Comes the Dark Page 2

  2

  He curled himself up on the bed into a foetal ball and screwed his eyes shut, hoping the pain would go away soon. It was particularly bad today, eating away inside of him. He knew he would just have to ride it out with some of the pills and whisky. Each day was different and sometimes he almost felt normal, but these spasms were growing more frequent now. He’d been told that would happen, but he’d fostered the hope that they’d go away.

  He clutched his genitals and squeezed gently as though this action would expunge the fierce gnawing feeling there. It didn’t; it only made him more acutely aware of his distress.

  He’d tried praying and then cursing but neither had supplied any respite.

  He began rocking to and fro like a traumatised child. He knew he was doomed, but it was too soon to go just yet. He needed more time. He had so much more to do. More urgently, he needed to be better by the evening when he was due in to work. He couldn’t afford to have any unexplained absences now. That would be far too dangerous.

  Beyond the open window, where the blackout curtain rustled in the spring breeze, were the sounds of the city, a city filled with people going about their daily business untainted by the ache and degradation he felt. He was a leper in their midst.

  3

  In the upper reaches of Scotland Yard, in a tiny, cramped office, Detective Inspector David Llewellyn gazed at the picture of a young girl lying in a doorway, her legs spread-eagled in an obscene fashion and a look of terror etched upon her dead face. Her name was Molly Yates. She was just twenty-five at the time of her death, two days previously. An unmarried mother and a prostitute. Probably, he reasoned, a prostitute because she was an unmarried mother. It was not an uncommon situation. Sadly, the city was full of such women.

  Llewellyn gave a weary sigh and ran a hand through his thinning blond locks. Wasn’t it bad enough that Hitler was hell-bent on destroying London and its inhabitants, without some maniac joining in the mayhem, going around strangling young prostitutes? It was the second such killing within a month and there was no doubt that the two murders had been carried out by the same pair of hands. This was clearly revealed by the number branded on Molly’s forehead in crimson lipstick. The number was 2. The previous victim, nineteen-year-old Eva Bracewell, who’d only just started on the game, had been found two weeks earlier in similar circumstances, with the number 1 on her forehead. ‘I wonder how many he wants to make a match set,’ Llewellyn muttered to himself.

  ‘They put people away for talking to themselves,’ observed Sergeant Stuart Sunderland, plonking down a mug of hot tea at Llewellyn’s elbow.

  ‘Good. The sooner they take me away the better. Then you’ll be in charge of all this.’ Llewellyn indicated the pictures of the dead girl on his desk.

  ‘In that case I think I’ll go with you.’

  The two men exchanged cynical smiles.

  Llewellyn sipped his tea, making a slurping noise as he did so. He was a well-made, beefy man, running a little too fat now that he had slipped over into his thirties, but with his square jaw and light-blue eyes he was still regarded as good-looking by women on the force. He peered at his sergeant over the lip of the mug.

  ‘Tell me, boyo, how do you solve a murder where there are no bloody clues? Two young prossers murdered with only the modus operandi to link them.’

  The sergeant raised his eyebrows in an amused quizzical fashion. It was not like his down-to-earth boss to use such posh terms.

  ‘The method of working. In this case the means of murder,’ explained Llewellyn, too weary to smile at his assistant’s feigned ignorance. ‘It’s random killing, isn’t it? Therefore there’s no motive. So we’re in the bloody dark.’

  ‘They were both found within a mile of each other.’

  Llewlleyn nodded. ‘I’ve noted that, Sergeant. Number One was found in a doorway on Eagle Street off High Holborn, and Number Two about half a mile due south on Portugal Street. Perhaps he’s working his way down to the river. Whatever...’

  ‘There must be some pubs in the vicinity well known to the trade.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve got young O’Connell sussing that out now. Let’s hope he’s up to the job and doesn’t come back drunk as a lord or with a nasty dose of the clap.’

  Both men permitted themselves a brief smile.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Llewellyn continued, ‘since the war began, London has been overrun by the ladies of the night. In fact they’re not just ladies of the night anymore. Now they’re ladies of breakfast, lunch, and evening meal—and moments in-between. “Hello ducky, I can fit you in anytime.” With soldiers milling around the city on leave they offer a bloody twenty-four-hour conveyor-belt service. So, boyo, you show me a pub in London that isn’t be harbouring some painted whore in the corner touting for business.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Llewellyn looked at the pictures again and shook his head sadly. ‘They’re not bad girls really. Just trying to get along. Whatever happened they just don’t deserve this.’

  Sergeant Sunderland made no response. In truth, he didn’t know what to say. He’d been working with Inspector Llewellyn for six months now and had always found him chirpy, cocky and immune to the nastiness they often had to deal with. But this case had really got to him, got under his skin, partly, Sunderland supposed, because of the unpleasant waste of young life but mainly because there was bugger all to work on. Frustration was etched deep on his guv’nor’s brow.

  Llewellyn took another noisy slurp of tea. ‘The awful thing, Sunderland, is that I don’t think we’re going to move on this case until the bastard strikes again. We have to wait until our man makes a mistake, gives us a clue. And how many women is he going to throttle before that happens? Christ!’

  ‘Let’s hope O’Connell comes up with something, eh?’

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘Yeah. In the meantime you see if you can trace this poor girl’s parents, or any of her family. Just…just occupy yourself, there’s a good fellow.’

  Sergeant Sunderland drained his mug. ‘Sure thing, guy.’ He gave a mock salute and left.

  David Llewellyn stared at the ceiling and swore. Just then the telephone rang.

  As was his practice, he lifted the receiver without a word and listened.

  ‘Hello, boyo,’ came the tinny voice on the line.

  Despite himself, the Scotland Yard man chuckled. ‘You son of a bitch, Hawke, what the hell do you want now? How many times have I told you not to ring me at work? What if the wife finds out?’

  ‘We’ll just have to elope.’

  ‘Just take a running jump, eh?’

  ‘That’s a fine greeting.’

  ‘It’s as fine as you’re likely to get at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, suffering from work overload are we?’

  ‘And what would a cock-eyed bastard like you know about work overload, you dilettante dick.’

  Johnny laughed. ‘Never been called dilettante before.’

  ‘That’s just for starters.’

  Both men, old friends, laughed.

  ‘I thought you might fancy downing a pint at The Guardsman this lunchtime.’

  ‘And I repeat, what the hell do you want now?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before. All right, boyo, see you there at one—and it’s your round,’ said David, dropping the receiver.

  He sat back and beamed. Some beer and conversation with, old Johnny One Eye might just help to lift him from his depression.

  4

  The incident in Benny’s café affected me more than I realised at first. In essence it was just a little fracas, a disagreement about change, but the man’s calculated ploy to threaten and abuse Benny and his naked hatred had made it more upsetting, more sinister.

  It was still preying on my mind after I’d returned to the office and checked the morning’s mail for anything of interest. There was just one small cheque from a satisfied client. Usually this would have given me a lift, but the image of the young m
an’s grim face with those manic eyes kept flashing into my mind and souring my mood.

  I knew I couldn’t just let the matter rest. I had to do something about it. What, I wasn’t certain. I needed some help and information, so I rang up my old friend at Scotland Yard, Detective-Inspector David Llewellyn, and arranged to meet him for a drink at lunchtime. I wanted to find out more about the Britannia Club and its members and how dangerous they were. I recalled the young man’s parting threat, ‘You’ve been warned.’ I got the impression they were not idle words. I reckoned David was the man to fill me in with the details.

  I had worked with him briefly before the war when I’d been on the force and we had got on well. A lad from the valleys, as he often referred to himself, David was a shrewd detective with no pretensions or arrogant airs, unlike many of his colleagues. We shared the same tastes in music—jazz mainly—and humour—we were pro-Will Hay and anti-silly George Formby—and we have been known to sink a few pints also. Just the thought of that chubby Welshman brought a smile to my lips.

  As expected The Guardsman, situated just around the corner from Scotland Yard, was very busy. More than ever, these days pubs were little havens where, with the help of a few pints and the company of a crowd of happy strangers and isolation from the world outside beyond the frosted windows, one could forget the harsh realities of the blackout, the blitz, and the various deprivations heaped on us since autumn of 1939.

  A thick curtain of cigarette smoke hung in the air which was filled with the rowdy chatter of animated conversations. Although I was twenty minutes early for our one o’clock appointment, David was already there. I spotted him through the fug at the far end of the saloon bar where he had managed to commandeer a couple of stools. He sat hunched up, leaning on the bar looking thoroughly miserable. If he’d been a cartoon figure he would have had a little grey cloud hovering over his head labelled ‘Worried’. On seeing me he raised his half-empty pint-glass in greeting and tapped it lightly with his forefinger. It was a signal for me to get him another. I obeyed instructions.

  I popped the fresh pint on the bar beside him and climbed on to the neighbouring stool. Like polite public schoolboys we shook hands.

  ‘Smart suit,’ David said after he’d drained his glass. ‘Looks like you’re going to a wedding. Things must be pretty buoyant at the moment’.

  ‘They were. It’s a little slow at present.’

  ‘Lucky bastard.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. I’m in the shit and sinking fast.’

  I frowned. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘You read the papers, I suppose, apart from the funny pages?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re involved with the sinking of the Hood?’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Ah, the blackout strangler.’

  David rolled his eyes. ‘A turgid bit of journalese; they’ve got to find some convenient label, I suppose. But that’s the case.’

  ‘It’s landed in your lap, I take it?’

  David nodded. ‘Certainly has, right on my bollocks. Two random killings with no clues and the probability that there’ll be more.’

  ‘You’re certain they’re the work of the same man?’

  He nodded again. ‘What we kept out of the papers is that the bastard marked the forehead of each girl with a number in lipstick—number one and number two.’

  ‘Numbering his victims?’ I shuddered.

  ‘It’s as though he’s taunting the police.’

  ‘And there’s no connection between the victims? Did they know each other or—’

  ‘No, no. Simply two young tarts picked off the tree at random and strangled. He just takes them into a doorway, throttles the life out of them and leaves ‘em. Girls he’s only known for an hour. No sex, no funny business, just...’ He put his pint on the counter and mimed a strangling action.

  ‘That is a tough one.’

  David took a large gulp of beer. ‘You can say that again. I really have no idea what we can do. We’ve had coppers out warning the girls to be more vigilant. A water-off-a-duck’s-back exercise, of course. I’ve got one of my men checking pubs in the area where the bodies were found to see if anyone saw anything that might help—but it’s pissing in the wind stuff. In the meantime—’

  ‘You wait for number three.’

  David groaned. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t say that. You can think it. I do think it, but for God’s sake don’t say it aloud; it’s more than tempting fate, it’s bloody encouraging it.’

  I had never seen David so downhearted before. Of course, I knew his misery was brought on by frustration. He was a good, dedicated copper but in this case he couldn’t formulate a plan of action. If you had nothing to go on, you couldn’t go. It was the cruellest of situations: he was at the mercy of the murderer.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do...’

  ‘Apart from buying me another pint, d’you mean?’ He grinned and for a brief moment the old David emerged from underneath that cartoon cloud. ‘No, I’m only joking. Two pints is enough for me at lunchtime or I’ll be asleep across my desk by three. And besides, the brain is addled enough without pickling it in booze as well. Look boyo, I appreciate the offer. I know it was genuinely meant and if I think of anything, I’ll get you on the blower. Anyway, what’s new with you?’

  I shrugged easily, but my casual response didn’t fool Detective-Inspector David Llewellyn.

  ‘If I know my old one-eyed friend, he didn’t just lure me here just to ply me with alcohol for the fun of it. There was some other reason. A favour or some information, perchance?’

  ‘I’m that transparent eh?’

  ‘Like a window.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll pull the curtains in future’

  ‘So...’ David raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘I wondered what you knew of the Britannia Club.’

  ‘Scum.’

  ‘Succinct, but a little more factual gen would be helpful.’

  ‘There’s not a lot to say. As you know, the government have pulled the plug on the big fascist boys, outlawing the British Union of Fascists and throwing Oswald Mosley into clink for the duration, but there are still little cliques of the bastards, parading as private organisations. They’re secretive, underground and keep their heads well down. The Britannia Club’s one of them. They’ve got their so-called headquarters in Manchester Square. As long as they don’t pass out literature or demonstrate in public they keep within the law. Just. We can’t stop people holding their own opinions, or we’d be as bad as the Third Reich. The problem is that a fair number of the aristocracy, those chaps we used to think of as the bloody ruling classes, including some members of Parliament, support the fascist view. Basically, it’s England for the English and get rid of the rest. The Jews are their main target. They have some cock-eyed notion that the Jews are responsible for all the ills that ever beset this country. The figurehead of the Britannia Club is Sir Howard McLean, member of Parliament from some god-forsaken place in Scotland. We can’t work out whether he’s just a misguided fool or an out and out villain. His basic stance is that we should stop fighting and negotiate with Hitler. Don’t worry, Johnny, we’ve got our eye on them. It wouldn’t surprise me if Intelligence hadn’t squirrelled a man into their midst to keep an eye on things. Can’t say for certain of course, I’m only a lowly copper and not important enough to be told things like that. Anyway, what’s your interest?’

  I told him about my encounter with one of the Britannia Club’s roughs at Benny’s Café.

  David nodded sternly. ‘Yeah, that’s about their style. They can’t march and shout anti-Semitism from the rooftops, but they can indulge in individual acts of violence.’

  ‘One wonders if they will be more dangerous now that they’ve been forced underground.’

  ‘Probably. It’s the way of the world’. Suddenly he grinned broadly. ‘Well, we are a couple of cheerful chappies this lunchtime. Shall we just slit our wrists and have done with it.’


  I laughed. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  While we were enjoying this brief moment of humour, we were joined by a young woman in a pretty black-spotted dress. She leaned against my companion and put her hand on his knee.

  ‘You two gentleman seem to be having a good time,’ she said sweetly in a voice borrowed from a Hollywood movie, as though she were addressing two ten-year-old children. ‘I like to see men being happy. Perhaps I could help you…help you prolong your fun. I’m very experienced at coping with two gentlemen at a time’.

  David rolled his eyes. ‘Would you believe it? You’ve come to the wrong blokes this time, dearie.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his badge. ‘Police.’

  Beneath her heavy make-up, the girl paled. ‘I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I was just being friendly. Just…just making conversation.’

  ‘Of course. And very nice it was too. But conversation like that can get you a night in the cells. Now on yer way, my gel, and back to the convent with you.’

  Without another word the young girl turned on her heel and virtually ran from the bar.

  David couldn’t help chuckling. ‘What chance have you got when silly little girls like that approach total strangers offering them sex on a plate. For all she knew I could have been an axe murderer and you could have been Doctor Crippen.’

  ‘I’m not happy with the casting, but I get your point.’

  David eyed his empty glass. ‘Ah, it’s a wicked world, my friend. And if I stay here any longer, I’ll be tempted fill this up again, so I’ll love you and leave you.’

  He slapped his trilby carelessly on his head, cast a friendly nod in my direction and left. I sat for some moments in deep in thought before noticing that our lady friend in the spotted dress had returned to the bar and was chatting to a young soldier. She was laughing and he was nodding. He drained his glass, took her arm and they headed for the door.