65
FRANK WATCHED THE AUXILLARY FIREMEN wind the hose
back onto its spool. They’d arrived in a taxicab, the trailer pump towed
behind. There was a temporary reservoir around the corner and the men had
drained it; the blaze was doused, steam and smoke issuing into the darkness,
embers sizzling. Drake had gone inside, splashing through ankle-deep water,
scavenging whatever he could find.
A police car from Bethnal Green
had arrived before the tender, alerted by the smoke and flames. Frank in the
passenger seat, his ribs aching. He checked his reflection in the mirror: a cut
above his eye from where Timms had biffed him, the cut just starting to scab
over, a smudge of blood in his scalp. The bastard had caught him with a proper
fourpenny one. He had a right-hand like Joe bloody Louis. He was still a little
fuzzy and his ribs hurt every time he drew breath; probably had a couple of
broken ones from where Percy had given him a shoeing. It wouldn’t have happened
ten years ago. Frank would’ve been able to take him. But Timms was fitter and
Frank wasn’t a young man anymore.
Timms had
decked him and run for it. Frank had started to give chase, but heard a scream
from inside the burning arch: a man, tied amidst the flames. It was Drake.
Frank had had no choice but to let Timms go so he could get the hack out. There
was no sign of Timms now. He had lost him.
Drake came
over. “It’s almost all ruined. Either burnt or soaked. Useless all the same.”
Frank
settled back, adjusting to reduce the weight against his ribs.
The driver
of the police car approached.
“The fire’s
out. The lads are off.”
“Very
good.”
“Are you
alright, Inspector?”
“I’m too old
for this.”
“Are you
sure I can’t take you to the hospital?”
“No thanks,”
Frank said. “But I’d appreciate you radioing the Yard again.”
“Of course,
sir.” The man picked up the handset and clicked the unit to send. “This is
Detective Constable Harry Fredericks, 430 C, calling the Operation Room. Come
in, Operation Room.”
The reply,
heavy with static, crackled out of the receiver. “This is Scotland Yard. Go
ahead, officer.”
“Anything on
Percy Timms?”
“Negative.
His wife says he’s not been home all night. A man’s been left there and an
all-stations teletype has been sent but there’s nothing yet.”
“That’s the
problem,” Frank said, half to himself. “He’ll know how to stay out of sight.
It’s going to be impossible finding him.”
“The other
one?” Drake said.
“What about
Detective Sergeant Regan?”
“Just a
minute, officer. I might have something on that.”
Frank
regarded Drake. He looked disconsolate. Wasn’t difficult to work out why: the
story he’d been chasing had been in the warehouse. All that was left of it now
was sodden ash. Up in smoke.
The radio
crackled again.
“D.C.
Fredericks, this is Scotland Yard.”
“Go ahead.”
“D.S.
Regan’s been apprehended.”
Frank swiped
the handset.
“This is
D.I. Frank Murphy.”
“Your
brother has him, sir.”
“Tell him
he’s not to go to West End Central. He’s not, under any circumstances, to take
him to Vine Street. Do you understand?”
“Don’t
worry, sir. I’ve just spoken to him. He’s taking Regan straight to the Yard.”
o
o o
FRANK WATCHED AS CHARLIE STEPPED DOWN from the back
of the Black Maria, helping a cuffed Albert Regan negotiate the drop to the
ground. Charlie’s left wrist was wrapped in a bloody bandage and Regan had a
mottled bruise on the side of his head. Two uniformed men took the prisoner by
the elbows and led him down to the cells.
Charlie saw
Frank.
“Timms?”
“Got the
better of me.”
“Who’s this?”
“Henry
Drake. They had him tied up in the warehouse. Thought I better bring him here.
It’s safe for him otherwise.”
Drake was
white; the seriousness of his situation had dawned on him on the drive over.
“Doesn’t
matter about Timms,” Charlie said. “We’ll find him.”
“You
alright?”
“Just a
scratch. I’ll live.”
“What
happened?”
“He came at
me with a knife. I managed to get my licks in first.”
Frank
couldn’t help the smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.”
They went
inside.
“You trump
me on this, Charlie,” Frank said. “Two bent detectives––that’s your field. As
far as I’m concerned, if you want Regan, he’s yours.”
“I do.”
MONDAY, 10
th
FEBRUARY 1941
66
CHARLIE SAT DOWN FACING ALBERT REGAN.
“Where’s
Timms?”
Regan’s face
was a mess. One eye swollen shut; a smashed nose––both nostrils sutured. “I
don’t know.”
“Where is
he?”
“I told you,
Murphy, I don’t know.”
“He’s your
partner.”
“And I’ve
got no idea where he is. You’re the boy genius. You tell me.”
Regan
glared: grizzled, experienced, a hard man in a hard business. Charlie had heard
the war stories at the Lodge, the faces he’d nicked and the scrapes he’d gotten
into. And he was doing this when Charlie was still in short trousers. He tried
to put it all out of his mind.
“Want to
tell me what you two have been up to?”
“No thanks.”
“That smut
must be worth a fortune.”
“What smut?”
“You know.”
“And I told
you smut’s not my bag.”
“Come on,
Bert. We’ve got you, both of you. You’ve been making and selling pornography.
Open and shut as far as you’re concerned. Attempted murder on the newsman, plus
who-the-Hell-knows what else. You’re finished––you know it and I know it. I’m
not messing around. Come clean now and it’ll be easier in the long run.”
“No
comment.”
“Who else is
in it with you?”
“No
comment.”
“Because I
don’t think it was just the two of you.”
“Is that a
question?”
“Fine. Your
scheme––who else was involved?”
“No
comment.”
Charlie’s
chest was tight with tension. Frank was outside, watching, and, after
everything, he still felt the need to impress him. “We know how it worked.
You’ve got a list of clients, all of them fancy the odd dirty book now and
again. Eddie Coyle arranges the girls with Jackie Field. Gregory Butters shoots
them and prints the books. You, Percy and whoever else is on this with you coin
it in. That about the size of it?”
“No
comment.”
“Drake gets
too close and you decide he has to go.”
“Drake?”
Regan was
playing a straight bat and playing it well. Years of experience on the other
side of the table. Charlie changed tack. “It wasn’t just smut, though, was it?
You were pimping them too.”
“What?”
“Eddie
explained. How did it work? A punter fancied meeting one of the girls he’d seen
in a magazine and you set it up?”
“Look,
Murphy, I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears cadet you can buff your reputation with.
You can ask me your questions a hundred times, a hundred different ways, it
won’t make any difference. I was there this morning to investigate a break-in.
All this other nonsense––I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He thought
of his brother again, waiting outside. How would he play this?
“Let’s talk
about the dead girls.”
“Dead
girls?”
“Molly
Jenkins. Constance Worthing. Annie Stokes.”
“That was
the Ripper.”
“They worked
for you, didn’t they? Modelled for you?”
Charlie
noticed Regan was picking his nails; he put his hands in his lap. “No comment.”
“I know they
did, Bert. I’ve seen the pictures of them together. In the books. What
happened? They put the black on you?”
“No
comment.”
“It’s the
only thing I can think of. They must have been threatening to shop you. They
wanted money or else they’d drop you in it.”
“No
comment.”
“Or go to
the papers?”
“No
comment.”
“It doesn’t
really matter, the thing is they put you in a tight spot and you and Percy
decided they had to go.”
“No
comment.”
Press it
home. “And it was clever, I’ll give you that. Putting it on Duncan Johnson. You
were both on the Ripper enquiry––you knew he was a strong suspect, so you set
him up and led us right to him. Fitted him up with the girls’ ration books.
Gave him to us on a plate.”
The words
suddenly flowed, quickly, his taciturnity swept aside. “You want to ask your
brother about Johnson. He had him pegged for the brasses right from the start.
Turns out he was right. And it was you who shot Johnson, wasn’t it? So I should
be thanking you, right? I mean, if that’s what you’re saying. And let me give
you a little advice. Have you thought about what this is going to do to your
reputation? Shooting him made you a hero. Got you your medal, your promotion.
You start making noises that Johnson didn’t do it, people are going to start
talking about how you might have shot an innocent man. Not very clever. Won’t
look good on your record. The press might get hold of it, and they can turn on
you like that.” He tried to click his fingers but his hands were slick with
sweat and they slid against each other helplessly. “You ask me, you’d be better
letting sleeping dogs lie.”
“Did I touch
a nerve? You look nervous.”
“Piss off.”
“What about
George Grimes?”
“George is
involved in this fantasy, too?”
“What
happened?”
“He killed
himself.”
“But he
didn’t though, did he? You shot him.”
“Please.”
“Did he
decide he’d had enough?”
“Don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
“I know he
was involved. Him and other men from West End Central.”
“This is
ridiculous.”
“The girls
put it on you. You decided they were going to have to die. But George didn’t
want anything to do with it. We know, Bert, see? We know he was seeing
Constance Worthing.”
Regan’s
cheek twitched. “I don’t know anything about George’s private life.”
“Was he was
working with them? Extorting you and Percy?”
“No
comment.”
“You were at
his house.”
“So were
you.”
Charlie
tried to remember what had happened that night. “I called the Yard after
midnight. What time did you and Timms get there?”
“It was last
year. I have no idea.”
“No, no,
doesn’t matter––it’ll be in my notebook. I remember thinking it was strange:
you two there only just after the Hackney lads turned up. Couldn’t’ve been more
than five minutes later. How’d you manage that, get over from the West End so
quickly?”
“We were on
late turn. It was in the middle of the black-out. There was no traffic.”
“But maybe
you’d been to see George before me?”
A flash of
anger that wasn’t quick enough to be real: “For God’s sake, George was a friend
and now you’re saying I did him, too? What else are you going to accuse me of?”
“You waited
for him. He let you in––there was no sign of the door being forced, so he must
have known whoever did him. You knocked him out and shot him, made it look like
he’d done it himself. Then you waited for him to be discovered and came back so
you got the investigation. But I was already there.”
“I’ve had
enough of this. Either charge me or let me out. But this interview is
finished.”
“Don’t think
we’ll be letting you out, Bert.”
“Then charge
me. But you better have more than this bloody innuendo.”
Charlie
walked out. Frank and Drake were watching outside.
“Well done,”
Frank said.
Charlie
smelled his own sweat. “No. He’s right. We’ve got nothing. And this is taking
too long. Timms is still out there, cleaning everything up. There’ll be nothing
left soon.”
“Coyle might
know where he is. I’ll go and speak to him.”
“What if
there are others involved?”
“At the
station?”
“What about
Alf McCartney?”
“Alf?”
“He wasn’t
happy about me doing Grimes’ topping. And then I got moved to the Ripper
enquiry before I could find anything. Alf organised the switch. And then he
puts Regan onto the case and lets him run it down. Didn’t think about it at the
time. I’d been on at him for a transfer but it wasn’t as if I was in line for
it and it was asking a lot to put me straight onto the Murder Squad.”
It sounded
credible.
The more he
spoke, the more sick he felt.
“You’re both
on the Square. I thought he moved you because of that.”
“Maybe,
maybe not. Maybe it was because I was asking difficult questions and he wanted
me out of the way.”
“That’s not
enough.”
“I saw him
last night. He was going through my desk. What if he found out we were onto the
warehouse and told Regan and Timms? Get them to burn the place before we
arrive.”
“Ask him,”
Frank said, pointing at Regan. “I’ll go and speak to Coyle.”
Charlie
walked back in.
Regan
squinted, a one-eyed sneer.
“What about
Alf?”
“What about
him?”
“Come on,
Regan. Give me something. I know he’s behind it. When did it start?”
Regan
started to laugh.
“Give me Alf
and I’ll make sure it goes easier for you.”
He was
laughing so hard he could barely catch breath.
“What’s so
funny?”
“You’re not
half as clever as you think you are, pal. Not half.”