The Black Mile (23 page)
“That’s why
you hit her?”
“I said it
was only once or twice.”
“I don’t
believe you, Eddie. You hit her all the time.”
“No, guv.
Hardly never.”
“She
wouldn’t have sex with you and you hated her for it.”
“No––”
“Yes. It
made you feel inadequate, didn’t it, Eddie? Made you feel less like a man, a
woman telling you when you could and couldn’t have it away. Like you said, it’s
not a bird’s place to tell a fella when he can and can’t. Is that what happened
with Phyllis Brown, too?”
“They never
charged me for that.”
“Only
because they buggered up the collar and your brief was a slippery bastard. We
both know you raped her.”
“I never!”
“When Connie
wouldn’t let you have it you got angry, didn’t you?”
Coyle turned to Charlie. “He’s putting words in my
mouth.”
“Don’t look
at him like that, Eddie, he’s not going to help you. I’m your only hope here.
Where were you on Friday night?”
“At home.”
“With who?”
“The wife. I
had a bath and went to bed.”
“What about
Saturday?”
“With
Connie.”
“Who else?”
“Just her.”
“Monday
night?”
“At home.”
He looked at Charlie again. “I never did what he’s saying I did.”
Frank
slapped him again. “I’m talking to you Eddie, not him.”
“Frank.”
Coyle had
started to whimper.
“What
happened, Eddie? You wanted a bit of slap and tickle and she said no again? She
had the nerve to say no? To you? Made you angry, didn’t it, Eddie? Really took
the biscuit. You’ve been working on her for weeks and she hardly ever lets you
have your end away. It’s your right. A man’s right. You gave her a cuff, like
you normally did when she said no, only this time that wasn’t enough. Maybe she
got bolshy. Stood up to you? She really had to learn a lesson, didn’t she,
Eddie?”
“No.”
“The silly
little bitch needed to be taught a lesson. Who the boss was. So you put your
hands around her throat. You put your filthy hands around her throat and you
squeezed. Admit it!”
“I didn’t!”
“You
squeezed until she blacked out. Only that wasn’t enough either, was it? Not
this time. She had you really angry––the full red bloody mist. So you got a
knife from the kitchen and you stabbed her in the throat with it, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You cut her
up.”
“No no no
no.”
“Yes, Eddie.
Yes yes yes YES!”
The door
opened.
Frank turned
the table over, yelled into Coyle’s face: “TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!”
Their father
was there.
McCartney
behind him.
Bob Peters
behind him.
They must
have been watching through the two-way.
“Frank,
that’s enough,” their father said.
Frank didn’t
hear him, or ignored it; he grabbed Coyle under the armpits and hauled him out
of the chair, ran him backwards across the room, slammed him hard into the
wall. “Tell me what happened or I’ll break your bloody neck.”
“Frank!”
Coyle gasped
something.
“What?”
“I used to
pimp her,” he whispered. “She used to tom for me, alright?”
“Frank, let
him go.”
“Who else?”
“No-one.”
“Molly
Jenkins?”
“Son––”
Coyle looked
at William Murphy, at Charlie; doubt flickering for a moment.
“No––”
“Annie
Stokes?”
“No––”
William
Murphy laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder and tugged him away. “That’ll do, son.”
Coyle
sobbed: “I swear, guv. On my mother’s life. I know I was awful to Connie, God
rest her, but I didn’t do her in like they said in the paper. I couldn’t. I’m a
bastard, I know it, I’m a dirty rotten bastard but I ain’t like that.”
Frank got up
and stepped away from the overturned table, straightening his rumpled shirt. He
righted the table and picked up the chairs. Coyle sank down the wall, buried
his head in his hands and sobbed.
Frank went
outside; Charlie, his father and McCartney followed.
“What are
you doing?”
Frank
grabbed Charlie by the lapels, shoved him back against the wall and leant in.
“If you ever interrupt me while I’m interrogating a suspect again I’ll put your
teeth down your throat. I don’t care if you’re my bloody brother. Understand?”
William
Murphy put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Francis.”
Charlie
struggled, but Frank laid his forearm across his windpipe and held him there.
Bob Peters
yanked at him; Frank was too strong.
“Let him go,
Frank.”
Frank released
him.
“You always
were a pansy,” he spat. “Take a statement from him on the bloody pimping then
let him go.”
“What?”
“He didn’t
do the murders.”
Charlie
turned to McCartney. “Sir?”
“He’s right.
Get someone to check with his wife––sounds like he’s alibi’d, at least for
Jenkins. Go on, sport. Get him down on paper then let him out. He’s not our
man.”
44
FRANK HAD GONE OUT ONTO THE STREET after the
interview with Coyle.
Damned
Charlie.
Damned fool.
He needed to
get away from him before he did something even more stupid.
He’d been out all morning, all
afternoon and all evening. He’d visited the scenes of all three of the murders,
reviewing the work that was going on around each of them. The door-to-door
enquiries were finished and nothing new had come of them. Notices had been
pasted on the walls and hung from the lamp-posts, offering £50 for information
that might lead to an arrest. It wasn’t out of the question that something
might turn up. The underworld had no reason to protect a murderer––a maniac
doing away with brasses was bad for business.
Ten o’clock.
The German bombers had left,
leaving behind fresh columns of black and grey that piled up into the dusky
sky. The East End still smoked grimly, the dying sunlight breaking through the
black curtain in feeble shafts. Berwick Street market was closed for the day
and the barrows were being wheeled away. Rubbish bobbed in waterlogged gutters
and rats scuttled across the cobbles, gorging themselves on fish-heads, rotten
fruit, stale bread. A fire tender was parked next to a café, the crew sitting
on the kerb drinking cups of coffee. Their uniforms were black with soot and
they stared blankly into the street, exhausted. None of them spoke.
Only a
handful of girls were out tonight. He spoke to them, showed Eve’s picture, but
none of them recognised her or were in any mood to talk. They were nervous,
frazzled, fearful––death felt close and sudden. Bombs and a stranger’s knife.
Blown to bits in the street or gutted in a walk-up flat.
He kept
thinking of Charlie.
Couldn’t
help it.
They’d been
close, once. He remembered the way Charlie used to look at him when they were
teenagers. His father said he idolised him and Frank could see that that was
true, the way younger brothers often look up to older siblings. He remembered
Charlie nursing him after he was sent to rehabilitate at home. Frank still had
the picture: he was propped up in bed, his face and torso swathed in bandages,
a glass of home-made lemonade in his hand held aloft in salute. Charlie was
next to him with his arm around his shoulders.
Seemed like
years ago now. A different time.
The bitterness changed
everything.
He
remembered their first proper row. They must have been in their early
twenties––a drinking session at Christmas had turned nasty and Charlie had lost
his temper. Frank remembered exactly what Charlie had said, over and over
again: “You don’t know how hard it is to be your brother.” Frank apologised
without knowing what he was apologising for, but it hadn’t made any difference.
Charlie just got angrier, and Frank had given up before they came to blows. The
argument had been repeated several times since, usually when they were
drinking, and Charlie’s reaction was worse every time.
Frank didn’t
know what to do.
And he
didn’t see much hope.
His meandering route led him
back to Savile Row. He climbed the stairs to his office, his fists clenched
with frustration: Coyle a dead end, Drake a dead end, Jenkins a dead end,
Connie a dead end, Annie a dead end. Duncan Johnson a ghost. Charlie in his
way. He pulled the black-out aside and stared into the gloom. The fires were
still burning in the east, a skirting of glowing orange leeching over the tops
of the buildings.
The Ripper was out there.
Eve was, too.
o
o o
BOB PETERS KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. “We might have
something, Frank. A girl got brought into the station half an hour ago, says
she was assaulted by a bloke who came up behind her and tried to strangle her.
A delivery boy saw her in the doorway of the Captain’s Club, probably scared
the bloke away. They’re both downstairs. You want to have a word with them?”
Frank
hurried down to the ground floor. A pretty girl, white as a sheet, was sat
waiting in the interview room. A young lad was pacing next to her and a P.C.
stood stiffly to the side. A cardboard box sat on the table.
“Constable.
You are?”
“P.C.
Skinner, sir.”
He turned to
the civilians. “I’m D.I. Murphy. What’s your name, love?”
“Mary
Heywood.”
“Good
evening, Miss Heywood. And sir?”
“John Shine.”
Frank took a
seat next to the girl. “Thank you for waiting for me. I understand you’ve been
attacked. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“I had an
appointment with a male friend. He’s in the services. Eight o’ clock at the Corner
House on Oxford Street. He finds it hard to keep to his diary, what with
last-minute duties he has to attend to, and he telephoned the bar so that they
could let me know that he was going to have to cancel.”
Frank
appraised her as she spoke: thirty-ish, well presented; clean.
“I was sat
at the bar. I thought I might as well have a drink seeing as I’m out, so I
ordered a gin and tonic. I finished it, paid the bill and left.”
“What time
was this?”
“About a half
past eight; I remember checking my watch. I went down Tottenham Court Road and
crossed over to Bedford Street. There’s a tobacconist’s there and I’d finished
my cigarettes, so I went to get some more. I was just by the entrance to the
Captain’s Club when someone––some man––grabbed me from behind and pulled me
into a doorway. I tried to scream but he had his hand over my mouth and he was
blocking the doorway so I couldn’t get past him.”
“Can you
describe him?”
“Didn’t get
a good look. It was dark, he grabbed me from behind––”
“Do your
best, love.”
“He was tall––about your height,
I’d say. Well built. Strong. I pushed him, tried to get him out of the way but
he didn’t move an inch.”
“Hair
colour?”
“I couldn’t
see––he had some sort of hat on. I’m afraid I’m not being very helpful.”
“Not at all. Go on.”
“So I bit
his finger and he moved his hands down––I tried to scream, might even have
managed it, I don’t know, but then he put his hands around my throat and
started to squeeze. I don’t remember thinking anything, just that I couldn’t
breathe and that I had to get away from him, fast as I could, but he was
strong, his grip, and I couldn’t get away. I tried to find something to hit or
scratch but there wasn’t anything, and he was squeezing harder and harder and I
couldn’t breathe and I know I started to slide down the wall and I think I
must’ve started to faint––my vision got fuzzy and then I must’ve blacked out. I
can’t remember much after that.”
“Thank you.”
Frank drew a line across his notes.
“Go on,
son,” Jenkins said to Shine. “Tell the Inspector what happened after that.”
“I was just
walking past the Museum. Going to meet some pals for a drink.”
“Time?”
“A quarter
to nine. It was quiet, hardly no-one out, then I saw this light from a doorway
on the other side of the road. A torch or something, I thought, so I crossed
over to have a look. I heard a scuffle going on, the light flashed on and then
off again, all really quickly. I got closer and the light flashed on again,
showing a woman’s legs, lying on the pavement. I called out, you know, ‘Oi!
What’s your game?’, and ran over. Whoever it was dropped the torch and shot off
down St Adeline Place, full pelt. Didn’t get a look at him.”
“You chased
him?”
“No, sir, I
didn’t––I could see the lady was in a bad way––she was lying on the floor,
spread out and”––he lowered his voice, flushing––“and her skirt was disorganised
and her blouse had been ripped. She was groaning, too. I thought I’d better
help her first.”
“Very good.”
“I knelt down and asked what was
wrong. She kept groaning, so I helped her to her feet and I says I ought to
take her to Charing Cross, get a doctor to look her over, make sure nothing’s
broken. She says yes, she leans on my shoulder and I helped her towards the
junction.”
“This was at around ten minutes
to nine,” Skinner interjected, referring to his pocket-book. “I was at the junction
with Tottenham Court Road when I saw the lady and the gentleman approaching me.
I could see she was unsteady on her feet. I asked what’d happened, and Mr.
Shine told me he thought she’d been attacked. I asked her whether she’d like me
to accompany her to the hospital or the police station. She said the station,
so I brought them here.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Go on, son,” Skinner said.
“Tell him.”
“I found this.” Shine pointed to
the box on the table.
Frank took it by its string and
let it revolve: it was a gas mask case, dirty, no distinguishing marks. With a
handkerchief around his fingers, he opened it: a standard-issue mask, the
rubber pungent, nothing else. He tipped the box towards him and looked inside.
The serial number was written on one face in black ink: HMP 525987.
HMP: His
Majesty’s Prisons.
“Where did
you find this?”
“On the pavement––next to the
doorway. I wondered if the man might have dropped it and forgotten it was there
when he ran off.”
“Thank you.
Please, each of you, give a statement to P.C. Skinner. I’ll probably need to
speak to you again, too.”
Frank ran upstairs to his
office, put the mask and box on the table, picked up the telephone and dialled
the operator: “Get me the War Office. Quickly.”
The call
connected.
“This is
detective Inspector Frank Murphy at Savile Road police station. I have the
serial number for a gas mask––I need you to check the records for me. Do you
have a pen?”
“Inspector,
it’s half past ten––”
“The owner
of this gas mask might well be the man responsible for the murders of eight
women. I need his name now.”
“What’s the number, Inspector?”
Frank
recited it.
“I’ll get
onto it right away.”
o
o o
AN HOUR PASSED. Frank sent two men to examine the
scene of the attack. They came back half an hour later with Mary Heyward’s bag,
found outside No. 1 Bedford Street. He briefed D.C.I. Tanner; he went to the
Inquiry Room and read through field notes; he talked developments with D.I.
Higgins; he read the witness statements from Heyward and Shine and drafted a
list of follow-ups; he went to his office and stared at the telephone.
Willing the
call to come.
Midnight. He
picked up on the second ring.
“I have
something for you,” the clerk said.
“It’s a prisoner’s?”
“Yes, Inspector. They were
allocated with masks, just like everyone else, between ‘38 and ‘39. The first
two numbers, 5 and 2, denote Brixton. The 5987 is the prisoner’s number.”
“Go on.”
“It was
allocated to a Mr. Duncan Johnson. Would you like his address?”
