The Black Mile by Mark Dawson Page A

“Where is
he?”
      “He’s not at
the station today.”
      “So you’re
not going to charge me?”
      “Not now.
But if I let you out and you don’t go and see him first thing tomorrow, that’ll
be that. I’ll throw everything at you. Alright?”
      “First thing
tomorrow.”
      “Do I have
your word?”
      “As a
Mason.”
      Charlie
opened the door. “Go on, then. Clear off.”

FRIDAY, 6th SEPTEMBER 1940
      21
    IT WAS A HALF PAST SIX. Charlie was getting ready
to leave when the telephone on his desk rang.
    “Hello, Sergeant. I have George
Grimes for you.”
      “Did he say
what he wanted?”
      “Said he
needs to talk to you.”
      Charlie
threw his coat across the back of his chair and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Put him through.”
      The operator
connected them.
      A burst of
static.
      “Hello?”
      “Murphy
here.”
      “Hello?”
      “Murphy
here. What do you want, Grimes?”
      “I need to
talk to you. It’s urgent.”
      “Speak to
your brief, George. If there’s anything worth me hearing, he can organise a
meeting.”
      “No, I can’t
tell anyone else. It’s too dangerous. It has to be you.” 
      “What do you
mean dangerous?”
      “Not on the
telephone. Please––can we meet?”
      Something
was wrong.
      “Please.”
      “Alright––Monday?”
      “Has to be
tonight.”
      Charlie
looked at his watch: coming up to seven. “Be here for nine.”
      “I’m not
coming to the Yard.”
      “Why not?”
      “Can’t. It’s
not safe. Being there yesterday was bad enough.”
      “What do you
mean, man?––it’s bloody Scotland Yard.”
      “You know
the Pillars of Hercules?”
      “In Soho?
Greek Street?”
      “Half-ten. A
table at the back. Just you.”      
      “Alright.
Half-ten. You want to give me an idea what it’s about?”
      The line
clicked, and was silent.
    o         
o          o
    CHARLIE CAUGHT ALF MCCARTNEY on the steps of West
End Central. “I was just going home,” he said.
      “Glad I
caught you.” 
      “What
happened with Grimes?
    “He didn’t come and see you?”
    “No.”
    “Did you nick him?”
    “Yesterday. Baxter told him to
come to the club. I pulled him after he took the cash.”
    “Idiot. I can’t believe he’d be
so foolish.”
    “He’s hardly the first, guv.”
    “No. What did he say?”
    “Not much. He knows he’s
buggered but he kept schtum.”
    “The other man?”
      “Wouldn’t
say.”
      “Where is he
now?”
    “That’s it, sir. He called me an
hour ago. He wants to meet.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Half past ten. What should I
do?”
    “What does he want to talk
about?”
    “He didn’t say.”
    “Where?”
    “Soho.”
    “Come on then, old sport. I’ll
come with you.”
    o         
o          o
    THEY SAT AT A TABLE IN THE BACK. They had hurried
across Soho, McCartney grim-faced. They had been here for half an hour.
      “He’s not
coming,” McCartney said. “What time did he say?”
      “Half past.”
      “It’s a
quarter to. They’ll be calling last orders soon.”
      “I’m sorry,
sir. He’s wasted our time.”
      “Why didn’t
you have him at the bloody Yard?”
      “He said he
couldn’t. Said it was dangerous.”
      “Meaning
what?”
      “I think he
was worried about meeting someone.”
      “Old Bill?”
      He shrugged.
“I don’t know what else to think.”
      “Why on
Earth would he be afraid of that?”
      “His
partner?”
      “Worried
what he might do?”
      “If he
thought George was going to turn King’s on him–– you never know.”
      “Perhaps.”
      “What do you
want me to do?”
      “I can’t
wait all night. Stay until they close up. If he doesn’t turn up, find him. Tell
him we can help straighten out his problems. And if he tries to bugger off
again, put him in a cell. Lock him up until I get there.”
      “Yes, sir.”
      McCartney
left him with his