Places like Small Heath made for perfect hunting grounds. A large populace in an impoverished setting created a cesspool of crime and debauchery. Jane thought as she exited the train station, the benefits of such a place. The copycat can kill high-risk victims and nobody will bat an eye. Nobody cared about prostitutes. Despite the modern age, people still looked down on the "unfortunate women". These women weren't even women in some eyes. They were worthless and tossed aside like garbage. They were sinners, heathens, and tempters of the flesh. They "stole" husbands and "seduced" young men. They weren't worth worrying over. Nobody truly understood the hardships. Jane imagined after the war many jobs were scarce for women. The men had taken them all back, leaving a lot of single women jobless. Some managed-like Vivian-while others resorted to different professions. If one of these women turned up dead, it didn't surprise anyone. Yet, she doubted such gruesome killings went unnoticed. In small towns such as this one, people knew about everything.
The town certainly didn't hide its seedy charm. Covered by smog and smoke, she took in the muddy roads and brick houses. She noticed a pub on almost every street. Another reason people wouldn't care about a place like Small Heath. The wealthy and holy looked down on drunkards. Jane found the police station, but didn't enter just yet. She needed a room to stay in first. Vivian suggested she stay in London and ride the train into Birmingham. Jane refused. She and this killer will share the same hunting ground. He'll hunt his victims while she'll hunt him.
Walking around for a while, she stumbled onto a street titled 'Garrison Court'. At the end stood a tall building with the name 'The Garrison Tavern' painted across the top. A little vacancy sign hung from the door. She supposed she'd start there. Entering the tavern, she wasn't surprised by the amount of people there. They all noticed her walk in and she wasn't unnerved. A finely dressed woman holding two suitcases drew their attention right away. The bartender stared curiously along with them. A tall man with mouse-brown curls, he wiped down a glass as she approached the bar.
"Morning," she said, "I noticed your vacancy sign out front, and I was wondering how much?"
"Yo-You want to stay here?" he asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "Why? Do you have mice or something?"
"No, it's just..." he paused, "We don't get your type in here a lot. You should try uptown or another pub."
"I can't go uptown," she said. "My work isn't up there. It's down here. So, I'd like a room, please."
"Your work?" he questioned. "Wh-What sort of work is that?"
She rifled through her purse and pulled out a little white card, "Jane Dawes, at your service."
"'Jane Dawes, Private Detective'," he snorted as he read. "A lady detective, eh? I've never seen one of those before."
"And now you have, Mr…?"
"Just call me Harry," he said. He stuck out a hand.
She shook it, "Harry. Can I have a room, please?"
He named his price and she paid him on the spot. "You're here about those murders, aren't you?" a voice asked from behind.
Jane turned around as a man was coming towards her. Lanky with black hair matching his scruffy beard, his dark eyes stared at her in amusement. She looked him over. He wasn't hard to read. Then again, perhaps he did that on purpose. He worked in the mechanical factory outside of town and lived alone. She missed challenging people.
"I am," she answered. "Sergeant Moss said there's been three already. I'm guessing everyone in this town knows already?"
"We do," he nodded. "Nobody's done anything to stop them though. The paper says there's no evidence other than the bodies."
"There's always evidence, sir," she said, "You just have to know where to look. Jane Dawes."
He smirked, "Freddie Thorne." They shook hands, "The police must be desperate if they need outside help. I thought they would just ask that Belfast inspector."
"Belfast inspector?" she asked. Moss never mentioned anyone else on the case. "He's here for that too?"
"No," Freddie shook his head. "He's here about some stolen property, I've heard. A friend of mine has a sister who works in the BSA telegraph office. She said the message came down from Winston Churchill himself."
"That's an awful lot of information you have," she said, "For a working class factory man."
He raised an eyebrow, "How would you know I work in a factory? I could be anything. I could be a carpenter, a dock worker or a fisherman-"
"-If you were a carpenter, you'd have calluses on your hands from wood work and rough gloves. If you were a dock worker, you'd smell like fish and not coal. Fisherman work most of the day, so you wouldn't be here in mid-afternoon. Considering the lack of other professions in this town, you work inthe mechanical factory. I can tell from the grease stains on your hands and trousers. Also there's only one big factory in town, which I assume deals in small arms and motorcycles, no?"
He stared at her for a moment, and then said, "Yes. It does. It's the Birmingham Small Arms factory. We make motorcycles, car parts, and small weapons. They make military weapons mostly. Lots of rumors and whispers go about in factories. If you know the right people, you can get whatever you need to know."
"Do you know the right people, Mr. Thorne?" she asked.
"I do," he said. "If you want to know about these murders, you should talk to Tommy Shelby. He's the crime prince around here. Nothing illegal happens in this town without him knowing."
"Would he protect such a person?" she doubted a man would let someone go around terrorizing women.
"Freddie…" Harry warned as he handed her a key, "Mr. Shelby doesn't have anything to do with that mess."
"I'm not saying he does," Freddie reasoned, "But he might have a clue or two. Tommy wasn't happy when the first murder popped up. It wouldn't surprise me if he already had men patrolling the streets at night."
"He doesn't trust the police then?"
Freddie laughed, along with those nearby, "No. No, Tommy doesn't like policemen too much. Neither do his brothers."
"I'll keep that in mind," she nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Thorne-"
"-Freddie," he corrected.
"Freddie," she said, "I'll be calling again on you soon."
"I wouldn't complain if you did."
She nodded at him and then walked up the stairs. The Garrison didn't have many rooms, but she assumed they weren't use for long-term use. She turned the key to Room Three and let herself inside. It wasn't a large room. It came with a toilet and small tub concealed by a curtain. The full bed sat in a corner and she even had a writing desk. It wasn't worst place she'd stayed. She liked it. She set her suitcases on the bed and walked towards the window. Her view was interesting. From her second-story window, she could see the entire street. She'd spot anyone coming from half-way down. She examined the people below. Everyone there was working class. Everyone from manual laborers to shopkeepers walked down the street. She even spotted a few drunks and beggars. Jane liked nobody else better.
Jane settled into her room before heading back out to the police station. She took in the feel of Small Heath. It was rough, smoky and bleak. It wasn't polished and well-kept like other neighborhoods. She certainly didn't catch any friendly vibes either. She noted the cinema and the other pubs around town. She took in street names and the directions she walked. Jane needed a map of Small Heath. Her copycat knew these streets well enough to kill undetected. She'd need the same knowledge.
The police station was larger than she anticipated. Men in black uniforms bustled around the office or sat at their desk with criminals they'd caught. A group of men in the holding cells eyed her from behind bars. The desk officer couldn't believe the sight of her either. She imagined only prostitutes and disappointed wives walked into the station. In her plum dress and matching cloche hat it must've been unusual for them.
"Excuse me, I'm Jane Dawes. I'm here to see Sergeant Moss," she said to him.
The young man nodded and flipped through a book. "Um, yes, Ms. Dawes," he said, "The-The Sergeant is expecting you. His office is right down that way."
"Thank you," she said.
She walked further into the bull pit towards the indicated office in the back. Through the windows, she saw Moss doing paper work at his desk. She knocked before opening the door. "Sergeant Moss?"
"Ms. Dawes," he said, eyes lighting up, "I'm so glad you could come!" He rounded his desk and shook her hand. "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to a chair. Jane took a seat and crossed her legs. "I took the liberty of gathering up the reports and crime scene photos we took," he said, handing her files. "There isn't much to go on here," he told her, "But perhaps you'll find something we missed."
"Sergeant," she said, "I've recently heard that you have an inspector already here. He's from Belfast?"
Moss's pleasure faded. He nodded, rolling his pen with his fingers, "Yes. Yes, that would be Chief Inspector Campbell from Belfast. They brought him in on another case. It's about a robbery at the BSA factory. Someone stole a large shipment of guns bound for Libya, and he's come to retrieve them. I already asked him for his opinion, but he isn't interested."
"Well, I'm sure he's already preoccupied with his guns."
"He is," he said. "I've been helping him as is my duty. This," he motioned to the files, "Is sort of a side project for me. He doesn't even know I've called you in."
"It's your station," she said. "He shouldn't get a say in who you call."
"He's my superior," Moss stated. "Normally, I must run things by him until he leaves. I don't think he'd like that I brought you in on this case. It's supposed to be confidential."
Jane snorted, "It's not that confidential if the entire town knows about it."
"Well, I am hoping the more gruesome details stay confidential, Ms. Dawes," he said. "I've managed keeping a lot of it out of the papers for now. Things are bad enough with the factory strikes, IRA lurking about and now these guns."
"IRA?" she asked. "Irish Republic Army, you mean? You're having that problem here?"
"It's not much of a problem at the moment," he admitted. "There are rumors of them as well as the communists who live in Birmingham. But, they're only rumors for now."
"Communists and Irishmen," she said, "Small Heath seems to have more problems than imagined."
He sighed, "You don't even know half of it. Inspector Campbell is breathing down my men's necks to find these guns. He even brought in his own special force. They're like his personal army. I don't…" he paused, "I don't know what's become of my town, Ms. Dawes. Small Heath isn't the most welcoming or most wonderful of places, but it's my home. Now, it's terrorized by a madman and Special Police. I never dealt with anything like this before. I usually only had problems with the Peaky Blinders and the men they keep on their payroll. N-Now it's this too."
"There isn't much I can do about the Special Forces, Sergeant," she said, "But I will deal with your madman. I'll find him and I'll catch him. These women," she tapped the files, "Will see justice for what happened to them. I promise."
He smiled gratefully, "I-I just wanted to say, Ms. Dawes, that I'm glad you're here. Never in my life did I think I'd be relying on a woman to solve a case, but I'm glad I am now."
"So am I."