georgina had
turned her head towards him. He smiled encouragingly but there was nothing on
her face in return. Her eyes were dark and blank and still.
SUNDAY, 15
th
SEPTEMBER 1940
48
ALF MCCARTNEY SHUT THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE and
gestured to the chair facing his desk. Charlie sat down in the chair next to
his father.
“It’s bad news,” Alf said. “We
can’t be certain exactly what’s happened yet, but Jerry dropped a bomb on Bill
Tanner’s house. Bermondsey. He was probably aiming for the gas works and fell
short. The street’s a right mess. We haven’t been able to find Bill––no-one
knows where he is.”
“You
think––?”
“Don’t know. But until we hear
otherwise, he’s off the enquiry.”
“Who’ll
replace him?”
“Bernard Shipman’s in the frame.
But we’ll see.” McCartney placed a report signed off by D.C. Malcolm Slater
face up on the table. The ink was still wet. McCartney tapped it with his
finger. Charlie read it:
METROPOLITAN POLICE
Criminal Investigation Department
New Scotland Yard
To Detective Superintendent:
At 23.15 on the 13th September 1940, D.D.I. Murphy (Tottenham Court Road)
with D.S. Regan and D.C.s Slater and Winston (West End Central) located Duncan
Johnson at 19 Appleby Road, Canning Town, a property registered to one Reginald
Dudley. The two suspects were found with a young girl, identity presently
unknown, the presumption being that the suspects were in the process of sexually
assaulting her. During the apprehension of the suspects, two shots were fired
by D.S. Regan and Reginald Dudley was killed (this report compiled before
attendance of home office pathologist). Duncan Johnson was successfully
apprehended. A detailed examination of the premises is presently underway but
given the property’s state of the disrepair it is not expected to be completed
for some hours.
DC Malcolm Slater
“That’s excellent news.”
“Indeed. But
we have a problem.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped.
“Where’s D.C.I. Shipman?”
“Doing a murder for Yorkshire
Constabulary and not due back until tomorrow evening, and that’s only if the
train’s running.”
He knew where this was going.
“But Johnson is downstairs.”
“And we can’t hold him until
tomorrow evening before we speak to him. It has to be done tonight.”
“Sir––”
“Even if Shipman was here, he
won’t have the first idea what this is about save what he’s read in the
linens.”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t want
to show his nerves but they must have been bloody obvious. He turned to his
father. “What about Frank?”
He shook his head. “Not for
this.”
“He has more experience on this
than I do.”
“You know he can’t. Johnson’s
already complained about him once. If I put him in the same room as Johnson
there’s no knowing what’ll come out of it. He saw what he was up to when they
pulled him––he’ll be thinking of Eve, there’s no guarantee he won’t have him up
against a wall with a gun in his mouth. You saw what he was like with Eddie
Coyle. He’s struggling with this. You know I’m right. We can’t take the risk.”
Alf pressed it home. “You have
the best working knowledge of the file. Come on, old sport. You know we’re
right. It’s got to be you.”
“Bloody hell.” Elation and fear,
fear and elation: he thought he was going to throw up.
“Do this and you can write your
own transfer. The Murder Squad. The Sweeney. Whatever you want, it’ll be yours,
plus a promotion and a medal.” He didn’t need to say anything else––Charlie
thought of the Lodge, the promises Alf had made and the promises he had kept.
“This is your moment, lad. Are you game?”
He thought of stripes on his
shoulder. “I want to do it my way.”
“Get a result and I don’t care
if you do it in a dress.”
“Johnson knows he’s in a lot of
trouble,” his father said. “He’s looking at a ten just for the girl Frank found
him with. He’ll knows what it’s like for nonces in stir––he’s done it once and
he might not have the stomach to go through it again. And the way blokes like
him think, he might want to put his hands up for the dead girls. Claim the
credit, if you like. The three he’s done here, the five from before––that’s
eight dead brasses, more than anyone’s ever topped before. Maybe he thinks he’s
got nothing to lose––he admits what he’s done and goes to the noose the most
famous killer in history. Maybe that’s what he’s wanted all along.”
Charlie nodded: maybe.
“There’s no rush. Take a couple
of hours to read up on his file––we don’t have enough to make it easy to nail
him for the murders. The gas mask is about as far as we can go and that’s
circumstantial. You’re going to have to bluff him. Anything we get from the
house, I’ll let you know. We’ll be outside watching through the two-way. Come
out whenever you need a chance to think. If you want anyone else in the room
with you for a change of pace, let me know. We’re all behind you, son.”
“Who else has spoken to him?”
“No-one.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Fine.”
He felt a bead of sweat rolling
slowly, coldly, down the middle of his spine.
“Are you alright?”
A deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“You can do it, son.”
“Good luck, sport.”
“I’ll do my best.”
o
o o
HE ASKED TO DO IT HIS WAY and Suits gave him all
the leeway he needed––or, he thought, more than enough rope to hang himself
with if he buggered it up. A confession was a unlikely, a cliché from Saturday
morning matinees. But if he played Johnson right, nudged him and tickled him
and cajoled him––teased and flattered him in just the right measure––then he
could extract things, little bricks, he could build with. Supports and
buttresses that could turn suppositions and hunches and guesses into
indictments you could hang a man with. Bob Peters and his father had taught him
the tricks, years ago, a precocious youngster who wanted to learn and wouldn’t
take no for an answer. They played the suspect and he questioned them,
penetrating lies, piercing deceits, learning how to find the pressure points.
He honed with books, theories and lectures. His work on C Division added
seasoning. Now his instincts were needle sharp.
He thought of his father, in the
car.
The chance you’ve been waiting
for.
Find Johnson, Charles.
Bring him in.
It’ll be the making of you.
Background first. He took his
time with the file, carefully painting a picture. It was five in the morning
before he was ready to go. The delay suited him: physical evidence recovered
from the crime scene would be valuable in the interrogation and, even more
important, psychological studies said nocturnal suspects were least comfortable
in the early hours.
He wanted Johnson as
uncomfortable as possible.
He had a uniform collect Johnson
from his cell and told the man to walk him past the enquiry room. He made sure
the door was open and men were inside, working. The Constable walked slowly,
Johnson getting a look at the charts and lists and photographs on the walls,
the mug-shot from his C.R.O. file stuck on a blackboard with his name written
beneath in fresh two-inch caps. It said they were onto him. It said the game
was up. The officer took him to the interrogation room and shut him in––Charlie
let him stew for another half an hour. Let him think the whole of the Met was
ranged against him. Let him wonder how much they knew.
Five-fifteen.
He went down. It was busy. The
Station Sergeant was chalking up names on a blackboard in the Charge Room.
Adjacent columns recorded cell numbers and the crimes the occupants were
suspected of committing: four cells were occupied by soused squaddies picked up
in the ‘Dilly overnight, sleeping off their benders before they were let out
with fleas in their ears; another provided temporary accommodation for a Tom; a
couple of the Meat Rack rent boys were screeching in the one next to that. A
typical haul for a weekday night in the West End.
An entry in the middle of the
blackboard read JOHNSON, Duncan: Murder.
Charlie ignored Polari curses
from the screeching queens and walked down a corridor of identical cells:
wooden benches with thin mattresses on top, toilets next to the foot of the
benches with brass handles to flush them and buttons for the prisoners to call
the Sergeant that could be switched off if they were misused. Whitewashed walls
scratched with graffiti. The stink of stale urine.
The interrogation room was
plain, a table and two chairs. Outside: Alf McCartney and his father, watching
through a two-way.
An audience for his big-time
debut.
Charlie skimmed his notes, took
a deep breath
His father squeezed his shoulder
and took him to one side. “You can do this, Charlie. You’re a bloody good
officer. You’re ambitious, you’re driven and you’ve got a brilliant brain.
Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, father.”
“Go on––show everyone else how
good you are.”
He went inside.
Johnson stood.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Charles
Murphy.”
“Murphy?”
“I’m his brother. Sit down.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Why? Do you want to be?”
“Of course not.”
“Then sit down.”
“My friend was shot.”
Charlie ignored him.
“My friend was shot!”
He began the soliloquy he had
planned: “You’re in a lot of trouble, Duncan. We’ve got quite a mess to sort
out this morning.”
“Didn’t you bloody hear me?”
“Let me give you some free
advice: be quiet and listen––you’ll get your chance to speak in a moment. If
you want to make a complaint, I’ll go and get the Commissioner himself. But you
need to know exactly where I’m coming from. You need to know that I’m good at
what I do. Very bloody good. You need to know that I’ve been doing this a long
time and you can count the cases I haven’t cracked on the fingers of one hand.”
The bluff was audacious and he felt young and stupid and obvious halfway
through; he winged it and hoped he came across strong. “I’ve had people in here
in situations like yours and some of them lied to me. Most of the ones who did
got hung.”
“Then get me a lawyer.”
“You might want to think about
that. If that’s what you want I can get you one, but that’ll be the end of
things. There won’t be anything that I can do for you. If you tell me you want
one I’m going to go outside and start drafting your charge sheet.” He looked at
his watch. “It’s half-five in the morning and London got pasted again last
night. Assuming we can even contact a brief, assuming he’s willing to act for
you and assuming he’s able to get over here, by the time he arrives there’ll to
be nothing left to talk about. Because I’ll have charged you by then. He’ll
rubberstamp things, that’s it. You’ll be on your way to Brixton. That’s what
will happen––but it’s your right, of course. Do you want a lawyer, Duncan?”
Johnson frowned––he said
nothing.
“Or we can have a chat. Why
don’t you tell me what happened.”
Johnson stared at Charlie––cold
eyes that gave nothing away.
“This is your chance to tell
your story. Before anything else gets added. Set it all out, just how you want
it. What happened?”
“I’ve got nothing to say to
you.”
“Why not?”
Johnson ignored the question.
Charlie changed tack: “There are
two dozen bobbies out there who want to lynch you for the things you’ve done.
They’ve seen the crime scene pictures, some of them have daughters––I’m deadly
serious, Duncan, some of them want to string you up in the yard right now, get
it over with. Lucky for you I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you a fair shake.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve got
nothing to say.”
“For Christ’s sake, man, tell
the truth. I’ll be honest: we both know there’s no way I can save you from the
noose, but I can get you out of here without you being beaten to a pulp first.”
He looked up: “What?
“Oh, you’re listening now?”
“What do you mean? The noose?”
“You’ve done murder, Duncan.
What did you expect?”
“Murder? She’s not dead.”
“They’re all dead.”
“She was alive when I was
nicked. She was, I––”
“What?”
“The girl.”
Charlie tumbled it. “We’re not
talking about
her
, Duncan. She’s going to get you ten years, but that’s
the least of your troubles. I’m talking about the others. The prostitutes. The
ones you killed.”
He went white. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Duncan. You think I
was born yesterday?”
“I don’t––”
“Molly Jenkins. Constance
Worthing. Annie Stokes.”
“I don’t––”
“Louisa Hart. Henrietta Clarke.
Freda Williams.”
He shook his head. “Not this
again.”
“Lorna Yoxford. Rose Wilkins.”
“This is ridiculous. I thought
you lot had got the message last time. It’s not me.”
“Where were you Thursday
evening? Around ten?”
“I was with Reginald.”
“But your gas mask case was
found in the West End, in the same spot where a young woman was subjected to a
serious sexual assault.”
“No it wasn’t. My gasmask is in
the house.”
“This woman was pushed into a
doorway and her assailant tried to strangle her. Exactly like all those other
poor girls.”
“My mask is at home. I can tell
you exactly where it is.”
“We’ll know soon enough. The
house is being searched now.”
“It’ll be there.”
“Was she going to be the next
one?”
“Listen, alright? We’ve been
through this a hundred times. That has nothing to do with me. You can threaten
me with it as much as you want but we both know I’m going to walk out of here
again, just like before.”