The Black Mile by Mark Dawson Page B

thoughts.
      It’s not
safe.
      Being there
yesterday was bad enough.
      Grimes was
frightened.
      The barman
called time. Charlie got up.
      It wasn’t
the investigation.
      It was
something else.

  22
    CHARLIE FOUND A POLICE BOX and picked up the
telephone. He called Central Records. The night clerk picked up after several
rings and he asked for Grimes’ address.
      Lavender
Grove, London Fields, E.8.
      Charlie got
into his Humber and drove. London Fields was a decent area, pleasant terraces
facing each other on either side of tree-lined streets. Prosperous––the
coppering business was treating Grimes suspiciously well. Charlie parked on the
opposite side of the road to the house and got out.
      He clicked
on his torch, opened the front gate and walked up to the door. All of the
lights were either doused or hidden behind black-out curtains. He walked down
the short gravel path, shining the shielded beam of light at the windows. The
black-outs were in place. He went back and knocked on the door. No answer. He
knocked again and waited. Still nothing. He squatted down and peeked in through
the letterbox: an electric light lit up the hallway and the static from a radio
could be heard from inside. Nothing else. “Hello?” he called into the
letterbox.
      He turned
the doorknob. It was locked.
      The front
door to the neighbouring house opened. “What are you doing?” an elderly man in
a dressing gown called over the dividing wall. “It’s two in the flaming
morning.”
      An elderly
woman appeared behind him. Charlie took out his warrant card, held it up and
lit it with his torch. “Police, sir. Have you seen the man who lives here
tonight?”
      “Didn’t see
him, but we heard him come in.”
      “When?”
      “Must’ve
been a couple of hours ago, I reckon.”
      “Three
hours, I’d say.”
      “We’d just
finished listening to the news. We heard the door shut.”
      “Have you
seen or heard anything since then?”
      “Nothing
unusual.”
      “You haven’t
seen him leave?”
      “No, but if
something’s the matter, George gave us a spare key. We looked after the house
for him if he went away.”
      The woman
went inside and returned with a key. Charlie took it and unlocked the door. He
opened it. “Hello?” he called out, but there was no reply.
      He went
inside.
      Light shone
beneath the door to the living room.
      He opened
it.
      Grimes was
sitting in an armchair. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe, open to the
waist, the sleeves rolled up. Shaving foam covered one half of his face. There
was a small wound on the side of the head: the size of a shilling, blackened
around the edges. Blood and brains had sprayed against the wall. A gun was on
the floor.
      The old
woman had followed him inside and was now halfway into the living room. She
screamed. Charlie shooed her back into the hall. “Go back to your house.”
      “He’s––he’s––”
      Charlie
pushed her gently into the hall and closed the door behind him.
      “Call
Scotland Yard. Give them this address, tell them Detective Sergeant Charles
Murphy from C Department requests immediate assistance.” The woman fell back
against her husband, her hand covering her mouth. “Detective Sergeant Charles
Murphy, C Department.”
      “Yes.”
      “And tell
them to call Savile Row station to report that George Grimes has been found
dead.” 
      “I––”
      “Go
on––now!”
      He followed
them outside, pushed the door closed and went back into the lounge. Static
hissed from the radio. He clicked it off and sat in the sofa opposite the
armchair. He stared at Grimes. The investigation might’ve been enough of a
motive to do away with himself. He must’ve known he’d lose his job, that he’d
probably be looking at corruption charges. He probably thought he’d end up
doing a stretch. The bench never looked kindly on crooked policemen and
McCartney was right, coppers in stir always