MARK SANDERSON
Robin Hood Yard

Copyright

Harper

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A paperback original 2015

Copyright © Mark Sanderson 2015

Mark Sanderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015. Cover design by Mavrodesign.com

Cover photographs © Bert Hardy/Getty Images (main image); H. Armstrong Roberts/Classic Stock/Corbis (woman); Mary Evans/Classic Stock/H. Armstrong Roberts (man); Thinkstockphotos.co.uk (hat)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007296842

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2015 ISBN: 9780007325283

Version 2015-03-18

Dedication

To Curtis, Lucy and Jack

I had not thought death had undone so many.

T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Part One: Royal Exchange

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two: Ironmonger Row

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three: Robin Hood Yard

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Afterword

Keep Reading...

Bibliography

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

The bomb was in place. For the umpteenth time he checked his pocket watch. Two more minutes …

The Lord Mayor’s coach – a fantasia in red and gold – emerged from Prince’s Street by the Bank of England and turned, groaning on its leather straps, towards Poultry. The Lord Mayor, leaning out of the window, doffed his cocked hat to the dignitaries assembled under the portico of his new home, the Mansion House. The ostrich feathers on his hat rippled in the chilly breeze.

The cheering crowds that packed the pavements did nothing to scare the horses. Pairs of mounted policemen protected the coach at the front and rear. The floats that followed were also mainly drawn by horses, whereas others relied on another form of horsepower. It was one of these that stalled. The actors portraying Sir Francis Drake and his fellow bowlers staggered as the truck coughed then lurched to a stop.

The theme of this year’s show was physical health. Everywhere banners proclaimed FITNESS WINS! Dancers, boxers, golfers and rowers continued to demonstrate their moves.

The plaster of Paris mountain being climbed by the alpinists started to emit smoke. Johnny watched in disbelief. No one climbed an active volcano.

The army jeeps and wagons of the auxiliary fire brigade rolled on. They were on parade, not on duty.

As soon as a gap appeared in the procession, Johnny pushed through the crowd lining the route and crossed Cheapside.

He weaved his way through a maze of penny-farthings, unseating a couple of the riders. Their companions, cursing loudly, wobbled precariously but somehow remained upright and continued to pedal. Some of the spectators started to boo.

A few members of a marching band, distracted, fell out of step. The loss of rhythm was accompanied by an unscored clash of cymbals. The catcalls got louder.

One of the police outriders craned his neck to see the cause of the commotion. Calling to his colleagues, he turned his mount around and headed towards Johnny.

The Lord Mayor, arm aching from waving to his devoted citizens, stuck his head out of the left side of the coach. Below him, on a painted panel, Mars, god of the City of London – and not, as many assumed, Mammon – pointed to a scroll held by Truth. What was going on?

A ginger-haired man was being dragged to his feet by two policemen. He seemed to be unconscious.

Beyond them, outside St Mary-le-Bow, a float was engulfed in flames …

PART ONE

ONE

Friday, 28 October 1938, 9.05 a.m.

The call came as he flung down The Times in disgust. The Tories had won the Oxford by-election, albeit with a halved majority. Quintin Hogg, the triumphant candidate, claimed the result was a victory for Mr Chamberlain and a vindication of the Munich Agreement.

The “Thunderer”, which had revealed itself to be a proud organ of appeasement, made much of the defeat of A. D. Lindsay, the Independent Progressive candidate and Hogg’s only opponent, even though the Master of Balliol College had been supported by such dissident Tories as Winston Churchill, Anthony Eden and Harold Macmillan. Most of the other newspapers, including Johnny’s own, the Daily News, chose to highlight the fury and disappointment of Edward Heath’s student Conservatives who had campaigned under the slogan, “A vote for Hogg is a vote for Hitler.”

He grabbed the receiver. “Steadman.”

“What’s wrong now? Lost a shilling and found a sixpence?” Matt could usually tell how he was feeling.

“Bloody Tories.”

“Never mind them. They don’t mind you.” Matt wasn’t interested in politics. Johnny, who took every opportunity to needle high-hatted right-wingers, opened his mouth to protest but got no further. “Get yourself over to Crutched Friars. We’ve got another body.”

He took a taxi to Fenchurch Street. Crutched Friars ran below the station. Plumes of steam and the sounds of shunting filled the smoky air.

Detective Constable Turner was standing on the corner of Savage Gardens. The sight of him always made Johnny smile. Although in plain clothes, Matt looked every inch the policeman. His recent promotion to the Detective Squad had nevertheless cost him the rank of sergeant. They shook hands.

It wasn’t unusual for Turner to tip him off. They had known each other for a quarter of a century. The bonds forged in the playground of Essex Road School for Boys had only tightened as they’d jumped through the hoops of the adult world. They had been through a lot together, learning the hard way that it wasn’t what you knew but whom. Their careers had become almost as intertwined as their emotions. Two sets of eyes were better than one.

Matt led him downhill to where a towering uniformed cop stood guard outside the open front door of a soot-encrusted terraced house. The sentinel’s disdainful glance made Johnny feel even shorter than his five feet six. His flippant “Good morning!” received only the slightest of nods. Reporters, no matter how useful they often proved, were generally looked down on.

Low voices could be heard in the basement but Matt ignored them and climbed the uncarpeted staircase to the top of the building. Johnny, somewhat out of breath, grasped the peeling balustrade. Its sea-green paint matched the greasy walls. A filthy gas-cooker took up most of the tiny landing.

“Too many gaspers,” said Matt. The champion boxer never bought cigarettes but was not above cadging them from others.

It was brighter up here. Through the open window of the living room Johnny could see the site of the Navy Office in Seething Lane where Samuel Pepys had worked and, in the distance, the tower of St Olave’s where he had worshipped. Johnny was a dedicated diarist too.

However, Dickens was his greatest literary influence. He instantly recalled the passage in The Uncommercial Traveller in which the author had dubbed the church St Ghastly Grim. Its gateway, which bristled with iron spikes, was decorated with skulls and crossbones.

Once again the body was in the bedroom. Johnny braced himself. The naked victim lay spreadeagled on the bed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the iron frame. The mattress was black with blood.

A flashbulb popped. Its sizzle brought back unwelcome memories. Johnny, trying to block them, nodded to the photographer.

“As you can see, his cock is missing.” Matt might as well have been talking about a tooth. “The amount of blood suggests it was amputated while he was still alive. In other words, he bled to death.”

“Who is he?” Johnny opened his notebook.

“Walter Chittleborough. A clerk at the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in Gracechurch Street.”

“He’s pretty beefy for a pencil-pusher.”

“Didn’t do him any good though, did it?”

“The killer must have had great strength to overpower him.”

“Perhaps. But can you see any signs of a struggle?”

There weren’t any. A shaving brush, cut-throat razor and toothbrush were lined up on the glass shelf above the sink. A pair of striped pyjamas was neatly folded on a chair. One suit, three collarless shirts and a Crombie hung from wooden hangers on hooks. Johnny eyed the luxurious overcoat with envy. Winter was not far away.

“Have you got an age for him?”

“Twenty-four – but that’s to be confirmed.”

“Any family?”

“A sister in Bristol. We’re trying to contact her.”

“Who found him?”

“We did. The bloke in the basement called us. He had a key but the door was bolted from the inside.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Dabs are on their way.”

Johnny walked over to the window. “Was this open when you found him?” Matt nodded. Johnny stuck his neck out. It was a long way down. The area railings grinned up at him. “Is there an attic?”

“Indeed. The access hatch is on the landing.” Matt, trying to suppress a smile, waited for the inevitable question.

“So how did the killer get away?”

“Who knows? Why not give Freeman Wills Croft a tinkle?” Matt was not a great reader – he relied on Johnny for literary knowledge. The real world was more interesting.

“We don’t need him. It’s obvious. They went up the chimney.”

Ironic applause broke out behind him. Detective Sergeant Penterell filled the door frame.

“Very good, Steadman. You ought to be on the stage.”

They had met before. In Johnny’s eyes the ambitious fool had done nothing to deserve promotion.

“You should know by now that murder is not a laughing matter.” Johnny glanced at the gagged and mutilated corpse again. Its young, firm flesh was already mottling. He hoped it had experienced pleasure as well as pain.

“Indeed,” said Penterell. “That’s why you shouldn’t be in here.” He sniffed the cold air as if searching for clues. “Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Johnny winked at Matt. “I’m sure you need his help more than I do.” That wasn’t necessarily true. “Besides, you can’t stop me talking to the other residents.”

“They’ve gone to work,” said Penterell. “Now fuck off.”

The two cops waited until they could hear his rapid footsteps on the stairs then went straight over to the fireplace.

Instead of leaving via the front door, and giving the bouncer in blue a second chance to look down his nose at him, Johnny walked through the narrow hall and down another flight of stairs to the basement.

A fat man sat smoking at the kitchen table.

“The door was open.”

“I’ve made enough bleeding cups of tea. If you want one you’ll have to get it yourself.”

His head, encircled by receding hair, resembled a partly peeled boiled egg.

“Make a fresh pot, should I?”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Who are you anyway?”

“John Steadman. Daily News. I take it you’re the landlord?”

“Nah, I’m ‘The Wacky Warbler’. Cwooorrr!”

Johnny was not a fan of Joan Turner. Impressionists left him cold. Professional parasites, they fed off other people – just like journalists. When it came down to it they were all in the same business: entertaining the masses.

Johnny refilled the kettle and set it on the range where a vat of soapy water burbled away. He leaned closer. What was that?

“It’s the only way to ensure they’re clean. Can’t live without my long johns.”

Johnny stepped back in disgust. Ensure? Johnny suspected that, behind the scruffy appearance, there lurked an educated man.

The fatty stubbed out his cigarette and punched his chest in a vain attempt to silence an evil cough.

“I wondered when you lot would get here. How much for an exclusive?”

“Tell me what you told the police and I’ll let you know, Mr …?”

“Yaxley. William Yaxley.”

“How long has Walter Chittleborough been your tenant?”

“I’ve been through all this already. I’m not a bleeding parrot.”

“So I hear. Your mimicry would be a lot better. Start squawking. If one of my rivals turns up you can kiss goodbye to any chance of remuneration.” Johnny offered him one of his own Woodbines.

“Ta muchly. Wally moved in about a year ago. Before that he’d been in digs in Whitechapel.”

“Hardly worth the effort.” The Ripper’s hunting grounds were only a few streets away. “Previous address?”

“If I did know I’ve forgotten.”

“Did he have a girl?”

“I’m sure he did – but rarely more than once. He wasn’t courting, if that’s what you mean.”

“What sort of chap was he?”

“An ordinary chap. He worked hard, liked a pint and was mad about football. Never missed a Hammers match. Spent more time at Upton Park than here.”

Soccer bored Johnny. One-on-one contests – battles of body and mind – were more exciting than team sports. The glory to be achieved was greater too.

“How would you describe his personality?”

“We weren’t close. We didn’t socialize.”

“Moved in different circles did he? Try.” So far Humpty Dumpty was not getting a penny.

“Unassuming, undemonstrative – unless he was stinko …”

“How d’you know if you didn’t socialize?”

“We bumped into each other on the doorstep a few times. You hear everything down here.” He glanced at the ceiling. “The more beer he’d had, the heavier his tread.”

“Very well. What was the other adjective you were going to use before I so rudely interrupted?”

His interviewee watched him waiting, pencil poised.

“Unintelligent.” He smirked. “A bathetic climax. Sorry.”

“So am I. Nice oxymoron though.” Humpty was playing with him, trying to distract him. What was he hiding?

The kettle lid rattled as the water reached boiling point. Johnny’s blood was not far behind.

“And the other tenants? Did Wally socialize with them?”

“Not so far as I know. The Sproats on the ground-floor have a six-month-old baby. The wailing never stops.”

“Seems pretty quiet now.”

“He works at the Royal Mint. She’s a cleaner. Leaves the brat with her mother in Shoreditch during the day.”

“Do the people above them complain about the noise as well?”

“Mr Tull is deaf as a post. Lucky old sod. You won’t get anything out of him.” He blew a stream of smoke towards the range. “The tea won’t make itself, you know.”

“So who completes this happy household?”

“Rebecca. Beautiful Becky Taylor.” He sighed. “She knows what Wally was like – inside and out, if you get my drift. She’s some sort of secretary at Grocers’ Hall. Talk to her.”

“I will.” Johnny slipped his notebook into a pocket. “Thanks for your time. Shouldn’t you be at work as well?”

“I am.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Looking after this place is an endless job. There’s no clocking off here.”

He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in four heaps of Lipton’s. It seemed there was no clocking on either.

“Who owns the house?”

“I do.”

Johnny, while Yaxley’s back was turned, slipped out of the kitchen. He was halfway up the stairs before the landlord noticed.

“Oi! Steadman! What about the money?”

“Send me an invoice.”

Even if the sluggard were to submit one he would see that it was never paid. Instinct told him Yaxley had concealed more than he’d revealed.

TWO

The first body had been found on Monday in Gun Square, actually a gloomy triangle off Houndsditch. Jimmy Bromet, nineteen, was a waiter at the Three Nuns Hotel next door to Aldgate Station. He, too, had been tied to his bed and emasculated, but not castrated. No one in the lodging house had a heard a sound.

On his way back to the office Johnny made the cabbie take a detour. Although entirely surrounded by banks, Grocers’ Hall, off Prince’s Street, had its own courtyard. Two covered entrances allowed vehicles to drive in and out without the irksome task of reversing. A polite but obdurate doorkeeper informed him that Miss Taylor had arrived late for work. Consequently she would not be available until this evening. And livery companies were supposed to be charitable institutions.

“Undemonstrative? Fifteen letters.” Tanfield, a junior reporter, had a strange knack of determining the length of a word no matter how long.

“We’ll never know how long Chittleborough was though, will we?” said Dimeo. The deputy sports editor was obsessed with physical attributes. “What d’you think the killer does with the trophies?”

“I loathe to think,” said Johnny.

“Yet you must find out, Steadman, post haste. It is what you are paid to do.”

Gustav Patsel’s wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the milky midday sun. Tanfield and Dimeo returned to their desks. “Pencil”, as the news editor was ironically known, had never been popular but, since the invasion of Czechoslovakia, anti-German feeling was at an all-time high. The ever-hungry Hun’s waist had its own policy of expansionism.

“Perhaps they’re turned into sausages,” said Johnny. “You’d know more about that than me. Frankfurters, bratwurst, knackwurst …” Dimeo disguised a cackle with a cough.

“I want a thousand words on the two murders by four o’clock,” said Patsel. “They are obviously the work of the same degenerate.” He was about to say more when Quarles, his long-suffering deputy, handed him a sheet of yellow paper. The bulletin did not contain good news.

Johnny watched Patsel resume his throne in the centre of the newsroom and pick up a phone.

“What’s so important?”

“Goya and El Greco are following in the footsteps of Rembrandt and Rubens,” said Quarles.

The central rooms of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square had been closed for more than a month. Rumour had it the priceless paintings were being stored somewhere in Wales.

“They and their curators clearly don’t have much faith in old Neville,” said Johnny. “I wish Pencil would pack up and leave.”

“He’d rather be interned than return to the Fatherland – and who can blame him? Pressmen are even less popular over there. At least we try to tell the truth.”

“Are we interested in birching? There’s another demonstration planned for this afternoon. It might be lively.”

“No. Given the whole country is in danger of losing their skins, you’d think they’d have something better to do. Concentrate on the murders. See if you can find anything that connects the two men.”

Peter Quarles was the main reason why Johnny was still at the Daily News: without his frequent, good-natured interventions, Patsel and his star reporter would have come to blows. The editor was not blessed with a sense of humour. He found Johnny’s wit and disregard for authority difficult to take. Quarles, though, had learned to handle – and respect – Johnny’s wayward talent.

Johnny, keen to hear more, rang Matt but was told D. C. Turner was still out of the office. The press bureau at Old Jewry, headquarters of the City of London police, promised to relay any developments in the double murder case. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

Apart from the manner of their deaths, there appeared to be nothing to link the cases. Bromet had lived on the first floor; Chittleborough on the third. Had the two bachelors known each other? Bromet had no criminal convictions. Did Chittleborough have a clean record too?

Matt would have no difficulty in answering the second question. He was invariably quick to acknowledge the part Johnny had played in his promotion. Although unofficial, their collaboration in several headline-hitting cases had boosted both their careers. The lifelong friends made a good team. That didn’t mean they always saw eye to eye.

Lizzie jerked awake. The glowing coals shifted in the grate. Lila Mae, Johnny’s god-daughter, slumbered on in her arms. It was natural for the child to fall asleep after being fed, but not for her. Still, in more ways than one, breast-feeding took it out of her.

She’d been dreaming again. The same silly dream. Walking down the aisle, carrying her bouquet of lilies of the valley – she could smell them now – and coming to a stop beside the man who, instead of being blond like her husband-to-be, had copper-coloured hair. Both Matt and Johnny had been in love with her – Lizzie knew, at least she hoped, they still were – but she was beginning to wonder if she had chosen the wrong man.

She’d seen less and less of Matt since he’d joined the Detective Squad. There was no doubt he was a devoted father – he adored Lila Mae, even if he was hopeless at changing nappies. However, after the birth, Matt had seemed to lose interest in her. A distance crept between them and, unless she was mistaken, it was, like Lila, growing by the day. It was almost as if she’d served her purpose by producing a baby. When Matt did pay her any attention – usually on a Saturday night, after a bout of boxing and boozing – it felt as though he was acting out of duty rather than desire.

Could you suffer from postpartum depression fifteen months after the event? It was unlikely. She had been down in the dumps for a couple weeks in September last year – when the prospect of caring for such a helpless, relentless bundle of need had become overwhelming – but the feeling had passed. Resentment at being trapped, being a prisoner of her all-consuming love for Lila, had given way to resignation and, eventually, a newfound resilience.

She was proud of the fact that she’d regained her slim figure – well, almost – but why had she bothered? No one else saw her. Men rarely gave more than a glance to women pushing prams. She missed the admiration she’d attracted while working in Gamages. Her parents had been right when they’d said such a position was beneath her. Their darling daughter was not meant to be a salesgirl, yet they’d been perfectly happy when she’d left the department store to be a housewife and mother. They seemed to have forgotten she had brains as well as beauty.

She didn’t feel clever today though. She felt grubby, distracted and disappointed. She kissed Lila on a chubby pink cheek; sniffed her silky fair hair. Her whole world had shrunk to this infant. She owed it to herself not to drown in domestic drudgery. She couldn’t go on like this.

She got out of the armchair and lay Lila down in her cradle. The baby whimpered and waved her arms but did not wake. Lizzie, watching over her, sighed deeply. It wasn’t only nappies that she had to change.

He didn’t light the paraffin heater even though the cold gave him goose pimples. Perhaps it wasn’t the pervasive underground chill. Perhaps it was nervous anticipation.

The vat squatted on the workbench. He wouldn’t peep inside it again. The contents made him gag. The thought of touching the thick, foul liquid made his stomach lurch. Sweat beaded his broad forehead.

The bottles were lined up waiting. He put on a pair of cotton gloves, picked up the first one and turned the spigot.

Nothing happened. Then, just as he was about to turn off the tap, a black trickle quickly became a torrent. He grinned with relief. He’d soon be done.

The expected knock on the cellar door came at the exact appointed time. That was encouraging. He paid the pair of toughs and pointed to the crate.

“Remember, gentlemen, if you do it right, I’ll give you the same again.”

“Piece of cake,” said the older one, licking his lips. His accomplice hoisted the crate on to his shoulder with ease.

“We’re going to enjoy this.”

THREE

He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

“I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

“What was he called?”

“Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

Close enough.

“Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You won’t. You have my word.”

“Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

“Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

“Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

“I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

“Keep your hair on! I know you.”

He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

“You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

“I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”

“Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

“What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

“I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

“Why did you?”

“I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

“You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

“Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

“Me, for a start.”

“Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

“I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

“In what way?”

She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

“Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why did you reject him?”

“I didn’t! He rejected me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

“Pillow talk is dangerous.”

If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

“Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

“And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

“Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

“I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

“You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

“Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

“Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

“Hello stranger!”

It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.

“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

“Where exactly?”

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”

“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”

“It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”

A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.

“Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”

“Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”

“Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”

“So that’s what you’re after.”

“Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”

“What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”

“Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”

“Why not have a word with the Commander?”

“The less he knows the better.”

“At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”

“Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”

“He saved my life!”

“But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”

A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.

“Bien sûr, mon petit choux. I knew it would be a mistake to destroy them.”

“So you didn’t keep your word?”

“You saw me burn the negatives, didn’t you? I recall how pleased you were to be able to tell Steadman the good news. Didn’t get you anywhere with him though, did it?”

Simkins scowled. “Get on with whatever it is you want to say.”

“Be like that then. Our old friend Timney, hearing that I’d returned to the Smoke, crawled out from whichever stone he was hiding under and made himself available to me. I was delighted when he told me that – against my direct orders – he’d kept a copy of the negatives. That’s why I need you. Steadman is the simplest way to put pressure on Turner.”

“You mean blackmail him.”

“Such a nasty word.” He waved his hand as if to disperse a bad smell. The ruby on his finger flashed in the candlelight. “Still, it worked last time – if not quite in the way we’d hoped. I can’t approach Steadman, but you can. Tell him the truth – you need his help.”

“To do what? He’s not a fool.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“And if I don’t?”

Zick got to his dainty feet. “Remember what a sticky end is? You used to like nothing more.”

The champagne – still in its glass – smashed against the door. Wisely, he’d waited until his nemesis had gone.

FOUR

Saturday, 29 October, 10.15 a.m.

The first report came in shortly after ten o’clock. Others soon followed. Five banking houses had been attacked: N. M. Rothschild & Sons, Samuel Montagu & Co., M. Samuel & Co., Seligman Brothers, and S. Japhet & Co. All of them were Jewish. Bottles of blood had been flung against the walls of the noble institutions.

The attacks couldn’t have happened at a better time. Johnny was making little headway with the double murders. Everything was too clean. Matt had wearily informed him that Chittleborough had no criminal record and the only fingerprints found in the flat had been his. No one had seen or heard anything strange on Thursday evening. The killer had shown a clean pair of heels.

“Someone’s not happy,” said PDQ. “Perhaps they’re blaming the Jews for dragging us – kicking and screaming – towards war. They get blamed for all sorts of things.”

“Perfect scapegoats,” said Johnny. “But Chamberlain’s flying to Munich this morning. Third time lucky.”

“I hardly think so, Steadman,” said Patsel. “Such – how do you say it? – yo-yo diplomacy is bound to fail. It demonstrates weakness, not strength.” He appeared gratified at the prospect.

“There’s been another one.” Tanfield, who had the desk opposite Johnny’s, brandished a telegram from Reuters. “The next Lord Mayor’s been hurt.”

Mansion House Street was to the City what Piccadilly Circus was to Westminster. It was the very heart of things, where no less than eight arteries met, and as such was usually clogged with traffic. On the map it resembled the head of a splayed octopus with one limb shrivelled.

Johnny stopped the taxi by the monumental headquarters of the Midland Bank. Lutyens had a lot to answer for. The naked boy wrestling a goose above him was a jocular nod towards the building’s location: Poultry. Ten years on, only the southwest corner, regularly lashed by rain, retained a hint of the Portland stone’s original whiteness.

Outside the Bank of England a City cop in reflective white gauntlets waved him and Magnus Monroe, a staff photographer, across the road. The Royal Exchange lay in the fork between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill. The Duke of Wellington and Copenhagen – cast in bronze from captured French cannon – gazed down at him with sightless eyes. The City thrived on making the man in the street feel small.

The Exchange had closed – or been closed – early. One of its constables – instantly recognizable in his blue-and-gold uniform – stood talking to a City cop beneath the portico. As soon as Johnny started climbing the steps, he raised his stick. Johnny kept going.

“Thus far and no further.” The bumptious beadle attempted to block his path.

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

“Sorry, sir. The Exchange is closed.”

“I can see that. Let me pass.”

He was tempted to knock off the beadle’s cocked hat. The old man – who had the power to arrest and detain him within the Exchange – waved his stick at him. Pop! Magnus set to work. It was always good to illustrate the risks a fearless reporter faced as he went about his business. The old soldier turned his attention to the photographer. As soon as he took his eyes off him, Johnny headed for the doors.

“Going somewhere?” The long arm of the law felt his collar. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last.

“Yes.”

“No.” The constable let go of his collar but only to pluck the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Ouch! Fuck off, Watkiss.” They had met before. The Square Mile often felt as small as a bear pit or bullring. “Still a plain bogey, I see. You must miss Sergeant Turner.”

“Not as much as you.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Really?”

Johnny nodded. Several of his competitors were piling out of taxis. “Do me a favour – keep that lot out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Go on then – and mind that you do.”

He pushed open the heavy swing doors and made a beeline for the man sitting on a bentwood chair in the middle of the empty courtyard. It was pleasantly warm beneath the glass canopy but a metallic tang hung in the air. The antique Turkish pavement was splotched with blood.

“It’s not mine – at least, most of it isn’t.” Leo Adler tried to get up but his legs gave way. A concerned minion dabbed at the cut on his forehead. “Let me be!”

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

The cop interviewing one of the gathered witnesses turned round but said nothing.

“How d’you do?” They didn’t shake hands. “Not fond of bankers, are you? I must say, I enjoyed your exposure of that wicked boy’s scam.”

A post-room worker had been removing foreign stamps from envelopes and selling them. As the recent pepper scandal had demonstrated – an attempt to corner the world market in white pepper had floundered because the perpetrators failed to realize that black pepper could be turned into white – there was no shortage of crooks in the City. However, it was generally those at the bottom who were caught. Those higher up the ladder remained at large. In Johnny’s eyes, anyone in pinstripes belonged behind bars.

“A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

“Much like a French chef!”

“What happened? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“It’s nothing. A rough-looking gentleman sprayed me with blood then threw the bottle at me and scarpered. Fortunately, it didn’t smash. I saw stars for a minute but I’m right as rain now.”

“Red rain. Why blood?”

“No idea. Perhaps he was a communist protestor hell-bent on keeping the red flag flying. We’ll probably never know.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I said, rough. Not the type generally seen round here.”

The mayor-in-waiting gestured at the arcades that lined the court where commodities had been bought and sold for centuries. There were other exchanges nearby: the Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, the Baltic Shipping Exchange in St Mary Axe, the Metal Exchange in Whittington Avenue, the Wool Exchange in Coleman Street, the Rubber Exchange in Mincing Lane and, of course, the Stock Exchange in Threadneedle Street.

The motto of the City of London was Domine Dirige Nos – “Lord, guide us” – but it might as well have been Quid pro quo – “something for something” – or “anything for money”: timber, minerals, coffee, sex, information or access.

Magnus, the archetypal shutterbug, came beetling towards them. No doubt he’d slipped Watkiss a oncer to let him in. If Steadman’s profession was asking, Monroe’s was taking – usually without permission. Mouths opened in protest were more dramatic than thin-lipped smiles. Adler, though, was only too happy to oblige. No wonder he’d been elected Lord Mayor. His regular, tanned features represented the acceptable face of capitalism – even if he was Jewish.

Johnny had read interviews with the second Jew destined to become Lord Mayor of London. The first, David Salomons, had been elected in 1855. City folk, pragmatists par excellence, were less vocal in their anti-Semitism than some of the population. The size of a man’s fortune was more important than the size of his nose.

“You must have heard about the other attacks,” said Johnny. “They can hardly be a coincidence. This seems like the start of a hate campaign. It must be personal, anti-Semitic. You’re the only person to have been attacked.”

“I’ve just come from Rothschild’s in New Court.” St Swithin’s Lane was less than a minute’s walk away. “It won’t take long to clean up the mess.”

“Rothschild,” murmured Johnny. “Red shield.”

“What’s that?”

“Probably nothing. I was thinking aloud.”

“Come off it. Next you’ll be saying that murder spelled backwards is red rum.”

“Why would I? I like crosswords but no one’s been murdered – not here anyway. Are you sure you haven’t a clue as to who’s responsible?”

“If I had, they’d be under arrest already.”

Johnny believed him. After “The Silent Ceremony” at the Guildhall on 9 November – during which the outgoing mayor would hand over the sword, sceptre, seal and list of Corporations to him – Adler would be the Chief Magistrate of the City.

“Such publicity is bad for business,” he continued. “The sooner it stops, the better.”

“Why talk to me then?”

“Your opposition to the bowler-hat-and-brolly brigade is well known. If you say it’s nothing but a stunt, people will believe you. Outside the City I don’t have much clout.”

Johnny was flattered but not convinced.

“Adler. That’s a German name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My grandparents were German, but both my parents were British. It means eagle.”

“Perfect for a high-flier.”

Adler’s laughter echoed round the Exchange.

“I need a drink. Care to join me? It’s almost midday.” He got to his feet and, this time, stayed upright. “Are we done now, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Bart’s.”

“Quite sure. I’ve had worse bumps. Got a thick skull. Let me know when you catch the blighter.”

It was all right for some. Lesser mortals would have been obliged to make a statement at Snow Hill police station.

Adler, having dismissed his entourage with reassuring noises, led them out of an exit at the rear of the building and thus avoided the scrum waiting at the front. Johnny was delighted. Monroe went off to develop his prints while he and Adler crossed the road and entered the maze of alleys that zigzagged between Lombard Street and Cornhill. Thirty yards down Birchin Lane they turned left into Castle Court.

The George and Vulture was one of Mr Pickwick’s favourite haunts.

“He dined here with Sam Weller,” said Johnny.

“I don’t have time to read for pleasure.”

“But you do read the papers.”

“Lord Beaverbrook, Viscount Rothermere and their cronies are powerful men. It’s not called the press for nothing. If they want something, they can exert great pressure.”

“Even they can’t stop a world war though. They’re more concerned about their livelihoods – the supply of newsprint – than the lives of their readers.”

“Agreed,” said Adler. He sipped the fine claret. “There’ll be no shortage of news though.”

“There will. Dora will see to it.” The Defence of the Realm Act was introduced in 1914. “The government is bound to tighten its grip on the flow of information.”

“The Nazis are fond of censorship as well,” said Adler. “The problems facing Jews in Germany are far worse than leaks suggest. They’re now being rounded up and expelled to Poland. Not only men of working age but women and children too.”

Johnny had long campaigned for the Daily News to highlight Hitler’s atrocious treatment of the Jews. However, he was a crime reporter. Foreign news was not his concern. Patsel dismissed such reports as gross exaggeration, propaganda spread by embittered refugees.

Fleet Street preferred to reflect public opinion rather than change it. Britannia ruled the waves but her citizens were insular in outlook. There was enough suffering at home without worrying about Johnny Foreigner. Only last week the Daily Telegraph had run an advertisement for typists with the proviso that “no Jewesses” need apply.

“Why d’you think Hitler hates Jews so much?”

“Fear. Paranoia. Perhaps he’s secretly afraid there’s a tincture of Jewish blood running in his veins. Self-hatred is even more corrosive.” He sighed. “It’s easier to blame other people for your own weaknesses, shift the responsibility away from yourself. Conspiracies are convenient ways of explaining the inexplicable. Otherness – difference – produces a primitive, instinctive reaction in the brain, but most people choose to override it.”

“A tribal survival mechanism.”

“Exactly. If there weren’t any Jews, new scapegoats would soon be found. Negroes, Catholics, Armenians, homosexuals …”

“And yet Jews invented the concept.”

“That’s right.” Adler raised his glass to him. “Which university did you attend?”

“I didn’t. Couldn’t afford it.”

“Ah, well it stems from the Hebrew word Azazel. You can find it in Leviticus: And Aaron shall place lots upon the two he-goats: one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for Azazel.”

“So why would someone select you as a scapegoat?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the attack has nothing to do with my being Jewish.”

“It must have. It’s Saturday – the Jewish Sabbath. The blood must be a reference to historic blood libels.”

“But I haven’t crucified any Christian kids or drunk their blood. I haven’t poisoned any wells.”

Suddenly the expensive Bordeaux didn’t taste as good.

“No, but you’re about to become the figurehead of the financial centre of the world. Many people see bankers as bloodsuckers. In their blinkered eyes, the fact you’re Jewish simply makes matters worse.”

“I’m not a practising Jew though. As you see, I don’t observe the Sabbath. I don’t have ringlets. I don’t dress entirely in black. I don’t work for a Jewish bank. You could say I’m totally unorthodox.”

“Why did you want to be Lord Mayor?”

“What financier wouldn’t? It’s an honour. Proof I’ve assimilated myself into a secretly hostile environment. Chairmanships and presidencies are all very well, but the mayoralty is a unique position. It’s a chance to do an immense amount of good – for both the companies and charities I’m involved with. And, of course, I’ll be able to help my friends …”

He topped up Johnny’s glass.

“What d’you want me to do?”

“Find out who’s behind this campaign. I don’t have much faith in the police. Ironic, isn’t it, that the top brass are based in Old Jewry? Did you know the Great Synagogue there was burned down before Edward I expelled the Jews …”

When Johnny, somewhat squiffy, re-emerged into daylight, the working week was over. The army of bank messengers, dispatch cases chained to their wrists, had marched off home, leaving the streets to the City’s “submerged tenth”: watchmen, sandwich-men, hawkers, beggars and bible-bangers. The lamps slung on wires above them swung in the strengthening wind. Plane trees shed their last few leaves.

Johnny hadn’t finished work though. He decided to walk back to the office to clear his head.

He preferred being on foot – relying on his own resources – to being driven by someone else. London was a never-ending variety show, every pedestrian a character in an impromptu promenade performance. It was impossible not to cheer.

Even so, as he strode down Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s standing proud behind him, his spirits sank. He’d two meaty stories to pursue, but what was the point if the country was waltzing towards war? His flat feet would keep him out of the army yet he was determined to make himself useful. Perhaps Adler could recommend him to the Ministry of Information when it was finally re-established.

He’d read too much to harbour any illusions about the reality of war. Chamberlain had declared there must be “no more Passchendaeles” – Johnny’s father had been killed in the battle in 1917 – but, for all his good intentions, he was a politician not a magician. Peace couldn’t be produced, like a rabbit, out of a hat. Before long, ignorant armies would once again clash by night. If Johnny couldn’t report on it he could at least help pick up the pieces: carry a stretcher or drive an ambulance. Matt, Lizzie and Lila Mae were the only family he had. It wouldn’t matter if he were blown to bits.

What bollocks! He shook his head to dispel the gloom. Evil had to be confronted wherever it lurked. He nodded to the commissionaire and headed for the lifts, noticing in passing that the sunburst ceiling, dazzlingly lit, made the doorman’s shoes shine.

A pall of silver cigarette smoke drifted over the stalls. Johnny, sprawled on the front row, smirked at the portrayal of hard-drinking, hard-talking newspapermen in I Cover the Waterfront. He could see why the American tale of people-trafficking had taken five years to reach these shores.

The ABC in Islington High Street had been the Empire until a few months ago. Movies had replaced music-hall turns in 1932. When he was a child his mother had often treated him to a Saturday afternoon show. In those days the Victorian concert venue had been known as The Grand. The more things changed the more they remained the same.

There was no food at home so he’d hopped off the tram at the Angel and bought a couple of stale rolls – at a discount – from the French & Vienna Bread Co. next door and smuggled them into the picture house.

If he was with a girl he usually steered her to the back row where, inevitably, the film took second place to smooching. However, when alone, he liked to be as close to the screen as possible so that the characters were literally larger than life.

Claudette Colbert, especially in the brothel sequence, was captivating – although he preferred her darting eyes in It Happened One Night – but Ernest Torrence’s evil sea-captain stole every scene. His best line came as one of the Chinamen he’d drowned was fished out of the Pacific: “Not more’n a day. Crabs ain’t got ’im yet.” The Scottish actor was dead now: gallstones.

As he cut through the crowd of couples dawdling in the foyer, reluctant to return to the real world, he regretted not asking Rebecca for a date. Once outside, all thoughts of her disappeared as torrential icy rain threatened to drown him.

His flat was not far away so he decided to make a run for it. Dead leaves made the pavements treacherous. Each time he skidded the gutters seemed to gurgle with laughter.

Key in hand, he turned into Cruden Street. There was someone huddled in the doorway.

“About fucking time,” said Matt.

FIVE

Monday, 31 October, 8.30 a.m.

Despite reports to the contrary, the world was not coming to an end. Planet Earth had not been invaded by Martians. Johnny grinned at the gullibility of the public. The War of the Worlds was a radio play, not reality. Did no one read H. G. Wells across the Atlantic? All the same, he couldn’t wait to hear the programme.

Orson Welles, the director, claimed the whole thing had been a prank to mark Halloween. If so, why had it been broadcast the day before? And why had it created so much hoo-ha?

There was nothing new about using fake news bulletins for dramatic effect on the radio: Ronald Knox had used them in Broadcasting from the Barricades on the BBC, during which rioters were supposed to have taken over the streets of London. Johnny suspected the American press, like its British counterpart, was suspicious of the relatively new medium, afraid of its ability to report news so much quicker, and was seizing the opportunity to bash the competition. However, with Germany and Japan banging the drums of war, it had been cynical of Welles to capitalize on fears of global invasion.

“The balloon won’t go up for another year or so, if Wells is to be believed,” said PDQ. “In The Shape of Things to Come he predicts that a new world war will begin in January 1940.”

“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”

“Let’s hope you haven’t done anything wrong. Stone wants to see you.”

The red light above the door to the editor’s office went off and the green light came on. Johnny tapped on the polished wood and entered.

“Ah, Steadman. What have you been up to now?” Victor Stone peered at him over the top of his half-moon glasses.

“Sir?”

“I’ve had a call from our new Lord Mayor. Anything to tell me?”

“Wish I had.”

Stone smiled. “Stand at ease. Must be getting old, Steadman – no one’s complained about you recently. Quite the opposite, in fact. Leo said what a personable chap you were. I gather you met on Saturday.”

So Adler and his boss were on first-name terms …

“He wants to know who attacked him. Doesn’t trust the police.”

“Quite. Yet they’ve already ascertained the attackers used pig’s blood. Talk about adding insult to injury.”

“Attackers? Adler said the man was alone.”

“Indeed. But, according to the times established by the bluebottles, a single individual couldn’t have attacked all five banks as well as Adler.”

Where was Stone getting his information from? Why hadn’t anyone told him this? It was supposed to be his story. Johnny knew better than to ask.

“Is Adler clean?”

“As far as I know. Go on …”

Conscious of the black eyes boring into him, Johnny obliged. “Well, pigs aren’t kosher, are they? Jews consider them unclean. The blood could be a reference to some sort of dirty business. Insider dealing is even more common than people suspect.”

“Adler has only got where he is today by being whiter than white. He is extremely conscious of his reputation.”

“He that filches from me my good name …”

Johnny, not for the first time, had opened his mouth without thinking. Iago was a villain and, at this moment, quoting from Othello immediately raised the spectre of Shylock.

“Precisely. Reputation, reputation, reputation! Lose the immortal part of yourself and what remains is bestial. That’s why you must help him. It’s your number one priority.”

“So the two murders are less important?”

Stone stood up and came round the corner of his enormous desk. The fitness fanatic did callisthenics every morning in his office. “Beauty hurts!” was his catchphrase. He had a good body and, as a member of the Open-Air Tourist Society, was not afraid of showing it.

“Anyone else been killed?”

Johnny could smell the carrot juice on Stone’s breath. He stood his ground.

“No.”

“Anyone been arrested?”

“No.”

“Anything new to report at all?”

“Not at this point.”

“Well, get going then. Who’s to know what your snouts have unearthed? If they haven’t heard anything about Adler’s attackers they may have heard something about the dead men.”

He strolled over to the window that – despite the janitor’s best efforts – was still flecked with blackout paint.

“Adler isn’t going to speak to anyone but us. It’ll be an exclusive. One in the eye for the Financial Times. A successful outcome would benefit us all – especially you. Herr Patsel is an excellent news editor, but he can’t stay here, cling on to power, much longer. A reshuffle is on the cards.”

“I’m a newshound, sir, not a house cat. I belong on the streets not behind a desk.”

“Think about it. Now go get me a story.”

Most newspapers used City spies and featured City diaries – published under such pseudonyms as Midas and Autolycus (“a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles”) – to prove it. The City had a tradition of secrecy and worked hard to cultivate its mystique. Attempts to cast light on its activities were viewed askance. Consequently, relations between Fleet Street and Threadneedle Street were often strained.

In the Square Mile it wasn’t only the streets that followed mediaeval courses. The business of buying and selling remained the same. The exchanges didn’t like change. Profit always came at someone’s expense. It was all a game: beggar-my-neighbour or strip-Jack-naked.

Johnny shared Dickens’s opinion of bankers. The crooked financier Mr Merdle – who was full of shit – lived down to his name. Was Adler a mutual friend?

Moneychangers – even before Jesus threw them out of the temple – had never been popular. In a time of hardship though – and when wasn’t it? – Johnny deemed it obscene to be a fat cat while everyone else was tightening their belts. The poor, as Jesus said, were always with us, but that didn’t mean they had to be grist for the City’s satanic mills. Moneymen were routinely demonized in some sections of the press. To counter this, Sir Robert Kindersley, the head of Lazards – aka “The God of the City” – tried to establish a “Bankers’ Bureau” to enhance the image of the Square Mile. However, when the clearing banks failed to cooperate, the talking shop failed.

The City could only do what it always did: put a brave face on it. The banks conducted their business in imposing buildings, the columns – whether Corinthian, Ionic or Doric – hinting at the figures being totted up by hand-operated machines inside. Tap-tap-tap screw! Tap-tap-tap screw! However, it was all a front. The white stone was hung on steel girders like so much sugar-icing. Inside, the banking halls had their own marbled façades. Behind the mahogany veneers, away from the public gaze, there lay a maze of dark and dingy cubbyholes where the real work was done. No matter how much money was donated to charity, bankers couldn’t disguise the fact that, robbing from the poor to give to the rich, they were the opposite of Robin Hood.

Which of his informants should he call first? Johnny reached for the phone but then pushed it away. He would speak to them face to face. It would make it easier to tell if they were lying.

Hughes, no doubt, would be bothering corpses at Bart’s: he wasn’t going anywhere. Culver had switched bucket shops but wouldn’t be free till the evening either. Quicky Quirk, on the other hand, had been released from Pentonville only last week. It was time they caught up.

Lila Mae would not stop screaming. It was astonishing that such a little thing could make so much noise. Lizzie had fed her, changed her, rocked her and sung to her without success before giving up hope and returning the baby to her cot in the boxroom that Matt had decorated. He had been so proud, and so pleased, when she’d told him she was pregnant. Rampant too.

Lila’s brick-red face was scrunched up, her tiny fists clenched, her bootied feet kicking the air. Lizzie, sleep-starved and nipple-sore, stared at her daughter. How quickly a bundle of joy became a ball of fury.

If she cried much longer she would have a convulsion. What was the matter with her? What should she do? She picked Lila up and clutched to her breast. For a second there was silence then, lungs refilled, the caterwauling resumed.

Lizzie walked round the room, shushing her baby, whispering into one of her beautiful, neat ears.

“Hush-a-bye baby, in the tree-top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock …”

The rocking horses on the wallpaper seemed to mock her. Was she going off her rocker?

Who could she call? Not her mother. She’d offered to pay for a nanny, but Lizzie didn’t want a stranger under the roof of their new home. When she’d said she could manage, her mother had said nothing but smiled as if to say she knew better. Maybe she did. Lizzie wasn’t going to admit it now.

She couldn’t stay within these four walls any longer. She’d never felt so alone or so frustrated. She had to get out. Perhaps a ride on a choo-choo train would do the trick.

The incessant rumble of traffic in Holborn Circus came through the ill-fitting window. A draught wafted the thin, striped curtains that shut out prying eyes. The occupant of the top floor room remained oblivious. All the person could hear was a man screaming for his life. Sheer, naked terror. When it came down to it, that’s all there was.

The freshly sharpened, freshly polished knife reflected the killer’s handsome face. The sealed vial stood to attention on the table. Mask, gloves: just one more thing. How little was needed to take a life!

If you were lucky, death was instantaneous, a flick of a switch producing eternal darkness. If you weren’t, if the fates were unkind, your last moments could be filled with infinite agonies. Everyone was helpless in the face of death. No one could turn back the clock.

The past, if you let it, would imprison you. Each man was serving a life sentence. And yet one quick movement, a simple gesture, could change the world.

SIX

The last time Johnny had seen Quirk he’d been in the dock at the Old Bailey. The boot clicker turned house-breaker had been given a five-year stretch and yet here he was, free as a bird instead of doing bird, after less than two years.

The snug of the Thistle and Crown in Billiter Square was empty except for Quirk and an old man nursing a pint at the bar. Johnny had ten minutes before the lunchtime crowd would pack out the pub.

Quirk’s lantern-jaw was busy chewing a pickled egg. He scowled, swallowed and began to get up.

“What? Not pleased to see me? Stay where you are.” Johnny pointed at his beer glass. “Another?”

“You said you’d put in a word with the judge.”

Bits of yolk flew through the air. Johnny narrowly avoided getting egg on his face.

“I tried, but your record spoke for itself. Stop sulking. D’you want a drink or not?”

Quirk sniffed. “Bell’s. A double.”

Johnny, hiding a smile, went to the bar. What the hell? He’d have the same.

“So why the early release?”

“You know me. Made myself useful.”

“If you were that useful I’m surprised they didn’t keep you.”

There was no shortage of snitches inside. It was a dangerous business: eyes and ears could be gouged out or lopped off with ease. Then, given Quirk’s previous profession – cutting out shapes of leather for a shoemaker – he was a dab hand with a knife. He’d only got into trouble when he realized how quickly a blade could open a sash window.

Quirk sipped the Scotch and licked his lips.

“I see you’ve done all right for yourself. Read the News in Pentonville – before I wiped my arse with it. How d’you hear I was out?”

“You of all people should know how rumour spreads. What have you been up to since?”

“Not much. Sitting here. Enjoying the company – till now.”

Quirk hailed from Seven Sisters but, having worked in nearby East India Street, the Crown had once been his local. It was strange how humans were such creatures of habit. Perhaps, surrounded by warehouses full of textiles, furs, dried fruit and furniture, he found comfort in the ceaseless commerce. Traders were not the only ones who thrived on word of mouth.

“Anything to tell me?”

“About what?”

“Pig’s blood, for starters.”

Quirk grimaced. “There’s no blood on my hands.”

“Any idea who’s behind the attacks?”

“Take your pick. Bloody Jews. Cause grief wherever they are.”

“What have they done to you?”

“Nothing, yet, but if they get their way we’ll all be in the shit come Christmas. I’ve just got out of uniform. Don’t want to put on another.”

“Ever worn a black shirt?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you? No harm in standing up for your own folk.”

“I thought you only believed in money. If you believe in Mosley too, perhaps you should try growing a moustache.”

“Not likely. Don’t want a skidmark on my lip.”

“Still in touch with any Biff Boys?”

“Might be.”

“Ask around. It’ll be worth your while.”

Quirk drained his whisky glass and held it out. Johnny ignored it. “Anything on the grapevine about Chittleborough and Bromet?”

“Who?” He waggled the glass. “Oil my cogs – and I’ll have another egg while you’re at it.”

Johnny, after his first drink of the day, was feeling benevolent. As he suspected, Quirk claimed to know nothing about the two murders but the squealer promised to keep his ear to the ground.

They left the pub together and, to avoid the endless stream of peckish secretaries, clerks and messengers, turned into the covered passageway that dog-legged between Billiter Square and Billiter Avenue.

The man at the bar followed.

Hughes, emerging from the mortuary at the rear of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, spun on his heels and walked quickly in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Percy! Don’t be like that.” Johnny ran down the corridor. The green linoleum, rain-slick, was like an ice-rink. He had to grab Hughes to keep his balance.

“Gerroff me! I ain’t done nuffink.”

“Did I say you had? Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Canteen.”

“Good idea. Fear not, I’ll pay.”

They crossed the courtyard, piled high with sandbags, and entered the mess-room for non-medical staff. Janitors, porters and cleaners, all in brown dustcoats, sat elbow to elbow on benches either side of long trestle tables. No wonder the floors had not been mopped. A miasma of steam and cigarette smoke hung over the plates of mutton stew and sausages and mash.

Hughes, all arms and elbows, wolfed down his meal.

“How you can have an appetite after what you’ve been doing is beyond me.”

Hughes shrugged. “A man can get used to anyfink.”

The pathologist’s unglamorous assistant refused to say another word until his belly was full.

Outside, the shower had passed so they paused by the central fountain. Its water music was the last sound Johnny’s mother had heard.

“The lads weren’t brung ’ere. Got taken straight to Bishopsgate – but Farrant did the PMs.”

“And what did your boss say?”

“Never seen anyfink like ’em. Todgers sliced clean off.” He winced. “No funny bottom business though.”

“That’s good to know.” Johnny wasn’t sure that would have been the case had Hughes been left alone with them. “And …?”

The gannet held out a callused hand. Johnny produced a ten-shilling note but ensured it was out of reach.

“Speak!”

“The lads had something else in common. Stomach contents. Their last meal was boiled pork and pease pudding.”

The “Hello Girls” had been busy in his absence. Several people had telephoned and left messages. Matt: Call me. Lizzie: I need to see you. Henry Simkins: I’ve booked a table for 1 p.m. at the London Tavern tomorrow. Be there!

Matt was not at Snow Hill police station. Lizzie was not at home in Bexleyheath. Simkins, his long-time rival at the Daily Chronicle, was, of course, out to lunch. He liked nothing more than sweet-talking waiters at his club.

Johnny turned his attention to the second post. Press releases, book launches, exhibition openings and an invitation to a premature Guy Fawkes party hosted by the Grocers’ Company at the Artillery Ground on Friday evening. There was a handwritten message on the back:

Do come! Rebecca.

How could he refuse?

SEVEN

Alexander Vanneck didn’t like Mondays. After a blessed day off, the drudgery of the London branch of the Guaranty Trust Co. of New York seemed even more depressing. Modern Times didn’t show the half of it. Today, though, he’d reached rock bottom.

As a male typist it was his job to keep his manager happy – but Jock Wilderspin was not a happy man and made it his business to share his misery with as many of his subordinates as he could. He stood on ceremony even when seated on his throne-like chair. Woe betide a minion caught using the Partners’ Entrance. As for sneaking into their marble lavatory, you could forget it. It wasn’t enough that the nobs had their own dining room: Fullers in Gracechurch Street was off-limits too. Staff wishing to pop out for a sandwich were expected to restrict themselves to the nearby ABC or a Lyons tea-shop but – fuck it! – Wilderspin had seen him leaving Fullers at lunchtime.

The bastard took his revenge at four o’clock when he presented Alex with three pages of foolscap and told him to type it up immediately. He did so and – trying to please – corrected a few spelling mistakes. Twenty minutes after he’d taken the letter up to be signed the buzzer went. Wilderspin was in a right tizzy: he objected to being corrected and demanded the letter be typed exactly as it had been written. Alex had nearly bitten his tongue in half trying not to answer back.

His good intentions had led to him leaving the office thirty minutes late. Oh for a tommy-gun! He imagined the gutters of Lombard Street flowing with blood. Pinstriped bodies lying everywhere. Top hats rolling down the pavement …

His stomach rumbled angrily. He’d half a mind to return to Fullers – but he couldn’t afford it twice in one week. He’d go to Lockharts in Fenchurch Street instead.

Johnny, unable to contact Matt all afternoon, took the liberty of using the police box in Eastcheap to have one last go.

“Working late?”

“Could say the same for you,” sighed Matt. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

“Anything to report?”

“No. Spent most of the shift being passed from pillar to post by the army. It was suggested there might be some sort of a military connection between Bromet and Chittleborough – they were both fighting fit – but getting information from the War Office is a thankless task.”

“The top brass have other things on their minds. What did you make of the post-mortem reports?”

“Not much.”

“At least we know they weren’t Jewish – unless they were force-fed.”

“There’s no evidence of that. What’s religion got to do with it anyway?”

“No idea. Might be completely irrelevant. Our new Lord Mayor, on the other hand, was clearly attacked because he is Jewish. Any arrests so far?”

“Not for blood sports.”

“Why did you want me to call then?”

Matt sighed again. “It’s Lizzie. She thinks I’m seeing another woman.”

Johnny was early. He couldn’t help it: age had not diminished his eagerness, his keenness to follow a story wherever it led. He stamped his feet and blew into his cupped hands.

They had arranged to meet outside the Post Office on the corner of Eastcheap and Philpot Lane (named after a former Lord Mayor). On the opposite corner, high up on the front of the building, two mice nibbled a piece of cheese. The small sculpture commemorated a fight that had broken out on the roof of the building when one workman accused a colleague of eating one of his sandwiches. During the exchange of blows that followed, one of the men fell to his death. Only then was it discovered that the actual culprits were mice.

Talk about hard cheese. Johnny lit a cigarette. He should have made more of an effort to contact Lizzie. He could have put her mind at ease.

The bell of St Margaret Pattens in Rood Lane chimed seven times.

“Steadman! How the devil are you?” Culver shook his hand with enthusiasm. After the day he’d had it made a pleasant change to be greeted warmly.

“All the better for seeing you.”

Johnny followed him through the doors of the General Wolfe Tavern. A blast of heat, noise and smoke engulfed them.

In his line of work Johnny was no stranger to the company of thieves but he’d yet to encounter a more plausible rogue. David Culver was the black sheep of a good Yorkshire family, privately educated, morally bankrupt. He made his money in one of the 180 or so bucket shops that tarnished the jealously protected image of the City. Their brokers, not bound by the rules of the Stock Exchange, were free to pursue share-plugging projects that were little better than systematic attempts to defraud the public. Nevertheless, Johnny – aware of the paradox – considered them more honest than their regulated, apparently respectable, rivals.

“Champagne?” Culver grinned, revealing surprisingly small, sharp teeth. Then again, he was known as the Shark. “It’s been a good day.”

“Don’t tell me. I’m all out of righteous indignation. It’s the sins of others that interest me today.”

In fact Culver was the nearest thing the City had to a saint. He gave away a lot of his ill-gotten gains merely to prove a point. If people could afford to play the stock market, they could afford to lose. Or rather, they should be compelled to share their fortunes with those less fortunate.

“Your very good health!” Culver lifted his silver tankard. The landlord kept it behind the bar for him; Culver claimed the precious metal was the only thing that did not taint the Laurent-Perrier.

Johnny raised his glass.

“Typical socialist!” Culver sneered. “Always willing to share his thirst with your champagne.”

The bottled sunshine tasted exquisite.

“I take it you’ve heard about the murders?”

“Who hasn’t? I also heard the poor buggers lost more than their lives.”

“Where’d you get that from? So far I’ve only written mutilated. The police haven’t released any specific details.”

“Officially.”

As usual Culver was extraordinarily well informed. “Chittleborough worked round the corner. The rumour mills, naturally, have been spinning yarns.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He was small fry. Can’t think why anyone would want to kill him. As you know, I only go after big fish. When I make a killing, it’s strictly metaphorical.”

“Why bother though? You could do anything you want.”

“I’m doing precisely that.” He waved his arm expansively. “It’s all a game. I enjoy it. There are a lot of clever, rich people in the City. I want to prove I’m cleverer – and want to be richer – than all of them.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Culver swigged from his tankard. “Don’t play the innocent. You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking. Knowledge is power.”

“Indeed – but information is not a bar of Cadbury’s. If you eat the chocolate, the bar is gone.”

“And if you give it to a friend, he’ll eat it, not you.”

“So that’s where shares, selective leaks, come in.”

“Yes – but open secrets are worthless. The more people who know, the less powerful the knowledge, the less profit you’ll make. And, of course, word travels fast. I knew about Chamberlain’s little piece of paper before the ink on it was dry.”

“Pease in our time.”

“Peace in our time.”

“Indeed – but the dead men had both eaten pork and pease pudding shortly before they died.”

“Ha! Jack the Quipper strikes again.”

Culver poured the last few drops into Johnny’s glass. Some believed that meant he’d never have a child. So far the superstition had not been disproved.

“Let’s have another. One is never enough.”

The Shark disappeared into the sea of swaying backs and soon returned with a second bottle plus a plate of oysters. The landlord clearly knew where his best interests lay.

“So will there be another war?” Johnny helped himself to one of the creatures that, until recently, had – like him – survived by picking up tidbits.

“Indubitably. The City doesn’t want military action – it interrupts revenue streams – but it will, of course, make the best of it. Arms manufacturers, textile makers and anyone else who lands a government contract will earn millions. Then there are the deals that will never see the light of day.”

“Such as?”

Culver leaned closer. “Cheques can bounce but Hitler’s proved Czechs can be double-crossed too.”

Johnny’s antennae quivered. Culver was a master bam-boozler, a king of bluff, but he sensed that on this occasion he was on the verge of telling the truth.

“Montagu Norman is forever on the phone to Berlin.”

The governor of the Bank of England – accurately nicknamed Mountebank – was anxious for business with the Third Reich to continue.

“Deutsche Bank, Kleinworts, Schröders – there are plenty of German banks in London and there are still plenty of people willing to arrange credit for the Fatherland.”

“The City’s bankrolling the Nazis?” Culver feigned astonishment.

“You might say that. I certainly didn’t.”

“Does Leo Adler know about this? He’s Jewish!”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Don’t you worry, I will. Thank you, David.”

A surge of adrenalin swept through him. This was the break he’d been searching for. His spirits soared.

“What can I do for you in return?”

“Nothing, Steadman.” He watched a bead of condensation trickle down the side of his tankard. “Nothing yet. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. A big chocolate bar.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me – whatever your motives.”

“Remember to keep my name out of it. As a glorified salesman, my mouth is all I’ve got.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Johnny, somewhat unsteadily, got to his feet and shook Culver’s hand. The moneyman didn’t let go straightaway.

“While you’re at it, you might ask about the gold deposited in the Bank of England by the Czechoslovak National Bank. It’s worth at least six million …”

EIGHT

Tuesday, 1 November, 6.20 a.m.

Someone was hammering on the front door. The vibrations, travelling through the floorboards and up the frame, triggered the recurrent nightmare in which an unknown figure loomed over his bed, where he lay paralyzed with fear. However, before the incubus could crush his chest, reality intervened.

The room was pitch-black and freezing. He dragged himself out of bed, fragments of bad dreams – half-remembered lovers, pain and guilt – clogging his head. A hangover from Halloween? More like all the alcohol still in his blood. He must cut down. The hammering continued. Repercussions.

Johnny, clad only in pyjamas, stumbled down the narrow staircase and flung open the door. Had he forgotten to lock it? A young constable from the Met, fist still raised, stood on the step. Startled, he didn’t bother to say good morning. He was chilled to the bone, dog-tired and at the end of a very long shift. He’d also been knocking for more than three minutes.

“Detective Turner sent me, sir. He’s just around the corner in Packington Street.”

“Why?”

“A man’s been murdered.”

A discarded pumpkin lantern lay in the gutter. One kick wiped the grin off its face. The flames of the gas-lamps flickered palely in the frigid air. Dawn was a pale smudge behind the spire of St James’s. A milk-cart came rattling down the hill from Essex Road. Johnny tried to flag it down but the driver looked the other way.

There was no mistaking which house it was in the shabby Victorian terrace. Two police cars – one from the City and one from the Met – and an anonymous black van were parked in the empty street. Even at this hour a flock of early birds had gathered by the area railings. They stared enviously as Johnny was allowed to climb the six, awkwardly steep, steps and enter the lobby of the raised ground floor. Matt came clumping down the stairs.

“You could have brought me breakfast.”

“I tried.” Johnny yawned.

“Bad night?”

“Yes – and no.”

“This way.”

The stale air smelled of damp clothing, fried food and nappies. On the first floor Matt rapped then opened a door to reveal a harassed young couple being interviewed by DS Penterell, who scowled at Johnny but said nothing. A baby in the woman’s arms started wailing. Matt pointed to the ceiling, where there was a heart-shaped stain. A drop of blood plinked into a metal bucket.

The room above was like thousands of others in the capital: little more than a box for living in. Cheap furniture: table, two chairs and a bed. Threadbare rug and thin curtains. A few books on a shelf, a few clothes on pegs. A cracked sink. Cobwebs.

The bare bulb cast a yellowish pallor over the corpse tied to the bed. It was that of a fat, middle-aged man with more hair on his body than his head. Once again there was a shocking absence in the groin – and the inevitable presence of far too much claret. Johnny pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose. Blood wasn’t the only thing that had leaked from the victim. He walked over to the open window.

“He who was living is now dead.”

“What?”

“Eliot. The Wasteland.”

“If you say so,” said Matt. “He’s Karl Broster. A tallyman.”

Someone else who milked the misery of the poor.

“Is he German?”

“If he was, he didn’t have an accent. Not very popular with the neighbours though. Too fond of beer.”

“You can see that.” Johnny pointed at the proud pot-belly.

Matt sniffed disparagingly. Smells never troubled him. “I think we can say that the motive wasn’t sexual.”

“Wrong! We can’t all have a body like Tarzan.” While Matt was no ringer for Johnny Weissmuller, his body attracted almost as many admirers. The only thing Johnny had in common with the actor was his Christian name. “Sex must have something to do with it. Mind you, he’s nothing like the other two.”

“Well, he’s dead – and died slowly. It takes a while to bleed to death.”

“Perhaps he was unconscious.”

“Look at the wrists and ankles. The restraints have sunk into the flesh. He was awake all right – and he must have fought for as long as he could.”

“Christ! Imagine having your cock chopped off.”

“I’d rather not,” said Matt drily.

“It must hurt like hell.”

“Pray you never find out. If it’s any consolation, it appears to have been a single slice. Quick and clean.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Commander Inskip blocked the doorway. They had been so engrossed in the horror of the scene they’d failed to hear the stealthy tread of the superior officer. Matt turned pale.

“Get out, Steadman, before I have you arrested.”

“Get out of the road then. I was just passing by on my way to work. As you’re no doubt aware, I happen to live around the corner.”

Inskip didn’t move. He was at least six feet four. His deep-set eyes glared at Matt.

“Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

The way he said it, you’d have thought friend was a dirty word. However, Inskip was the one rumoured to be dirty.

Johnny, once again, was glad of Matt’s company. Had he not been there it would have come as no surprise if the Commander had clipped him round the ears or even cuffed him and given him a kicking. Their paths – and swords – had crossed several times.

They paused in the hall before opening the front door.

“Sorry for getting you into hot water.”

“It’s hardly the first time,” said Matt. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Inskip.”

“More trade secrets? Care to tell?”

Penterell, oozing smugness, appeared on the landing.

“Not now,” said Matt. “Let’s just say, if I go, he goes.”

“So what else is new? One of these days his luck will run out.”

“It will if you have anything to do with it.”

The door swung open to admit two men with a stretcher. “Sorry, gents,” said Matt. “The photographer’s not here yet. You can leave that here, but you’ll have to wait in the van.”

The men rolled their eyes and – like Tweedledum and Tweedledumber – toddled off down the steps.

There was no sign of any other pressmen. Johnny needed to capitalize on his head start.

“Thanks for the wake-up call. Which reminds me – I must telephone Lizzie today. I’ll do my best to put her mind at rest.”

“Do that.” Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Careful what you say though.”

The thousand words – more colour than content – were on PDQ’s desk before 9 a.m. Johnny scanned the other newspapers. His competitors were as much in the dark as he was. There was nothing new about Adler’s attackers or the double murders. The New York Stock Exchange had introduced a fifteen-point plan intended to beef up protection for public investors. The Great Depression refused to lift.

“Excellent stuff!” Quarles was still wearing his coat. “Not many facts though. I’m sure Patsel, wherever he is, will splash on this, but see what else you can find out.”

He went off in search of the tea-lady.

It was too early to contact Adler, and Matt would still be out making enquiries. To pass the time, Johnny picked up a copy of a new weekly magazine called Picture Post. The cover showed two women in polka-dot blouses leaping in the air.

“Colposinquanonia!”

Louis Dimeo, who wouldn’t let anyone forget that Italy had won the World Cup again in June, was breathing down his neck.

“Sixteen letters,” said Tanfield. “Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest.”

“How on earth d’you know a word like that?” said Johnny, looking at Dimeo in astonishment. “Anything over seven letters usually gives you a headache.”

“That would be telling.” The sports freak bestowed a dazzling smile upon his colleagues. “That said, breast-stroking is the national sport of La Bella Italia – after football, of course.”

“A quid says no one can get the word in the paper,” said Johnny.

“You’re on,” said Dimeo and, before nipping smartly back to his desk, took the risk of ruffling his red hair in a gesture of friendship. He was wasting his time; Johnny would never forgive him for sleeping with Stella, even though he knew how Johnny felt about her. Dimeo’s behaviour was rarely sporting.

Johnny had only loved one other woman more than Stella – and Lizzie was married to Matt. He’d made up his mind to ask Stella to marry him but instead of meeting him at St Paul’s so he could get down on one knee she had deliberately disappeared. It turned out that she’d been secretly seeing Dimeo as well. And that wasn’t the only way she’d betrayed him.

“What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.

“Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”

“Suburban neurosis.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“Very good. I’ll use that.” He chewed his lip. “Lord knows why they always land me with these stories. Anyone stuck inside the same four walls day after day would go out of their minds.”

“Prisoners don’t.”

“Sure about that?”

“No – but many of them are mad before they go in.”

“It’s a sign of the times,” said Blenkinsopp. “Freed from the necessity of foraging for food or seeking shelter, the pampered middle-classes have nothing to occupy their tiny minds. That’s why they lose their marbles. Mark my words, it’ll vanish once war breaks out.”

The London Tavern on the corner of Fenchurch Street and Mark Lane was a temple devoted to pleasure. Within its walls there were snack bars, cocktail bars, oyster bars, grill rooms and restaurants. The original tavern in Bishopsgate – where, in Nicholas Nickleby, a public meeting is held “to take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company” – had been demolished half a century ago but the owners were determined to keep its spirit of service with a bow and scrape alive. Consequently, it was a popular venue for City banquets.

Simkins had reserved a table in the fish restaurant. A bottle, tilted at the angle of a Nazi salute, was chilling in an ice-bucket beside it.

“Johnny dearest!” Simkins leapt to his feet and kissed him on both cheeks.

A murmur of disapproval rippled round the dining room. Bloody Continentals!

Johnny, accustomed to his rival’s flamboyant antics, merely smiled. Once upon a time he would have blushed.

“Hello, Henry. What do you want?”

“Don’t be like that.” Simkins, gratified by the stir he had caused, finally sat down. “It’s All Souls Day. Don’t you want to enter the kingdom of Heaven?”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“Doesn’t stop you being in purgatory though.”

Simkins twiddled the stem of his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Have a drink.” He pulled the wine bottle out of the bucket. It was already half-empty.

“No, thank you. Just Perrier for me.”

“Water? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I overdid it last night, that’s all. What d’you want?”

“Let’s order first. The turbot’s supposed to be divine.”

Johnny, in his days as a cub, had written too many stories about fatal fish bones for his liking so he restricted himself to Morecambe Bay shrimps and scallops from Whitstable. Simkins, chitchatting away, filleted his food with admirable dexterity but Johnny could tell he was nervous. His trademark insouciance seemed put on.

“Come on then, Simkins. Spit it out.”

“In the circumstances, not the best choice of words.” Simkins winked at the waiter, who was ceremoniously pouring coffee from a silver pot.

“Henry, I won’t ask again.”

“Our old friend is back in town.”

“Who?”

“Cecilia Zick.”

There were times when Johnny wished he’d never saved Henry’s life – and this was one of them.

“Don’t hit me.” Simkins tossed his chestnut curls – the envy of many a girl.

“I’ll say this for you,” said Johnny. “You’ve got balls.”

“Not remotely funny. Not funny at all. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Steadman.”

“Where is he?”

Johnny balked at referring to the transvestite as a woman.

“I don’t know, I swear. He hardly trusts me any more than you.”

“What brings him back here? Surely he knows he’s playing with fire?”

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