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  THE BLACK MILE

  PART ONE

  “BLACKOUT”

  — June 1940 —

  CALENDAR

  — 1940 —

  The Star, 15th May:

  MURDER IN SOHO

  A murder investigation has begun after the body of a 24-year-old woman was discovered in a property in Soho, W1. The body of Louisa Ann Hart was found in a Dean Street bed-sitting room on Friday, after concerns were raised about her whereabouts. A post-mortem examination that took place on Saturday found that she died from injuries sustained in an assault.

  The Star, 22nd May:

  SOHO MURDER

  WOMAN STRANGLED

  TERRIBLE DETAILS

  The death of a woman whose body was found in a flat in Soho, W1, is being treated as murder, police said today. Officers from the Metropolitan Police were called to the scene in Manette Street in the early hours of yesterday morning. A post-mortem was carried out yesterday on the woman, who was named by sources as Henrietta Clark, 23, but police said they would not yet be releasing any information about how she died. A spokesman said: “The Metropolitan Police has confirmed that a murder inquiry has been launched following the discovery of a woman's body in Dean Street, Soho, yesterday.”

  The Star, 24th May:

  “BLACK-OUT RIPPER” CAUSES TERROR ON SOHO STREETS

  By Henry Drake

  The anxiety was almost palpable along London's Skid Row on Wednesday night of last week. Men of commerce who work in the new office buildings nearby hurried home along Oxford Street. Frightened derelicts crowded the dilapidated missions or dozed uneasily in the shelter of local churches. The takings in public houses were down, and the drab streets, lined with pawnshops, vice dens and aging hotels, were uncommonly empty. In the past two weeks two women, both prostitutes, have been found murdered in the alleyways and cheap rooms within the black mile of Soho. Women in the neighbourhood have dubbed him the ‘Black-Out Ripper.’

  The Daily Herald, 25th May:

  ARREST “CLOSE” IN WEST END MURDERS CASE

  The Daily Herald, 26th May:

  ‘BLACK-OUT RIPPER’: ARREST MADE

  The Daily Star, 27th May:

  SUSPECT RELEASED IN SOHO MURDERS ENQUIRY

  The Daily Citizen, 28th May:

  ‘BLACK-OUT RIPPER’ SPEAKS!

  SAYS POLICE BEAT HIM

  FILES COMPLAINT AGAINST OFFICER

  By Henry Drake

  Mr. Duncan Johnson has filed an official complaint against detective Inspector Frank Murphy of the Metropolitan Police after being arrested and placed under suspicion of committing the four recent prostitute slayings in the West End of London. Mr. Johnson was released after twenty hours of questioning and says that he was physically abused while he was in custody. “Inspector Murphy is a brutal thug,” Mr. Johnson said. “I’m going to see that everyone knows it.”

  The Star, 29th May:

  ANOTHER MURDER IN SOHO

  THIRD WOMAN STRANGLED

  EXCITING SCENES

  Police investigating the murders of two London women say the body of a third woman is also that of a prostitute. The woman's body was discovered by a rent collector on Sunday afternoon at a property in St Anne’s Court. Police said it was too early to link the death to those of Louisa Hart and Henrietta Clark who were found a mile apart in the same area. Detectives said the discovery was being treated as an "unexplained death". Ms Hart, 24, and Ms Clark, 23, worked together and went missing from the ‘red light’ area of the capital.

  News Chronicle, 5th June:

  FOURTH SOHO HORROR

  The body of a woman found in Soho has been identified as missing prostitute Lorna Elizabeth Yoxford. The 32-year-old had been strangled and left in a one-bedroom apartment in Berwick Street, a post-mortem examination has revealed. Ms Yoxford's body was one of two found in the same vicinity during the past week. Detectives admitted for the first time that the three deaths might be connected.

  MONDAY, 10th JUNE 1940

  CHAPTER 1

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR FRANK MURPHY stepped away from the girl’s body and went to the window; the yelling from the crowd outside was louder. He pulled the thick black-out curtains aside. It was dusk, eight o’clock, a silvery moon rising above the rooftops. An ARP Warden walked his rounds; tarts and their johns found their alleys; tail-gunners from the Piccadilly Circus Meat Rack flounced theatrically, touting for trade. The noise was coming from the junction with Frith Street, away to the right. A large crowd had gathered outside the Vesuvio Restaurant. A dozen bobbies had formed a buffer and two mounted officers kept skittish horses in line. Frank watched as a pair of men were led out of the front door, escorted on either side by lads from Tottenham Court Road C.I.D. The crowd bayed as a couple of the woodentops stepped up to clear a path to the Black Maria parked by the kerb.

  The restaurant’s large plate glass window shattered as a brick was flung through it.

  “It’s getting worse,” Frank said. He watched as the two men were put into the meat wagon. Locals hammered their fists against the sides. “What a mess.”

  Detective Sergeant Harry Sparks was going through the girl’s belongings. “Mussolini getting chummy with Hitler, that’s that as far as I’m concerned—we can’t take chances with ‘em. Risk of a Fifth Column, that’s what they’re saying. Best keep them out of the way for the duration.”

  Frank let the curtain fall back across the window. “Maybe,” he said. He turned back into the room. It was a tart’s lumber, a cheap single room where punters would come up to get what they’d bought with their oncer: five minutes of slap and tickle and a dose of the clap so bad it’d peel the jewels right off. Cheap furniture, dirty clothes strewn about, unwashed pots and pans in the sink. Squalid. The business transacted inside was gruesome and desperate but it was hardly novel. Frank had seen plenty of rooms like this in Soho and Fitzrovia, especially in the last month.

  A neighbour had noticed the door had been shut for three days and had stopped the local bobby. The woodentop had put his size twelve through the flimsy door and discovered the poor girl. Her body was spread out across the single divan. Her tongue protruded from between bluish lips and the bruises around her throat were dark and evocative, the shape of fingers from where they would have met beneath her chin. She had been stabbed a dozen times, probably more than a dozen, and her blood was on the walls, the floor, soaked into the bedding.

  “What do you want me to do, guv?”

  “Wake Spilsbury up—he better take a look.”

  “What do you reckon?”

  Frank looked at the girl: seventeen or eighteen if she was a day, a grim and brutal life cut short. He’d been working on the case like every other detective on the manor and he recognised the handiwork. “It’s him.”

  He was sure. He’d only taken five days’ rest this time.

  Whoever this poor doxy was, she was one of his.

  Number five.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE NEWSROOM WAS FRANTIC. Mussolini’s speech had caused chaos and the noise made it difficult to concentrate: batteries of teleprinters spewed out reams of copy, wire reports with information about what the declaration of war meant to the European political situation; telephones rang as journalists interrogated sources; correspondents fresh from the Houses of Parliament and Whitehall dictated stories to typists. It was chaotic and noisy and busy and Henry Drake loved it. He unrolled his own copy from his typewriter and set it on the desk before him. He pushed back in his chair and stared at the page. The fourth girl had been dead for two days and the police had made no progress.

  He p
ut the pen down and stared absently at the jumble around him. He had a space in the corner of the floor, an L-shaped desk with shelves fixed two high on each side. Organised chaos. His old Remington typewriter. Piles of paper: scraps with telephone numbers, policemen who would give him a tip for a quid; expenses chits; ideas for new angles. The shelves bowed in the middle from the weight of the folders and papers that were stacked haphazardly across them. It was all about the Ripper: interviews with witnesses who could be bought for the price of a pint; copies of the post mortem reports from his contact in the pathologist’s office; a map of Soho was overlaid with photographs of the dead girls, scrawled arrows pointing to where they had been found.

  Framed copies of his front page scoops hung from the only unencumbered space of wall: T.E. Lawrence’s motorcycle crash in Dorset; the Gresford Colliery disaster; a trip to Egypt for the Tutankhamen shrine.

  He looked at the mess, the confusion, the business of it all, and he couldn’t help but be satisfied. Two months short of his thirty-fifth birthday. He’d come a long way.

  He got up to stretch his legs. A thick fug of fag smoke hovered in the room, the ceiling-hung gasoliers cloaked in fuzzy penumbras. He fetched a fresh packet of Players from his jacket and tore away the top. At least they hadn’t put tobacco on the ration yet. Bloody good job. Morale had to be maintained, that was probably the thinking. A smoke always put a man in a better mood. He lit a fag, sucked down happily and looked out of the window. The black-out was in force but it was still impressive: the dark shapes of Fleet Street, heading east to Ludgate Circus, the shadowed dome of St Paul’s dominating the horizon. The Street of Ink: it was where he had always wanted to be. Not bad for a boy from the sticks.

  “Best get your coat on, Drake.”

  The Star’s editor, Edward Chattaway, was at his desk.

  His heart skipped. “Another one?”

  Chattaway nodded.

  Henry stood so quickly he knocked over his chair. “Where?”

  “Soho, again. Byatt just telephoned.”

  “Jesus.” Henry swiped a notepad from the desk and dropped a handful of pens into his pocket.

  “Careful on the way down. Byatt said there are crowds on the street. A couple of windows have been put through.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re interning the Italians. Mussolini’s speech hasn’t gone down well.”

  “I’ll watch my step.”

  “Off you go. Get me something juicy. Front page if it’s any good.”

  CHAPTER 3

  P.C. CHARLIE MURPHY STOOD AT THE CORNER of Frith and Old Compton Street, nervously regarding the angry crowd. The two Italians from the restaurant complained as they were manhandled into the back of the Black Maria. No-one paid their protests any heed: the locals slammed their fists against the side of the van, whooping and hollering about Fat Musso. Two soldiers left in the café said they’d be out in their own time, saying they had drinks to finish. They were getting it in the neck, men saying they ought to be ashamed.

  “Consorting with the enemy.”

  “Not fit to wear the uniform.”

  “Leopolds!” a man wearing an Old Contemptibles badge spat at them. “Quislings!”

  The atmosphere was fervid. Someone threw a brick through the window; the crowd roared its approval.

  Charlie fretted with the strap of his baton. His throat was dry. “I don’t like the look of this, gaffer.”

  “Shut it,” Sergeant Cullen said.

  “There aren’t enough of us.”

  “Pull yourself together man.”

  Drinkers were starting to come out of the pubs. Plenty were sauced and antsy and they were absorbed into the crowd, swelling the numbers, lacing the atmosphere with drunken venom. Charlie looked around: locals had appeared in doorways and first-floor windows. Charlie’s stomach felt hollow and his palms itched. What if a spark lit the fuse? What would they do then? They were going to need reinforcements. They were going to need to go in mob-handed.

  “Viva Il Duce!” someone yelled.

  “There’s one!”

  “Do him!”

  Charlie swung about; the speaker was hanging half off a lamppost, two sheets to the wind, raving drunk. He let go and staggered into the middle of the street, his arm aloft in an SS salute.

  Jeers and boos. “Bloody Wop!”

  “Bloody greaser!”

  The man taunted them.

  “Lynch him!”

  One of the locals ran at the man, tackled him around the waist and drove him down to the cobbles. The two rolled for position, exchanging punches. The crowd roiled towards them.

  Cullen blew his whistle. “In we go!”

  Charlie was shoved forwards by the man behind. He ducked as an old crone emptied her chamber pot from a window overhead. Excrement slopped over one poor copper; others followed suit and soon the cobbles were slippery with shit and piss. Someone threw a punch; officers retaliated with flailing batons, swishing lefts and rights. Charlie went for his own baton but his palm was wet with sweat and he fumbled it, dropped it into the morass of legs. He was buffeted again, knocked out of the way. A fusillade of rotten vegetables, half-bricks and stones sailed down onto them. Shots were fired into the air. Charlie ducked instinctively, someone yelling that they were blanks. He stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his knees. He scrabbled for grip, the cobbles slick, his hands and feet skidding and his legs splaying out behind him. A man toppled against him, knocked him harder to the ground. His forehead slid through sewage: his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

  “Get up, Murphy!”

  He scrambled to his feet.

  “Go on!” Cullen yelled at him. “Get stuck in!”

  Charlie stepped away.

  Cullen grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against the wall of a shop.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, son?”

  “I can’t—”

  Cullen shoved him towards the melee. “Get over there!”

  Charlie backed away.

  “Murphy!”

  He turned, and started to run.

  “What are you going to be like when Hitler starts dropping bloody bombs?” Cullen yelled after him. “You’re finished in the police, son! You hear me?—finished!”

  CHAPTER 4

  HENRY DRAKE FELT THE FAMILIAR BUZZ OF EXCITEMENT as he crossed the cordon thrown up between the four circuses of Piccadilly, Oxford, Cambridge and St Giles.

  Soho.

  The Black Mile.

  Ten years ago—his first pint in the Caves de France, he’d been entranced: a lunatic magic in the air, possibilities around every corner, dirty promises in every doorway. The fellows from the paper preferred the pubs on Fleet Street, but he never felt settled there. Didn’t fit in. He’d stay for a round or two to show willing before heading for the Mandrake or the Gargoyle or the shebeens where you could drink all night if you knew where to look and you had the right face.

  It felt dangerous—more than usual. Packs of men, threes and fours, loitered on the corners, roaming gloomy alleys. Aggression slow-burned, only a tiny spark needed for an explosion.

  The stalls on Berwick Street market were closing. Before the black-out, they’d be open all night, too, lit by acetylene lamps or naphtha flares hung overhead by the traders. Business was brisk. Polish and Russian stallholders barked out last offers. Housewives fingered bits of lace, silk and felt. Milliners from Dean Street picked up hat shapes. Rat-faced businessmen stood atop soap boxes and auctioned off remnants of cloth. A hunchback read horoscopes with the aid of a pencil and a printed list of prophecies. A vagrant hawked wilting flowers from a metal bucket. Fences tried to shift moody gear.

  Crime in the West End had gone through the roof in the last six months. Churchill could yammer on about how everyone was pulling together until he was blue in the face; let him come to the West End and see what he thought then. Just last night three stories had been lifted from the Crime Book at West End Central: a breaking at the offices of the White Star Me
rchant Line, the thief filching two hundred quid’s worth of merchant navy clothing coupons; five hundred bottles of illegally-produced perfume found in the gents at Euston station, the receiver probably getting spooked on the way to picking them up and abandoning them; a thousand rounds of Sten gun ammo meant for the Home Guard half-inched from an army truck parked on Rathbone Place. Rape and assault up, too. It had always been possible to buy anything and see everything in Soho. Now, the way things were, you could get your throat cut as promptly as on a ship on the China Seas.

  Lorna Yoxford had been found in a room overlooking the market.

  Henry turned onto Old Compton Street: Polledri’s had been smashed up and set on fire, the furniture thrown out into the street and mangled. Flames curled up the walls and smoke issued through the broken windows. Glass glittered and singed copies of the menu blew down the street on dusky zephyrs.

  He went past the police guard. The road ahead had been sealed, a rope tied across it, looped around the dead gaslights to create a makeshift cordon. Pressmen gathered at it, notepads proffered, cameras being set up. “No flashes, gents,” an ARP warden said. He knew he was going to be ignored.