The Black Mile Read online

  “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!”

  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 Merchant 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.

  Henry cursed: too late for a scoop.

  Too late for anything other than scrambling to get in line.

  Damn it.

  He filtered through the crowd and rooted for scraps.

  The victim’s name was Rose Wilkins.

  The body had been found by a lady friend.

  Likely she was a brass.

  A detective exited the premises.

  “Mr. Murphy!”

  Murphy was hard to miss: a little over six foot; well built; mustard gas scars on the right side of his face and throat, disappearing beneath his shirt collar.

  “Inspector Murphy!”

  He looked over and paused; Henry elbowed through the crowd.

  “Inspector!”

  Murphy’s expression changed: a weary tolerance of the pressmen curdled into annoyance.

  “Evening, Inspector.”

  Murphy said nothing.

  “Another one?”

  Murphy said nothing.

  “Is it him?”

  “No comment, Mr. Drake.”

  He raised the cordon. A police Railton waited for him, engine idling.

  “What’s her name?”

  “No comment.”

  “I heard it’s Rose. Is that true?”

  “No comment.”

  “Who found her?”

  Murphy stepped under the rope.

  “Was she strangled?”

  Another detective went into the building.

  “And cut? Like the others?”

  Murphy opened the car door.

  “Come on, Murphy. Give me something.”

  He turned back to him. “You’ve got some neck.”

  “What?”

  He ignored him.

  “What––Johnson?”

  “Think I’d talk to you after that?”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “That’s what you lot always say. You don’t think about the consequences. It isn’t that you made my life difficult. My suspension hurt the investigation. Made it less likely we’d catch him. Made it even more dangerous for girls like that poor bitch up there.”

  Glass shattered somewhere in a nearby street. Men howled.

  “He said you beat him. I was entitled to ask questions.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. And I’m entitled to tell you to piss off. Good night to you, Mr. Drake.”

  Murphy got into the car, leaving Henry on the kerb. The driver sped away, the shielded lights pricking a way through the gloom. Henry stood, watching.

  He looked down at his notepad: a blank page stared back.

  Not good enough.

  He needed more.

  Needed to get back to Fleet Street.

  Needed to start writing.

  5

  EVEN AFTER ELEVEN YEARS ON THE FORCE, Charlie still hadn’t quite gotten used to the smell of a nick: the mixture of scrubbing soap, disinfectant and typewriter ribbons. He went into the locker room and took off his jacket. It stank of excrement; he filled a sink and stuffed the jacket in. He took off his glasses and sloshed cold water in his face. He stared into the mirror: icy blue eyes, ginger hair, a slender face with sharp points at the chin and cheekbones. He looked tired and frightened.

  The atmosphere in the mess was rowdy. Charlie’s father had been at the nick for thirty-nine years. The party to mark his promotion to Chief Constable was in full swing. A makeshift bar had been set up, bottles donated by browbeaten Soho licensees arrayed across it: scotch, whiskey, rum, two kegs of ale. A record player played show tunes, the men whooped and hollered. The old man was popular and the turnout was good, men working on getting drunk. Charlie looked around glumly as he passed through the room: George Watson and Peter Howard waltzing together; Ian Jules unconscious on the floor; Fred Barwick with a boot polish Hitler ‘tache, goose-stepping across the room. They were all boozed.

  Bob Peters caught Charlie’s eye; he brought over a pint for him. “Quite a party, Bob.”

  “Your old man’s got a lot of history here.”

  “How is he?”

  “I’ve known him almost as long as you’ve been alive. I’d normally say you’ve got as much chance of getting him to cry as getting blood from a stone. Don’t know about tonight––haven’t seen him this emotional your mother passed.”

  Charlie remembered Peters coming to the house for dinner when he and Frank were boys. Uncle B
ob. The two of them were as thick as thieves. Bill Murphy had nurtured a tight, loyal group of adjutants. Bob was closest but there were plenty of others: Malcolm Slater, a red-faced booze-hound as big as a bear, thumping a pitcher of mild on the table and poured it into mugs; Albert Regan; Flip Donald.

  “Are you alright, Charlie?”

  “Course.”

  “You look glum.”

  “I just wish I had the same relationship with him as you lot do.”

  “Don’t be daft. He thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”

  “But––”

  “He’s known most of those blokes for years. Christ, we’ve been bucks for coming on forty––he might as well be my brother for the difference it makes. Working with a fellow in a job like this, it brings you closer. War stories: cases you’ve worked, scraps you’ve had with chummy, villains you’ve put away. Breathing each other’s farts while you wait in the back of a surveillance van. He knows more about me than my own bloody missus does. But that’s how it is––it’s normal.”

  “So why doesn’t it work for me?”

  “You’ve always been aloof. That’s how you are. It was the same when you were at school––they all said how you kept to yourself. You and your books. Your old man gets on with everyone. Frank’s the same. Different strengths and weaknesses.”

  It was his own fault. It’d bothered him for as long as he could remember. His father and brother had banter, jokes, drunken conversation. He couldn’t trade like that, and even when he was included in conversations with the lads it was usually as a punchline: arrests he’d buggered up; mistakes he’d made. He looked at them, their easiness with life, and felt brittle.

  “Has he said anything about the C.I.D.?”

  “You asked about it again?”

  “Last week.”

  “Bloody hell, Charlie, we talked about this.”

  “You talked.”

  “And I stand by it: stick to uniform. Get some seasoning. Wait for your opportunity.”

  “I can’t wait, Bob. I’m not made for it. If I don’t get into plainclothes I’m finished.”

  “He can’t help––doesn’t matter that he’s made Chief Constable, there are some things he can’t do. You’re not going to waltz onto the Flying Squad just because he says so.”

  “But––”

  “Let’s assume he gets you recommended for C.I.D. First, there’d be a year minimum as an Aide. Let’s assume you can stand making coffee and running errands for a year; whatever post they offer after that will be shitty, freezing your arse off in the rain on surveillance detail or pushing paper around in Records. Assume you’re still interested after that, you’d have to think a transfer to the Squad would take another five years and lots of brown-nosing to do it. You’re thirty-five now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d be forty, minimum. You’re already old for D.C. Forty would be ancient. Young Turks buzzing around, ten years head start, they’ll out-rank you in months. Think you could take orders from some spotty little toerag from Peckham?”

  He shrugged. “So what do I do?”

  “You know what I think. You’re too clever for all this. Look at the law. Your old man could set you up with a place in chambers tomorrow. A criminal set. Something to tax that brain of yours. Good money. You’d be earning more than both of us put together in no time.”

  “It’s not about money. I want to work cases.”

  He chuckled. “You never did take a hint. You’re damned good, Charlie, and you’ve got potential. But you’re a cold fish. Your Dad and Frank, they have a way about them. They’re leaders––men will follow them. You’re not. Neither am I, if it’s any consolation––there’s a reason I’ve been stuck in his wake for twenty years.” He chuckled again as he looked at him over the rim of his pint. “Still haven’t persuaded you, have I?”

  “No.”

  “Go on then. He’s coming over. See what he says. But we’re off soon. The Assistant Commissioner’s hosting dinner and we’re already late.”

  His father was putting on his overcoat.

  “Father.”

  “Charles.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Good turn-out. You’d almost think they liked me.”

  “Could I have a word?”

  Alf McCartney joined them. McCartney was the Detective Chief Inspector on ‘C’ Division; he was replacing his father as Detective Superintendent. McCartney was a snappy dresser. The lads called him ‘Suits’ on account of his flashy duds. He was in an expensive suit, all grey except for a red silk tie with a solid silver tie-pin. Patent leather tassel loafers looked like they cost more than Charlie earned in a month. He also had a reputation for ambition; you had to be ruthless to have made detective super by forty-five. Everyone knew it: you didn’t want to stand in the way of Alf McCartney. He was a go-getter. A riser.

  “We should be going, sir.”

  Charlie shuffled. “A quick word before you go, father?”

  “I’m sorry, Charles––we’re late.”

  “About the C.I.D.?”

  He sighed, impatient. “Still this?”

  “Just a word with the D.I., that’s all. It wouldn’t take five minutes and it’d make all the difference.”

  “You know what I think. If you want to be a detective you have to make it off your own back. Walk your beat, make arrests, people will notice. For God’s sake, Charles, it’s Soho. There’s no better spot to make a reputation for good coppering.”

  “You’d do it if Frank asked.”

  He father shrugged helplessly. “Fine. I spoke to Cullen.”

  “And?”

  “He doesn’t think you’re ready.”

  “I disagree.”

  “How many arrests did you make last week?”

  “A fence––moody watches on the market.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And you can’t see that’s not enough? Unless you roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty with the other men, the brass won’t think you’ve got the gumption for it. And he says you don’t get involved. You don’t go out drinking with the others when you’re off turn and you don’t have any friends.”

  “I have my studies.”

  “Being bookish won’t help.”

  “It’ll make me a better policeman. I’m learning things they don’t teach at bloody Hendon.” He clenched his teeth, frustrated that the old man couldn’t see his point, or wouldn’t. “I’m wasted in uniform. You know I am.”

  “You have the brains for an outstanding career. It doesn’t have be in the Force.”

  “I told him that,” Peters said. “I said the law.”

  “The bar would be perfect.”

  “Frank was on the C.I.D. after three years. He made D.S. in six.”

  “Frank has excellent instincts, Charles.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “I didn’t say that. You have strengths he doesn’t. Your mother’s brains, and you’re ambitious.”

  “But––”

  He put up his hands, exasperated. “It’s not a race––I’m proud of you both.”

  “Is that your last word, father?”

  “It is.”

  “Bill––we have to go.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie.”

  His father, McCartney and Peters left. The others turned away; no need to socialise with him now that the old man and the new broom were gone. The same old story. He took a drink and sat down at an empty table. A couple of the lads from earlier saw him and laughed: hapless Charlie Murphy, the butt of everyone’s jokes. Nothing changed. Seven years in the job and he was still a punchline, a lesson in how not to do things. The opposite of his hero brother.

  An angry shout went up from the Charge Room.

  He thought about the nonsense in Soho. Peters was right, Cullen was right: he wasn’t cut out for uniform. Cullen and his knuckleheads loved it: rough-housing with chummy, putting their weight about, battering protestors. Legalised th
uggery. Bullies with a badge. They could keep it. He had no interest. He’d more to offer than they did. His gifts were wasted on the beat. He knew, and had known for years: his future was in plainclothes.

  Charlie stood alone and overhead conversations: the prisoners were an Italian fifth column, Adolf and Musso’s secret advance guard; one of them had pulled a shiv on Mike Silver, stabbed him through the arm.

  The station fizzed. Booze made it worse. Tinderbox volatile.

  Time to go.

  The Charge Room was full of noise: jeering, angry shouts. The Custody Sergeant, George Treadaway, was fretting by the door.

  Charlie looked down the corridor: cells on either side, all of them full, Italian names chalked up on the blackboard.

  Polledri.

  Franco.

  Malletti.

  Bertoreli.

  Polledri.

  A dozen drunken officers were crammed in the corridor: obscene gestures, shouted abuse.

  An Italian accent: “Bloody pigs!”

  “Watch your mouth, you greasy Wop.”

  Someone started to sing the Italian anthem.

  “Salve o popolo d’eroi!”

  Other men joined in the singing.

  “Salve o patria immortale!”

  A dozen men bellowing out Mussolini’s fascist ditty.

  “Son rinati i figli tuoi!”

  Charlie saw Frank, overcoat on, coming from outside. Harry Sparks was with him.

  “Con la fe’ nell’ideale!”

  A bottle was thrown against the wall.

  “Damn Eye-Ties!”

  The noise went louder.

  “That’s enough lads.” His brother was the ranking officer; no-one was listening. “Simmer down.”

  The crowd swirled.

  The noise yammered.

  Someone had swiped the cell keys; the doors were opened one after another. The prisoners were dragged out.

  Frank elbowed his way inside.

  “Alright, lads, enough.”

  Sparks hawked a mouthful of phlegm and spat it at the nearest prisoner. The Italian threw a punch; Harry caught it on the side of the chin, absorbed it, rugby-tackled the Wop and drove him right across the cell. Harry went crazy, hammering lefts and rights, the Italian pinned to the wall, his face a crimson mask. Men whooped and cheered.