FRIDAY 29
th
NOVEMBER 1940
51
“AFTER THIS I BEHELD, AND LO, A GREAT MULTITUDE,
which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and
tongues, stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with white
robes, and palms in their hands; and cried with a loud voice, saying, Salvation
to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb.”
St James was
heaving: Frank had arrived late and the best he could do was a place next to
the font at the back. The pews were full and the crowd of men stretched to the
back of the building, stragglers pressed into the porch. Standing for
twenty-five minutes wasn’t going to be pleasant, he thought, as he leant his
weight on the crutch and his back against the wall. His right leg was encased
in plaster from ankle to hip. The tibia and fibula had been broken in five places
and all three ligaments in his knee were torn. The doctors said he’d be in
plaster for three months and he’d never walk without pain again. The leg
throbbed now but he was happy where he was, didn’t want to get any closer, or
to sit, didn’t really even want to be noticed.
This was the
parish church for West End Central. You could see the wreckage of the station
from the door. Flattened, swiped, smited––a naked gash in the long terrace. The
memorial service for twelve dead policemen was a three-line whip and four
hundred officers from across the inner-London Divisions were there. All the big
men had turned out: the Home Secretary, the Commissioner, the Receiver, the
D.P.P., all four Assistant Commissioners and their deputies.
The Bishop
of Westminster was presiding.
“And he said
to me: these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed
their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they
before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he
that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more,
neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”
Ashes to
ashes.
Memorials
and funerals: eight brasses, twelve coppers, thirteen if you counted Bill
Tanner.
Dust to
dust.
“For the
Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them
unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their
eyes.”
He scratched
at a sweaty itch inside the bandage around his head. The blast had perforated
both eardrums, and only now was his hearing returning properly. There were cuts
and bruises across his body but, apart from his leg, he’d been lucky. A joist
had fallen across him, propped up by the rubble, and it had sheltered him from
the worst of the debris. Others had been less fortunate. A notice board in the
porch held a list of names. Police Constable Keith Hanes had been killed
outright: he had escorted Duncan Johnson to the Black Maria––a shard of
shrapnel punched though his windpipe and he’d drowned on his own blood. Six men
bought their tickets when the canteen wall fell onto their card school. Five
more were killed during a briefing as they came on turn. Another dozen had been
injured badly enough to have been signed off work for the rest of the year.
Plenty of others were walking wounded, like him. The nick, only open for a few
months, was going to have to be torn down and rebuilt. West End Central had
moved back to Vine Street, the station it had already outgrown.
A decimated complement of men in
an outdated station.
One big
mess.
Alf
McCartney was in the front row, next to the Commissioner. Charlie was in the
row immediately behind Suits, their father and Bob Peters next to him.
“And all the
angels stood round about the throne, and about the elders, and the four living
creatures, and fell before the throne on their faces, and worshipped God,
saying, Amen; Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour,
and power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever.
Amen.”
The Bishop
stepped back from the lectern. The Commissioner stepped up.
“On Sunday
the fifteenth of September, a German mine fell on West End Central and we lost
twelve men. Twelve colleagues and friends. Twelve husbands and partners. Twelve
sons. Such a loss is difficult to bear yet bear it we must, for the sake of the
Metropolis of which we are sworn to protect. These men swore to do their duty
and they died in honour of that proud oath. Whilst it is right that we mourn
them, their sacrifice should be celebrated, too, as further evidence, if
evidence be needed, that the men of the Metropolitan police are the finest in
the world.” Applause rang out around the church. The Commissioner let it swell
and fall. “There will be other losses in this conflict, perhaps ones even
harder to bear than this, yet bear them we must and bear them we will.”
More
applause––the Commissioner milked it. Charlie turned and looked behind him.
Frank watched as he scanned pews, his brother’s eyes passing over him.
Disappointment flickered as he turned back. Frank knew he was looking for him.
“But even in
our saddest hour, there is still cause, if not for joy, then for hope. We were
recently challenged by a spate of vicious, evil murders across the West End.
The officers responsible for the successful conclusion of that investigation
are present today. In uniquely difficult circumstances, facing a major enquiry
in the midst of the enemy’s bombing campaign, each acquitted himself with the
skill and dedication the public has come to expect from the officers of His
Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. I would like to publicly express my gratitude to
those men, especially Alf McCartney, William Murphy, Bob Peters, Frank Murphy,
Malcolm Slater, Colin Winston, Albert Regan and Jimmy Lucas. Gentlemen: you
have done us, and yourselves, proud.”
More
applause. The Commissioner had showered his gratitude: the canteen gossip had
Alf McCartney in line for chief Constable when Bill Murphy called it a day.
Albert Regan was being made Inspector for helping to apprehend Johnson and
shooting Reginald Dudley. Frank had been offered a commendation but he’d turned
it down. He didn’t care. Ambition. It was a mug’s game. A game for Charlie to
play.
“As
you all know, D.C.I. Bill Tanner lost his life when a bomb fell on his street
on the night that the inquiry was finally resolved. It was Bill’s case from
very early on, and the only consolation that can be drawn from his passing is
that his work found its reward with the apprehension of Duncan Johnson. There
is one other officer who deserves our praise and thanks. Charles Murphy comes
from a long line of police. He joined in 1930, and in those ten years he has
served in C Division before taking up his current posting in the Central
Office. He served as Bill Tanner’s Sergeant and performed with distinction,
conducting a brilliant interrogation of the suspect. But it was later that
Charles displayed the spectacular bravery that we honour today. The bomb fell
on Savile Row as the suspect was being transferred to Brixton on remand.
Charles was escorting him to the van. In the confusion that followed, Duncan
Johnson attempted to escape. Charles gave pursuit and was shot. Injured and
facing the likelihood of death, he continued the pursuit and reapprehended him.
It is my pleasure to ask Detective Sergeant Murphy to come forward.”
Warm
applause: Frank watched from the back as his brother hugged their father and
shook Bob Peters by the hand. He hobbled forwards, moving slowly with a stick.
“It is my
honour and privilege today to present him with our highest honour: the King’s
Police Medal.”
The
Commissioner held out an open box, the medal resting inside on a velvet
backing. Charles took his hand and turned, like a professional, to the front,
beaming a politician’s smile; smoke puffed as photographers fired their
cameras: tomorrow’s front pages assured.
“It is also
my great pleasure to promote Charles to Inspector. At the age of thirty-five,
he becomes the youngest D.I. in living memory, reaching that rank faster even
than his father. Charles will return to Scotland Yard where he will continue a
remarkable career with command of internal discipline. Congratulations,
Charles. You are a credit to the Force. I have no doubt that you will continue
to be so.”
Applause
swelled again. Frank pushed himself off the wall and hobbled towards the door.
PART
FOUR
“DIRTY
PICTURES”
––
January 1941 ––
CALENDAR
–– 1940 ––
Daily Mail
, 16
th
September:
SOHO NIGHT-CLUB BURNS DOWN
BLAZE “SUSPICIOUS” SAY FIRE SERVICE
A Soho night-club burnt down last night in a fire that police are
describing as suspicious. The “Top Hat” Club, in Ham Yard W.1., was completely
destroyed in the blaze which also damaged nearby properties. Two appliances
from Covent Garden Fire Station arrived within minutes of the alarm being
raised. They were later joined by an Auxiliary Fire Service appliance. The fire
was brought under control by 3am. An investigation was launched to discover the
cause of the fire but a spokesman for the Fire Service said that it was not
caused by the bombing. It is unknown whether there were any casualties.
Daily
Mail
, 17
th
September:
BODY FOUND IN SOHO NIGHT CLUB FIRE
REMAINS “TOO BURNT” FOR IDENTIFICATION
A police spokesman has revealed that a body was discovered in the remains
of the Top Hat Night-Club, the W.1. venue that was razed to the ground by fire
on Monday morning. “The body was extremely badly burnt,” the spokesman said.
“Identification has so far proven to be impossible.”
Daily
Express
, 17
th
December:
MAN ACCUSED OF EIGHT MURDERS
“BLACK-OUT RIPPER” TRIAL BEGINS
The trial of the man accused of being the “Black-Out” Ripper began today
at the Old Bailey in London. Duncan Johnson wore a black suit with a white
shirt and dark-coloured tie as he appeared in court flanked by police officers.
Johnson, of no fixed abode, denies murdering eight prostitutes between May and
July this year. Ten men and two women were sworn in as the jury for the trial.
The
Times
, 22
nd
December:
“BLACK-OUT RIPPER” FOUND GUILTY
Duncan Johnson has been found guilty of murdering eight women in London.
Johnson, 47, of no fixed abode, denied during his trial that he had killed
them. Jurors at the Old Bailey unanimously found him guilty of all eight
murders and he will be sentenced on Friday.
The
Times
, 22
nd
December:
“RIPPER” SENTENCED TO HANG
–– 1941 ––
Lilliput
,
15
th
January:
DOWN AND OUT
Illicit Love in Suburbia
By Henry Drake
She was like all the others––a young girl desperately in need of money,
with nothing to offer in the way of collateral except herself! ‘You have to
give me more time,’ she pleaded. ‘I'll be able to pay next week, I swear.
Please, if my husband finds out about the rent, he'll––well, I just don't know
what he'd do.’ ‘I'd have to have a special reason for bending the rules,’ he
replied softly, allowing his gaze to travel down the length of her ripe body.
‘Very special.’ Awareness crept into her eyes and colour flooded her pale
cheeks. She hung her head for a moment and trembled. Then, wetting her lips,
she glanced over at the couch and door. He smiled and rose from behind the
desk. ‘I'll lock it so we won't be disturbed.’ The young housewife nodded
listlessly and began to unbutton the front of her well-filled blouse.
The
Times
, 5
th
February:
“RIPPER” EXECUTION DUE TOMORROW
THURSDAY, 6TH FEBRUARY 1941
52
HENRY ABSENT-MINDEDLY TRACED HIS FINGERTIP along
the raised length of the scar. Just like Jackie Field: it ran from the edge of
his cheekbone down to the side of his chin. On either side were evenly spaced
dimples, the eyelets where the surgeon’s needle had stitched the cut together.
The fellows on the crime desk said that gangsters called it a bootlace face.
They did it on the racecourses, thugs slashing their rivals. A moment’s work
for a lifetime’s reminder. A razor stitched into the brim of a cap, or embedded
in a piece of palmed cork. The cut was losing its lividity but it would never
completely fade; it would always be there, a reminder: some stories were best
left unwritten.
Spitalfields, the heart of the
East End. He was waiting in the printer’s small office. The place was
medium-sized, and Henry had observed it as he was led through by a female
assistant. Probably used to be a small warehouse, sub-divided by partitions so
that there was space for the press, a photographic studio, a couple of offices.
His briefcase was next to him, on the floor. He reached down, opened it, and
withdrew the manila envelope. His new story was inside. The usual nonsense:
ingenuous waif, adrift in the suburbs, taken advantage of by rapacious admirer.
He’d long-since learned to swallow his pride. Smut––it was the only writing he
was good for these days. Fleet Street wouldn’t touch him. He’d even been knocked
back by the provincials he had approached––the bloody
provincials
––his
reputation preceding him like a noisome stench.
He’d heard
about the job in the pub. A man he knew was pals with a fellow who printed the
magazines. He was looking for saucy stories to fill out the spaces between the
pictures. Henry had written a couple, they fit the bill, he got the job. Two
pounds a week. Not enough to live on, but enough to keep his head above water.
“Let’s have
it, then.”
The
printer’s name was Butters. Henry didn’t know much more than that. He was an
unpleasant, oleaginous chap, and he didn’t look forward to these meetings.
He put the
envelope on the desk.
“What’ve we
got this week?” he said, tearing the envelope and pulling out the copy. “Let’s
have a look.”
“The usual.”
He read
quickly, his mouth moving. “Whatever you say. I don’t reckon anyone notices. I
always prefer the pictures myself. Wait here. I’ll get your money for you.”
His mind
wandered.
Four months
since his slashing.
Four months
since the Top Hat had been burned down. The body inside had been tied to a
chair, too burnt for identification. Foul play was obvious and a murder enquiry
began. Jackie Field was nowhere to be found and the obvious assumption was
made. That was as far as the police could go––the investigation got nowhere and
was finally shelved.
Henry knew
it was Jackie Field.
He knew who
did it, too.
He didn’t
have the courage to go to the police. The scar on his face reminded him of
threats hissed into his ear and so he did nothing.
Four
months––he kept his head down. He tried to forget about Asquith, the dead
girls, Jackie Field, the police, all of it. Doing otherwise would just get him
killed. He wrote pornographic stories, collected his two quid, pretended none
of it had ever happened.
Henry looked
around the office. A pile of magazines was stacked on the desk. He took the one
on the top.
A blue
cover, plain apart from the title:
Lilliput.
He’d never
seen the magazines before.
He opened it, started flicking:
women in states of undress, set out in artistic poses.
Some in costumes, some stark
naked.
He reached
the middle: a two-page spread.
He gaped.
A
ménage
a trois
across the fold.
Molly
Jenkins.
Connie
Worthing.
Annie
Stokes.
Naked, posed
with feather boas and nothing else, on a divan.
He stared at
the picture.
His hands
shook.
He heard
Butters outside––he stuffed the magazine into his briefcase.
“Two quid
for that rubbish. You’re having a bloody laugh, mate. Here you are.”
Henry put
the notes into his wallet.
“You
alright, squire?”
“What?”
“Look like
you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,”
Henry said.
“Off you go
then. See you next week.”
Henry stayed
where he was. “The magazines––where are they sold?”
“Here and
there.”
“What?
Shops?”
“What’s all
this––”
“It’s just
that I haven’t seen them.”
“And what?
You like seeing your name in print? Give it a rest. This ain’t high art, mate.
You’re writing for a stroke mag.”
“I was just
curious.”
“Well don’t
be. You stick your nose where it’s not wanted, you’re liable to have your
feelings hurt when you get told to shove off. Alright?”
“Of course.”
He rose. “Sorry. Thanks for the money.”
“Same time
next week. And come up with something different, alright? The same old schtick,
it’s getting a bit stale.”