The Black Mile (18 page)

 
“Not so
good. She was scared.”

 
“Did she say
why?”

 
“No.”

 
“But someone
had upset her?”

 
“Yes.”

 
“Who? A
punter?”

 
“No.”

 
“Who then?”

 
“I don’t
know for sure.”

 
“What about
if you had to guess?”

 
“Eddie.”

 
“Who’s he?”

 
A sudden
look of fierce disdain. “He said he was her boy-friend only he wears this
wedding ring so I’m not sure what that’s all about. I only met him once. Nasty,
he was. Horrible. Got an awful temper on him. Connie was scared of him but she
didn’t know how to get away.”

 
“Eddie’s a
violent man?”

 
“Hit her all
the time.”

 
“Do you know
his second name? Think carefully.”

 
“She never
told me. He was a hotel porter, though––somewhere in the West End.”

 
Frank
stifled a groan; a hotel porter in the West End––he wasn’t going to be easy to
find. “That’s grand, Edith. You’re doing well.”

 
“Are we
done?” She swiped tears away with the edge of her hand.

 
“Nearly. Do
you know what Connie did last night?”

 
“The
bombs––I weren’t going to be out on the street in that so I stayed in the
shelter in Soho Square until the all-clear. It was late then and the shelter
was wet and I hadn’t had no sleep so I went round to Connie’s flat to see if I
could lie down there for a bit. The bedroom light was on but she wouldn’t
answer the door. I waited for about twenty minutes and then I went and slept in
a doorway off the Charing Cross Road.”

 
“Very good.
Is there anything else?”

 
She paused.

 
“Anything at
all. It might be helpful, sweetheart.”

 
“There was
another man. I don’t know who he was, but I’ve seen him around more and more
recently.”

 
“Another
boyfriend?”

 
“I don’t
know. Might have been. I know he made Connie happy.”

 
“Do you know
his name?”

 
“She never
said.”

 
“Can you
describe him?”

 
“Big.”

 
“As big as
me?”

 
“Bigger.
Blond hair. Lots of it, untidy. That’s all I know so can I go now, please?” She
started to get up.

 
“Sit down,
Edith,” Frank said firmly. “This second man––what was his name?”

 
“Don’t
know.”

 
“Think,
sweetheart.”

 
“Don’t know.
Please––can I go now?”

 
There was no
way he was going to let her back out onto the streets. “You’re going to stay
here for a couple of hours until someone can pop over and have a chat with
you.”

 
“You can’t
do that!” I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

 
“You don’t
have a Registration Card, love. That’s a crime. Not a serious one, and you’re
not in trouble, but you’re going to stay here until we can work out the best
way to look after you.”

 
She was
still crying as Frank left her in the Interrogation Room. He went back to the
inquiry room and called A4 Department. They’d send a WPC over, he’d get the
Plonk to make the calls to the council and they’d work out between them how
best to deal with her.

 
35

HENRY STARED AT HIS TYPEWRITER, foolscap rolled
into place, a thousand words describing yesterday’s events. Thoughts and angles
swirled. Indignation fired him. Frustration cramped his stomach. He rested his
fingers on the keys. He had wanted to write, to set down his experience while
it was still fresh. The urge had been irresistible, the same feeling he remembered
from years ago when he was young and keen, his fingers stabbing the keys
urgently and the words pouring out, fizzing and buzzing. It had practically
written itself.

 
The open
door.

 
The darkened
stair.

 
The blacked-out
room.

 
The smell of
blood.

 
The bed, the
body, the mutilated face.  

 
He tore the
page from the typewriter, slipped it into his drawer and locked it away.

 
It wasn’t
ready yet. There were depths to the story he needed to explore. Connections to
be made. He’d get it all together, unpick things. He could make it better. Put
Asquith into the picture and it would go from good to unbelievable.

 
The kind of
story that would win prizes.

 
Fix all the
damage.

 
Completely
rehabilitate him.

 
The
messenger pushed his cart across the office. He stopped at Henry’s desk and
dropped a brown manila envelope, heavy-looking. Henry tore it open: Bernard
Spilsbury’s post mortem report, MOLLY JENKINS written across the front-page,
YOU OWE ME £2 scrawled below that. He opened it, skipped the early observations
until he reached the report on the internal dissection, and started to
read. 

The face was very much mutilated. There was a cut about a quarter of an
inch through the lower left eyelid, dividing the structures completely through.
There was a scratch through the skin on the left upper eyelid, near to the
angle of the nose. The right eyelid was cut through to about half an inch.

There was a deep cut over the bridge of the nose, extending from the left
border of the nasal bone down near the angle of the jaw on the right side of
the cheek. This cut went into the bone and divided all the structures of the
cheek except the mucous membrane of the mouth. Further deep cuts were made from
the edges of the mouth, proceeding upwards in a diagonal to two inches below
the bottom of the ear. These cuts divided the upper lip and extended through
the substance of the gum over the right upper lateral incisor tooth. There was
on each side of cheek a cut which peeled up the skin, forming a triangular flap
about an inch and a half. On the left cheek there were two abrasions of the
epithelium under the left ear.

All these injuries were performed by a sharp instrument like a knife, and
pointed.

The cause of death was asphysixia due to strangulation by hand. The death
was immediate and the mutilations were inflicted after death.

Henry sat back in his chair. He had overheard the
P.C. talking with the D.C.I. outside the flat: the preliminary cause of death
for Worthing was supposed to have been strangulation, too, and he could
remember seeing the reddened marks on the poor girl’s throat.

 
Strangled
and cut.

 
It was him.

 
Both of
them.

 
But they
knew each other.

 
None of the
previous girls had.

 
He looked at
the P.M. again. He felt a little light-headed: dizzy from the gore, the bloody
picture in his head. Molly Jenkins, blood and razored flesh. The image segued
to Connie’s sordid little walk-up, the body on the bed, the sheets sodden with
blood, the ghastly smile carved into her face.

 
Both girls
done in the same way.

 
The same
man.

 
Asquith?

 
Henry
skimmed the P.M. again and compared it with his story.

 
Strangled.

 
Cut.

 
It must be
the Black-Out Ripper again.

 
But––

 
But––

 
He put
report in his drawer with the half-written story, locked it again, and walked
quickly across the office.

 
Right, then.

 
Time to
dig.    

o         
o          o

HENRY CAUGHT A BUS, chocolate-coloured rather than
the usual red. One of the replacement vehicles the bus companies had brought in
from the sea-side, Brighton or Bournemouth or somesuch. He paid the clippie the
fare and took a seat on the top deck, watching the streets pass by through
mesh-covered windows.

 
First things
first: get Asquith on the record. He needed to put the allegations to him. He
would have preferred to put the pictures on the table, cut the legs out from
underneath him, make him see that a denial was pointless. That wasn’t going to
be possible, at least not until Field resurfaced again. It wasn’t perfect but
he couldn’t wait. Things were happening, that much was certain.

 
He needed to
act quickly.

 
He looked at
the scrap of paper in his hand: Eaton Square.

 
They turned
onto Whitehall, passing the Foreign Office and the Treasury, and then the long
run of Victoria Street.

 
Half past
four: the siren shrieked and the bus pulled over to the side of the road beside
the House of Fraser, the clippie shouting up that they’d been told by the depot
to stop in the event of a raid. The customers of a hair salon emptied out into
the street, one woman’s hair a pile of soapsuds fresh from the shampoo. The
stores had their own shelters in the basements and frantic shoppers piled for
the entrances. The nonchalance that had marked the previous alerts was gone.
The cloud of smoke over the Eastern horizon was more than enough motivation for
people to take the raids seriously.

 
Nothing else
for it––he’d have to walk. A half-hour stroll through the heart of tired
London: drawn black-out curtains disfigured handsome houses and offices,
newspaper stands shouted grim headlines about invasion, rubbish piled against
buildings, blowing in the wind. The bombers rumbled overhead, the AAA barrage
going up, the whistle of falling bombs, the crump as they hit. Bells clashed
and a fire engine passed the bus, racing East. Another followed, then a third,
then a fourth, until the sub-station must have been empty. All of them heading
East. He followed Victoria Street to the station, turned onto Buckingham Palace
Road and then onto Ecclestone Street. It was quiet. The action was miles away
but the locals were staying inside.

 
Eaton
Square. It stank of old money: five-storey terraces, classical, triple bay windows.
He walked to number 47: it was huge, four storeys with a dormer, white stucco
walls, Italian design. There were holes in the ground where railings used to
be, the metal requisitioned to make munitions. He walked up the short steps to
the door and glanced through the windows on either side––a reception room,
expensive furniture, rugs, empty––and rapped the knocker. He stepped back and
glanced through the windows again. Lights came on and the sound of footsteps
approached.

 
The door was
opened by an elegant-looking woman. She wore a v-neck dress with softly
gathered shoulder yokes. There were pearls around her neck and a silver brooch
was clipped to her lapel. Everything about her looked expensive. She was
middle-aged, with an obvious youthful beauty that had matured into
handsomeness. “Hello.”

 
“Lady
Asquith?”

 
“That’s
right. And you are?”

 
“The name’s
Henry Drake. I’m a reporter. The Star.”

 
She regarded
him dubiously. “And how can I help you?”

 
“Would it be
possible to speak to your husband?”

 
“Afraid not.
He’s at the factory. Won’t be back until the weekend at the earliest. Can I ask
why you want to see him?”

 
He thought
on his feet. “I’m researching a piece on the war effort for the newspaper.
Viscount Asquith is someone I fancy my readers would like to know a little more
about.”

 
“After the
new government contract?”

 
“Precisely
so.”

 
Ack-ack
drilled up from Buckingham Palace Gardens: earth-shaking detonations heralded
blooms of inky smoke. Henry looked up as a wing of bombers passed high
overhead.

 
“I can’t
have you standing outside in this––you must come inside.”

 
A chance to
look inside the house; Henry couldn’t resist. He followed her into the hallway.
It was a wide space, with black-and-white chequered tiles and a broad staircase
leading up to the first floor. A vase of orchids was placed on an occasional
table, next to a telephone. An explosion rattled the panes of glass in the door
as Lady Asquith closed the it behind him. “My goodness.”

 
“Thank-you.
You’re very kind.”

 
“Nonsense.
It’s beastly out there. This way.”

 
She opened a
door and went into the reception. Henry followed; the room was plush. It was
double-height and had been decorated in an Oriental fashion: painted plaster
walls spaced with strips of Chinese embroidery, tall bookshelves reaching to
the ceiling holding volumes on history, politics and philosophy. There was a
low divan and a carved lamp on a side-table, two other standing lamps with
jade-green shades and long tassels. Black-out curtains had been tacked above
the windows and tied back with ribbons.

 
“What a
lovely room.”

 
“Thank you.
My husband has a thing for the East. He was in the diplomatic service there for
five years.”

 
Henry
inspected the framed pictures on the side-table: Asquith with his wife, with
two small children, one of him in racing goggles in a Morgan touring car.

 
Lady Asquith
sat down on a Chesterfield and indicated for Henry to do the same. “Now,” she
said, “you must tell me about the article for your newspaper.”

 
Henry sat.
“It’s part of a series on the war effort. Individuals who are doing their bit.
Fire-fighters on the one hand all the way to generals and government ministers.
As I say, I think your husband’s story would be of great interest to my
readers. His aeroplanes are making a tremendous difference.”

 
“Capital
idea, Mr. Drake. James is not the sort of man to seek plaudits but I’m sure
he’d be delighted to talk to you. You should go to the factory, provided the
trains are still running, of course. Do you have the address?”

 
“I do.”

 
“When were
you thinking of going?” 

 
“I haven’t
really thought about it. As soon as possible.”

 
“Well,
yes––you’d best be quick. James is travelling to Scotland for the weekend.”

 
“Perhaps
tomorrow then?”

 
“Splendid.
I’ll arrange an appointment when I speak to him this evening, assuming the
telephone is still working. Should I say two o’clock?”

 
“Two would
be perfect.”

 
“That’s
settled then. Can I get you a drink?”

 
He stood.
“No, you’ve already been too kind. It sounds a little quieter outside––I better
be on my way.”

 
“Are you
sure? Something restorative before you go? Stiffen the nerves?”

 
“No,
thank-you––really, I best get back to the office. My editor will be wondering
where I am.”

 
“Very well.
Do be careful, Mr. Drake. I was hearing on the wireless that the East End has
taken a frightful beating. It’s just a matter of time before that awful man
Göring decides it’s time the rest of us had our turn.”

 
“Thank you,
madam.” She smiled at him and showed him to the door. Henry thanked her again.
She closed the door and he exhaled. Her hospitality, his lies, what he knew––it
had all started to make him feel uncomfortable.