The Black Mile Read online

The rag in the bin and the strands in the mouth.

  The money in the shelter.

  Something was wrong.

  30

  HENRY DRAKE WENT DOWN TO THE NEWSAGENT’S for the morning papers, took a table in the café and ordered breakfast. He took out the Star and unfolded it, flicking absent-mindedly through the pages until his attention was caught by a headline just before the middle of the paper:

  POLICE NAME MURDERED GIRL

  Police have named the woman murdered in a central London surface air-raid shelter yesterday as Molly Jenkins, 22, a chemist from Brighton. Searches will go on in the West End to-day for clues that might help identify the killer.

  He stared at the story.

  It had Peter Byatt’s by-line.

  He read it again.

  Byatt had told him yesterday that he was going out to report on a murder. Henry remembered what he had said: the body had been found on Conduit Street. Jenkins hadn’t missed their appointment because she was frightened. It hadn’t been a case of second thoughts, either.

  She missed it because she was dead.

  The muscles in his legs felt weak.

  He felt sick.

  Monday: a prostitute comes to him with a story and pictures.

  The story is explosive.

  She is dead by Saturday.

  Molly had mentioned there were three of them. Henry furrowed his brow, trawling for the name of the other girls.

  Field had gone to find one of them.

  Connie.

  That was it.

  Connie.

  Constance?

  Constance what?

  He strained his memory for information that would give him a chance of finding her.

  She lived in Soho––Wardour Street.

  He left his eggs untouched, went outside and into a telephone box. He dialled.

  “Central Records Office. Name and rank, please.”

  “Detective Constable Howarth, 930 F. Telephone number”––he read out the number off the dial of the telephone––“2453.”

  “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “An address, please. I have a first name only. Connie. Possibly Constance. Probably has form for prostitution. Address in Wardour Street, W.1. As quick as you like. It’s extremely urgent.”

  Five minutes.

  Henry waited in the booth. A man knocked impatiently on the glass––Henry jabbed a finger down the street in the direction of another box, then blocked the door with his back. Molly Jenkins had been scared, Field had said. With good reason. Henry didn’t know what to think. Should he be shocked? Excited? Frightened?

  He was onto something. He was certain of that.

  The man outside knocked angrily on the door.

  Henry opened the door a crack. “Piss off, chum. Can’t you see I’m waiting for a call?”

  The man gave him the finger and left.

  Ten long minutes.

  The telephone rang. Henry snatched it up.

  “I have something for you, detective.”

  Henry pushed the Star against the window, took out a pencil and jammed the phone between chin and shoulder. “Go ahead.”

  “The only Connie in Wardour Street we’ve got is Constance Worthing, form for prostitution as long as your arm.”

  “Address?”

  “Number 153.”

  Henry slammed the receiver down, ran for the main road and took the next bus towards the city. He disembarked at Tottenham Court Road, came out on Oxford Street at a jog and hurried past the Lyons Corner House. He fought the urge to sprint. As he turned into Wardour Street his thoughts were hopelessly distracted. Excitement: he knew he was sitting on the biggest scoop of his career. Big? He corrected himself: that was an understatement. Jenkins saying that Viscount Asquith attended sex parties with prostitutes would have been big enough in itself. But that she was murdered after telling him? That he was warned off after meeting Field?

  Big became enormous.

  Big enough to rehabilitate him and restore his reputation.

  He had to get Worthing on the record. He didn’t know whether she would co-operate or how much money it’d take to get her to speak. Probably didn’t even know that her friend was dead. But he had to have her.

  Soho: anonymous doorways to walk-up brothels where you could buy a whore for the price of the change in your pocket; shops selling blue books from Paris. Right turn at the junction, past a warden on his morning rounds, into Wardour Street. Henry hurried: 157, 155, 153––the address was on the left-hand side, a four-storey terrace. Slumlord territory: half a dozen flats crammed into the building, single rooms most likely, shared bathrooms. Each floor had two long, narrow sash windows, the lintels discoloured with soot and dust. The front door had luminous splashes of white paint daubed around the doorbell and keyhole for picking them out in the black-out.

  Henry went to knock. The front door stood ajar, not quite closed. He pushed the door with his toe and stared at the dingy hall inside, letters scattered over a frayed doormat. Henry took a step forwards and paused, wincing, feeling acutely self-conscious. He turned back into the street. It was quiet.

  Henry stepped inside, a door facing him at the end of a short corridor and a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor. He picked up the pile of envelopes and sorted through them. One of them was for Constance Worthing, Flat 3, 153 Wardour Street, W.1. He put it in his pocket and took the stairs.

  Henry took everything in: Flat 3 was at the front of the building, overlooking the street. A line of crooked white metallic letters were affixed to the wall next to the door: WORTHING. The door was in line with the top of the stairs. It was ajar. Henry knocked gently: no reply. Covering his fingertips with the sleeve of his jacket, he gently pushed the door open.

  Something was wrong.

  The room had a heavy, ominous atmosphere. The black-outs had been drawn and it was dark. He flicked the light switch but nothing happened––the electricity meter must have run out. There was a black-out torch on the sideboard. He took it and shone the narrow beam around the room. Everything looked as it ought to: a collection of cheap-looking furniture, clothes folded over the back of a chair, personal effects placed in a neat and tidy fashion.

  He shone the torch around and picked out the divan bed.

  A body was lying atop it.

  “Hello?”

  He moved closer. It was a woman.

  “Connie? Excuse me?”

  She was lying on her back with her head hanging off the left-hand side of the bed.

  “Madam?”

  Henry swung the torch up and down. She was naked except for a thin cotton vest and a silk nightdress rolled up over the body to expose the lower parts of the breasts. The sheets were reddened with tacky, half-dried blood. He moved closer. He brought the torch up and shone it on her face. Curved cuts, crescent-shaped and bloodied, extended from the corners of her mouth on both sides, curling upwards towards her ears.

  Oh, God.

  He crouched down, bile churning, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

  Oh, God.

  He closed his eyes. His hands were shaking. He concentrated on breathing in and out.

  The moment passed.

  He opened his eyes again and looked around the room. The wardrobe door had been forced. He looked inside: nothing useful. There was a handbag on the sofa: black leather, the clasp unfastened, the contents spilled out next to it. Two Post Office Savings Bank withdrawal books in the name of Constance Worthing. A handful of personal letters, all addressed to “Connie.” Love letters—all of them signed ‘G.’ On the bedside table sat seven Ever Ready razor blades next to a Roberts wire-less set. A set of keys on the mantelpiece. The easy chair next to it, draped with clothes: a black coat, a black dress, a slip, a brassiere, a pair of stockings and a skirt. A tweed jacket hung from a hook on the back of the door.

  Everything looked normal. That was almost the worst part. It could be any other Soho room, save for the dead body on th
e bed.

  Henry replaced the items he moved, fixed the room in his memory, and made his way back down to the street.

  o o o

  HE STOOD IN A TELEPHONE BOX AND DIALLED 999.

  “Police, please.”

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “Where are you, sir?”

  “Wardour Street.”

  “Where on Wardour Street?”

  “Number 153.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “Her name’s Constance Worthing.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No. I’m––” He paused. “I’m a friend.”

  “Please wait there, sir. An officer is on the way.”

  Henry replaced the receiver and took out his pocketbook. He flipped through the pages until he found the number he wanted. He picked up the handset again, pushed in a coin and dialled the number.

  “Coroner’s Office.”

  “Could I speak to Terry Deacon, please.”

  “I’ll connect you now.”

  “Deacon speaking.”

  “Terry––it’s Henry Drake. I’m up to my neck in something and I need your help.”

  “Usual terms?”

  “A quid if you can help.”

  “What is it?”

  “Did you have a dead woman in last night?”

  “Had twenty––Adolf’s work. What’s her name?”

  “Molly Jenkins. This was a murder, not from the bombing.”

  “Hang on. Here we are: Molly Jenkins. She’s down at Paddington. What about her?”

  “Who’s doing the P.M.?”

  “Spilsbury. He did it last night. Expedited. Why?”

  “I need a copy of the report.”

  “No, Henry. That’s the kind of thing that’d get me into a lot of bother.”

  “I’m not going to print anything. I just need to see it.”

  “I’m really not sure––”

  “Come on, Terry. I’d really be very grateful. Two quid. What do you say?”

  A long pause––Henry knotted the cord around his fingers until the tips were white. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “One other thing. You’re going to get another dead woman in today: Constance Worthing, coming in from Wardour Street. She’s been cut up pretty bad. I’m going to want a look at her P.M. too. Another couple of quid for her, too.”

  “I’ll send them both to the office.”

  “Good man.”

  31

  FRANK AWOKE IN THE OFFICE. He went into the bathroom and took off his shirt. He filled the sink and scrubbed the dirt and grit from his face and chest and beneath his arms. His shirt smelt musty, but he didn’t have another. It’d have to do. He dressed, went into the C.I.D. room and collected the replies to the telegrams he’d sent out last night. He scanned them: plenty of useful background info on the dead girl. He brewed a pot of coffee to help wake him up, sat down at his desk, and read them more carefully. He circled interesting facts, wrote annotations into the margins, follow-up points that needed to be addressed. The sheets were covered with ink by eight o’clock when he was finished.

  He went down to the street and bought a copy of the Sunday Pictorial: the front page had a picture of a demolished street. Looked like a giant had stamped on the houses, flattened them. Twenty-five dead in that street alone, the report said. Frank thumbed through pages. Page five: stories about the bombings that overflowed from the front page. His eye stopped on a below-the-fold headline. There it was: MURDERED GIRL NAMED. No story, just a picture of him standing outside the shelter with Alex Baldie. The caption: ‘Detectives at the Conduit Street shelter, W., where the body of Molly Jenkins was found yesterday. She had been stabbed.’

  o o o

  STANDING ROOM ONLY IN C.I.D. OFFICE: thirty detectives, the full complement from the Ripper investigation, the room jammed to the rafters. It was a mongrel group: men from ‘C’ and ‘D’ Divisions, reinforcements that Bill Tanner had brought with him from the Yard, youngsters seasoned with a handful of older hands. The men gossiped about the dead girl in resentful tones, knowing that another Ripper victim meant long shifts until they either had him shackled or he went quiet again. The bombing on top meant sixteen hour days, no weekends, no leave.

  D.C.I. Bill Tanner was at the front, talking with Bob Peters.

  “Frank. I was just saying to Bob, what a bloody nuisance. Bloody Hitler.”

  “Anything in particular, guv?”

  “A bomb went off outside John’s house last night. Blew him out of bed. He’s broken his leg, apparently. Signed off for a month. Feel bloody sorry for the bugger but I don’t know what I’m going to do without a bagman.”

  Frank stifled a groan.

  “You’ll get a replacement?”

  “Alf McCartney says he knows someone who’d fit the bill. It’s just the damned hassle of it, Frank. Last thing I need.”

  The D.C.I. got up and banged on the desk.

  “Bad news?” Bob Peters said.

  “The D.S. was the best way to get anything done. Tanner’s complaining––what the hell am I going to do now?”

  “The man’s a joke.”

  Frank held out his hands: helpless.

  Tanner banged again. “Pay attention, lads. It goes without saying that this is a priority case again. If it’s true that that the dead girl was done by our man, it’s going to be bloody hectic around here. We want him caught and bloody quick.” He shuffled notes. “Some of you know what happened yesterday, some of you don’t. Frank will fill you in.”

  Frank took two pictures out of a document file and pinned them onto the board. “Yesterday morning at around half-past five, the body of this woman was found in a surface air raid shelter in Conduit Street. The P.M. says she was strangled and then mutilated which is obviously the modus operandi of the Ripper. We don’t know yet whether she was killed in the shelter or somewhere else and then dumped––that’s something we need to find out. The mutilations are the same as before. The body was discovered by two plumbers on their way to work. I interviewed them, they’re not suspects. There’s no forensics at the scene––no dabs, no footprints, nothing. We’ve gone door-to-door and we know the boarding-house where the victim was staying. She left her luggage behind and we got enough from that to send telegrams asking for assistance.”

  The men were all paying attention, noting down details. Frank gave them some more; he pointed at the pictures: “Her name’s Molly Jenkins. Date of birth, February 8th 1918. The Newcastle constabulary spoke with her sister last night. She was born in Gateshead but she lived in Brighton. National Registration Number FFXE/226/1. Unmarried, no children. Pretty. Her sister says she always had plenty of casual man-friends, but none who she’d say were serious. Bookish as a kid. Qualified as a pharmacist after studying chemistry. Moved to Brighton at nineteen to be with her parents. Worked at two chemists before studying for her chemist and druggist diploma from Edinburgh University. She graduated in thirty-eight and got a job at a Brighton pharmacy. Manageress. Brighton C.I.D. spoke to the proprietor of the pharmacy last night––she handed in her notice there in September last year, no reason given.” Frank finished his cup of coffee, went back to his notes. “Her landlady reports she was in the habit of travelling up to London, staying overnight, two or three times a week. Money wasn’t a problem even though she had no job––she wore expensive clothes and jewellery and paid the rent in cash.”

  “We think she’s a brass, then?”

  “Looks likely. We need to know for sure. She settled up on Saturday afternoon and moved out. Brighton police are canvassing the station staff to see if any of them recognise her. Nigel––check at Victoria and London Bridge. She got the train from Brighton––someone must have seen her. Check with porters, station clerks, the taxi rank.”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “She arrived by taxi at the Three Arts Club, Clifford Street, at around eleven. She went out to Piccadilly for somet
hing to eat after eleven. A waitress at the Corner House says she recognises her. We’ve managed to substantiate that––Spilsbury found beetroot in her stomach and the waitress remembered her having the beetroot salad. She ate alone and left at around half twelve. We’ll assume she headed back to the boarding-house and met her killer along the way. We’ve gone door-to-door in the area once––I know it’s dull work but that’s what we’re doing again today. The usual questions, lads. Did anyone hear or see anything suspicious? It was the black-out, remember, no bugger on the streets, if she got done outside, I can’t believe no-one heard anything. Speak to the ARP. Did they see anything?”

  “We’re going full speed on this, lads,” Tanner said. “The boss is right behind us. Anything you need, you’ll have. I’m arranging for extra typists upstairs to write up your reports. Unlimited overtime. If we need any more boots on the street we’ll bring over cadets from Hendon. This is going to be a concerted effort. We need to catch him.”

  A uniformed P.C. opened the door.

  “What is it, Constable?”

  “Sir. There’s been another one.”

  Frank’s stomach dropped.

  The atmosphere in the room ratcheted, men muttering.

  “Where?”

  “Wardour Street.”

  The men muttered.

  “Alright, lads,” Tanner said. “You know what to do. Step to it.”

  He dismissed them, and followed Frank outside. The Area Car was waiting at the kerb. They got in, the driver leaving rubber as they screeched across Regent Street, the siren wailing.

  o o o

  THE CAR STOPPED outside number 153. A uniformed PC was waiting outside the front door. He was white-faced. A woman in her dressing gown shuffled nervously nearby. Frank, Tanner and Peters got out of the car. The P.C. came over and saluted.

  “What’s your name, officer?” Tanner asked.

  “George Hennessy.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Dead woman. Horrible, guv.”

  “We better have a look inside.”

  “It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “Go on, gents,” Peters said. “I’ll sort things out down here.”

  Tanner was ashen-faced as he turned to Frank. “After you.”