62
“COME ON. WAKE UP.”
Hands shook him.
“Wake up.”
A hard slap
across the cheek.
He jerked
awake.
He opened
his eyes.
A light bulb
had been lit.
Two men were
in the room.
Rat-Face and
the big man, the man who had cut him. The big man was leaning against the wall,
a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. At his feet were two large
jerry cans with funnelled spouts, the sort used to carry spare petrol in the
boot of a car.
“You awake
now?”
A revolver
was laid out on the table.
“Who are
you?”
“I’m Regan,”
Rat-Face said. “That’s Timms.”
“What do you
want?”
Regan knelt
down in front of the chair and looked up at him. “You don’t learn, do you? We
warned you enough. But you can’t take a hint.”
“I don’t––”
“You’re
going to tell me everything you know about the doxies who got done in Soho.
Jenkins, Worthing, Stokes. Everything.”
“Why?”
“I’m asking
the questions today, my old cully. Don’t piss me off, alright? That wouldn’t be
clever, given your circumstances. You’ll end up worse than your mate Jackie.”
“You killed
him?”
“He thought
he could muscle us out of Soho,” Timms said. “Wasn’t very clever.”
“He was very
silly. We can’t have that, see, a pushy little toerag spiv with ideas above his
station and no bloody respect.”
“I’m not trying
to be difficult.”
“Capital. Be
good and we’ll get on fine. Now––everything you know. Out with it.”
His voice
caught. “I don’t really know anything.”
“Are you
sure?”
“Just what
I’ve read. In the papers.”
“What were
you doing around here last night?”
“I––I was
following up a tip.”
“Yeah? What
kind of tip?”
“Can’t say.”
“I
see––Percy.”
The other
man pushed himself off the wall. He picked up the jerrycan. He unscrewed the
cap.
“This place
is going up tonight,” Regan explained. “If you mess me around, you’ll be in it
when it does.”
Henry looked
at the jerrycan; his sphincter loosened.
“Last
chance, sunshine.”
Henry
couldn’t take his eyes off the can. His voice quivered: “I know what I read in
the papers. I know the police think the same man killed them. The five from
before and the three last weekend. The Ripper. That’s all––I don’t know anything
else.”
“Right-ho.
Fair enough.” He nodded to Timms; he hefted the jerrycan and upended it,
pouring petrol over him. It sloshed over his head, his shoulders.
“Please. No.
Please.”
It pooled in
his lap, ran down his legs, into his shoes.
Timms leaned
in close. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”
“No, I––”
“You don’t
need to answer that. I know you are.”
“I’ll
t-t-tell you.”
He took a
book of matches from his pocket.
“Please.”
Henry swum
with panic, distortions turning the room inside out, blurring and bending and
hazing.
“Please.”
Regan lit
the match.
“I’ll tell
you, I’ll tell you!”
Regan let
the match burn down to his fingertips and blew it out.
“Off you go
then.”
“Jackie
Field and Molly Jenkins were trying to sell me pictures. Viscount Asquith was
at a party. He was intimate with Jenkins.”
“Did you see
the pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have
any of them?”
“No. We were
due to have another meeting but she was killed before we could.”
“This
meeting––who was there?”
“Field,
Jenkins and another bloke.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t give
me his name.”
“Tall? Big
fellow?”
“Very big.”
Regan looked
over his shoulder at Timms and chuckled. “I knew it.”
“Cheeky
bastard.”
“So you have
the meeting, you see the photographs, what then?”
“I saw
Asquith. He denied it.”
“Tell anyone
else?”
“Not at
work.”
“And?”
“I told the
police yesterday. I saw a picture of the three girls together. I knew I was out
of my depth. I panicked.”
A sudden
gout of bile rushed up his gullet and he vomited, the hot fluid burning the
back of his throat and nose and splattering over his legs.
“Jesus,”
Regan said, springing back. Timms laughed. “Shut it, you bastard, he nearly got
my bloody shoes.”
Henry spat
out the last of the phlegm, long dribbled streamers that stuck to his chin.
“What a
bloody mess.”
“Cost me a
pretty penny, they did.”
Timms
chuckled.
Regan
crouched down again. “Finished?”
Henry
nodded.
“Who did you
see yesterday?”
“Frank
Murphy.”
Regan stood
and cracked his knuckles.
“Please,
that’s all. Let me go.” He started to cry. “I won’t say anything.”
“What do you
reckon?” Timms said.
“I reckon
he’s telling the truth.”
“And?”
“Don’t
reckon it makes a bit of difference.”
Timms picked
up the open petrol can.
Henry tore
against the ropes.
Regan took a
second and unscrewed the top.
Henry
yanked, tearing muscle.
They poured
the contents across the room: on the furniture, on the magazines, on the floor.
He screamed.
Regan poured
more petrol over him. “Can’t say you weren’t warned.”
The petrol
ran into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He yanked and jerked.
“That ought
to do it,” Timms said.
Regan took
out the matches again.
63
FRANK DROVE. Ten at night and the road was clear.
He buried the pedal, touching sixty downhill, the engine whining. An army truck
hauling an artillery piece pulled out of a side road as he sped along the
Embankment; he swung the car into the other lane and overtook it, the driver
thumping the horn as he arrowed past, the olive green quickly fading into a
drab smudge in his mirrors. His eyes ached from lack of sleep and the cut on
his forehead stung from where Butters had gashed him with the flask. No time to
worry about either.
Charlie was waiting outside the
Yard, stamping his feet against the chill.
“Are you
sure you’re ready for this?” Frank said as he pulled away again.
“I am.”
“But if
we’re wrong?”
“We’re not
wrong.”
No, Frank
thought. They weren’t.
He turned in
the road and headed East. He looked over to the passenger side. Charlie had set
his face to the road and stared at it, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he
ground his teeth. He was taking the bigger gamble here. If Coyle was lying, and
they were wrong, and they got caught, they would both find trouble. They would
both lose their jobs. Frank could handle that. Truth be told, he was probably
ready for a change. It would be worse for Charlie.
Spitalfields. Frank drove slowly, the car
bumping over the cobbles.
He followed
the warren of streets, deeper and deeper.
“Here.”
He killed
the engine and parked next to an Austin in the mouth of an alleyway.
A row of
warehouses were grouped in the railway arches. Orange light glowed beneath one
of the doors.
Frank
stared: oranges and reds, flickering.
They were
too late.
“It’s on
fire.”
The doors
opened.
A wall of
smoke poured out.
Two men
emerged from the smoke: one tall and bulky, one smaller.
Frank
charged and tackled Timms to the cobbles, his arms slipping down to his ankles
as he struggled. Timms managed to turn over and laid out a big right-hander;
Frank took the wallop over the eye and lost his grip. Timms tried to get his
feet underneath him. Frank threw himself onto him again, looping his arms
around his torso and hugging tight. They both went down. Regan jumped over the
mêlée, started to run––Charlie went after him.
The fire
roared, waves of heat throbbing.
Timms was as
strong as an ox. Frank could feel his bunched muscles through his clothes,
solid, hard. He bucked beneath him, twisting his trunk around so that their
positions were reversed and he was on top, scraping Frank’s crown against
ground. He hung on for dear life, trying to link his fingers but Timms’
shoulders were too broad. Timms grunted with exertion, rolling them over again
and managing to ride around so that he was on top, his knee pressed onto
Frank’s breastbone. He punched down with right-handers, each new blow juddering
Frank’s vision, black gathering at the periphery. Another punch, and another.
Timms got up, laying a final kick into Frank’s ribs.
The darkness
swelled.
The tethers
loosened; Frank started to drift.
“Help!”
Frank opened
his eyes.
“Help!”
He spat
blood, pushed himself onto his hands and knees.
Shouts from
inside the burning warehouse.
He clambered
to his feet, the ground swinging. The fire was taking hold, flames curling up
the walls and curling across the ceiling, fed by stacks of paper. Frank tripped
forwards; Drake was tied to a chair, his clothes on fire. He lurched, drunk
from the heat and the punches to the head. He took him by the shoulders,
dragged him and the chair outside. He took off his jacket and smothered his
legs.
“You’re
alright. It’s over.”
Drake stank
of petrol. His face was caked with soot. His hair was singed. His clothes were
blackened rags.
Frank rolled over and stared up
into the night. Burning, lit squares of paper spun as they rose on hot zephyrs
above the buildings; black ash fell like snow all around him.
64
ALBERT REGAN PUNCHED CHARLIE HARD. He fell to one
knee, his glasses smashing against his brow. He got into the parked car and
spun the wheels as he pulled away, leaving rubber on the tarmacadam and
scraping his bumper into the back of Frank’s Austin. Charlie started the engine
and stamped on the pedal. The car sprang forward as the tyres bit.
Regan
skidded around the corner and then spun hard right into Quaker Street. Charlie
followed fifty yards behind, the speedo showing forty-five, edging up to fifty.
They were near the Goods Yard and the street was busy with workers. A dray from
Truman’s brewery pulled out in front of Regan’s car. He swerved, carooming off
the side of the wagon and ploughing into the wall on the opposite side of the
road. Charlie slammed on the brakes, the driver of the dray shaking his fist as
his terrified horse dragged the cart onto the pavement. The horse whinnied and
pranced, a barrel rolling off the back and smashing open. Ale splashed across
the cobbles. Regan got out, Charlie sprinting after him, north, heading up the
ramp into the Yard.
Charlie
gasped, the cold air burning down his throat and into his lungs. Regan must
have been in his late-forties but he could still shift. Charlie blew hard,
sweat stinging his eyes and blood running freely from his nose. His breath
started to come in rapid wheezes and pressure grew in his chest; he knew the
symptoms, his bloody asthma again.
They reached the top of the
ramp: the Yard spread out, half a dozen platforms and a dozen tracks jammed
with wagons and locomotives. Hydraulic lifts and cranes swept overhead, workers
fussing at the cargo in the dim moonlight. A prime Nazi target––Charlie thought
of Savile Row and bombs and put it out of mind. Regan sprinted between tracks,
passing a wagon filled with fruit, another ripe with fish.
“Stop!”
Charlie shouted between breaths. “It’s over, Bert.”
Regan didn’t
stop. He didn’t even turn his head, just ploughed onwards, head down, full
pelt. Charlie clawed sweat out of his eyes.
He realised,
suddenly, awfully: he was unarmed. Would Regan have a weapon? A gun. Seemed
more likely than not.
Regan caught
his foot on a loose sleeper and pitched forwards. Charlie launched himself, his
hands slapping around Regan’s waist and slipping down his legs. They bounced
onto the track. Regan got up first, ran for a fence. He launched himself,
trying to find a foothold. He slipped, scrabbled up again, slipped, gave up.
“Come on,
Bert. Stop. It’s pointless. Everyone in the Force will be looking for you now.
We know what you’ve done. It’s finished.”
Regan
sneered at him. “I never did like you,” he said, slowly walking towards him.
“Officious little bastard.”
“Come on,
Bert.” Charlie backed up, Regan came on. “You’re in enough trouble. You don’t
need any more.”
Regan reached
into his jacket and pulled out a flick-knife.
He sprung
the blade.
Charlie
froze.
Regan rushed
him.
Charlie
blocked the first thrust with his left arm, the edge of the blade slicing
against his wrist. Pain jagged, he caught Regan’s forearm in both hands,
barging against him. The jarring impact staggered Regan and he tripped and fell
backwards, dropping the knife. Charlie landed on top of him, got his forearm
lodged beneath his chin and pushed. He pressed down against his windpipe, his
knees and the toes of his shoes skidding in the loose gravel. Regan choked and
Charlie pushed harder. Regan wriggled enough to free his arm and landed a punch
on the side of Charlie’s head. He fell off him. Regan rolled for the
knife.
He came
forward on his knees, the metal glinting.
Charlie
fumbled across the ground, his fingers scrabbling.
Regan passed
the knife from hand to hand.
Charlie
grasped at a half-brick.
Regan
stabbed.
Charlie
blocked his arm again and swung the brick. It caught Regan flush on the
jaw. He crumpled onto his side. Spark-o.
Charlie fell
forwards, his elbows in the shingle, and tried to find his breath. His hands were
shaking. Regan lay on his back, blood running from his head, his eyes staring.
Charlie took out his handcuffs and shackled his wrists together behind his
back.