Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Leave us a Review

  Copyright

  Dedication

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  Glossary of Slang

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR…

  MIDNIGHT

  STREETS

  ‘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

  LEAVE US A REVIEW

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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 hear

  How the youthful Harlot’s curse

  Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear

  And 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-develo ped 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.

 

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