60
CHARLIE’S DESK WAS COVERED WITH PAPER. Every new
piece of information was another layer of complication. He had tried to wrap
himself around the problem, to see its boundaries, but the edges were blurred
and fuzzy. And the problem kept growing.
The
telephone rang on his desk.
“D.I.
Murphy.”
“It’s
Frank.”
“What do you
want?”
“I need to
see you.”
“Frank––what
is it? I’m busy––”
“I need your
help.”
o
o o
CHARLIE PASSED SPEAKER’S CORNER and kept going. It
was a cold, fresh afternoon. Young ‘uns kicked footballs. Soldiers in uniform
strolled arm-in-arm with their girl-friends. A few perambulators, scooters and
fairy cycles were around and about. The cricket pitches had long been broken up
with sand-heaps to prevent Jerry landing planes. Music from the bandstand
swelled up, carried by the wind. The band were playing a jaunty number by Benny
Goodman. The audience clapped as the song finished and the band started another
tune: “Hanging Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line.”
The Serpentine opened out before
him. Charlie put his back to a tree and waited, scanning the area: a man
smoking a fag, a handful of soldiers in khaki.
The man
tossed the fag away and walked across.
“Charlie,”
Frank said.
Charlie felt
awkward. Frank obviously did, too. It was two years since they had spoken, and
longer than that since they had been civil to each other. The rift between them
was never far from his mind; a nagging sadness that he tried to keep out of the
way. It bothered him but as the time passed it had become more convenient and
sensible to accept things as they were. It couldn’t get worse if they didn’t
see each other.
“Frank.”
“Thanks for
coming.”
“We couldn’t
do this at the Yard?”
“It’s better
here. Safer.”
“What are
you talking about?”
“I’ll
explain. Shall we walk?”
They
wandered around the excavations dug by the Engineer Corps. Diametrical trenches
had been cut into the ground, fortified with stacks of green canvas sandbags.
They walked in silence. Charlie regarded Frank from the corner of his eye: he
looked tired. His limp was more pronounced than he remembered, a combination of
the old war wound and the injuries from when Savile Row was blitzed. He was
starting to look his age.
Frank
cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Look––”
Charlie began.
“No, let me.
Some of it was my fault. Some was yours. But we need to put it behind us.”
“I should
never have testified.”
“I shouldn’t
have reacted.”
“I’m sorry,
I––”
“So am I.
But it’s water under the bridge.”
“I––”
“What’s done
is done. Alright?”
Frank looked him square in the
eye and extended a hand. Charlie took it. Frank gripped hard, his eyes never
wavering. “I know how well you’re doing. I’m proud of you. You mightn’t believe
me, but I always have been. You’ve made yourself into a bloody good copper. I
just want you to know that.”
Charlie
tried to speak, but his throat was blocked.
Frank
nodded, and released his hand.
They set off
again.
“What’s
going on, Frank?”
“I need your
help.”
“You said.”
“I’ve been
looking into smut. Mail order.”
“Not really
my thing. You should see vice.”
“I wish it
was that easy. Remember Henry Drake?”
“Jog my
memory.”
“Reporter.
Wrote about the Ripper.”
Charlie said
he remembered.
“He came to
see me. You better take a look at this.” Frank opened his briefcase and took
out a slim book with a pale-blue cover. Charlie took it and flicked through.
“Middle pages.” The centrefold was smeared with blood but the picture behind
was clear enough.
“Jesus,
Frank.”
Charlie
stared, agape: Molly Jenkins, Annie Stokes and Constance Worthing. A
double-page spread.
“You see?”
“They all
knew each other. We never thought–– I mean, we never––”
“We never
found a link between any of the other victims, either, the five from before. We
always had him picking random judies off the street. Except it doesn’t look
like these three were random. If this was the Ripper, it would’ve been a
complete change.”
Charlie’s
mind was dizzied. “So––I don’t know, Frank, I’m struggling. So..?”
“The week before she died, Drake
says Jenkins offered him pictures of the three girls. Some sort of orgy they
had going on with Viscount Asquith. Blackmail shots, from the sound of it,
two-way glass, fake mirror, whatever, they managed to get hold of them, trying
to sell them. Drake was going to meet her again the day before we found her.”
“Jesus––”
“She was
with a Soho clubman––Jackie Field. Sounded like he was the one who was trying
to put the sale together. I knew him––he’s pond life. He went missing last
year. His place burned down, they found a body inside. The girls, Field––”
“Someone did
away with them? To keep them quiet?”
“Can’t be a coincidence.”
“But Johnson––”
“I know––if
I’m right, it wasn’t him.”
“But we––”
“He still
had it coming, one way or another. You weren’t there when we collared him. You
didn’t see what he’d done. No. He had it coming.”
Charlie
gazed out over the water. That didn’t make what happened right. He grasped.
“What about the evidence we found?”
“I’ve got an
idea about that. I found the man who’s printing the porn––man called Butters.
He coughed that Eddie Coyle is behind it.”
“Worthing’s
boyfriend?”
“He’s got a
smut business now. He runs it day-to-day but he says Percy Timms and Bert Regan
are behind it all. Do you know them?”
“Of course.”
He felt a
flutter of anxiety:
Senior men.
Brother
Masons.
Friends of
Alf.
“And?”
“Between you
and me, I can’t say the idea of the two of them up to no good is beyond the
pale. We’re already looking into the C.I.D. at West End Central.”
“For what?”
“You
remember George Grimes? I was investigating him before I was transferred onto
the Murder Squad last year––Regan and Timms took over the case after I moved.
He was turning over businesses in Soho. I found his body. They said it was
suicide but that’s not what it looked like––everything about it said it wasn’t.
It’s always bothered me but I never got the chance to review it again until
this week. Turns out Grimes was stepping out with Connie Worthing.”
“I thought
she was with Eddie Coyle?”
“I’ve seen a
picture of them together. His parents confirmed it. No question about it.”
“Was he
friendly with Timms and Regan?”
“We were all
at the same Lodge.”
“Can you
look into them?”
“I am.
Albert Regan’s not doing too badly for himself. Got a nice little place in
Barnes with a sports car in the drive.”
“Not a
policeman’s motor?”
“Hardly.
American. Nice. Doesn’t look like he’s short of the odd shilling. Might be a
perfectly good reason for it, but it’s a bit queer.”
“What about
his records?”
“Clean as a
whistle. Excellent annual reports. Excellent arrest rates. He’s passed the
Inspectorship exams with flying colours and there’s a letter of recommendation
from McCartney that he be promoted as soon as a slot opens up. He’s a riser.”
They stopped
at a bench and sat.
“What do you
reckon?”
Frank paused, arranging his
thoughts. “What about this: Timms, Regan and Grimes set up the smut business.
They get Coyle to operate it for them––we know he’s a pimp, he arranges the
girls. Jenkins, Worthing and Stokes are recruited. They’re photographed for the
magazine.”
“And that’s
how Grimes meets Worthing. Fine.”
“There’s a
side-line in sex parties. The girls go to one and get hold of photographs Timms
and Regan take in case they need to blackmail the guests. The girls realise
they’re worth a lot of money. They try and sell them to Drake.”
“Jackie Field?”
“He knows
Jenkins. We know he was a pimp, too––maybe he ran one of them. Maybe Coyle
worked with him to get the girls. And then they roped him in to help sell the
snaps.”
Charlie took
over. “Timms and Regan find out. They can’t afford the attention the pictures
would bring. The girls have to be kept quiet. They kill them. Field, too.”
“Grimes?”
Charlie
thought about that.
Frank spoke
first. “He double-crosses them. He’s dragged in with Worthing and her mates.
Regan and Timms find out. So he has to go, too.”
They walked
on. Charlie tried to wrap his mind around it. “Timms and Regan were on the
Ripper enquiry. The first one.”
“We all
were.”
“So they
know the file––they stage the deaths to make it look like him. They know how he
did it.”
Frank shook
his head wryly.
“What?”
“It makes
sense. Regan was there––when we took Johnson, he was there. We arrested him
together. He shot Reginald Dudley and tried to do Johnson. Encouraged me do it
when I stopped him.”
“Dudley
could have alibi’d Johnson.”
“Exactly. So
Regan plants the evidence.”
“And we hang
Johnson. Very neat and tidy.” He paused, thinking. “Is it possible?”
The siren
sounded. That long, up-and-down wailing. The band lost their concentration and
the music petered out. Women fussed and walked briskly to the shelters,
clasping their children’s hands and tugging them along. Blokes walked with a
bit of a swagger, didn’t want to look frightened in front of their women.
“We might be
able to do something ourselves,” Frank said. “Coyle said there was a place
where they kept the smut. In the East End. We should take a look.”
“When?”
“When it’s
dark.”
Charlie
thought about it. There wasn’t much of a case: the word of a pimp and smut
peddler against two decorated detectives. Rumours and supposition. “We’ll never
get a warrant.”
“No time for
that anyway.”
“No.”
“I’ll pick
you up. Be on the Embankment at ten.”
61
CHARLIE WALKED BACK TOWARDS SCOTLAND YARD, thoughts
swirling as he juggled the new information. Timms and Regan and Grimes,
moonlighting as smut peddlers and pimps. Jenkins and Worthing and Stokes.
Connections between them flickered, red lines joining them, the possibilities
compelling but difficult to credit. Three coppers pushing pornography around
London.
Prostitution.
Blackmail.
Murder.
Three dead
brasses.
One dead
detective.
Dusk was
falling as he reached the Yard. He climbed the stairs, pausing at the door. Alf
McCartney was in Charlie’s office. Charlie watched as Alf poked through papers
on his desk.
He opened
the door loudly.
“Charlie.”
“Sir. Can I
help you?”
“Haven’t
seen you for a while. Where have you been hiding?”
“More work
than hours in the day.”
“Not even
time for the Lodge? I’ve told you before: one needs regular contact with the
Craft. I’ve seen good men fall into the darkness when they neglect their
responsibilities.”
“Of course,
sir. I know. I’m going tomorrow night.”
“Splendid.
There’ll be a warm welcome for you.”
“You’re off
the manor tonight––can I help?”
“You’ve
re-opened the investigation into George’s death.”
How did he
know that?
“New
evidence has come to light,” he said.
McCartney
kneaded his forehead roughly; Charlie noticed for the first time how tired he
looked. “I’ll be honest with you, sport. I was disappointed when I heard. The
West End has been a bloody jungle for the last twelve months; we had a shooting
and three rapes last night and I’m trying to forget the hundreds of outstanding
petty offences we’re never even going to be able to get to. I don’t remember
the men ever being so busy, Vine Street is too small for us and morale is
dreadful. The Commissioner is shouting down the telephone at me that the
statistics are unacceptable, says he wants improvements in the clear-up rate or
heads are going to roll. The last thing I need is my best detectives being
distracted by an investigation that, as far as I’m concerned, was
satisfactorily handled two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,
sir. I don’t agree. It wasn’t satisfactorily handled. Nothing was done after I
was reassigned. There are a lot of questions that weren’t answered. They were
brushed under the carpet.”
McCartney
laughed wryly. “I’m sure Bert Regan will appreciate that assessment of his
efforts.”
“Well,
quite.”
“Is there
anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“No, that’s
all. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Charlie said
he would.
McCartney
left.
Charlie shut
the door and put his back to it. He closed his eyes.
Alf
McCartney went to the Lodge with Regan, Timms and Grimes.
He was the
Master Mason.