Snow Hill
Mark Sanderson

HarperCollinsPublishers

In memory of Drew Morgan (1964-1994)

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,

And bear their trophies with them as they go:

Filths of all hues and odour, seem to tell

What street they sail’d from, by their sight and smell.

They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,

From Smithfield to St ’Pulchre’s shape their course;

And in huge confluence join’d at Snow Hill ridge,

Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge,

Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts and blood,

Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,

Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood…

From A Description of a City Shower

Jonathan Swift, October 1710

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Part One: Smithfield

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two: Honey Lane

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three: Snow Hill

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

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

I went to my funeral this morning. I expected more people to be there—if only, like Simkins, to make sure the coffin lid was nailed down properly. The turnout was so disappointing I felt like joining the mourners as they huddled round the gaping grave—but, of course, I couldn’t. It was short notice, and it is the week before Christmas, so I suppose it’s a miracle that anyone, apart from Matt and Lizzie, bothered to traipse from Fleet Street to Finchley. Mr Stone told me that more came to the service in St Bride’s. Then my colleagues only had to walk about a hundred yards to the church. At least they made the effort. My killer didn’t.

I’ve been through a lot in the past few days. I nearly froze to death. I nearly burned to death. Daisy’s walked out. I’ve been blackmailed and nearly framed for murder. And I know there’s worse to come. The bastard thinks he’s got away with it. He won’t stop now. I can’t wait to see his face.

It began to snow as Lizzie threw her handful of earth into the grave. Not the usual thin, grey flakes that look like dandruff: thick, white, fluffy ones, the sort you see in children’s picture books. The gardens of stone soon disappeared under a shroud: God was organising his own cover-up. A real snow-job.

It is weird watching yourself being buried. I was a wraith at my own wake—which is somehow rather apt. This whole affair is about ghosts, bringing the dead back to life, giving a shape to the past. The world is not the sort of place I thought it was.

I’m still not sure what went on in the small hours of 5th December, but I do know it should never have happened. I know it was evil.

I will uncover the truth even if I have to kill to get it. A dead man can’t be tried for murder.

From the diary of John Steadman

Friday, 18th December, 1936

PART ONE Smithfield

ONE

Monday, 7th December 1936, 12.35 p.m.

About bloody time. Johnny Steadman stood up and yawned. No matter how much he kicked and cursed, Quicky Quirk, a lantern-jawed youth from Seven Sisters, was off to Pentonville for a five-year stretch. Judge Henshall, hungry for his club’s steak-and-kidney pie and claret, had decided to overlook the house-breaker’s deplorable lack of respect in favour of a quick exit. Johnny was starving too. He would grab a sandwich on the way back to the office.

As he emerged from Court Number Three and slipped into the stream of gowned functionaries, witnesses and spectators, a large hand gripped his shoulder. It belonged to a policeman.

“Ah, Inspector Rotherforth. Congratulations. Another thief off your patch.”

“Unfortunately there are plenty more where that blighter came from. Poverty breeds prisoners.” The cop smiled but did not relinquish his grip. He was known for always getting his man. At six foot two he towered over Johnny, but his height was not exceptional; some members of the City of London Police were seven feet tall. “I trust you’ll give me a mention in dispatches.”

“But of course.” Johnny relaxed as the long arm of the law finally released him.

Rotherforth was one of the first people he had interviewed for the Daily News. The senior officer had rescued a young girl from drowning. One moment she’d been playing happily on the beach beside Tower Bridge, the next she was being swept away by the current and dragged under the surface of the crowded waterway. With no thought for his own safety, Rotherforth, alerted by the screaming mother, had dived off the bridge into the Thames. To the applause of a crowd of red-faced Cockneys—who would be feeling cold, sick and dizzy by the end of the day, despite the knotted handkerchiefs on their heads—the policeman had dragged the unconscious child from the filthy water and administered mouth-to-mouth, undoubtedly saving her life.

To begin with, Johnny had been slightly intimidated by Rotherforth. He was strong as well as long, a well-trimmed moustache accentuating the whiteness of his even teeth, with handsome features that were remarkable for their perfect symmetry. There was a glint in his black eyes that, depending on the occasion, could promise mischief or menace. Johnny had gradually warmed to the man as he described his distinguished war record and showed off his “pip squeak”, the set of medals awarded to those servicemen who—unlike Johnny’s father—had somehow survived the Great War. Rotherforth had the full set: the 1914-15 Star, the General Service Medal and the Victory Medal, affectionately named by their proud bearers after the characters in a Daily Mirror strip cartoon called Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.

Anxious to be portrayed as a devoted family man as well as a career cop, Rotherforth had talked about his three daughters—Edith, Elaine and Elsie—before going on to describe how he had come to join the “gentlemen cops”, as the City of London Police were known. Like many officers, when the war ended he’d found that he missed the discipline and camaraderie. Pressed for anecdotes, Rotherforth’s face lit up as he began to recount various exploits involving an old comrade-in-arms by the name of Archie, only for his voice to catch with the recollection that his friend had not returned from France. Johnny had caught a glimpse of the titan’s vulnerable side as he refused to elaborate any further on Archie’s fate.

Rallying swiftly, Rotherforth stated that the only lie he’d ever told was giving his age as eighteen when he enlisted in the Black Watch. Johnny did not believe him; he knew that Rotherforth had knocked two years off his real age. Now in his thirty-ninth year, the inspector was popular with his men but no push-over. Any constable who went off his beat even for a minute, no matter what the reason, would be immediately recommended for dismissal.

“I’m glad I bumped into you,” said Johnny. “Did you lose a man over the weekend?”

“No. Who suggested we had?”

“I received an anonymous tip-off this morning.”

“Someone must have it in for you,” said Rotherforth, flashing his teeth. “It’s pure balderdash.” His sharp eyes lit up. “Ah, here comes my favourite PC.”

Another helmet with its distinctive crest and Roman-style comb—a tribute to the City of London Police’s civic-minded predecessors—was bobbing towards them through the mob.

“Matt!” said Johnny. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“PC Turner to you, sunshine.”

Johnny laughed. At six foot one, his closest friend was a lot taller than he was: then, since he was only five foot six, most people were. He was about to come back with some cheeky retort when he remembered Rotherforth, but on turning he realised that the inspector was no longer behind him.

“I’ve just been speaking to your boss.” Johnny stepped out of the path of a clerk laden with a perilous pile of folders. “He called you his favourite PC.”

“That’s because I won the match on Saturday. Rotherforth made a packet betting on me. He’s a good trainer, considering he’s never boxed himself.”

“Afraid of damaging his pretty face.” Noticing that Matt’s face was marred by dark smudges, the colour of raw liver, under his deep-blue eyes, Johnny asked: “Everything okay? Is Lizzie all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Matt. “And so am I.”

His tone of defiance could not disguise the fact that he was lying. Matt did not lie very often, especially to him. In their own way, both men had an ingrained respect for the truth. Johnny wondered how he could help.

“Got time for lunch?”

“No,” said Matt. “They’ve done cross-examining me so I’ll have to go back on duty till two.”

“That’s a shame,” said Johnny. “I wanted to ask if you’d heard anything about a cop dying over the weekend.”

“Which station was he based at?”

“Snow Hill,” said Johnny.

“That can’t be right,” said Matt. “We’d know if one of ours had bought it. Besides, if a cop from any station had been killed, there’d have been a huge to-do by now.”

“I didn’t say the cop had been killed,” said Johnny. “He could’ve been run over by a bus.”

“Still, if he worked at Snow Hill, we’d have been told,” said Matt. “Bad news travels fast, and losing one of our own—whatever the cause—always affects morale. I’ll ask around, but don’t hold your breath. I reckon someone’s having you on.”

“Rotherforth said much the same thing.” Johnny half turned, then swore under his breath. “Don’t look now.”

It was too late.

“What’s this? Hobnobbing with the boys in blue, Steadman? You know full well officers of the law are forbidden to talk shop with gentlemen of the press.”

“You’re no gentleman,” said Johnny.

“Oh, but I am—and that’s what really gets your goat, isn’t it?” Henry Simkins smirked as Johnny, despite his best efforts, flushed. It was not just the fop’s sandalwood scent that got up his nose.

For some reason, instead of squandering the Simkins family fortune in the time-honoured fashion—drink, drugs and debutantes—Henry preferred to use his wealth, public-school education and social connections to further a career which his father, a Member of Parliament, considered no better than venereal medicine. Then again, perhaps Simkins senior wasn’t so far off the mark. Like doctors, journalists got to see mankind at its most naked.

As always, Johnny felt scruffy standing beside Simkins in his Savile Row suit and a shirt from Jermyn Street. What rankled even more was the fact that the slim and slimy Henry was a blood with brains—and an excellent crime reporter.

Grudgingly, Johnny introduced his arch rival to Matt. As Simkins launched into his usual self-congratulatory spiel, Johnny let his eyes and attention wander around the foyer. Multicoloured marble seemed an odd choice of building material for an arena in which everything was cast in black and white. Barristers might argue for hours about the minute variegations of the law, but when it came down to it the defendant was either guilty or not guilty, freed or for the drop. The smooth stone and polished wood of the Sessions House appeared impervious to the torrent of human misery that swept through its portals.

His thoughts were interrupted by Simkins braying:

“You may congratulate me, Steadman.” Grinning at the scowl which had instinctively appeared on Johnny’s face, Simkins turned to Matt. “Look at that! He’s piqued by my latest exclusive. Did you see it in the Daily Chronicle?”

“I read the News myself,” said Matt. Johnny was touched by his loyalty. He knew his friend usually just made do with whatever was lying around the canteen.

“Never mind. Two million other people saw it.” Simkins gave a sigh of satisfaction.

Johnny’s reply was lost as around them the crowd swelled as yet another court emptied of spectators; the prospect of some hapless fool losing their liberty or life was always enough to add an edge to even the most jaded of appetites.

“Well, gentlemen, must dash,” said Simkins. “I’ve got a table at Rules. Coming, Steadman? Fancy a nosh-up on my expenses? Success should always be celebrated.” He looked Johnny up and down slowly, then tossed his flowing, chestnut locks. “Perhaps another time then. I think you’d like the restaurant.”

Johnny resented the assumption that he had yet to darken the doors of the fashionable restaurant. What made it worse, Simkins was right. Johnny was more of a greasy-spoon gourmet.

He wondered what lay behind the invitation. Had Simkins received the same tip-off? Was it a fishing expedition, hoping for corroboration, or was he just seizing an opportunity to rub Johnny’s nose in his expense account?

With a final nod in Matt’s direction and a smarmy, “PC Turner, it’s been a pleasure,” the tiresome toff shot off, oozing self-assurance, seemingly oblivious to the female heads turning in his wake.

“The world is his lobster,” murmured Johnny.

“You’ve used that one before,” said Matt, watching Simkins sweep through the doors, arm already raised to hail a taxi. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I can be,” said Johnny without hesitation, hoping that Daisy, his latest cutie, would understand. A chorus girl who, of course, harboured acting ambitions, she had asked him to get tickets for Mazo de la Roche’s Whiteoaks, which had been running at the Little Theatre in John Adam Street since April. Daisy, who had a fiery temper and big breasts, would inevitably make a fuss at missing out on a promised treat, but he would enjoy making it up to her later.

“How about the Viaduct at seven?”

“Great. I’ll see you there.” Matt gave him the ghost of a smile and hurried towards the daylight.

Intrigued, Johnny watched his friend’s broad back negotiate the milling crowd.

Clearly Matt had heard something after all.

TWO

Johnny crossed Old Bailey and hurried down Fleet Lane. Weaving through the crowds of office workers on Ludgate Hill would take too long, and he was spurred on by the thought that, even now, Simkins was probably trying to find out what he had been talking to Matt about. Wondering how much his rival had heard of the conversation, he took a short cut through Seacoal Lane—a dark, narrow passage which burrowed under the railway from Holborn Viaduct Station—and emerged into Farringdon Street just before it gave way to Ludgate Circus. He was in the foyer of the Daily News before it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten, so, spinning on his heel, he went straight back out again to the café next door. Three minutes later he was dropping crumbs over the piece of paper that had been preoccupying him all morning.

The newsroom was unusually quiet. Most of the reporters were out chasing stories or sinking a lunchtime pint in one of the dozen or so pubs that fuelled Fleet Street. A faint cloud of cigarette smoke lingered. Telephones went unanswered. Typewriters remained silent. Johnny preferred the place when, deadlines looming, it buzzed with barely controlled panic. He enjoyed the banter, the friendly rivalry which ensured he always tried his best. Moreover, since he’d found himself all alone in the world, his colleagues had become a sort of surrogate family, keeping the emptiness at bay.

He breathed in the sweet, acrid smell of ink from the presses on the ground floor. For once, it wasn’t mingled with the scent of a hundred sweaty armpits. Even in December, it was always hot in the newsroom. All around him, whirring fans fluttered papers on empty desks. Despite frequent requests from upstairs, no one ever bothered to turn off their fan or angle-poise lamp. The air of ceaseless activity had to be maintained at all times.

No matter how often he entered the newsroom, Johnny just couldn’t get over that sense of stepping out on to a stage. His heart rate would pick up each time he came through the door, and he still experienced the same adrenalin rush he’d felt on his first day in the job.

Four years on, he could not quite believe he had made it to a desk in the newsroom of a national daily. In the scheme of things, his was still a lowly position. In the newsroom, your place in the pecking order was reflected by your location in the vast maze of desks: the closer you were to the centre—where the news editor held court—the more senior you were. Johnny was only a couple of yards from the door.

Getting a foot in the door had been a struggle. With no connections in the industry, Johnny had had to do it the hard way. On leaving school a week before his fourteenth birthday—the same day Johnny Weissmuller broke his own hundred metres freestyle world record at the Amsterdam Olympics—the young would-be journalist had landed himself a job running editorial and advertising copy down to the typesetters. From Sunday to Friday, he would put in long hours at the day-job, then three nights a week he’d head off to evening classes at the Technical College to get his diploma in Journalism.

With working days that sometimes didn’t finish till after midnight, it had been difficult for Johnny to keep up with the rest of the group even though he was a quick learner. But he’d persevered, and armed with his shiny new diploma he’d secured a job on one of the local rags in Islington. Not that there seemed much call for a diploma; his tasks ranged from listing jumble sales, weddings and funerals; reporting committee meetings and company outings; casting horoscopes; concocting letters to the editor; compiling easy-peasy crosswords; and, most important of all, making tea. In the end it paid off though: his efforts got him the coveted position of junior reporter on the Daily News.

Much to his dismay, it turned out that his new role entailed doing exactly the same things.

Fortunately for Johnny, he’d been taken in hand by Bill Fox. An old hack with nicotine-stained fingers to match his yellowing short-back-and-sides, Bill had been in the business for more than forty years, working his beat even through the war years, asthma having kept him out of the army.

Perhaps Bill recognised something of himself in the eighteen-year-old human dynamo, or perhaps he was impressed by Johnny’s sharp mind and fierce ambition, then again, maybe he was just won over by the cheeky grin. Whatever the reason, Bill had begun teaching the newcomer everything he knew, ranging from the intricacies of the News’ house style to the tricks of the trade: how to grab a reader by the lapels and not let him go, how to cut and cut until every word was made to work.

Each time Johnny delivered a piece of copy, Bill would lean precariously back in his chair and deliver words of wisdom, punctuating his speech by stabbing the air with the 2B pencil he kept behind his ear: “Remember, Coppernob, with the honourable exceptions of wine and women, less is more.”

But Bill’s advice went beyond the craft of writing and fine-tuning copy. He had covered subjects that Johnny’s Technical College diploma hadn’t touched upon. For him, journalism meant pounding the streets, ferreting out facts and stirring things up. While others his age had opted for a managerial role, sitting behind a desk telling others what to do, Bill preferred a more hands-on approach. He’d been delighted to have Johnny tag along as he demonstrated how to make the most of a lead, and to watch Bill in action was to enjoy a master-class in the art of interviewing reluctant witnesses and worming the truth out of those who were determined to bury it. Persistence, patience and curiosity were his watchwords.

As a result of this apprenticeship, Johnny learned how to turn to advantage the very things that might have worked against him: his deceptively young looks and short stature. He no longer minded being underestimated—if anything, he encouraged it. His job became so much easier when others lowered their guard.

Fox himself was prone to be underestimated by colleagues who judged him on his lack of promotion or love of booze, but to Johnny, he was a hero. Bill was the only person Johnny would tolerate calling him Coppernob—even though his hair was quite obviously strawberry blond.

The crime desk was, in reality, made up of six desks pushed together in a cramped corner of the third floor. These were occupied by a junior, four reporters—two for the day shift and two for the night—and the crime correspondent. Having made his way up from junior, Johnny was determined to gain his next promotion as soon as possible—preferably before his twenty-third birthday. Under a different boss, he would have been moving up the ladder much faster, but Gustav Patsel was a little bully in an age of bullies. While Hitler in Germany, Franco in Spain and Mussolini in Italy ranted and threw their weight about, Patsel swaggered and held sway in the newsroom. Everything about this cantankerous, capricious bore was round: his piggy-eyes peered out from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. His white bald head was reminiscent of a ping-pong ball. His belly seemed to bulge more by the week: probably a result of too much bratwurst. Proud of his German heritage, Patsel was not shy of vaunting the führer’s galvanising effect on his homeland: the Volkswagen “people’s car”, designed by Ferdinand Porsche and launched in February, was the best car in the world; the Berlin Olympics in August had been the best games ever und so weiter—though he’d been strangely silent back in March when the Nazis invaded the Rhineland.

His colleagues had unaffectionately dubbed him Pencil and ridiculed him behind his back, but Patsel survived by virtue of a Machiavellian grasp of office politics. Even so, it was an open secret that the humourless Hun was looking to jump ship—he had been at loggerheads with either the night editor or the editor-in-chief ever since Johnny had joined the paper.

As much as he longed for Patsel’s departure, Johnny was terrified by rumours that Simkins might be poached to replace him.

The sooner Johnny got promotion, the more secure he’d be. However, to achieve that he needed to make a splash—and that meant a spectacular exclusive. The one that had made his name was a piece exposing a drugs racket at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. A senior pharmacist had masterminded a scheme whereby he and his cohorts were making a fortune on the black market, selling drugs from the hospital’s pharmacy. At a time when patients were struggling to pay for every pill, his cut-price rates had, he claimed, been an act of charity —a noble motive undermined by the fact that not many people needed addictive painkillers in wholesale quantities.

The whole thing had been going on under Johnny’s nose for a while before he smelled a story; back then, his mind had been on other things. It was during a visit to his dying mother that he had been surreptitiously offered cheap morphine by a member of the medical staff. He would have accepted, except that the drug was useless when, as in this case, the patient had bone cancer.

Johnny used his rage at his mother’s imminent death to work tirelessly—with Bill’s help—to expose the racket. The finished piece had raised questions in Parliament and renewed demands for the establishment of a National Health Service. However, apart from a few more prison cells being filled, nothing came of it all.

Johnny’s reward had been promotion from office junior to fully-fledged reporter. Unfortunately, thanks to Patsel, that had translated into the dubious distinction of reporting from the Old Bailey.

Court reporters—not to be confused with those that dealt with the affairs of the once German residents of Buckingham Palace—were afforded little respect because their authors were spoon-fed the copy. They did not have to sniff out stories, follow up leads or track down witnesses. They only had to get off their backsides when the judge stood up. Trials dealt with the aftermath of crime in a calm and clinical fashion. There was none of the excitement of the hunt, no vying to get ahead of the pack in pursuit of your quarry.

To make matters worse, Simkins—who was not confined to the courtrooms of the Old Bailey—had just landed a scoop that had eclipsed Johnny’s drug-ring effort, being simpler and juicier.

On the very morning that the police released details of the murder of Margaret Murray, a nineteen-year-old girl who worked for a firm of solicitors, the Chronicle had run an interview with the killer’s wife. It was an excellent piece of reporting—except, in Johnny’s indignant opinion, it should never have been written at all. Simkins had come by his exclusive using dubious means.

The moment the tip-off came in from his source inside the Metropolitan Police, Simkins had got on the phone to Scotland Yard. Realising that no information would be forthcoming if he identified himself as a reporter, he’d passed himself off as the concerned spouse of the man in custody. Though his normal speaking voice was tainted with the trademark drawl of an Old Harrovian, Simkins was a master of verbal disguise. Shortly after their first meeting, he had taken to calling Johnny at the crime desk with bogus complaints about his latest report or cock-and-bull tip-offs delivered in a variety of accents ranging from a thick Irish brogue, Welsh lilt or stage Cockney. His ability to mimic women’s voices as well as men’s was uncanny. Nevertheless, Johnny, who was not that wet behind the ears, soon caught on. The pranks had, however, taught him a valuable lesson: it was always advisable to meet informants face-to-face. In the flesh it was easier to be certain that someone was who they said they were, and he could watch for the tell-tale clues that revealed when they were lying.

Unfortunately the dozy detective Simkins spoke to at the Yard had fallen for the ruse and told him everything he needed to corroborate the story. Having winkled out the address of the arrested man—“He’s told you where we live, has he, officer?”—Simkins had gone straight round there.

Turning up on the poor woman’s doorstep ahead of the local constabulary, he’d given her the impression that he was a plain-clothes detective, and then delivered the news of her dear husband’s arrest.

Until that moment, Mrs Shaw had believed her Arthur, a travelling salesman for a toy company, was away on business in Newcastle. Within minutes she had learned that he’d been unfaithful to her, that he’d got a young secretary not even half his age in the family way and, in the heat of a furious post-coital row about a backstreet abortion, had strangled the poor girl to death. Mrs Shaw had thought the worst she had to fear was a visit from the tallyman. That was before Simkins came along and revealed that her husband of seventeen years was destined for the scaffold.

Simkins’ exclusive had not stinted on the woman’s shock, anger and grief. He had captured in minute detail every aspect, right down to the dreary landscape reproductions on the wall of the spick-and-span parlour where she sat sobbing uncontrollably; the ember-burns on the hearth rug; and the half-excited, half-fearful reactions of the neighbours who, alerted by her cries, had gathered in glee by the railings, peering through the open door for a glimpse of whatever misfortune had befallen the Shaws.

Part of Johnny admired Simkins’ skill and brass neck, but he’d vowed he would never stoop to such underhand methods. It wasn’t that he was a prig: he simply refused to inflict such pain on another human being—especially when it was for no better cause than the amusement of others. Bill’s motto when it came to composing a report was “titillation with tact”. Well, Simkins had no tact. If he had stopped for one moment to imagine how his mother might have felt if she’d found herself in Mrs Shaw’s position, then Johnny was sure his conscience, however atrophied, would have silenced him.

Johnny had lost his own mother two years ago. Watching her die a long and painful death had knocked the stuffing out of him. An only child with no near relatives, he’d had no one to turn to but a few close friends, like Bill and Matt and Lizzie. It was only afterwards that he’d learned how much they’d been worried about him. Somehow, he’d bounced back. Instead of letting the bitterness overwhelm him, he’d managed to maintain his cheery outlook—in public, at any rate. He had learned how to conceal his emotions. Professional callousness, a prerequisite of the job, often clashed with personal compassion, but the two were not mutually exclusive. The best journalists were those who managed to bring both detachment and compassion into play when writing their copy.

Wiping away the last crumbs of his lunch, Johnny shook off all thought of Simkins and returned to studying the typewritten note that had been delivered by the District Messenger Company soon after eight thirty that morning. He had no idea who had sent it. The thin white envelope was sealed and stamped with thick black letters: PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. The tip-off inside could not have been more succinct:

A SNOW HILL COP HAS SNUFFED IT.

Johnny had checked all the news agencies for bulletins on a dead or missing policeman and drawn a blank. He’d tried calling the press bureau at Scotland Yard and the desk at Snow Hill but in both cases the response was the same: they had no idea what he was talking about. The messenger company claimed they had no record of who had paid for the message to be delivered. Now he pulled out his notepad and drew a line through Rotherforth and put a question mark next to Matt.

He stared at the piece of paper. Those seven words hinted at so much and revealed so little. Mishap or murder? True or false? Could it be one of Simkins’ tricks? Johnny dismissed the idea; it wasn’t Simkins’ style. Besides, even though he had so little to go on, there was something about this tip-off that made his nerves tingle. Something told him this was genuine.

“What you got there, Coppernob?”

Startled, Johnny looked up. Bill was swaying down the aisle towards him.

“Something or nothing. I can’t decide,” he said, handing over the flimsy slip of pink paper. “For your eyes only.”

“Say no more,” said Bill. A blast of beery breath hit the back of Johnny’s neck. “Very interesting.”

“I’ve just asked Inspector Rotherforth if he’s lost a man, but he said the suggestion was—and I quote—‘balderdash’.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” said Bill.

Johnny could almost hear the liquid lunch sloshing around in his stomach.

Bill handed back the message. “I’ll make a couple of calls.”

“Thank you.” Johnny checked his watch and began gathering up his things. “It’s time I got back to court.” His voice was heavy with resignation: the mere thought of sitting in those punishing pews made his backside ache.

“Very well.” Bill dropped into his battered chair. As always, it rocked alarmingly, on the verge of tipping over backwards, then somehow defying gravity to remain upright. “Off you go then.” He sighed heavily. “You know where I am if you need me.”

Putting his feet up on the desk, Bill watched as his protégé scurried out of the office. A frown spread across his crinkled face. As soon as Johnny was out of sight, he picked up the telephone receiver.

THREE

Monday, 7th December, 8.30 p.m.

Lizzie was waiting on his doorstep. This was a pleasant surprise. His thoughts had been taken up with Daisy, wondering whether he should nip round to explain face to face that he’d arranged to spend tomorrow evening with Matt instead of taking her to the show, debating whether she could be persuaded to let him make it up to her tonight. Seeing Lizzie, he felt a stab of guilt and then mentally scolded himself: you could not be unfaithful to a fantasy. Mrs Matt Turner was, and always had been, strictly out of bounds.

“Come on! Open the door,” she said, brushing off his attempt to kiss her. “I’m half-dead with cold, standing out here. Been at that flea-pit again?”

She meant the Blue Hall Annexe on the corner of Packington Street. The cinema had started life as a district post office before being converted into the Coronet. Twenty-five years on, its four onion-domes remained but the blue-and-gold tiled façade had worn as thin as the velveteen covering the oversprung seats inside. The only thing the new owners had changed was the name.

The little cinema was a favourite haunt of Johnny’s, his mother having introduced him to the delights of the silver screen back in the days when talkies were still a novelty. As a boy, he’d been fascinated by the actors who’d sometimes appear during screenings, striking up conversations with members of the audience. He remembered one paid stooge who always seemed to mangle his lines and would invariably end up being pelted with peanuts. It wasn’t until years later that Johnny learned the man had a habit of preparing for his appearances by nipping into the Queen’s Head next door for a quick one, or two, to steady his nerves.

Lizzie made her way straight through to the kitchen and Johnny followed, turning on lights and through force of habit switching the wireless on. “The Way You Look Tonight” came warbling out. He filled the battered kettle, lit the gas and set it on the stove.

“What did you see?” she asked, sitting down at the table with her coat still wrapped around her for warmth.

“Bullets or Ballots. A gangster pic. Edward G. Robinson, Joan Blondell and Humphrey Bogart.”

“Any good?” She was toying with her gloves. Johnny could see she was nervous. Why? Was it because she was uncomfortable being alone with him nowadays? She knew his feelings for her had not changed when she’d married Matt.

“The action sequences were great: tommy-guns spitting fire everywhere. Robinson plays a detective called Johnny Blake who feigns dismissal from the force so that he can go undercover to smash a major crime ring.”

Johnny had been a fan of Robinson’s ever since he’d seen him in Five Star Final, playing a ruthless editor whose investigation of a murder case drives two of those involved to suicide. Earlier that year he’d gone along to see the remake, Two Against the World, with Bogart in the starring role, but it wasn’t a patch on the original. The focus had been shifted to the goody-goodies who thought the story should not be published, and the worthy result had only provoked yawns.

Hollywood had nurtured Johnny’s ambition to be a journalist. It set him dreaming of a global exclusive where he’d interview Al Capone through the bars of his tiny cell in Alcatraz. He did not care if cinema was “neither art nor smart”: it offered a picture window into other people’s lives. Movies could provide an escape from reality or turn powerful searchlights on it. The same could be said of the press—and Johnny’s sense of fair play made him determined to use that power to right wrongs. Social inequality made his blood boil. What was so bad about making breakfast stick in the throats of the bourgeoisie when many children did not have their first meal till midday?

“You might as well tell me the ending,” said Lizzie. “It’ll save me going to see it.”

“Robinson gets a bullet in his belly.”

“Now there’s a thing—especially since I’ve got something in mine. Well, more or less. I’m pregnant.”

Johnny, who was spooning tea into the pot, froze. He turned slowly. Lizzie was regarding him quizzically, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Lizzie, that’s wonderful news!” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. This time she did not shy away.

“Is it?” Her brown eyes blazed.

What was she so angry about? Even as he registered her mood he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was. No one else made his heart leap the way she did.

“Of course it is. Unless…you don’t you want it?”

Lizzie, much to the annoyance of her long-suffering parents, was an independent woman who knew her own mind. They thought their one and only daughter had married beneath her—Matt was a good chap, salt of the earth, but indisputably working class. What’s more, they seemed to think she’d done it just to spite them. Johnny knew better.

She had once told him that it had been love at first sight: He seemed so comfortable in his own skin. She knew instinctively that Matt was a man who could look after her and who would be a wonderful father to the children he gave her. His good looks were almost an irrelevance—but not quite. She still got a thrill each time she set eyes on him. As for Matt, it had never occurred to him that she might be out of his league. He had the confidence of a natural athlete, one who was used to setting goals and achieving them.

Johnny recalled only too well the moment he had grasped how true and deep their love was. The realisation had crushed him.

It had taken Lizzie ages to persuade her father, a surgeon, to give his consent to the morganatic marriage—let alone allow her to get a job. Her mother, a raging snob, still disapproved of both. They were the sort of people who took a hotel room to afford themselves an excellent view of the Jarrow marchers as the “agitators” had reached the end of their 291-mile journey. Lizzie was outraged that the public had only donated £680 to the demonstrators and thought it obscene that people should sip champagne while unemployed men fought for an opportunity to put food on their families’ tables.

Lizzie’s mother had relaxed a bit when her daughter’s employer—Gamages, the “People’s Popular Emporium”—had promoted her from kitting out middle-class brats in Boy Scout uniforms to the more genteel cosmetics department, where her high cheekbones, straight nose and fashionably short, black hair could be shown off to commercial advantage. Although secretly impressed, she could still not understand why her daughter had decided against becoming a secretary to a chief executive and opted to stoop to common shopwork. She was blind to the fact that the lowliness of the position was precisely the point. Lizzie, indignant that British women had only won the right to vote eight years previously, was showing solidarity with her sisters. She wanted to prove herself, succeed according to her abilities rather than her social connections, though she would have been the first to acknowledge that she was fortunate enough to have the luxury of choice. Matt had been only too glad to take advantage of the fact that his father had been a policeman.

“I do want it, I think.” She sighed. “It’s just happened sooner than expected—and, well, look what happened last time.”

The Turners had lost their first child the year before in a miscarriage that the doctor had put down, in part at least, to stress. Lizzie was highly strung by nature, but Matt, bitterly disappointed, had blamed the loss on her refusal to give up her job immediately the good tidings were announced. Neither her family nor his had said anything to contradict this opinion. She was bound to be fearful of a second tragedy.

“Promise me you won’t tell Matt. He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’s been sleeping awfully badly of late. He has the most terrible nightmares. Wakes up shouting and crying. The sheets are positively sopping with sweat. He won’t tell me what’s the matter and gets cross when I try and find out. I want to help the silly billy, but he won’t let me.”

Johnny couldn’t imagine Matt crying. In all the years they’d known each other he had never seen him shed a tear. Matt had been the calm, even-tempered one—unlike Johnny, whose quick tongue often landed him in trouble with bigger lads who didn’t like being made fools of by a short-arse. Back in their schooldays, Johnny had shed many a tear, but invariably they were tears of fury and frustration at his opponents’ refusal to stay down when he finally succeeded in landing a punch. All too often they’d just pick themselves up and knock him down. It was only when Matt intervened that they’d give up the fight. He was a year older than Johnny and had three elder brothers who’d taught him how to look after himself. A talented southpaw, he’d amassed quite a collection of silverware over the years, first at schoolboy level and then representing his station in the amateur league. He seemed to soak up the punishment, showing no sign of emotion even when a vicious warhorse, anxious to prove he was not quite past it, almost beat his brains out; somehow Matt just hung in there, patiently waiting for the opening that would allow him to land the knockout blow.

To Matt, Johnny was the kid brother he’d always longed for—he hated being the baby of the family. He’d been only too happy to pass on the lessons he’d learned from his brothers: teaching Johnny how to turn and throw his weight from the hip, not the shoulder. As his confidence grew, Johnny learned an even more effective form of defence: making people laugh. Where once his big mouth had landed him in trouble, he began to rely on his wits, an engaging smile and a clever way with words to get him out of sticky situations. And when Matt began turning to him for advice he realised that he was no longer the junior partner in their friendship but an equal, their different talents complementing each other and making them a winning combination. It had been a highlight of both their careers when Matt arrested the crooked pharmacist exposed by Johnny’s investigation.

“Is everything else all right?” said Johnny. He was flattered that Lizzie had chosen to confide in him, but uneasy about being asked to keep a secret from Matt. They told each other everything. Lizzie looked up sharply.

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“I was only asking. Look, I’m seeing Matt tomorrow night so I’ll try and find out then what’s troubling him. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the baby—but you should tell him soon. He’ll be over the moon.”

He wished it were his.

The kettle started to rattle on the stove and he busied himself pouring water into the teapot, conscious of Lizzie watching his back. It was so hard to keep up the pretence, constantly trying to hide the way he felt towards her. In those dark days following his mother’s death, she more than anyone had pulled him through. She was the one who’d got him out of the house, made him forget his troubles, taught him to laugh again. It was ironic that one of the things that united them was their love for Matt. He was the one who needed help now.

“Don’t bother.” The bentwood chair scraped on the bare floor as she got to her feet. “I’d better be heading off—Matt finishes at ten.”

“I thought he was on six till two.”

“He’s doing a double shift. They’re short-handed because of the ’flu. Everyone seems to have it. Mrs Kennedy popped her clogs this morning.”

“The old dear who lived at the end of Rheidol Terrace? Always sucking a humbug? She looked after me a few times when I was a kid. Here, it won’t be too long before you’ll be needing a babysitter.”

“I’m sure Bexley’s full of them.”

Johnny’s heart sank. It was as if she couldn’t wait to increase the distance between them.

“So you’re definitely moving then?”

“The house is supposed to be ready by March. It’s a lovely semi—exactly what we were after.”

“Just like the ones in the posters on the Tube.” He could see them now: chessboards with model homes instead of pieces. “How does their slogan go? ‘Your next Move and your best is on to the Underground. Houses to suit all classes.’”

“There’s no call to be sarcastic. Islington’s no place to bring up children. The air’s much better in Bexley.”

“It didn’t do me and Matt any harm.”

“That’s what you think!” She put her gloves on. “I’ll see myself out. Do let me know how you get on tomorrow night.” She was already halfway down the hall.

“Hey! Don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”

Of course not. He never got what he wanted.

The door slammed shut. And it was then the full force of her two bombshells finally hit him.

FOUR

Tuesday, 8th December, 6.45 p.m.

The last edition had gone to press. The familiar scramble was over—until tomorrow. Johnny grabbed his coat. Those starting on the night shift chatted to their daytime counterparts. The cracked leather of the seats they traded did not even have a chance to cool down. The search for stories, the proprietor’s pursuit of sales and money, never stopped.

“Coming for a livener?” said Bill, licking his lips. “I’m spitting feathers.”

“I’d like to…Thing is, I’ve got a date,” said Johnny. It was not a lie…exactly. He did have a date with Daisy for tonight—until he broke it off. He just needed some pretext to ensure that his mentor would not want to tag along.

“Just one, old boy, I promise.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes took on a pleading expression.

Johnny felt guilty. Bill had gone to the trouble of calling round his contacts, all of whom assured him everyone was present and accounted for at Snow Hill. He owed the guy a drink, at the very least. But he knew from experience that there was no such thing as “just one” drink where Bill was concerned; invariably their sessions would expand into full-blown binges and another evening would be lost before he knew it.

“Let’s make it Thursday instead, eh?”

“Right you are.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “Happy spooning.”

Wasting no time, Johnny legged it along Fleet Street before any other colleagues tried to waylay him. He headed up Shoe Lane, past the cacophonous printing works, and under Holborn Viaduct. As he ran across Farringdon Road, skirting the western end of Smithfield Market, he glanced up Snow Hill, wondering whether he’d see Matt leaving the police station. The steep, winding road was deserted. Back before the Viaduct was built, all traffic from the City to the West End had been forced to negotiate Snow Hill. Nowadays it was something of a backwater. The police station was one of the few places showing any sign of life: its reassuring blue light was a beacon in the dark.

Built just over a decade ago, the station was an odd, bow-fronted building in the middle of a curving terrace. Five-storeys tall, narrow and gabled, it was reminiscent of a uniformed constable standing to attention. The compact façade was deceptive: Snow Hill station-house extended all the way back to Cock Lane at the rear, so there was plenty of room inside for the whole of B Division. A blue plaque informed passers-by that it stood on the site of the Saracen’s Head Inn. Matt, who often had to endure the protracted company of Philip Dwyer, a desk sergeant who fancied himself something of a local historian, would occasionally regurgitate the fascinating facts—especially concerning murders and executions—with which he had been forcibly fed. Johnny knew a few additional facts of his own: it was in the Saracen’s Head that Nicholas Nickleby had met the one-eyed Wackford Squeers.

Dickens, who’d started out as a newspaperman, was Johnny’s idol. He had been introduced to him at school by Mr Stanley, otherwise known as Moggy. The English teacher had returned from the Great War with an artificial leg which his pupils took to be mahogany. As Silas Wegg in Our Mutual Friend would have said, he was “a literary man—with a wooden leg.” Moggy’s lessons became the highlight of the week. Dickens’ stories were funny and scary and he was writing about the place where they lived. He had walked the same streets, passed the same buildings, seen the same things. He made Johnny want to be a journalist. Even today, a part of him still could not believe he was writing for the newspaper that Dickens had once edited.

His most treasured possession was a mildewed set of Dickens’ novels that he’d found one Saturday afternoon on a second-hand bookstall in Farringdon Road. He’d paid for it with the money he had made hanging around Collins’ Music Hall on Islington Green with Matt, collecting discarded programmes and selling them on at bargain prices to the punters going in for the next show: the better the clothes, the lower the discount. He’d continued faithfully working his way through the set all the way through school and college.

Dickens’ work provided a living map of the capital. He did not care if it was out of date; the characters lived on in his mind and the echoes reverberated each time he visited a location which had featured in one of the novels. The Old Bailey, for example, had been built on the site of Newgate prison; in the confines of its stuffy courtrooms, whiling away the hours as lawyers argued and judges jawed, Johnny could not help but recall Dickens’ “horrible fascination” with the gaol which featured in Barnaby Rudge; in whose condemned hold Fagin awaited his end; and where, in Great Expectations, Pip viewed the Debtors’ Door through which doomed culprits were led to be hanged.

It was inconceivable to Johnny that anyone could be bored by Dickens; but Matt—lulled by Moggy’s droning and the hissing of the gas-lamps—would invariably drift off to sleep. The English master took a sadistic pleasure in twisting Matt’s ear as slowly as he could, seeing how far he could go without waking him, and then, having fully regained his attention, dragging him to his feet and rapping him on the knuckles with the edge of the ruler, all the while continuing to read. Moggy never lost his place; Matt never made a sound.

By now, Johnny was drawing near to the Rolling Barrel—a favourite watering hole for many of Matt’s colleagues. The pub was said to have derived its name from a local legend: the site was apparently notorious for a gang of tearaways who used to snatch unsuspecting little old ladies off the street, stuff them in a barrel and roll them down the hill.

Finally he reached St Sepulchre’s churchyard and the Viaduct Tavern came into view, just across the road on the corner of Giltspur Street and Newgate Street.

A Victorian gin palace glittering with cut glass, painted mirrors and plush seats, its regulars were mostly off-duty postmen from the General Post Office in King Edward Street. The ornate clock behind the bar told Johnny he was five minutes early.

It was only when he had been served and wriggled his way through the crowd—without spilling more than a few drops of Ind Coope Burton—that he saw Matt sitting alone at one of the small, round tables at the back. His friend was staring morosely into the empty glass in front of him.

“Penny for them.”

Matt looked up. His handsome face, white with exhaustion, did not bother to smile. The liver-coloured welts under his eyes seemed to have deepened.

“Evening. One of those for me?”

“Who else?”

Johnny handed him a pint. He downed half of it in three gulps.

“That’s better.”

“Bitter, actually.”

“Jack the Quipper strikes again.” Matt drained his glass. “Refill?”

“Hold your horses—what’s the rush?”

“D’you want another or not?”

“Go on then.”

Johnny watched, concerned, as his friend lurched off towards the bar, the mass of bodies miraculously parting before him like the Red Sea. Matt was too big to argue with. It looked as though he’d downed a few while he was waiting.

With Lizzie’s words of the previous evening running through his mind, Johnny lit a cigarette and leaned back on the banquette, watching the smoke spiral towards the high, intricately patterned ceiling. Its once white mouldings were now stained the yellow of bad teeth.

“Here we are.” Matt suddenly reappeared with two glasses, took a slurp from one and smacked his lips. “I needed that.” He flashed a grin that was half-grimace. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Impatient as ever, Johnny cut to the chase: “So, what have you got to tell me?”

“Nothing about a cop dying, if that’s what you mean. I checked the Occurrence Book.”

“Oh.” Johnny could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I told you yesterday, I haven’t heard anything.”

It wasn’t like Matt to clam up this way. One of the things he loved about police work was the range of characters it brought him into contact with—the suspected burglar who turned out to be a doctor on his way to deliver a child at three in the morning; the incontinent woman who wandered the streets in a coat made from the pelts of her pet cats; the boy who thought he was a Number 15 bus. Usually he couldn’t wait to describe his latest odd encounter to Johnny—but not tonight. Clearly there was something else that he needed to say, something he could not say to anyone else.

Whenever Matt needed advice, Johnny was invariably his first port of call. He’d always been clever, and since he’d gone into journalism he’d begun to build up an impressive network of informants and experts and people who owed him favours. His contacts book, scrupulously maintained and augmented throughout his career, was one of his most prized possessions.

Resisting the urge to fire questions at his friend, Johnny took a pull on his drink and waited. But it seemed Matt still wasn’t ready to get to the point:

“On the other hand, there’s been quite a bit of talk about your friend Mr Simkins,” he stalled.

“Go on,” coaxed Johnny.

“Mrs Shaw—the murderer’s wife—killed herself last night. They found her this morning. It looks as though she drank a bottle of bleach.”

Johnny put down his glass. He couldn’t imagine a more agonising death; her vital organs dissolving bit by bit in the chlorine. As if she had not been in enough pain already, what with her husband confessing to the murder of Margaret Murray. Murder rarely involved just one victim.

“I feel sick,” he said.

“Me too,” said Matt. “Back in a tick.”

He certainly looked queasy as he picked his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the gents. Matt was not squeamish—in his job he could not afford to be—and could hold his liquor better than most.

A few moments later, Matt returned, negotiating the packed bar with uncharacteristic caution. His slightly exaggerated air of being in control could not disguise the fact that he was well on the way to being blotto.

“Come on, Matt—tell me what’s up.”

Turner shook his head in confusion. Advice was one thing, but he’d never found it easy to ask for help: to him, it was an admission of weakness. Johnny was the one person he trusted enough to turn to. When they lost the baby, Matt had been desperate not to add to Lizzie’s pain by burdening her with his grief; he’d tried drowning his sorrows and venting his fury on a punch-bag or some over-confident sucker at the gym. It was only when all else had failed that he turned to Johnny. It helped that his friend had experienced loss himself and knew that words, however well meant, changed nothing.

“I’m having these nightmares…” He lifted his gaze as if challenging Johnny to laugh, then continued: “I’ve tried to ignore them but, rather than going away, they’re just getting worse. It’s got to the stage where I’m almost afraid to go to sleep.”

“Can you remember much about them?”

“They’re always the same. It’s pitch black…very hot. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Just when I think I’m going to suffocate, there’s this incredible pain—pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Then there’s this blinding white light and I wake up.” Matt wiped away the perspiration on his upper lip. He was so blond he only needed to shave every other day.

“Have you been to see the doctor?”

“Of course not! There’s nothing wrong with me physically. And can you imagine what they’d say at the station if I went to see a head-doctor? I’d never hear the end of it. I’d lose my job.”

“What about Lizzie’s father? He could give you something to help you sleep.”

“And have him think his son-in-law is a lunatic as well as a prole?”

“You’re not mad. Besides, you needn’t tell him why you can’t sleep.”

“True.” He did not seem convinced.

“When did the nightmares start?”

“About three weeks ago. It wasn’t too bad at first. They weren’t that frequent. Now, though, I’m having the same dream every night. It’s like I’m dying.”

“Well, you’re not.” Johnny patted his forearm. “You’re only supposed to worry when you dream that you don’t wake up.”

“That’s a big help. Thanks a bunch!” Matt slid a finger round the inside of his collar and glowered. His rage had come from nowhere. Johnny, for the first time, felt afraid in his friend’s company.

“Matt…what is it you want me to do? I could speak to a psychiatrist…I can get you some pills. Just let me know what it is you want. No one will ever know.”

“Just forget it. Sorry to bother you.” Matt drained his glass and made as if preparing to leave.

“Don’t be like that,” said Johnny, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “Give me a chance. There’s got to be a reason why you’re having these nightmares. Did anything significant happen three weeks ago?”

“No. I’ve thought and thought about it. There’s nothing. It was the usual routine: work, bed, work, bed.”

“Anything out of the ordinary at work?”

“Nothing. I was on point duty, freezing my balls off on Blackfriars Bridge. The sooner I stop being a straight bogey and pass my sergeant’s exams the better. We were short-staffed that week so I had to go out on the beat for a couple of nights as well. The extra money will come in handy—you know we want to start a family—but I didn’t make it home for three days.”

“Well, houses in Bexley don’t come cheap.”

Matt’s eyes bored in to him. Their blueness deepened. “So she’s told you, has she?”

Johnny cursed himself. He would have to lie. In his current state of mind, Matt would kill him if he thought he had been seeing Lizzie behind his back. Besides, he would want to know why—and, at this stage, the knowledge that he was about to become a father would only increase the pressure on him.

“Nobody’s told me anything—I’m just teasing. I know you prefer Stanmore. Why Lizzie wants to live south of the river is a mystery to me.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re spot on. She’s got her own way—again. We signed up for a house in Bexley a couple of weeks ago.”

“Congratulations.” Johnny raised his glass even though his heart was sinking.

“My dad’s pleased, at any rate.”

Turner’s father had been a detective inspector when he had retired five years ago. His son was very conscious of following in his footsteps. Although he made an exemplary constable—a friendly face to those in need and a daunting prospect to villains—Matt was determined to reach a higher rank than DI, and passing his sergeant’s exams would see him progress to the next step on the ladder. His athletic prowess had stood him in good stead so far, but he wasn’t a natural when it came to matters academic; knowing he daren’t leave anything to chance, he’d been spending all his spare time cramming for the upcoming exams. He’d need to attain first-class certificates in English Composition, Arithmetic, General Knowledge and Intelligence, Geography and Preparation of Police Returns to get through. But even if he passed with flying colours, any whisper of mental instability would undo all his good work and instantly scupper his chances.

“So Bexley it is. Lizzie must be delighted.”

“Yeah, she is. Course, once we move, I’ll have to sleep most nights at Snow Hill until I get promoted, just like I do when I’ve got a double shift. Lizzie’s never liked the idea of Ferndale Court.”

Constables were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station-house, and with affordable housing hard to come by in central London, the force provided its own accommodation. Ferndale Road, Stockwell, was the nearest base for married officers.

“At least we’ll still see as much of each other as before.” Matt stared into the bottom of his pint glass.

“I hope so,” said Johnny, and meant it.

The level of conversation around them had risen to a roar. The drinkers had become more raucous as the alcohol transformed cold, dog-eat-dog reality into a warm fug of camaraderie and security.

“Look, I’ve got to go.” Matt suddenly got to his feet. He seemed unsteady, holding on to the table for support. “If you can have a word with someone for me, I’d be grateful. And if I hear anything about a dead cop I’ll let you know. Bye.”

He laid his hand on Johnny’s shoulder as he passed; Johnny covered it with his own.

When Matt had moved away, Johnny turned, craning his neck to scan the crowded bar. Something had happened to make Matt leave so abruptly. He’d looked as if he had seen a ghost. All Johnny could see was a wall of backs.

He fought his way to the bar. It was not yet seven thirty; he needn’t have cancelled his date with Daisy after all. True to form, when he broke the news last night she had wildly over-reacted then pretended not to give tuppence. This time she might not even let him make it up to her. Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it was all over between them.

Why did he keep chasing after these good-time girls? He was the ultimate stage-door Johnny. He’d asked Daisy out because she reminded him of Carole Lombard in My Man Godfrey, but for all that her glossy, black hair, curly lashes and pouting lips made him hot under the collar, there was a hardness about her that repelled him. Like the other actresses and dancers he’d dated, the only thing she cared about was getting some publicity for her stuttering career. If he hadn’t been a reporter on a national daily, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance. And he had no real interest in her—so why did he persist?

Because he was lonely.

It was odd how, after their encounters, he felt even lonelier.

Rather than head straight home, he decided to order one for the road.

The man who would kill him watched him in a mirror.

What the devil were those two talking about? That Steadman’s getting to be a real nuisance, always sticking his nose where it’s not wanted. Persistent little bugger. So determined to get a big scoop, make his name as a reporter—that ambition’s going to land him in trouble if he’s not careful.

Still, there’s no way he knows what happened Saturday night. It’s impossible. I made damn sure there was no one else around. Christ, it felt good.

Pity I needed help with the clearing up, but I picked the right lads for the job. They won’t breathe a word—they’ve got too much to lose. Not as much as me, mind. Won’t hurt to remind them that I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid discovery. Even if it means killing them too.

FIVE

The cold air slapped his face. It was like walking into a washing line on Monday morning. He was half-sober already.

“Had a good time?” A policeman blocked his path, towering over him. Was he a marked man? He could not seem to turn round this week without bumping into a cop.

“Yes, thank you, officer.”

“Johnny Steadman, isn’t it?” His interrogator smiled pleasantly. All City cops were neat but this one somehow seemed neater. He had an open face and kind, slate-grey eyes.

“I’m Tom Vinson. I believe we have a mutual friend. Matt Turner?”

“You’ve just missed him.”

“Actually, I haven’t. I saw him just now, heading back to collect something from the station-house. That’s how I knew it must be you.” He took off a black glove and held out his hand. Johnny shook it.

“How d’you do.” Vinson’s grip was warm and firm.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time,” said Vinson. “Matt often talks about you. He looks up to you.” Johnny was surprised—and embarrassed.

“We’ve known each other since we were four years old.”

“That’s some friendship. Matt’s a good man to have on your side.”

“Indeed.” There didn’t seem much else to say, but Vinson was still blocking his way. “Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Johnny moved to the right. Vinson followed suit. He moved to the left. So did the policeman. “Was there something else?”

Vinson hesitated and looked round to check no one was within earshot. “This did not come from me, right? I believe you want to know if a cop has gone missing from Snow Hill. There’s only one person who was at the station last week who isn’t there now—a wolly who’s transferred to the Met.”

“That’s a bit odd. It’s usually the other way round.”

The City of London Police—stationed at the hub of the British Empire and accustomed to rubbing shoulders with the bankers and brokers of the financial capital of the world—considered themselves a cut above the Metropolitan Police who patrolled the rest of London. Rozzers were not being complimentary when they referred to their City counterparts as “the posh lot”.

“And how come a new recruit was given an instant transfer?” Johnny was fully alert now. “These things normally take weeks to arrange.”

“I don’t know when he applied to be moved,” stated Vinson. “The notice doesn’t say. What it does say is that it was for personal reasons. Something to do with a family tragedy.”

“What was his name?”

“Ah, I can’t help you there. It’s forbidden to divulge operational information.”

“Then can you at least tell me where he was transferred to?”

“Sorry. Still, there’s no need to go wasting your time investigating that dodgy tip-off now.”

“Thanks very much. It was good of you to tell me. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it—really!” With a cheery nod, Vinson continued on his beat.

As Johnny continued down Giltspur Street his mind was so full of questions he barely registered his surroundings. Why was Vinson being so helpful? Had Matt told him about the tip-off? Was he trying to put him off the scent? It would be easy enough to find out the recruit’s name—Matt would tell him tomorrow—so why had Vinson withheld it? Was he afraid that Johnny would want to interview the lad? That didn’t make sense; policemen were forbidden to talk to the press—officially, anyway.

If Vinson was being straight with him, it would explain the absence of an outcry: nobody had died and there was nothing to hide. But if that were all there was to it, why bother to tell a journalist anything at all? And why had Bill not come up with anything about the transfer?

Johnny smelled a cover-up.

Johnny closed the front door and did not bother to lock it behind him. He stood in the narrow hallway shivering as the cooling sweat trickled down his back. It had unnerved him to see Matt so disturbed; he resolved to do everything he could to help without betraying Matt’s confidence. He felt he owed it to his friend, who had never ceased to trust him—even though he was in love with his wife.

One moment he had never been in love, the next he was head-over-heels. Lizzie was unlike any other woman he knew. She was witty, not flighty; independent, not clingy. She wore Chanel No. 5, not Coty Naturelle. Although middle class, she never betrayed the slightest hint of condescension. She infuriated her father by voting for the Labour Party. She liked Molière as much as musicals; read Compton Mackenzie, Elizabeth Bowen and Pearl S. Buck as well as movie and fashion magazines. And she loved Dickens.

Occasionally, when Matt was boxing in a tournament or wanted to meet up with his brothers to go to a match, he was only too happy for Johnny to take Lizzie to a matinee; earlier in the year the two of them had sat enthralled in a Shaftesbury Avenue theatre while Matt watched Arsenal beat Sheffield United in the FA Cup final at Wembley.

Back in the days when they were courting, Matt and Lizzie had often gone dancing with Johnny and whichever chorus-girl he was seeing at the time. It was only when they swapped partners, and Johnny slipped his arm round Lizzie’s slender waist, holding her tightly, sweeping her across the polished floor, her breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck, that he felt truly alive. She had known how he had felt before he did. Nothing was said; nobody was to blame. It was not Johnny’s fault he loved her; it was not Lizzie’s fault that she merely liked him.

He could see why she’d fallen for Matt—he was good-looking, fearless and kind, someone who never hesitated to go to the aid of those in distress whether he was in uniform or not—but he could not help being disappointed. However, he put on a brave face—thus gaining stature in Lizzie’s eyes—and tried to concentrate on Matt’s blind happiness rather than his own overwhelming misery.

There was no doubt they made a beautiful couple. His speech had made every one laugh: “The trouble with being best man is that you don’t often get a chance to prove it.”

Standing in the darkness and silence of his empty house he wondered what the hell he had hurried home for. There was only his journal and a few family photographs to keep him company. Johnny’s father, Edward, had been killed at Passchendaele when he was three. He knew all too little about the short, stocky infantryman grinning proudly at the camera with a baby in his arms.

At school he had pored for hours over history textbooks, hoping to find out what men like his father had been forced to endure, but mostly the authors skated over the realities of warfare and instead focused on the causes and consequences of the conflict, with a paragraph or two of waffle about the honour and heroic sacrifice of the troops. He had tried to imagine the blood and the mud; the stench of the trench; the crawling lice and gnawing rats; the random, wholesale carnage and the mind-splitting shriek of the shells. However, reading was no substitute for the real thing. He had tried to talk to those who had returned from France, men who had seen the atrocity of war at first hand, but most of them, like Inspector Rotherforth, had clammed up or changed the subject, clearly reluctant to release the painful memories. The wounded look in their eyes was similar to the one now staring back at him in the mirror.

Johnny was haunted by his mother’s death. Having to stand by while she had screamed and screamed in agony—not for a few seconds, not for a few minutes, but until she was too exhausted to scream any more—had taught him all there was to know about powerlessness. He had been totally unprepared for the messiness of death.

He tramped up the wooden stairs to the bathroom that had once been his bedroom. The cold always made his bladder shrink. After the funeral he had made a conscious effort to jettison the past. Most of his wages as a reporter—which, although pretty low, were far more than he had ever earned before—had gone on converting the terraced two-up, two-down in Cruden Street into a modern bachelor pad. When the landlords learned about his new bathroom they had increased the rent and said they would do so again if he made any further alterations. He was on the mains now, what more did he want?

Why was it that any attempt to better yourself or your situation always proved, one way or another, so costly?

SIX

Wednesday, 9th December, 4.05 p.m.

Johnny breathed a sigh of relief when the trial of Rex v. Yelloff, a fruit importer accused of torching his own warehouse in Australian Avenue, was adjourned until the following morning. He’d have to be back at the office to file his daily round-up of court news by the 5.30 p.m. deadline, but in the meantime there was someone he wanted to see.

Imprisoned in the Old Bailey for most of the day, Johnny had been unable to contact Matt to find out the name of the rookie cop. That would have to wait now. It was more important to establish whether a body had turned up over the weekend. The dead cop—if there was one—might not have been a new recruit. Whoever the supposed victim might be, their body would have to have been taken somewhere.

The City of London Police comprised four divisions: A Division, based in Moor Lane; B Division, in Snow Hill—where the tip-off said the victim was stationed; C Division, in Bishopsgate; and D Division, in Cloak Lane. Although the headquarters of the “gentlemen cops” was in Old Jewry, the mortuary for the force was in Moor Lane. Johnny’s contact there had assured him that no officer or unidentified person had been brought in over the weekend. His opposite number at the Metropolitan Police mortuary in Horseferry Road, a truculent tyke, swore that “no dead pigs of any sort” had been delivered there. That left only one other place a corpse could feasibly be taken: Bart’s.

Johnny crossed the courtyard, its fountain chuckling to itself in the gloom, and went round to the pathology block at the back where, via Little Britain, black vans could come and go day and night without attracting too much attention.

It felt warm in the morgue. The sudden contrast to the Arctic air outside made his nose run. He let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He was looking for Percy Hughes, the mortuary assistant. Ever on the lookout for money-making opportunities, Percy had been a part of the Bart’s drugs ring. He was only a lowly delivery boy to the pharmacist, but it would have been enough to get him sent down had it not been for Johnny agreeing to keep his name out of the investigation in exchange for his services as an informant.

Today he was sluicing the black-and-white tiled floor with some sort of brown disinfectant.

“Mind where yer standin’!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Johnny stepped back in the nick of time, the puddle advancing within inches of his toes. It looked like diarrhoea. “Have you got a minute?” He glanced round. The basement was empty. He jingled the change in his pocket.

Hughes’ hand shot out and grabbed the two half-crowns from Johnny’s palm.

Johnny laughed and said: “I’m looking for a policeman.”

Percy carried on mopping. He had none of that cheerful callousness which those who work with the dead sometimes adopt to disguise their true feelings. Johnny could not imagine how he got through the endless night shifts with only corpses for company. No wonder he was always miserable; his normal expression was that of a moose not getting enough moss.

“Yer won’t find one ’ere—dead nor alive.”

“What d’you know about a dead cop?”

“Nuffink.” Percy kept his eyes on the floor. He was clearly uncomfortable. As he spent most of his time with folk who would never talk again, he was usually glad of the chance to chat. Not today though.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what’s up then? Your price gone up?”

“Nope.” He squeezed his mop out and began to push the last of the foul liquid down the drain. There was something in it that made the eyes sting. It did not smell too good either. Johnny took a deep breath and, looking around, waited for Hughes to break the silence.

There were three slabs in the mortuary. The green curtains used to screen cadavers from view were at present pushed back against the tiled wall. On the opposite wall were six refrigerators, each with three drawers: filing cabinets for stiffs. Johnny’s eyes took in the glass-fronted cupboards with their intimidating array of glistening surgical instruments: saws and scalpels, trepans and trocars, forceps, xysters and specula. He tried not to linger too long on the specimen jars, labelled in copperplate, which held various body parts pickled in formaldehyde, like denizens of an obscene aquarium.

Johnny tried again:

“Forget about the patients. Were any corpses brought in over the weekend?”

Hughes concentrated on making figure-of-eight swirls with the mop.

Johnny snatched it off him. “Have you been told to keep your trap shut?”

“What d’yer mean?”

“Percy, I won’t ask again. It’s not too late for me to turn you in—one phone call, that’s all it would take.”

“Okay, okay. Keep yer ’air on. A dead ’un did come in, early Sunday mornin’.”

“Thank you. Was it a cop?”

“’Ow the ’ell should I know? ’E was in ’is birthday suit.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Name?”

“Dunno. They didn’t tell me ’is name. Said they didn’t know it either.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The two geezers what brung ’im in. And before you ask, I’d never seen ’em before in my life.”

He was lying.

“How old was he?”

“Early twenties, I reckon.”

“Was there a post mortem?”

“Nope.”

“Cause of death?”

“Dunno. Register says hypothermia.”

“Is there going to be a funeral?”

“’Ardly. The body’s bin donated to medical science. Stuck-up students’ll be chopping ’im into cat-meat as we speak.”

“On whose authority?”

“None needed. No next of kin. Barnardo’s Boy, so they said.”

“Very convenient…Go on.”

For a moment, Hughes had been about to say something. He was not usually so reluctant to spill the beans. Seeing how afraid Percy was, Johnny was certain that he must be on the right track. He took out another half-crown. To a lad who earned less than £3 a week, this was significant encouragement. It was a pretty significant amount to Johnny, too; well beyond his usual budget for informants. He prayed that Patsel would sign off his expenses.

“I ’aven’t spoken to yer, awright?”

“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

“Mr Steadman, I’m serious. Sumfink’s up, but I don’t want to lose my job.”

Johnny suddenly wondered if Percy had a wife and family to support. Probably not. Few women, knowing what Percy did for a living, would want those hands touching their flesh.

Realising that he was still holding the mop, Johnny handed it back.

“Here you are. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. And don’t you go talking to anyone else either. We’ve got an exclusive arrangement, remember.”

“No danger of me blabbing.” Percy dropped his voice. “As it ’appens, I did know one of the geezers. Don’t get me wrong, ’Arry’s a good lad. Wouldn’t ’urt a fly.”

“Who is this Harry? What does he do?”

“’Arry Gogg’s ’is name. ’E’s a porter at Smithfield. Drinks in the Cock most days.”

“Thank you.”

Johnny glanced at his watch. He had under an hour to get his copy to the subs. As usual, most of it was already written in his head.

Someone was coming down the corridor with a trolley. Its wheels needed oiling.

“What made you decide to tell me?”

“I ’aven’t said nuffink, remember.” Percy was whispering now. “But it’s the only case of hypothermia I’ve seen wiv broken bones sticking out the skin.”

SEVEN

Thursday, 10th December, 5.50 a.m.

Johnny got off the tram in St John Street. It had been clear at the Angel but down here the capital was gripped by a choking, freezing smog. Smithfield appeared as a yellow shimmer straight ahead of him.

Even though daybreak was a couple of hours away, it was busier than Piccadilly Circus. Trucks, wagons, vans and carts jostled for position like pigs round a trough. As soon as one lorry had loaded its cargo of meat, the next was sounding its horn, determined to take its place. Others, on an equally tight schedule, were just as desperate to load up and deliver their new stock to butchers’ shops across London. As he approached, he heard raised voices then shouts and the sound of pallets being overturned as a scuffle between drivers broke into a fist-fight. Most of the market workers barely gave the combatants a glance; flare-ups like this were an everyday occurrence at Smithfield.

Still excited by the lead Hughes had given him the night before, Johnny made his way through the mêlée like a man on a mission. The vast iron-and-glass building was a cathedral of corpses, complete with nave, transepts, and aisles. The interior had been decorated with an almost fetishistic attention to detail: every arch, spandrel and lunette was filled with a swirling mass of ferric foliage painted not green but blue. The nave was lined with stalls that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of skinned and gutted animals, their carcasses shining dully in the electric glare, swung on rails bristling with giant steel hooks. It was a forest of flesh through which strolled potential buyers, some from the kitchens of the very best hotels, inspecting meat and comparing prices.

There was, however, nothing spiritual about Smithfield; under its roof the “inner man” meant the stomach, not the soul. It was devoted to carnality, its services designed to assuage man’s hunger for beef, pork, lamb and poultry. Money was the religion here.

The Central Markets even had their own men of the cloth: porters, known as bummarees, who acted as intermediaries between buyers and sellers. Their white coats and strange hats—a cross between a havelock and a wimple—made them stand out from the mass of black and grey. They were freelances who got paid for what they did, which was why most of them worked on the run, lugging carcasses on their shoulders or dragging wooden carts behind them. As time was money, they brooked no interruption.

Trying not to get in their way, Johnny hurried to keep up as he asked one after another where he might find Harry Gogg. Those that did not ignore him simply professed ignorance. The market workers were a bolshy lot, only too happy to go on strike. The last one, in February, had cut off the meat supply to the whole capital.

Finally Johnny gave up and wandered through the halls. Although the floor was scattered with sawdust, the dripping blood, melting ice and trudging feet had turned it into a gruel-like sludge. If Smithfield was no longer the filthy abattoir described by Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist, it remained a steaming, swarming hive that reeked of death.

As a reporter, Johnny was used to being unwelcome. Most people looked down on journalists. He’d hear them on trams and in cafés and pubs, tut-tutting whenever the tricks of the inky trade got so bad they ended up making the headlines. But it didn’t stop them devouring their newspaper each morning. Looking around him, it occurred to Johnny that it was much the same with the contents of their breakfast: if people were to see the process that led to the bacon and sausages ending up on their plate, many of them would lose their appetite. The consumer was not interested in the means of production, what counted was the finished product.

Anyone of the cowled creatures roaming the aisles of Smithfield could have been Harry Gogg. Cursing himself for not getting a description from Percy, Johnny decided there was nothing more to be gained from hanging around the market. Besides, he needed to take refuge from the cold.

A board outside the Cock Tavern announced that it was permitted to open at 4 a.m. “for the accommodation of persons following their lawful trade and calling as salesmen, buyers, butchers, assistants, carmen and porters and attending a public market at Smithfield”. Taking a seat at the bar, Johnny ordered a “wazzer”, the speciality of the house. It tasted like a cup of tea laced with whisky. Whatever it was, it did the trick. Soon even his toes were warm.

Those around him were tucking into plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, sausages, liver, kidneys and black pudding. With the salty, prickly smell of raw meat still in his nostrils, Johnny made do with a cigarette.

By half past seven most of the day’s business had been concluded so far as the market workers were concerned. A group of bummarees came in and sat in a corner.

The landlady went over to take their orders. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman with a mop of long, lank curls that looked as though someone had tipped a bowl of cold spaghetti over her. She did not seem to mind that their white coats were smeared with gore and had no problem countering their ribald banter with some of her own. Johnny watched in the mirror behind the bar as she served the five men their wazzers then went off to the kitchen.

Fortified by the alcohol, he slipped off his stool and made his way to their table.

“Sorry, mate. Never ’eard of ’im,” said the oldest, a grizzled bear of a man. His colleagues looked at each other.

“He’s one of your lot. Look, he’s not in any trouble—I was told he may be able to help me, that’s all.”

One of the younger ones muttered something. They all laughed.

“There’d be a few bob in it for him,” said Johnny.

“As I told yer, never ’eard of ’im.” The bummaree raised his voice so the whole pub could hear. “Anyone ’ere know of an ’Arry Gogg?”

Silence fell. Everyone in the room was staring at Johnny. He returned their stares until they turned away. Slowly the conversation resumed.

“Well, that is odd,” said Johnny sarcastically. He was riled. He hated being treated like an idiot. “Harry Gogg works in Smithfield. There can’t be that many of you—someone must know him.”

The brute who’d spoken before lumbered to his feet. He could easily have carried half an ox on each shoulder.

“You calling me a liar, son?”

There was nothing Johnny could do. If he didn’t back down he’d be going head-first through the swing-doors before he knew what hit him.

“No, no, not at all. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He retreated to the bar.

“You’re pushing your luck,” said the landlady, introducing herself as Dolly. A pink wart nestled in the cleft between her nose and right cheek. “They’re a close-knit bunch and don’t like strangers. They’ve probably got you down as working for the taxman.” She set another wazzer in front of him and, when he insisted on paying, promised to tip him the wink if Gogg came in.

He did not have long to wait. Harry was a winsome lad, fair-haired and fresh-faced. He scanned the room as if looking for someone then came and stood by Johnny at the bar. Although roughly the same height, he was twice as broad. He also seemed nervous. Instead of joining the other bummarees, he went and sat by himself. The only thing he ate was his thumbnail. It would be pointless talking to him now.

Ten minutes later, Gogg drained his mug and left. Johnny, making sure he avoided eye contact with the porters, followed. His senses quickened: he was on the trail again.

Legwork was an essential part of the job. The best stories usually involved pounding the streets: chasing leads, witnesses and suspects—sometimes literally. Johnny knew what Matt was talking about when he complained of being footsore.

The smog was beginning to thin now. Dawn was glimmering in the east. Johnny finally caught up with Gogg as he crossed the recreation ground. The statue of Peace, erected to allay the spirits of William Wallace and others who’d been executed on this very spot, ignored them.

“Harry Gogg?”

The bummaree looked over his shoulder and regarded him with suspicion. He kept on walking.

Johnny followed.

Without looking back, Gogg asked, “Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Johnny Steadman. I’m a reporter on the News. I was told you might have some information for me. I’m willing to pay.”

The boy stopped to use the drinking fountain. It was frozen.

As Johnny caught up with him, he hissed, “Don’t look at me.”

Leaning against the fountain, Johnny stared off into the distance, trying to look casual, as if it were normal to be loitering in the freezing cold.

A moment later he heard the boy whisper: “Information about what?”

“The death of a young man on Saturday night.”

“Jesus Christ!” The lad looked round the park in panic. Shapes seemed to shift at its edges. “We can’t talk here. Follow me…Wait! Don’t make it obvious. Keep your distance.”

They left West Smithfield and entered Cloth Fair. Johnny hoped they were not going far: he was supposed to be at the office by now. Well, if questioned, he could honestly say he had started work hours ago.

Around him the medieval houses leaned out over the street as though whispering gossip to each other. Through the gloom he could just make out Gogg’s chunky frame on the left. He assumed the boy was heading for the pub on the corner of Rising Sun Court. However, when he reached it he suddenly veered across the lane and disappeared into an alley which ran alongside St Bartholomew-the-Great. Hesitating to check that he had been seen, he then went into the church.

A few moments later, as the bells in the brick tower chimed eight o’clock, Johnny raised the latch and pushed open the heavy oak door.

Although he had often heard the evening peal of London’s oldest parish church on his way to meet Matt, he had never been inside its flint-flecked walls before. He walked down the long nave. The black tiled floor was dangerously uneven. Gogg was waiting for him beside the choir screen, which showed monks going about their daily business. It looked brand new.

“We should be safe here. Let’s see the colour of your money.”

The ten-shilling note brought the pink back to Gogg’s cheeks. It was the equivalent of a day’s earnings. His melting brown eyes darted here and there, seeking eavesdroppers. His cowlick flickered in a draught. Satisfied that the church was empty, he nodded in the direction of the choir-stalls and they took a seat.

“Why did your colleagues say they didn’t know you in the pub?”

“Sheer bloody-mindedness. I’m not exactly popular round here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story—and it’s not why you’re here.”

“True.” Johnny would have liked to hear the story nonetheless. Nosiness was another prerequisite of the job. “Okay, first I’d like to assure you that whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”

“I’ve heard that before. Who put you on to me?”

“A friend. No names—I don’t betray confidences, remember? What can you tell me about a dead cop?”

The porter froze.

“He was a cop? A bloody cop? That fucking bastard—he didn’t tell me that. I knew something was off—he was too generous.”

He put his head in his hands. Was he crying? Johnny was filled with concern. There was something innately attractive about the boy.

“Harry, what’s going on? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Suddenly Gogg leapt to his feet. Someone had lifted the giant latch.

“Green Hill’s Rents,” he whispered. “Three thirty tomorrow morning. I start work at four, so don’t be late. I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. The bastard’s gone too far this time. He’s got it coming.”

Johnny realised the boy had been thinking, not crying. His frustration must have shown in his face, for Gogg flashed a grin and said, “Trust me.” Then he scurried off.

For a while, Johnny remained seated, listening intently. He could not hear a thing: no receding footsteps, Harry leaving, the hum of traffic, birdsong…The silence was unnerving.

Knowing that if he sat any longer he would fall asleep—or freeze to death—Johnny got to his feet. To kill time while he waited for whoever had disturbed their encounter to show themselves, he decided he might as well take a look round the church.

He wandered through the ambulatory, investigating the numerous nooks and crannies, trying—and failing—to identify the period and style of the various additions and renovations. The piecemeal quality of the church’s construction actually served to enhance its austere charm. Of all the memorials that embossed the walls, that to Margaret and John Whiting, who both died in 1681, made the greatest impression:

Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd To live without her, likd it not and dyd.

Johnny knelt down in a pew and said a prayer for his parents. He no longer believed in an all-merciful God. He was not sure what he believed in any more. Truth? Justice? Love? Did any of them endure?

As he got to his feet he noticed an oriel window above him, beautiful if incongruous. The central panel of its stone base was decorated with a cloverleaf. It contained a rebus, a visual puzzle, in which a crossbow arrow pierced a cask. A bolt and a tun.

Something moved: there was a figure in the window, dressed in black. Johnny tried not to appear startled. He pulled himself together and exited the pew. In the distance a door slammed.

“Have you worked it out yet?” A young man, his palms pressed together, approached.

“Who was Bolton?” Johnny, having compiled crosswords, considered the rebus insultingly simple.

“Ah, very good, very good. The Prior was a fascinating man but completely loopy. He built the window so he could observe Mass without having to enter the church.”

“Rather voyeuristic of him, wasn’t it? Religion as a spectator sport.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, it’s all theatre, isn’t it? But, like most pursuits, it’s more fun taking part.” He smiled conspiratorially. There was a blob of food on his dog collar. “Prior Bolton also built Canonbury Tower in Islington. Have you seen it?” Johnny nodded. “He was convinced that an apocalyptic tidal wave was going to wash away the City in 1524. Something to do with a conjunction of water signs, apparently. That’s why he built the tower—and he didn’t stop there. He went on to have a house built on the highest spot in Harrow-on-the-Hill. It seems he thought the flood wouldn’t reach him there.”

“Après lui, le deluge.”

“Fortunately not. The end of the world still awaits us. Came pretty close though in the Great War. The church was hit during a Zeppelin raid in 1916, but the bomb only damaged the west gateway. The Lord looks after his own.”

“And the people blown to bits? Who was looking after them?”

They had learned all about the Zeppelin raids at school. It was impossible to imagine how the victims must have felt. Death from the air: another great technological advance.

The verger cleared his throat. “You’re a non-believer then? Never mind. You may not love Jesus, but He still loves you.”

Well, at least that made one person. Johnny did not think it appropriate to share the thought. He said goodbye to the silky cleric and headed back to the real world.

The market had gone to bed. It was so cold he could feel the shape of his lungs. The smog had all but vanished. The sun, a wan disc, was having as much difficulty rising as Johnny had experienced several hours earlier. Justice, the golden lady who presided over the Central Criminal Courts, her arms akimbo like a traffic cop, was already on duty. Now all he had to do was put in a full day’s work. Even so, his spirits lifted. At last he had a definite lead.

EIGHT

Friday, 11th December, 3.05 a.m.

An impromptu chain of Christmas lights gave Upper Street the faltering jauntiness of a seaside resort after the tide has gone out. He was the only visitor. Islington had become a ghost town: its bus, tram and Tube drivers still lay farting in their beds. A faint, freezing mist cast a grey pall over the slumbering terraces, tenements, shops and factories. Each lamp-post was graced with a halo: gold in the centre, surrounded by rings of cream, orange, violet and purple, then brown at the edges. Nothing, not even a yowling dog, broke the uncanny silence.

Johnny strode out, trying to strike sparks on the Tri-pedal road surface with his segs. The iron was supposed to give tyres and rubber-soled shoes a better grip but in such icy conditions it just made it easier to skid. He returned to the pavement.

The crossroads where Pentonville Road turned into City Road was clear of traffic in every direction. A lone policeman stood in the doorway of the Angel cinema. He nodded but did not bother to extinguish his cigarette. Johnny’s head ached. Lack of sleep or excess alcohol? Both, probably.

He knew it was a bad idea to go for a drink with Bill, but he hadn’t had the heart to put him off two evenings in one week. Even so, as they had sat in the Tipperary, which Bill still insisted on calling the Boar’s Head—printers returning from the Great War had given the pub its new name—it was all Johnny could do to stay awake. He could not tell him that he had been up since five, and that he would have to be up again in a few hours time, because that would only invite questions.

He did, however, have one question of his own.

“How come you didn’t tell me that a wolly had transferred from Snow Hill to the Met?”

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