The Piccadilly Noir Series - Midnight Streets E-Book

Phil Lecomber

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 590

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A pacy, evocative dark historical thriller about a working-class private detective in 1920s London's Soho, who has grown up alongside the morally dubious characters who are key to cracking the cases he investigates, for fans of Laura Shepherd Robinson and the TV series Peaky Blinders. When Cockney private detective George Harley saves a young girl's life on a dark London night in 1929, he doesn't realise it marks the beginning of an investigation which will change his life forever. The incendiary book which inspired the girl's abduction also seems to be linked to a series of grisly murders that are taking place on Harley's patch, and though he's delighted to be asked by Scotland Yard to help find the killer before they strike again, he could do without the local razor- and cosh-wielding mobsters thinking he's in the police's pocket. Set during the Golden Age of Crime Fiction, Harley's world is a far cry from the country house of an Agatha Christie whodunnit. This working-class sleuth does his 'sherlocking' in the frowsy alleyways and sleazy nightclubs of Soho – the city's underbelly – peopled with lowlife ponces, jaded streetwalkers, and Jewish and Maltese gangsters: a world of grubby bedsits, all-night cafés, egg and chips, and Gold Flake cigarettes. Here, the midnight streets are black as pitch and, as Harley finds himself embroiled in the macabre mysteries of a city in which truth is as murky as the pea-souper smog and the sins are as dark as stout porter beer, he begins to realise he may never find a way out.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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Glossary of Slang

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FOR…

MIDNIGHTSTREETS

‘A walk on the wild side of 1920s London. Dark, atmospheric and utterly compelling.’

Jake Arnott, bestselling author of The Long Firm and The Fatal Tree

‘Phil Lecomber’s jaw-dropping debut is exactly what I want from a historical hardboiled novel: passionate nihilism and a tough-as-nails loner making his way through a depraved underworld whose darkness goes all the way down.’

Duane Swierczynski, New York Times bestselling author of Lion & Lamb, California Bear and Secret Dead Men

‘I really enjoyed this book. Lecomber creates a strong sense of time and place, and has a unique voice… Very highly recommended!’

Denzil Meyrick, bestselling author of Murder at Holly House

‘I loved this fast-paced, atmospheric adventure through the smoke and neon of 1920s Soho, vividly written and rich with historical detail. The twists and turns will leave you reeling.’

Alex Pavesi, bestselling author of Eight Detectives

‘If Patrick Hamilton and Dashiell Hammett had got hammered in some boozer in old Soho, Midnight Streets is the novel they’d have come up with… All of London (low) life is here. A cracking debut.’

Martyn Waites, author of the Joe Donovan crime series

‘A polished story set in a vibrant and colourful London between the wars. Full of twists, it gradually unveils a horrific set of crimes. The dogged George Harley will appeal to anyone who loves a private detective story.’

Mick Finlay, author of the Arrowood Mysteries series

‘A gripping mystery, steeped in the deliciously seedy side of Golden Age crime.’

Lucy Barker, author of The Other Side of Mrs Wood

‘A clever mix of Silence of the Lambs and Dennis Wheatley, all set in the dark and dangerous world of Jazz Age Soho.’

Stuart Douglas, author of Death at the Dress Rehearsal

‘Absolutely terrific – incredibly gripping… brought the seamy streets and seamier denizens of 1920s London to brutal life.’

Ajay Chowdhury, author of The Waiter and The Cook

‘Set in London in 1929 – prime Golden Age territory – Midnight Streets is as dark as any noir classic. In this book, evil has its gloves, and its monocle, off, and we see the darkness we knew was there.’

S. J. Rozan, co-author of the Judge Dee and Lao She mysteries

‘An atmospheric thriller set in 1920s London, which reveals Lecomber’s keen ear for the off-beat rhythms of the city… Immersive and mysterious, this debut will delight historical crime fans.’

Jo Furniss, author of Dead Mile

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Midnight Streets

Print edition ISBN: 9781835411995

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835412008

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Phil Lecomber 2025.

Phil Lecomber asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Susie, Jack and Ned.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlot’s curseBlasts the new-born Infant’s tearAnd blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

—William Blake, ‘London’

1

London, 1929

GEORGE HARLEY LOCKED eyes with the fox which stood motionless in the frowzy Soho courtyard, the silver lustre of moonlight giving it the appearance of a bronze sculpture left out for the binmen.

‘How’s your luck, mate?’ he said softly, then tossed it the remaining nub of saveloy from the hasty supper he’d grabbed from the all-night café in Lisle Street. He’d always felt a certain affinity with these urban scavengers, who eked out their living among the city’s shadows.

The fox gobbled up the offering then slunk past him to peruse the dustbins with the cool insouciance of the streetwise.

Smiling, Harley sucked the grease from his fingers and got back to the job in hand. He took out the photograph of the runaway. She looked the epitome of a well-brought-up suburban girl. God only knew what the kid had had to endure in the last few weeks on the streets of the capital. Still, if his information was correct, he might have her safely back home by the following evening.

He transferred his trusty brass knuckleduster to his side pocket, sparked up a smoke from a pack of Gold Flake and made his way towards the iron staircase in the corner of the yard. The stairs led to the Pied Piper nightclub – though calling such a drab little joint a nightclub was stretching it a bit. This particular dive was not much more than a ‘bottle party’ open to anyone desperate enough to hunt it out in the dingy back streets of Soho.

Once inside the club, Harley took stock of his surroundings. It was a meagre affair: a simple, rectangular room; wooden tables and chairs scattered around a small dancefloor; the musty tang of sweat, alcohol and tobacco smoke. The standard of punter was equally uninspiring: wide-boys and petty criminals; a few down-on-their luck musicians and theatrical types; a group of provincial travelling salesmen (looking the worse for wear in their cheap, ill-fitting suits) and two university students, whose cut-glass accents and drunken braying would no doubt single them out for special attention at the end of the night. And then there were the ‘hostesses’. In some of the more fashionable West End establishments these would have been professionals of a different type – genuine graduates of social and theatrical dancing schools, employed by the club to offer their skills to the good-time Charlies and jazz-mad scions of the upper classes. But in the Piper their provenance was of a far more dubious nature, and they wore their credentials on their louche, powdered faces.

It didn’t take Harley long to spot the pimp Vern Slater. There he was, leaning against the makeshift bar in the typical wide-boy uniform: the garish checked suit with its oversized lapels, the gaudy American silk tie – the ubiquitous toerag ponce, keeping an eye on his new acquisition, no doubt. But where was she? It was likely he’d have attempted to change her appearance somehow, but a quick scan of the club failed to reveal anyone who looked remotely like young Alice Pritchard from Woking.

Harley looked back at Slater and noticed he’d been joined by a forlorn-looking character in a decaying lounge suit. The newcomer was pointing in Harley’s direction while whispering in the ponce’s ear. Slater hitched his waistband and began to saunter over.

He’d been clocked.

‘Well, well. What have we here, then?’

‘Evening, Vernon,’ said Harley, offering a casual smile while surreptitiously teasing his fingers into the heavy brass knuckles in his pocket.

‘Oh, Vernon, is it? Well, I don’t know you, pal. But my mate over there reckons you’re the sherlock who’s been sticking his fat nose in where it don’t belong.’

Keeping his smile, Harley looked over to the door, to make brief eye contact with the club’s strong-arm – a young West Indian named Jensen, known to have a calm head on his well-developed shoulders.

‘The smart thing to do here, Slater, would be to play nice with me. See, I’m here to help you resolve your little problem. But I guess you demonstrated your reluctance to do the smart thing when you bought that suit.’

The ponce sneered at him.

‘What little problem?’

‘The one you’re about to have with the bogeys, when I tell them your latest acquisition is only fifteen. You probably didn’t even know – they look so grown-up in their glad rags, don’t they? But now you do know, I’m sure you won’t mind me taking Alice off your hands, so I can get her back to her old mum. What d’you say? After all, a bit of poncing’s one thing, but corruption of a minor? You don’t want to be getting your collar felt for that kind of thing.’

Slater’s response was to conjure a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket – the lower portion of its blade covered in sticking plaster, to make it easier to wield. This was hardly a surprise to Harley – with this kind of lowlife a razor was almost a given.

But before the private detective could respond to the threat, the impressive figure of the club’s bouncer appeared, looming large over Slater’s shoulder.

‘Everything alright here, gents?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle thanks, Jensen.’

‘Glad to hear that, George. But this can’t be happening in here.’

‘You’d better explain that to Sweeney Todd,’ said Harley, keeping his eye on the blade in Slater’s scrawny fist.

Jensen turned to the ponce, retaining his beatific smile. ‘Vernon, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now.’

Slater tried his best to give the bouncer a dismissive once-over – made all the more laughable by the contrast in their stature.

‘Oh yeah? And who’s going to make me?’

Jensen answered this with a quick flash of the machete tucked into his waistband.

The pimp curled his lip and spat on the floor, then pushed his way through the small crowd which had gathered to watch the altercation.

‘Did that cockroach come in with a girl tonight?’ asked Harley.

‘Yeah,’ said Jensen. ‘A clean-cut little number. Looked a bit green for one of Vernon’s pals.’

‘That sounds like her.’ Harley offered a cigarette. ‘Where is she now?’

‘Left with a punter. ’Bout twenty minutes before you came in.’

‘Anyone we know?’

The bouncer lit his smoke on the proffered match, then shook his head. ‘No. But the boss mentioned something about the fella. I got the feeling she didn’t like him too much.’

Harley made his way over to the small dancefloor, where the proprietor of the club – an ageing platinum blonde by the name of Shelly Carboys – was attempting a foxtrot with one of the theatrical types.

‘Mind if I cut in?’

‘George! What a nice surprise. We’ve not seen you in ages.’ Carboys’ make-up looked a little more Hackney than Hollywood at close quarters. ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Business, I’m afraid, Shelly.’

‘No peace for the wicked, eh? What can I do you for?’

‘Vern Slater.’

She pouted with disdain. ‘Oh, that little toerag. No doubt it’s about that new little mott of his.’

‘You got it in one. Jensen tells me she went off with a punter a little while back. Someone you know?’

‘Tell me, George – how old is she?’

‘Fifteen.’

Carboys let out a weary sigh then led Harley to a secluded table in a darkened corner, where she slumped into a chair and splashed a generous slug of gin into her glass. ‘Fifteen? I swear I’m getting too long in the tooth for this game.’ She took a restorative gulp of her drink then placed her hand on Harley’s. ‘Listen. The bloke that poor kid’s gone off with? He’s a wrong ’un.’

‘In what way?’

‘In quite a few ways, I’d say. His name’s Turpin, Alfred Turpin. He used to be a regular at the Fitzroy Tavern, that is until Pop Kleinfeld barred him. He got obsessed with Pop’s daughter, Annie. Started bombarding her with gifts and letters. Oh, it began all innocent enough – romantic poems and such. Turpin fancies himself as a bit of a tortured artist, you see. Anyway, Annie didn’t want anything to do with him and told him as much, in no uncertain terms. Well, that’s when things started to get ugly.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, instead of love letters, Annie started to receive these creepy packages. Queer stories that Turpin had penned, and obscene drawings, all featuring poor Annie as the victim of some demented killer. And there was other stuff in the parcels too. Clumps of his hair, toenails and…’ Carboys gave a little disgusted shake of her shoulders and paused to cleanse her palate with another swig of gin. ‘Anyway, a few of the regulars at the pub decided to take the law into their own hands; went round to Turpin’s one night to warn him off. Things turned a bit nasty and Turpin pulled a gun; shot one of the lads in the hand.’

‘Did he do time for it?’

‘No. Not for that – the family had some fancy brief who got him off on a claim of self-defence. But when the bogeys searched his place, they found all sorts. Dirty books and pictures – and not just those saucy smudges they knock out in Old Compton Street; real perverted stuff, you know? And more of the drawings he’d made, and the stories, not just about Annie but about other girls as well. There was enough evidence to have Turpin put away for a while in the funny farm. But he’s been back in Soho a couple of months now. And by all accounts he’s as loony as ever: preaching in the street from some paperback novel as though it were the Bible. Looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. I don’t know what Jensen was thinking, letting him in here, really I don’t.’

‘And this is the punter who’s just gone off with my client’s fifteen-year-old daughter?’ Harley grabbed his hat from the table and stood up. ‘Where does this character live?’

‘Not far from here. Above the newsagents in Bridle Lane. He’s got the set of attic rooms. But be careful, George. I’m telling you, Alfred Turpin’s not right in the head.’

*   *   *

The lock on the communal street door next to the newsagents was a simple latch affair and offered little resistance to Harley’s deft application of a small strip of celluloid, which he kept in his jacket for just such occasions. After a quick check of the list of named bell pushes it was just a matter of a quiet climb to the top floor.

On reaching Turpin’s apartment, he took a moment to catch his breath.

There came a sharp squeal from inside the room.

He placed his ear to the door: a man’s voice, cursing… a plaintive sobbing… and, underneath it all, a kind of low hiss.

What was that? Like the sound of a gas bracket before it’s lit. Was this madman trying to gas himself, and take little Alice with him?

Harley made a quick assessment of the door: two locks on this one, both of a superior quality to the latch on the street entrance. But the doorframe had seen better days – patched and filled from a previous forcing by the look of it.

The first hefty kick did significant damage: there was the satisfying sound of splintering timber and the door yielded a quarter of an inch or so. But the locks weren’t fully breached yet and now he’d shown his hand.

‘Turpin!’ he shouted, hearing panicked scrambling from inside. ‘Give the girl up and I promise it’ll end there!’

Another boot saw the bottom third of the frame break free. He took a step back, hurled himself against the door… and he was in, stumbling across the room, grabbing at the foot of the bed to steady himself.

There, amongst the tangle of soiled sheets, chained to the bedstead by her ankle, lay a girl. Pale and thin. Naked, apart from a cotton shift, rucked up to reveal a white thigh as slender as a hare’s. It took a moment for Harley to work out what was wrong with her face. Then he realised where the hissing was coming from.

He ripped the rubber mask from her mouth and shut the valve on the cylinder. The sweet, sickly odour hung in the air. Ether. Enough to knock out a horse. He placed a finger to the carotid artery – to his relief, he found a pulse, surprisingly strong in the circumstances. But this wasn’t Alice Pritchard.

He took stock of the room. The wall above the bed was plastered with pages torn from a book, notes scribbled in the margins, and phrases ringed and underlined. Other walls were adorned with sketches and paintings, and poetry scrawled in erratic capitals. Most of the artwork was figurative – nudes, executed in a naive style with a bold hand; but their poses and distorted genitalia hinted at a fevered brain. Harley thought he recognised the unconscious girl on the bed in a couple of the more shocking images. He glanced over at her forlorn figure, hoping they hadn’t been drawn from life.

A cold draught blew in from the corner of the room, where a rickety flight of steps led up to an open door. It was almost certainly the way Turpin had escaped, but Harley decided to make a quick check of the kitchenette first – he didn’t want to be crowned with a frying pan on the way up.

Less than a minute later, he was tentatively stepping out onto a flat roof, slick with a light rain that had just begun to fall on the Soho night. The building was high enough to catch a glimpse of the illuminated billboards of Piccadilly Circus, the neon light fizzing and squirming in the distance.

‘Get out, copper! This is private property!’

Harley span around to find Turpin balanced on the parapet wall. His jacket had been slung over a grubby vest, his eyes were wired with bloodshot veins. Around his neck there was a noose; expertly tied by the look of it. A prop for his sick fantasies? Or part of the plan for some dramatic final scene? The other end of the hemp rope was hitched to an iron ring bolted to the chimney stack.

And there, clasped tightly to Turpin’s side, was little Alice Pritchard. Her eyes were fixed, unfocused, her face set with a sickly pallor; this may have been due to shock, or a dose of Turpin’s ether. Whatever the reason, the girl seemed dangerously unaware of the fatal drop behind her.

Harley made a lightning assessment of the situation, his brain fizzing like the neon in the distance. Force was out of the question.

‘Listen, Alfred. I’m not the police. My name’s George, George Harley. I’m here for her, for Alice.’

‘You can’t take her. It’s her destiny, together with the other one. My work…’

Harley noticed Turpin’s focus drift. His head jerked to the side, as though he were listening to something.

‘Your work? Yes, of course. Are those your pictures in there? They’re good, you know, you’ve got a talent. And the poetry, is that yours?’

Turpin gave a derisive laugh and hitched Alice up to get a better hold of her, both of them stumbling a little closer to the parapet’s edge. He took a deep breath, turning his face up to the rain and mumbled something to the night sky.

‘What was that?’ With Turpin’s gaze diverted, Harley risked taking a step closer.

‘I said, it’s not my poetry, it’s from the universe. But it’s hidden, don’t you see? Hidden by our banal rationale.’

‘The poetry of the universe, eh?’ Harley took another surreptitious step forward. ‘Sounds interesting. Explain that to me.’

Turpin chuckled. ‘The pale girls lay chained in dreamy languor in the starlit loft.’ He fixed Harley with a delirious grin and repeated the line, bellowing it out to the night: ‘The pale girls lay chained in dreamy languor in the starlit loft! Don’t you see? The starlit loft … the girls…’

Harley tensed as Turpin’s hand disappeared into his jacket pocket.

‘Cassina has it all in here!’ he yelled, pulling out a tattered paperback. ‘He’s given us instructions. You just have to know where to find them.’ He pushed the book against his forehead and closed his eyes again. ‘At first, I didn’t know how, couldn’t work it out. But then it came to me. It’s so simple, really. So simple. You just have to stop looking, d’you see? Embrace the randomness!’

Turpin’s yell seemed to rouse Alice and, although still groggy, she began to squirm a little in his tight embrace. The artist stuffed the book back into his pocket and grabbed at the girl’s wrist. The rain was falling harder now and he continued to shout, so he could be heard against its clattering.

‘I allowed the universe to reveal its messages to me!’

‘I’d like to know how you did that.’ Harley moved another step closer, watching Turpin’s feet, which were beginning to slip on the lichen-covered coping stone.

‘I’m no amateur, you know, Harley. I’ve been to Paris. Met with Breton and the Dadaist Ernst. Supped at their table, drank it all in: the automatic drawing, the dream reading, expressions of the subconscious. But my work was still dross. Hackneyed, clichéd…’ He paused to rearrange his grip on Alice, who had begun to moan and toss her head about. ‘But the moment I read Cassina’s book, I knew it held a message for me. A key to unlock it all. I went back to my notebooks from Paris, you see. And there it was, Le Cadavre Exquis – the Exquisite Corpse, creating random poetry. So, following Cassina’s lead, I allowed it to guide me. My life became the work of art—’ He stopped abruptly, snapping his head around as though expecting to find someone behind him.

‘Alfred?’

Harley watched anxiously as Turpin released his grip on the girl in order to pull the noose tight around his own neck.

‘The Exquisite Corpse…’

‘Alfred, no!’

Turpin nodded, thrust Alice away from him, grasped at the wet rope and stepped back into the night.

With a desperate lunge, Harley just managed to grab a handful of damp trouser tweed. He clung doggedly to Turpin’s right leg as he scrambled back to his feet beside the parapet. Turpin was thrust out horizontally before him, his body suspended by the noose attached to the chimney stack, one hand clutching desperately at the rope just above the knot. For a moment the man lay still, a look of perplexed surprise on his face. Then he began to kick out against his saviour.

‘Cheese it, you bastard!’ growled Harley, fending off the blows from the artist’s free foot.

The delivery of a swift punch to the stomach soon put a stop to his struggling. Winded, Turpin lay still again, his face turning a shade of puce.

As the slate sky cracked to unleash its full torrent of freezing rain, Harley hooked his hand around the artist’s belt and began to haul him in. It was then he cast a glance over at Alice.

The girl was on all fours on the parapet wall, heaving up the contents of her stomach in a watery stream.

‘Alice! Get off the wall!’ he shouted. But she seemed oblivious to her surroundings, rising clumsily to her feet.

‘Get down, girl!’

As if in a dream, Alice closed her eyes and thrust her hands out to her side, her fingers splayed out in the torrential rain. Then, to Harley’s horror, she began to stagger along the slippery parapet.

It was at this moment that Turpin began to lash out again with his feet. Harley parried the blows for a while but, by now, with the girl in such jeopardy, it had become a case of priorities.

He released his grip and vaulted across the roof to drag the fifteen-year-old to safety. On looking back, he found Turpin gone, the wet rope taut over its new load.

Once he’d secured Alice in the safety of the apartment, Harley returned to the roof’s edge. There was Turpin below him – a gruesome pendulum swinging in the dismal night; his pallid face scuffed from its collisions with the brickwork.

‘What a sodding mess!’ he muttered, then got out of the rain to spark up a cigarette, before going off in search of a telephone.

2

‘JESUS! AM I glad it was you that turned up, John,’ said Harley, watching the detective inspector as he searched with meticulous care through the drawers in Turpin’s dresser.

DI John Franklin was a rare breed: a straight bogey. Here was a CID officer who – to the best of Harley’s knowledge – had never taken a bribe, mislaid corroborating evidence or forged a witness statement. And though Harley’s complicated relationship with Soho’s underworld meant they would never exactly be on the same side of the fence, he knew Franklin was a copper who could be relied upon to play it straight down the line.

‘I mean, I thought I might be getting my collar felt for this mess; or, at the very least, have to spend a night down the factory, answering a lot of awkward questions.’

‘Well, George,’ said Franklin, taking a contemplative pull on his Bulldog briar pipe, ‘I will need you to pop into the station to make a formal statement in the next couple of days. But, as you know, Turpin had form for this kind of thing. I see no reason to doubt your version of events. As a matter of fact, you’ve done us all a favour.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, I didn’t want to say too much in front of the doctor, but that poor girl who was chained to the bed? She’s Mia Janssen, the niece of the Dutch ambassador. She’s been missing for just over a month now. We’d just about given up the ghost on her, to be honest with you. The whole thing has turned into a bit of a diplomatic nightmare. Over here studying Art, you see. One Saturday afternoon she tells her flatmates she’s off to visit the National Gallery and then she simply disappears. Now we know why.’

‘Art student, eh? Well, it looks like she became Turpin’s muse, in a twisted kind of way.’ Harley nodded to one of the grotesque sketches pinned to the wall above Franklin’s head.

‘Indeed,’ said the policeman, with a disdainful sniff. ‘God knows what she’s been put through, the poor thing. I take it you’ve seen the box of photographic plates over there? Pornographic. No doubt destined for the smut pedlars of Soho. I would imagine the same fate awaited your Pritchard girl.’

‘Yeah. She’d been slipped some kind of opiate, apparently,’ said Harley. ‘How she didn’t fall off that roof I’ll never know. But the doc thinks she’ll recover quickly enough. Physically, anyway.’

Franklin sighed then turned his attention to some strips of paper laid out in front of him. ‘Tell me about this theory of yours.’

Harley joined Franklin at the dresser and picked up one of the paperbacks stacked in a small pile there.

‘Well, this book, A Reflection in the Ice. We’ve found, how many of these so far?’

‘Ten at the last count.’

‘Exactly. Now, this Turpin was as crazy as a clown in a nut factory, but who needs ten copies of the same story? I think for him this was more than just a novel. I think it had become a kind of bible, an instruction manual for his crazed life.’

Franklin picked up one of the books, turning it over to look at the photograph printed on the back cover. ‘I’ve heard about this fellow, Alasdair Cassina. Bit of an agitator, by all accounts. Wants to stir things up.’

‘I’ve not read the book myself,’ said Harley. ‘But, according to the newspapers, it’s a bit controversial.’

‘All good for sales.’

‘No doubt. The story’s about a priest who loses his faith and starts to question whether things can be morally right or wrong. He begins making decisions based on random events.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he starts to use the Bible to dictate his actions – flicking through the pages and stopping at random, interpreting the text he finds there as instructions. Think about it. That Old Testament has got more sex and violence in it than Villiers Street on a Friday night. You can imagine what this character gets up to.’

‘So, are you saying Turpin was using the same method?’

‘Kind of. But in a sort of more artistic way.’

‘Artistic?’

Harley nodded. ‘Open that novel, flick through the pages.’

‘This looks like it’s where these strips of sentences were cut from.’

‘Exactly. Cut out and mixed up, to construct poems. Now look on the mirror there.’

Franklin took a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and peered at the lines of text pasted to the mirror. ‘The pale girls, lay chained in dreamy languor, in the starlit loft … I see: our two victims, this attic apartment.’

‘Turpin recited that one to me just before he jumped. Now go and read the one above the sink in the kitchen.’

With a slight groan in acknowledgement of his lumbago, the policeman got up and crossed the room.

‘The blue artist, swings against the velvet shroud of night,’ he read. ‘So, what? You think Turpin had planned his suicide, as some kind of work of art?’

‘I can’t say for sure. But who keeps a professionally tied noose in their bedroom? Apart from maybe one of those dodgy knocking shops in Mayfair.’

‘Well, I don’t profess to know much about art,’ said Franklin, applying a match to the bowl of his Bulldog. ‘To be frank, some of this modern stuff just leaves me with a ruddy headache. But I’ll have the station photographer make records of all the walls before they’re cleared, just in case there’s some relevance to them. And as for the pornographic photographs, I suppose there’s a small chance they were just for his personal use, but I think we have to assume they’re already in wider circulation. One for C Division. God only knows what we’re going to say to the ambassador.’

The policeman gave a sigh, producing a small cloud of aromatic pipe smoke.

‘But I think one thing we can say, with some conviction, is that this Turpin character was a dangerous lunatic. Society’s better off without him, in my opinion. And it’s thanks to a damned good bit of detection work on your part that those two young girls will sleep safely in their beds tonight. Let’s hope there are no other maniacs out there wanting to take instruction from this infernal book of Cassina’s.’

3

JESSICA DAWSON’S FACE glimmered in the reflected neon from the billboards. She knew the diversion through Piccadilly Circus would add another quarter of an hour to the taxi journey home, but she’d felt a sudden desire to take in the spectacle, hoping the thrill of modernity might prolong her holiday spirit for a while longer. It had been less than an hour since they had disembarked at Paddington, but already she could feel the small nip of anxiety, worrying away at her insides. She knew it would only become more insistent the nearer they got to that dull, suffocating house.

The two weeks at her parents’ had proved such a tonic. Oh, there had been the usual awkward questions about Rupert’s business trips, her father labouring the point about the importance of strong role models for the children and the like; but, for the most part, she had relished the respite.

‘Don’t worry, Sophie, we’ve got a way to go yet,’ she whispered, noticing the children’s nanny had woken and was gazing out of the window in confusion. ‘Go back to sleep, dear.’

As usual, Sophie had been a godsend while they’d been away. Jessica felt a little pang of guilt at the way her children seemed so physically at ease in the young woman’s sleeping embrace: little Alice sucking her thumb and mechanically stroking the bridge of her snub nose, and Billy… well, Billy looking like a contented, normal child for once.

Whatever was to be done with Billy? There could be no denying that in these past few weeks the strangeness of his behaviour had begun to intensify. The habitual stretching of the truth was one thing, but of late his little ‘pranks’ (as Rupert chose to call them) had exceeded mere whimsy and, in her opinion, were now bordering on the downright abnormal. And to think he’d be going away to school next year. Something must be done soon about the child, or else… or else, what? Well, she wasn’t sure, but she could sense its presence, looming, just out of sight. She sighed quietly and felt another little anxious flutter in her gut.

The cabbie slid open the glass partition. ‘There’s a dray that’s lost its load up ahead, missus. We’re gonna ’ave to take another slight detour.’

‘Very well. If it can’t be helped. Only I really should be getting the children to bed soon.’

‘Don’t you worry, lady. We’ll ’ave the little tykes all snuggled up and sawing logs in no time at all.’

‘Much appreciated,’ she said, forcing a smile. But secretly she was in no hurry to return home, no hurry at all.

South of the river, the streets grew shabbier. As the cab pulled up at a traffic light, Jessica’s eyes were caught in the hollow stare of a mangy terrier, gnawing at a bone in the entrance to a butcher’s shop – a look repeated in the rheumy eyes of the vagrant attached to it by a filthy piece of string. The medieval-looking headgear slumped over the old man’s head reminded her of the Breughel print above the fireplace in the drawing room. She sat there transfixed as the tramp took a shuffling step towards the vehicle, holding out a grimy hand in a half-hearted manner. It was as if the unknown presence she’d felt looming in the shadows had revealed itself for a brief moment. The cab started off again and when she looked back through the rear window, the man remained standing there, his hand held out to the night.

*   *   *

Sophie pushed the front door closed behind her with her foot and dropped the last of the luggage on the hallway runner. ‘Gosh! You were right, madam,’ she said, rubbing her hands together. ‘Just feel how cold it is.’

‘I gave Justine the fortnight off,’ replied Jessica. ‘The house has been empty since we’ve been away. You get the children off to bed and I’ll lay a fire in the drawing room. They can have the paraffin heater on in the nursery, just until it warms up a little.’

Suddenly wide awake, Billy tossed his cap in the general direction of the hatstand. ‘Bagsy I light it!’ he chirped, dashing up the stairs.

‘Absolutely not. Billy!’ Jessica yelled after her son. ‘No matches, do you hear me?’ She turned to Sophie with an exasperated look.

The nanny scooped up Alice and made for the stairs. ‘Don’t worry, madam. Billy, you wait up now!’

Before long, Jessica had the gas mantles hissing and popping in the drawing room, and with the fire built and beginning to take, she turned to the tantalus of decanters on the sideboard. She was just in the act of pouring herself a generous sherry when her attention was drawn to one of the heavy damask curtains, which had given a flutter, as though caught in a draught. The pair of curtains weren’t quite drawn to, and she could see the French windows, leading to the back garden, had been left slightly ajar. Damn that girl! she thought, assuming that the maid, Justine, had been so desperate to get off to Brighton with her latest beau that she’d neglected to make the final checks of the property. No wonder it had felt so cold when they’d first arrived.

With a little dramatic huff of exasperation, Jessica placed the stopper back in the decanter and began to make her way over to the windows. But as she did so, her eye caught the Breughel print, and she was overtaken by an immediate sense of foreboding.

She stopped and took a step back.

What if they’d been burgled? Who was to say that at that very moment some brute wasn’t behind the curtain, lurking there with murderous intent?

Keeping her eye on the French windows, Jessica backed towards the fireplace and grabbed the poker from the companion set.

‘Sophie? Would you come down here for a moment?’ she called towards the open doorway.

The nanny came into the room, drying her hands on her apron. ‘I’m afraid Alice is still suffering from the effects of all that chocolate yesterday and— Oh! Whatever is it, madam?’

Jessica lowered the poker, not wanting to cause any unnecessary alarm. ‘Hopefully nothing.’ She nodded towards the curtains. ‘It would appear that Justine was in somewhat of a hurry when she locked up last week.’

‘Or…’

‘Yes?’

‘Or we might have been broken into. After all, Justine may have her faults, but I really don’t think she’d—’

‘No, perhaps you’re right,’ said Jessica, raising the poker again.

‘Should I run and get a constable?’

‘Not just yet. We need to make sure it’s not just a silly oversight; after all, nothing else appears disturbed, does it?’

The nanny, now looking decidedly pale, shook her head. Then she steeled herself. ‘We could look together, madam? I’ll pull back the curtain, if you could…’ Sophie nodded towards the two feet of wrought iron in her mistress’s hand.

‘Well done. Brave girl. Come on, we’ll link arms.’

Having made a cautious approach, Jessica felt Sophie’s taut frame relax a little.

‘Oh, thank goodness! Look.’ She pointed towards the pair of children’s patent leather shoes which protruded from the hem of the curtain, then unhooked her arm and stepped forward. ‘Billy! You’re a wicked little devil, giving us such a fright. What are we to do with you?’

Her mistress, however, wasn’t quite as reassured by the sight. ‘Wait a moment,’ she said, as the nanny grabbed at the damask. ‘Those aren’t Billy’s shoes—’

But it was too late. Sophie had already whipped aside the curtain to reveal the grisly tableau, destined to replay in both women’s nightmares for years to come: the child’s corpse dressed in a pristine sailor’s suit, propped sitting up against the wall, its once-innocent face now blue-black with putrescence, the vulgar wound encircling its neck puckered with crude stitches.

As Jessica Dawson stood in her suburban drawing room, deafened by the piercing screams of her children’s nanny, she found herself pondering one uncanny detail in the abomination laid out before her. ‘It’s too small,’ she murmured. ‘The head – it’s too small.’ It was a puzzle she was still mouthing when the constable arrived, ten minutes later.

4

HARLEY STOPPED AT the entrance to Meard Street and tapped out a smoke from the packet of Gold Flake. He nodded towards the lamplight, where a few frayed wreathes of smog had begun to gather.

‘I told you we were in for another London Particular, didn’t I? I can always sense it coming. You get that taste like iron filings at the back of your throat.’

Cynthia pulled her coat collar up against the night chill and gave him a frown. ‘Alright, my little Geronimo, there’s no need to look so delighted about it.’ She rubbed her upper arms, trying to produce a little warmth.

Harley took a long drag on his cigarette and regarded his girlfriend, who at that moment – standing beneath the gas lamp in her suede-down overcoat and velvet toque hat – was looking rather glamorous. Not for the first time he posed a silent question to himself: What on earth was she doing with him?

Now, George Harley was no diffident youth. During his formative years on the tough streets of Shoreditch, and the subsequent action he’d seen in the war, he’d cultivated a respectable amount of self-confidence. He was quite aware he had a sharp brain, and a set of skills which allowed him to successfully navigate the sometimes-perilous day-to-day existence of a private detective working in the underbelly of the city. And though under no illusions of possessing matinée idol features, he had managed to survive his time in the trenches without receiving any disfiguring injuries – something that couldn’t be said for a lot of the poor buggers you saw on the streets – and he’d been told, on more than one occasion, he had a certain ‘rugged charm’. So, what was the problem? The problem was one of class: Cynthia Masters’ formative years hadn’t been spent on the tough streets of Shoreditch, but in leafy Hampstead. She was the cultured offspring of a wealthy, middle-class family (albeit a slightly bohemian, liberal one), one of the first female members of the Queen’s Hall Orchestra. And therefore, although all the evidence suggested they had a strong and genuine relationship (among other things, they shared a love of books and a sardonic sense of humour), Harley could never fully quash the niggling doubt that he might be just some kind of entertaining social experiment.

He was brought round from his reverie by a poke in the ribs.

‘Hey! Corporal Harley. Do you really mean to make a girl wait out in the cold and fog whilst you finish your cigarette?’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking.’

‘What is it, Einstein? Got cold feet all of a sudden?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, here we are at your current favourite watering hole, the famous Shabaroon. Full, no doubt, of your colourful villainous cronies and very probably the odd former sexual conquest.’

‘Now, hold on a minute—’

‘And I was just wondering whether you mightn’t be a little embarrassed at the thought of revealing me to the throng.’

‘Why the bloody hell would I be embarrassed?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said with a theatrical sigh. ‘Perhaps I’m a little too humdrum? Too respectable?’

‘If you must know, I was just thinking that maybe we should have chosen somewhere a bit more upmarket. I mean, meeting your sister for the first time – I want to make a good impression, right? And the punters in the Shab are… well, let’s just say that one or two of them are little more than just “colourful”.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about Lilian. She’s led rather a different kind of life to me. I told you she was adopted? Well, in her case, nature has had a bigger influence than nurture. She left home at nineteen, under somewhat of a cloud. Fell in with a few colourful types of her own, as a matter of fact. No, I don’t think the Shabaroon will hold any surprises for Lilian.’

Harley killed his cigarette under his shoe. ‘Now I am intrigued. Come on then, let’s get you in out of the cold.’

‘What is a shabaroon anyway?’ asked Cynthia, linking arms with him as they approached the pub, which gleamed with welcoming promise in the gloom of the Soho street.

‘It’s a milestone-monger. Someone who looks like they’re on the George Robey,’ said Harley, grinning because he knew what was coming next.

‘Very good. Now once again in English please?’

‘A tramp. Well, actually, anyone who looks a bit filthy.’

‘Shabby?’

‘Exactly,’ said Harley, stopping to open the swing doors of the pub.

*   *   *

The sight which greeted Cynthia on entering the saloon bar of the Shabaroon was that of a fine, handsome London pub. The L-shaped room was flanked on either side by long leather bench seats and rows of circular tables. The ochre-tinged pattern on the oil-cloth flooring – originally designed to mimic the neoclassical mosaics of a stately Georgian mansion – was now so distorted by a collection of faded patches, scuff marks and dubious stains as to leave it looking more like an extended version of the Turin Shroud. The crimson-papered walls were lined with a selection of Gillray’s most grotesque and bawdy caricatures, interspersed with mirrors which extolled the virtues of various spirits and ales. As yet, only a low rumble could be heard emanating from the public bar next door, but there was still plenty of drinking time left for its small cast of taxi drivers, costermongers and navvies to develop a more bellicose soundtrack for their neighbours in the saloon bar. But the main focus was the bar itself; there, at the centre of things, in all its grandeur of polished brass, lacquered mahogany and shimmering glass, it was a vision as exciting to a thirsty punter as a schoolboy’s first glimpse of a fairground carousel. And then there were the Shab’s customers, at least half of whom sat drinking alone, dotted around the bar in meditative attitudes, as if posing for a life-drawing class for students of a Cockney Toulouse-Lautrec. Individuals who might pass for perfectly ordinary in the crush of the underground carriage or tram, but who here, singled out for scrutiny, all appeared to be advertising the promise of an entertaining backstory.

‘We could go through to the lounge bar, where it’s quieter,’ said Harley.

Cynthia shook her head, momentarily transfixed by an elderly woman with a towering bird’s nest of hair, who had just produced a small pug dog from her voluminous handbag and was now feeding it like a newborn from a bottle of stout.

‘What, and miss the main event? No fear.’

‘Alright then, let’s get you a drink.’

‘Here he is – Georgie Boy!’ exclaimed the barmaid, her accent as brash as her bottle-blonde hairdo. ‘And you must be Cynthia. He’s told us all about you, dear.’

‘Has he, now?’

‘Cynthia, this is Juney,’ said Harley, trying to ignore his girlfriend’s withering look. ‘It might have Hal’s name over the door,’ he pointed to the portly man in a checked waistcoat and unconvincing ginger toupée who was serving at the other end of the bar, ‘but it’s Juney here who really runs the place.’

‘Please to meet you, Juney,’ said Cynthia.

‘Oh, but she’s lovely, George. And don’t she talk nice? I’d say you’re punching a little over your weight with this one.’

‘Alright, steady on.’

‘Oh, go on with you, I’m only pulling your leg.’

‘Hold up. Is that Teddy Gables that Hal’s chucking out?’ said Harley, watching the landlord, as he escorted a skinny youth with a Hessian sack to the door. ‘What’s he been up to this time?’

‘Spectacle cats.’

‘Whatever are spectacle cats?’ asked Cynthia.

Juney laughed, shaking her head. ‘It’s his latest hare-brained scheme. He’s got two white kittens in that sack that he’s trying to flog, with little spectacle markings around their eyes. Teddy swears it’s a freak of nature. But you can still see the hair dye on his fingers, the pillock. He certainly ain’t got his old man’s nous.’

‘His dad, Sonny Gables, is a big name in knocked-off gear,’ Harley explained to Cynthia. ‘He could sell balloons at a funeral, that one. But Teddy? Well, I reckon the midwife must have given him a big whack with the stupid stick when he came out.’

‘Ain’t that the truth?’ said Juney. ‘Now, what’ll it be, love?’

‘Whisky and a splash for me, and a gin and French for Cynthia.’

Having received their drinks, they retired to one of the small tables by the windows. Cynthia unbuttoned her coat, giving Harley a nudge with her elbow.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’

‘Sorry, I was just thinking about the Turpin case.’

‘Those poor girls. Have you heard how they’re faring?’

‘Alice is doing alright, by all accounts. I had a long conversation with her father on the phone yesterday. Mia Janssen is convalescing in hospital. She’ll be returning home when she’s strong enough. By the way, I got a nice surprise from the ambassador.’

‘Really? What was it?’

‘A healthy little cheque, plump enough to bring a smile to the face of my morbidly depressed bank manager. That, along with the fee from the Pritchard case, means… well, I should be on velvet for a good couple of months at least.’ Harley took a sip of his Scotch. ‘So, silver linings and all that.’

‘Mercenary,’ said Cynthia, poking the end of his nose.

‘By the way, I meant to ask you: this author, Alasdair Cassina – just how well do you know him?’

‘Well, he was part of the crowd I used to hang around with, some four or five years ago.’

‘Would that be during your Bright Young Things phase?’ asked Harley with a smirk.

‘Really, at times you’re so—’ Cynthia suddenly lowered her voice to a whisper at the sight of the woman approaching the table. ‘Hello, who’s this coming over?’

The newcomer appeared to be somewhere in her mid-forties; she was a little overdressed for a pub, and her faltering step suggested that the drink she clutched in her hand might not be the first of the day. She slumped herself down on the bench seat beside them, letting out an exhausted sigh.

‘George, darling. How simply wonderful to see you.’ Her voice was smoky, a little mannish and had a monotone suggestive of habitual ennui. ‘Life looking after you, I trust?’

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, Dora. You’re looking well.’

‘Really, d’you think so?’ She offered a feline smile and touched a hand to her hair, which was dyed a cardinal red and worn a little longer than the current trend. ‘One does one’s best with the materials provided.’

‘This is Cynthia, Dora.’

‘Please to meet—’ began Cynthia, but stopped as the older woman bobbed out of sight, finally appearing again with a pair of Mary Jane shoes, which she dropped onto the table.

‘That’s better. They’ve been pinching like buggery for the past hour or so.’

‘Been on your feet all day?’ asked Cynthia.

‘On my back mostly, if you must know,’ said Dora, producing a packet of Black Cat cigarettes from her clutch bag. ‘At Claridge’s; one of the penthouse suites. My darling little Arab is over at the moment, you see. Quite a voracious appetite, for a small man…’ She gave Cynthia a slow wink. ‘But he is so incredibly thankful. And he’s got the wherewithal to prove it. I shan’t have to work for at least another fortnight. Hence the celebrations.’ She raised her glass in a perfunctory toast and downed its contents in one. ‘I’m sorry, dear – not shocking you, am I?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Cynthia, hoping she’d managed to modify her expression in time.

Dora lit her cigarette and placed a half-crown down on the table. ‘George, do be a darling and get another round in. The usual for me.’

‘Whisky and peppermint? Right you are. Cyn, you want another?’

‘Not just yet, thanks. I don’t want to get squiffy.’

‘Good grief!’ said Dora. ‘Whyever not?’

As Harley went off for the drinks, Dora leant on the table, a ribbon of cigarette smoke escaping through her crimson lips. She regarded Cynthia with her painted almond eyes, languid and world-weary. ‘You know, you really shouldn’t pity me, dear.’

‘Oh, but I—’

‘Really, there’s no need to explain,’ said Dora, placing a hand on her forearm. ‘I caught the look – see it all the time. But it’s not such a bad life. I’m not actually “on the pavement”, as they say, like all those Piccadilly daisies.’

‘Oh,’ said Cynthia, caught a little off guard by Dora’s nonchalance. ‘Are there many girls like that, would you say?’

‘In the West End? Simply droves of them, my dear. The area’s notorious for it. Oh, but don’t be too concerned, we’re not all fallen women in need of salvation.’

‘Why then, would you say…’ Cynthia struggled to find the best way to phrase her question. ‘How does—’

‘How does a girl end up whoring?’ Dora smiled at the colour she’d raised in Cynthia’s cheeks. ‘Oh, there are countless reasons for that. For most, though, I’d say it’s a conscious decision to improve their lot. Granted, there are those poor wretches who turn to it out of desperation, but they’re by no means the majority. You see, many girls come here to London from different parts of the country in search of work. Well, they soon discover that our game is far more lucrative than going into service or working their fingers to the bone in some godforsaken factory. They come from all types of backgrounds. Some girls are weak in intellect, others are the most cunning little cats you’ll ever meet. But there is a hierarchy.’ She took a leisurely draw on her cigarette.

‘Hierarchy?’

‘Of course. At the very bottom of the ladder are those desperate enough to have to use the streets to both attract and perform their business.’ Dora showed her disdain for this conduct with a little wrinkle of her nose. ‘Then there are those girls who solicit on the streets but take the punter back to a rented room, or the “lumber” as they call it – by far the most common practice, I’d say. These girls are usually enslaved to some awful pimp type, of course. Then we have the fillies in the stables of the more serious villains.’

Dora made a quick check around her and leant in close. ‘Like those dreadful Manduca brothers, for example.’

She sat back, dabbed an elegant finger to her tongue and smoothed one of her pencilled eyebrows.

‘And at the top of the profession are those such as yours truly. We rely on personal introductions, you understand. It’s mostly the top-end hotels, or their place, if wifey’s away. As well as the professional fee, I’ll be wined and dined; sometimes there’s an expensive gift. You get used to anything if you do it long enough. And, God knows, I’ve been doing it long enough. We all sell ourselves eventually, in one way or another, body or soul. You know, once upon a time, I was one of those dutiful little housewives. Difficult to picture, I know, but there you are. The perfect little homemaker – dinner on the table, attending to the needs of hubby. Well, if you ask me, I’d say there’s not much difference between that game and the one I’m in now. Except, of course, now I get to choose what I spend the ill-gotten gains on.’

Dora lounged back in her seat, exhaled a plume of smoke and treated Cynthia to one of her arch smiles.

*   *   *

Up at the bar, Harley was being attended to by the landlord, Hal Dixon.

‘By the way, George, Franklin was in at lunchtime.’

‘Was he?’ As usual, when conversing with Dixon, Harley was trying his best not to be caught glancing at the notorious hairpiece, which was a completely different hue to the publican’s remaining hair and was nestled atop his scalp like a hibernating woodland animal.

‘Good plainclothes man, that one,’ said the landlord. ‘As rare as hen’s teeth, these days, more’s the pity.’ He placed Harley’s Scotch on the bar and took the money. ‘He was asking after you. Said he wanted to see you about something.’

Harley made a quick check of the bar for eavesdroppers. After all, he could ill-afford to acquire the reputation of a copper’s nark. ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll get on the blower tomorrow and see what he wants. Oh, and keep schtum, eh?’

‘Goes without saying,’ said Dixon, tapping his finger to the side of his nose. ‘But it’s not exactly a secret you’ve been working together, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s in the paper.’

‘What’s in the paper?’

‘Here,’ said Dixon, producing a copy of the Daily Oracle newspaper from under the bar, already folded open at the article. ‘I was just showing Juney. It’s that Turpin affair, the kidnapping of the ambassador’s daughter. You get a mention.’

‘Jesus, no! Show me.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the landlord as Harley scanned the report. ‘You come out of it well, I’d say.’

‘That’s not the point, though, is it? This game relies on discretion. Anonymity. I can hardly work undercover if my ugly mug is staring up at the world and his wife from their bleedin’ chip paper, can I? I can’t believe Franklin would have sanctioned this. There must be a leak at the station.’

‘There’s no photograph. You know, you could look at it another way, it might be good for business. After all, it was a decent result.’

‘Good for business? Oh yes, and what about certain local characters, the ones who aren’t exactly fans of His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force?’ Harley checked no one else was in earshot and lowered his voice. ‘The seasoned villains I rub shoulders with on a regular basis won’t think it’s good for business, will they? Turpin was my case, worked in the usual way; just solo sherlocking. The bogeys only got involved after the fact, to help clean up the mess. To read this article you’d think I was working for them as some kind of special constable.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, George, but you’re overthinking it. Nobody will remember the details of that article, not with that kiddie murderer all over the front page.’

‘Kiddie murderer? Sorry, I was working a late one last night, missed the morning edition. Hang on, is this the Clapham thing? I heard someone talking about it on the tram. What happened exactly?’

Dixon folded the newspaper to the front page and pointed at the headline.

NURSERY BUTCHER! MONSTER AT LARGE IN CLAPHAM!

‘That’s what’s happened. And it ain’t pretty reading, I can tell you.’

‘Blimey! That’s awful,’ said Harley, tipping his hat back after skimming the first few paragraphs of the story.

‘Ain’t it just?’ said Dixon. ‘Just imagine finding that in your parlour. Two young women on their own, an’ all. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

‘And the dead kid?’

‘The police haven’t identified the body yet. Least, they’re not saying if they have. Go on, take the paper with you, I’ve finished with it. Although you might want to spare your young lady the more gruesome details. It reads like one of them old penny dreadfuls. The little mite’s heart had been torn out, apparently.’ He handed Harley his change. ‘Puts me in mind of when Old Jack was raising Cain around Whitechapel. You’ll be too young, of course.’

‘The Ripper?’

‘Yeah. I must have been around nine or ten, at the time.’ The landlord gave a sigh as he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his tight-fitting waistcoat. ‘You know, to me the most terrifying aspect was thinking of them poor buggers who discovered the bodies. To be on your own, in the dark, stumbling across all that horror laid out before you. Used to give me the willies, I don’t mind telling you. I still think on it from time to time, especially when we get a thick old pea souper. When that fog comes in… well, I dunno, it’s like something evil is descending on the city.’

‘It’s coming in out there right now.’

‘Well, let’s hope we haven’t got another one of them homicidal maniacs on our hands, eh?’

‘Too right. Though, I must say, on first impressions this reads like—’

Harley was interrupted by a huge hand clamping down on his shoulder.

‘Christ, Solly!’ he exclaimed, turning to discover Solly Rosen standing behind him. ‘What have I told you about creeping up on a bloke like that?’

Rosen was one of Harley’s oldest friends. A former middleweight champion of Great Britain, he now worked for Mori ‘The Hat’ Adler – the Jewish mobster who controlled a large part of the West End underworld.