The Black Mile (13 page)

 
27

FRANK TOOK A TAXI TO THE MORTUARY, a two-storey,
stuccoed building in the Egyptian style attached to the coroner’s court in St
Mary’s Square. He went inside and introduced himself to the clerk. The man was
skittish, the muffled crump of each fresh detonation causing him to jump. He
checked Frank’s credentials and showed him through into a large room. Sir
Bernard Spilsbury was preparing for the post mortem. The old man was as near to
police royalty as it got. Everyone knew him. His career had stretched for
thirty years, his name made in a series of infamous cases: the Brides in the
Bath murders, Dr Crippen, the Brighton Trunk murders. The papers loved him:
“The Nemesis of Slayers,” they called him. He had done the Ripper’s other
girls.

 
“Good
evening, Inspector.”

 
“Doctor.”

 
An explosion
rattled the windows in their frames. Spilsbury hobbled across the room with a
walking stick and nodded to the canvas-wrapped bundle on the gurney. “We should
probably get started before they drop a bomb on us. What do we have.”

 
“Female.
Found in Mayfair this morning.”

 
The straps
of the canvas bag were unbuckled, the body removed and placed upon a large set
of scales to be weighed and measured. Once the details were noted, the girl was
transferred to a stainless steel gurney in the centre of the room. A table next
to the gurney held Spilsbury’s instruments: scalpel, forceps, a pair of
blunt-nosed scissors, a brain-knife, a small hacksaw, a power-saw, a ruler,
probes. Spilsbury scrubbed up, pulling on a pair of gloves while a technician
unwrapped the plastic covering and examined it for items that might have fallen
from the body in transit. The bags on her hands and around her head were
removed and examined for fragments with a magnifying glass. Once the plastic
had been disposed of, the clothing was examined layer-by-layer, cut from the
body only when Spilsbury was satisfied that he had seen everything he needed to
see.

 
He picked up
her right hand and examined her nails. “No unusual residue, nothing out of the
ordinary,” he said to his assistant who scribbled shorthand notes into a
notebook. “No skin, no hairs, nothing that might have been scratched from the
attacker.” 

 
Frank
regarded the naked body on the table: ashy-white, mottled by dull red staining
from the natural settling of the blood. She looked small, fragile, vulnerable.
He knew Detectives who would do anything to find an excuse to avoid attending
post-mortems. Tanner, for example. He knew others who had been sick or who had
fainted dead away before even the first incision had been made. Frank didn’t
feel that way. This was a crucial element to an investigation and in the
nineteen unlawful killings Frank had investigated, he always made sure he was
present. There was a simple trick in dealing with the gore: the body was not a
person, it was just what had been left behind. Hair, skin, bone, muscle, sinew;
all they offered now were clues that might bring him closer to the murderer.
Simple––but hard to pull off. The pathologist’s butchery had to be put to one
side. This was the job.

 
Spilsbury
circled the gurney and the naked girl lying atop it. “She appears
well-nourished.” He lifted her right arm and tried to flex it––it was stiff.
“Rigor mortis present. Hypostatic stains are livid––at least eight hours since
death. Decomposition is absent. Time of death therefore somewhere between
around midnight and six o’clock this morning. Does that match your
investigations, Detective?”

 
“It could.
We don’t have a firm time yet.”

 
“Well, we
might be able to be a little more precise.” He took a syringe and, holding the
girl’s eyelid open, slid the needle into the pupil and pressed it until it was
inside by half an inch. He pulled back the
barrel.         “The level of potassium
in the aqueous humour rises in a straight line after death. Analysis will
provide a better estimate of her expiry. I ought to be able to give you a
better idea by tomorrow morning.”

 
Spilsbury
leant over the gurney, pulling back the other eyelid. “Both pupils dilated. The
whites congested with signs of haemorrhage. Lips are livid. Finger-nails, too.
Petechial haemorrhages present in the skin of the forehead and eyelids. No sign
of trauma to the scalp––no, none at all, we don’t need to shave her.” He took
the magnifying glass and a small ruler from the table next to the gurney and
examined the body inch-by-inch. He listed each cut and abrasion in minute
detail. “The throat has been cut across to the extent of seven inches. A
superficial cut commences about an inch and a half below the lobe, and about
two and a half inches behind the left ear, and extends across the throat to
about three inches below the lobe of the right ear. The muscle across the
throat is divided through on the left side. The large vessels on the left side
of the neck are severed. The larynx is severed below the vocal chord. All the
deep structures are severed to the bone, the knife marking intervertebral
cartilages. All these injuries were performed by a sharp instrument like a
knife, and pointed.”

 
Spilsbury
moved up to the face.

 
“Wounds to
the mouth. Extending three inches towards the ear. Inflicted by a very sharp
implement. Smooth cuts.”

 
He carefully
rolled the body onto its front. He began at the top and worked down, noting
similar abrasions. He rolled her onto her back and took swabs from her mouth,
anus and vagina, sealing them in plastic bags.

 
He examined
the orifices with a magnifying glass.

 
“No evidence
of sexual trauma. No bruises or lacerations. She’s not virgo intacto. Small
amount of fluid in the upper part of the vagina. A little blood. No
spermatozoa.”

 
“So no
sexual element?”

 
“No sign of
forced penetration. This isn’t rape.”

 
The
technician photographed the woman’s face as Spilsbury walked around the table
to a small shelf that held his equipment. He picked up a long-bladed scalpel.
“How’s your stomach, detective Inspector?”

 
“I’m fine,”
Frank lied.

 
“Excellent.
Let’s open her up.”

 
Spilsbury
made a Y-shaped incision that began with cuts beneath both ears and descended
through forty-five degree angles along the neck. The cuts met at the top of the
chest and then descended vertically as one to the pelvis. The folds of skin
were tugged back to unveil the organs beneath. Further cuts were made and
organs were carefully removed, measured and weighed. “Petechial haemorrhages on
the surface of the heart. It’s slightly enlarged and the cavities are slightly
dilated. Valves, muscle and arteries all healthy. Pleural cavities healthy.
Lungs congested. Froth in the smaller air passages.” The heart and lungs were
scooped out, deposited in stainless steel bowls and placed to one side. “Liver,
spleen and kidneys congested and healthy. Bladder normal and empty. The stomach
is full of fluid and food in a moderate stage of digestion.” Spilsbury paused,
poking around with his scalpel. “I’m not sure, Inspector, but it looks as if
she had a meal involving beetroot before she died.”

 
Murphy
looked into the girl’s gut, saw a pulpy residue coloured purplish-blue. Other
noxious notes were added to the odour filling the air. He swallowed bile.

 
Spilsbury
made an incision from ear to ear across the top of the head, pulled the scalp
forwards and backwards, then took a bone saw and sliced off the top of the
skull. “The skull is hard. Arteries healthy. The brain and its coverings are
congested.” He removed the brain, weighed it and then placed it in a steel
dish. He consulted the bloody remains of his handiwork for a moment, nodding to
himself in satisfaction. “Post mortem concluded at a quarter to ten.” He took
off his gloves and went to the sink to wash his hands.

 
“What do you
think?”

 
“Quite
straightforward.” Spilsbury dried himself and returned to the table. He leant
over the excavated torso and played his scalpel up to the throat. “Look here,”
he said. Frank moved closer, directing his gaze to the area he was indicating.
“The cricoid cartilage of the larynx is fractured on each side––here and, over
here, here. Haemorrhaging around the fractures. Further haemorrhage in the
muscles of the neck at the level of the larynx, small bruises just below the
line of the left jaw. Cause of death is asphysixia due to strangulation by the
hand. Look at the abrasion here”––he pointed with the bloody scalpel-tip at a
point just below the chin––“see it there, slightly curved? Probably caused by a
fingernail digging into the skin.”

 
“The same as
before.”

 
“Yes.”
Spilsbury took off his scrubs. “I think I can anticipate your next question,
detective. And, yes, it could be him. The technique looks similar. The cuts are
deep but they are not frenzied, just like before. The chances it’s the same
fellow are quite good. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”

 
“I’d already
reached the same conclusion. Thank you.”

“You’ll have my report tomorrow morning. But I
won’t change my conclusion. You’re looking for someone who likes to strangle
then cut, Inspector. Just like before.”

o         
o          o

THE DAY HAD PASSED IN A BLUR. A list of tasks as
long as his arm that just kept getting longer: house-to-house enquiries;
telegrams sent to the Brighton constabulary for assistance; background checks;
calls to local asylums for details of sex-addicts, lunatics and epileptics
released in the past week; liaison with the coroner; liaison with the police
pathologist; reports sent up and down the chain. The onset of the bombing added
confusion, but Frank was too tired to be scared. He went up to the roof to
smoke a fag and stared at the carnage for ten minutes then got back down to it.

 
There were
some quick checks he could make. He took down the Vice Squad’s Prostitute
Ledger––it held details of every known brass in London, their phoney aliases
and genuine names, ages, photographs, descriptions, habits, weaknesses, regular
cronies and haunts, even the names of their relatives in the event they needed
to identify a Jezebel after she got fished out of the Thames. Molly Jenkins was
not in the book. He checked the photographs in case she used a dodgy name for
tomming: nothing. If she was hawking the mutton it didn’t look like she’d come
to the attention of the lads in Vice.

 
He emptied
her briefcase onto his desk. There were letters to and from her sister and
mother but they offered nothing useful. He rifled through the other things. An
envelope contained loose paper: a bank statement (Lloyds, Brighton: thirty
pounds); torn scraps with addresses written on them; a diary. He opened the
diary to the weekend. There was an entry for Saturday.

9pm: Henry Drake

 
Frank put
the diary on the table and stared at it. 

 
Drake.

 
What was his
name doing in the diary of a dead brass?

o         
o          o

MIDNIGHT. He went down onto the street and walked
West, along Oxford Street. He looked into the sky: a dozen luminous pencils
crossing and recrossing one another in stiff, awkward arcs, occasionally
flashing against the underside of an aircraft high overhead. Where smoke had
been before, now the whole of the eastern sky boiled ochre, as if a dozen
tropic suns were simultaneously setting around the horizon. It should’ve been
dark, but it wasn’t. He was miles away from the docks yet the fires cast out so
much light he could read the street signs across the road. The atmosphere was
frantic, panic barely contained beneath the surface. Flares were unnecessary
yet a few sunk slowly down. The barrage balloons stood out against the glow,
awfully and obviously inadequate. AAA shells sparkled like Christmas baubles. A
sudden flash of light drew his attention as a plane plunged towards the ground,
engines trailing fire. It fell, silently, until it was swallowed by the
skyline. One of ours, Frank thought. A Hurricane. Poor bugger.

 
He crossed
Regent Street and followed Savile Row up past West End Central. Save the A.R.P.
post, the road was deserted. He nodded to the white-faced warden, walked
towards the top of the road, turned left into Conduit Street. He went half way
down and crossed to the right-hand side. Three shelters: he picked the middle
one. It was full tonight: a row of women in carpet slippers with puckered faces
and patched coats; a couple of brasses he recognised; a couple of drunks. A
woman followed him inside with a wide-eyed child, the youngster probably too
excited for fright. People had brought their bedclothes with them, sheets and
blankets spread out across the concrete. An old woman shone a torch onto a crossword,
an alarm clock brought along to time herself.

 
One of the
doxies looked young. She fiddled with the ankle-strap of her kitten heel shoe.
She was just a girl, he thought, frittering away her childhood. A drunk
relieved himself against the wall in the corner, the stream of piss running
back through the shelter along the gutter, disappearing into a drain. Sister
Ann, a Tom who’d worked Soho for years, tried to get a sing-song going but
no-one was in the mood. Someone hissed at her to put a sock in it and she gave
up.

 
Frank went
deeper inside, stepping carefully between feet and legs. He warned the drunk
that if he caught him pissing in a shelter again he’d have him for exposure.
There was nowhere to sit, except for the floor. Frank sank to his haunches and
leaned back against damp bricks. He tried to imagine what Molly’s last moments
must have been like. The empty shelter. The Ripper closing his hands around her
neck. Squeezing. He saw flashes of a struggle: he pushed her down to the floor,
she kicked her feet for purchase and scratched her shoes, he put his hands
around her throat, choking her. Frantic gasps for breath before she stopped
breathing and went limp.