Sunday, 13th December, 4 p.m.
Johnny hated Sundays. The shops were shut, the pubs were closed most of the time and, once he had worked his way through the newspapers, he was at a loose end.
He could have gone to visit his mother’s grave, but Finchley cemetery was such a trek. Anyway, she was no more there than she was here. A schoolboy memory of a saying by the Venerable Bede flitted through his brain: life is as brief as the time taken for a single sparrow to fly into and out of a lighted hall in winter wherein the feasting goes on regardless.
He could have gone round to Daisy’s lodging house, but there seemed little point: she would only slam the door in his face. Best give her time to cool down. He would only have one chance to get the photograph back; he didn’t want to waste it by picking the wrong moment.
Besides, the photo aside, he had no desire whatsoever to see her. Stella was a much more attractive proposition. He was already looking forward to their date.
He could have gone to a matinee to idle away a few hours, but there was too much on his mind. His special assignment would start tomorrow. The five days Stone had given him would soon fly by, so he needed to come up with a plan of attack to make every second count.
Who had sent him the notes? Apart from being more certain than ever that it was not one of Simkins’ tricks—there was no way he could have foreseen the murder of Harry—Johnny was no nearer to finding out who had tipped him off.
There was really only one thing he was certain of: somehow Smithfield was at the heart of the mystery. It was where Harry had worked. It was a mere stone’s throw from Snow Hill police station. The dead cop—if the naked, unidentified corpse Harry delivered was indeed a cop—had been taken to Bart’s.
And so he made his way to St Bartholomew-the-Great, arriving just in time to hear the bells chiming the hour. Visiting time at the hospital must have just ended, for families began emerging to make their way home, their faces showing a mixture of sadness at leaving their relatives and relief at escaping the smell of antiseptic and the clinical atmosphere of the wards.
As he tried to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order, he wandered aimlessly towards Pye Corner where, high up on the wall, a small gilt statue of a cupid marked the furthest extent of the Great Fire of
London. It was supposed to be a warning against the avarice that tub-thumpers claimed had caused the fire in the first place: punishment for gluttons.
He turned into Cock Lane—London’s first red-light district—where prostitutes had once plied their trade outside the City walls. It was certainly dark enough for a knee-trembler in a doorway, even at this time in the afternoon.
The road curved downhill, past the back of Snow Hill police station. Number 33 was supposed to be haunted and had been since 1762 when crowds—including Dr Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, Joshua Reynolds and Horace Walpole—had flocked to hear the ghost of “Scratching Fanny”, the late sister-in-law of William Parsons, the officiating clerk at nearby St Sepulchre’s. She had died of smallpox, but it was claimed the scratching was a sign that she had been a victim of arsenic poisoning. The noises had stopped when Parsons’ eleven-year-old daughter, the first person to have heard them, was moved to the home of the rector of St John’s, Clerkenwell. But by the time the fraud was exposed, local taverns had already made a fortune from supplying the ghost seekers with liquid refreshment.
Johnny felt as if he was haunted by a deception where someone was trying to create a smokescreen to hide the true cause of a young person’s death. Only whereas in Scratching Fanny’s case the cause of death had been natural and the suspicious circumstances invented, the corpse delivered to Bart had a death certificate that read “hypothermia” and injuries that could only have come
about as the result of foul play. Or possibly an accident—but if that were the case, why dump the body anonymously?
Who was the cop that, according to PC Vinson, had been transferred “for personal reasons”? Could Vinson’s unnamed wolly and Matt’s old team-mate Aitken be the same man? Or was Vinson deliberately sending him down a blind alley?
It was eerily quiet. Johnny stopped and listened. Not a sound. His nerves were constantly on edge since finding Harry’s butchered corpse. He was forever looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was being followed. He waited a moment, steeling his nerves, and then walked on.
And what of Harry? Why had he been mutilated in such a fashion? He was a cock-sucker, to be sure, but there was real malice in his emasculation and it suggested the murderer had taken his time in wreaking his revenge. It was all right for naked boys to be mounted on walls in the name of history, but mounting them in private for pleasure was against the law. The same law that didn’t really give a toss about the killing of a pervert; there was no way Harry’s murder would be given priority by the murder squad.
Harry died because he’d been about to tell him something. He had to find out what. Who else might know? His lover? Perhaps he had been too soft on him. Johnny had been so unnerved—some might say unmanned—by the surroundings he had not been thinking straight. He needed to see the boy away from the shop.
“
En garde!”
Johnny gave an involuntary yelp as his heart leapt into his mouth. A figure emerged from a doorway, assumed the fencing position, and pointed his epée at him. It had a cork on the tip of it so it could not be classified as an offensive weapon.
The would-be assailant also happened to be entirely unclothed.
Johnny relaxed. “The Naked Swordsman” was a Smithfield regular, a harmless lunatic who refused all attempts to help him. He was rumoured to be the illegitimate son of George V.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Johnny. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
How he had not already done so was a perpetual mystery.
“And I wouldn’t be the first one either. Only a week ago, dear sir, I saw something that would make your blood run cold. Get thee hence. This is a place of evil.”
“Then why are you lurking here?”
“I intend on getting arrested and spending the night in a nice warm cell.” He nodded at Snow Hill station.
A light suddenly shone down from the top floor. The madman removed the cork and stuck the ice-cold tip under Johnny’s chin.
“Thus far and no further. If you wish to live to see me in the dock again, newspaperman, look elsewhere for a story. The boy would have died hereafter. And others will do so if you insist on ferreting around this dung-hill. Move on, I say, move on.”
Johnny backed away a few paces, then turned to climb
the hill to Giltspur Street. There was no point in questioning a fruitcake. Which boy was he talking about? He couldn’t mean Harry—that was less than a week ago. Was he referring to the dead cop? His body turned up at the morgue early on Sunday. Could it be that the poor lunatic had glimpsed the aftermath? If he had seen something at the back of Snow Hill station that night, his insanity had probably saved his life.
Who would believe the naked wretch, even if he were telling the truth?
Matt took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead where it always left a red mark. His hair was damp with sweat. He escorted the now docile Frank Bundock—aka Frank Wilson and George Wilson—down to the cells where the custody sergeant booked him before banging him up with the regular haul of Saturday-night drunks trying to sleep off their hangovers. Matt had spotted the habitual criminal picking the pocket of an American sightseer in Cannon Street. It had not been difficult: not many dippers had a deformed left arm. Although Bundock had tried to do a runner, Matt collared him in Red Lion Court. There were times when he felt like a glorified street-cleaner: Bundock would be back thieving after six months inside. Birching was too good for him. Still, the grateful Yank had got his money back—and even tried to give Matt a tip!
He had fifteen minutes to write up his report before returning to his beat. Apart from the kitchen staff, the canteen on the first floor was almost deserted. It was too
early for the night shift to gather before going on duty, and those on the morning shift had long since left. The officers had their own mess on the floor above. He was glad of the chance to rest his feet and grab a quick cup of tea. His own hangover had still not quite dissipated.
Herbert Watkiss came slouching in. The handsome constable looked peeved.
“What’s up with you?” said Matt. “Still feeling sore about last night? On the sheet again?” Watkiss’ beat was one concentric circle closer to the station than Matt’s.
“Looks like it. Rotherforth called me in. I probably failed to break one of his bloody pieces of cotton.” The inspector was known to tie pieces of black cotton across alleyways and doorways to check that his men were hitting every mark.
“So, come on then. What did you say to Vinson to make him hit you?”
“I didn’t
say
anything.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean any harm. It was a joke, that’s all.”
“What was?” Matt rolled his eyes. It was like pulling teeth.
“I just held up a sprig of mistletoe.”
Sergeant Philip Dwyer was on desk duty when Matt got back down to reception. Seeing Matt, he put down the second-hand copy of
Hogarth’s London
by H.B. Wheatley that he should not have been reading, and nodded to a pretty girl clutching her handbag by the frosted-glass doors.
“Someone to see you, PC Turner.” He managed not to wink. “Make it snappy.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Matt went over to the young lady. She looked up at him and smiled nervously. He studied her features, wondering if he should recognise her. She had enormous hazel eyes: he could almost see himself in them. An Alice band kept her unruly auburn curls in check. She licked her lips with the tip of a very pink tongue and held out her hand.
“How d’you do.”
As they shook hands he could feel the girl trembling.
She looked round. “Could we go outside?”
The bored Dwyer could contain himself no longer:
“Now there’s an offer you can’t refuse.”
Matt ignored him and pushed open one of the doors. Cold air hit them in the face, making their eyes water.
They paused underneath the blue lamp. Still she seemed too nervous to speak.
“I’ve got to go back on the beat.” Matt nodded up the hill towards the Old Bailey. “Why don’t you walk with me?”
“Thank you. I don’t know who else to turn to: no one will give me a straight answer.” She took a deep breath as if composing herself and then said, “My name is Lilian Voss. George Aitken is my fiancé. I’m so worried about him. He seems to have disappeared…”
Monday, 14th December, 9.30 a.m.
Bill was most put out.
“Come on then, Coppernob. Spill the beans. What’s so special about this assignment? ‘Life on the Beat’ doesn’t sound at all special to me. Sounds like a cover story for something else.” His eyebrows formed themselves into circumflexes.
“I can’t tell you,” said Johnny. “Stone’s orders. Sorry.”
He did not want to involve Bill unless it was absolutely necessary. He wanted his name—and no one else’s—on the byline.
The seasoned hack regarded him quizzically. “I could help, you know. A week is not a long time. No one likes to see a cop-killer go free.”
It was no good. Bill knew him too well. “I’ve nothing to tell you—yet.”
“My dear Johnny, it’s me you’re talking to. You’re not the only one with friends at Snow Hill.”
Johnny looked round anxiously, hoping Patsel was not in the vicinity. The last thing he needed was advice from the bossy buffoon. “If you trust me, you’ll keep your lips sealed.”
“Afraid I’ll steal your glory?”
“Not at all. I wish I could call on your expertise.” A little flattery never went amiss. “I haven’t even been able to establish if a murder has taken place.”
“You mean apart from that boy-whore last week?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not going to provoke a tidal wave of moral outrage, is it?” mused Bill. His chair complained as he leaned perilously backwards. “Who cares about a dead catamite?”
Johnny was going to say he did but bit his lip. Catamite? They were not in Ancient Greece. The sooner the conversation came to an end the better. “I’ve got to go.”
“If you say so. I’ll let you know if any more telegrams turn up.” He winked.
Johnny had the distinct impression Bill knew more than he did. He grabbed his mackintosh.
Sighing in defeat, Bill swiped the return lever on his battle-scarred typewriter. “Watch your back, Coppernob.”
The only reason Johnny had gone into the office was to find out if any more messages had been delivered. However, his pigeonhole was empty. It looked as though
his informant was maintaining his silence. It had to be someone at Snow Hill. Unless…
Had Bill got there first and removed a third telegram?
Johnny shook his head. He was becoming paranoid.
In the eighteenth century, Honey Lane had been the site of the City’s smallest meat market but its hundred or so stalls had long since disappeared. However, if you knew where to look—or rather knock—it was still home to a meat-rack of sorts.
The house in question was just off Milk Street, with an emergency exit that led through the building at the back and out on to Russia Row. It was the only male brothel in the City—and the cops, who accepted backhanders if not hand-jobs—discreetly ensured it remained so.
Johnny approached it via a passage off Cheapside between a pub and a cobbler’s and, as though he had not a care in the world instead of a stomach full of butterflies and an urgent desire to empty his bowels, grasped the brass lion’s head and hammered on the glossy black front door.
A bloodshot eye appeared at the peep-hole. There was a pause as it sized Johnny up, then the door swung open and an unshaven thug—who resembled one of Oswald Mosley’s myrmidons—stood aside to let him in.
“After an audition are we, sonny?”
Johnny, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered, decided on the former.
“Don’t be so impertinent. Do I look that desperate for a job?”
“Some do it for the pleasure as much as the pay.” The human guard-dog sniffed as if he couldn’t care less either way. “Anyway, you’re a bit keen, aren’t yer? Not all the boys are ’ere. Won’t be till midday.”
“Lunch time your busiest period then?” asked Johnny.
“Why d’you want to know?”
“Just asking. It’s my first time.”
“If you say so,” said the bouncer in a tone that implied disbelief. Then, looking over Johnny’s shoulder, added: “Sir.”
“And what do we have here?”
The high-pitched voice right behind him made Johnny jump. It belonged to a portly middle-aged woman in a sequinned dress that was at least a decade out of date. Her heavily powdered jowls were the colour of junket. A chihuahua quivered in the palm of one hand. She held out the other. There were rings on every finger and the way the gems sparkled suggested they were not costume jewellery. The lapdog yapped.
“Cecilia Zick. How d’you do?”
“Julius Handford.” They shook hands. “A mutual friend suggested I visit when next in town.”
Johnny was certain she would never recognise the character from Dickens’ novel. It was the name John Harmon gave when viewing the drowned body supposedly his own.
“And who might this ‘friend’ be?”
“John Gielgud. I was told that discretion was guaranteed.”
“It can be. I run a top-class establishment and it costs me a lot to keep it running, if you know what I mean. Palms to grease as well as arses.”
“I’m not a policeman,” said Johnny, with an attempt at a smile.
“I can see that, Ducky. Way too short. Hope your little man is bigger.” She tittered. The doorman guffawed—out of duty rather than delight. She nodded to the left. “This way.”
The sequins shimmered on her plump posterior as she opened a door into an ornately decorated parlour. There was a faint smell of stale cigar smoke and Ronuk’s Furniture Cream. A fire, which appeared to have just been lit, crackled in the grate. A pair of leather armchairs either side of it, and a chesterfield that had clearly supported thousands of backsides, lent the room the air of a gentleman’s club—for gentlemen who liked gentlemen. Oil paintings of naked youths covered two of the walls but the one facing the shuttered windows had a large curtained aperture. Zick pulled the golden tassel that dangled at one side and the drapes swept back to reveal an internal window.
“Don’t worry, love,” said the madam. “They can’t see you. It’s a one-way mirror. That’s why they keep looking at it. They’d eat themselves if they could.” She laughed. “But that’s why you’re here.”
Johnny could not believe his eyes. He had reported on brothel raids, seen prostitutes of both sexes in the
dock, but the casual way the boys presented themselves was somehow obscene. Some wore nothing but their drawers; others were in uniform. There was an army cadet, a sailor, a policeman—Zick certainly had a sense of irony—and a lad from the District Messenger Company. Its young employees in their smart, closefitting uniforms were notoriously available. Rumour had it that DMC actually stood for
Devour My Cock
. There was no smoke without fire.
“Take your time,” said Zick, watching him closely. “If you fancy someone older, they’ll be here later on—earning a bit of extra in their lunch-hour. I’ve got a couple of bankers if pinstripes are your thing.”
“I’ll have him,” said Johnny, pointing to the DMC boy.
“An excellent choice, if I may say so. Our Stan’s very popular. Or should I say,
accommodating
? I take it that’s what you’re after?”
“What d’you mean?” asked Johnny.
“You want to fuck rather than get fucked?” Johnny reddened. Such matter-of-factness about unspeakable acts embarrassed him. And he thought he was a man of the world.
“Er, yes please.”
Zick eyed him shrewdly. “Sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tip-top. That’ll be a guinea then for half an hour.” Johnny was amazed. He barely had enough. If Stone refused to allow him to claim it on expenses, Stan would not be the only one supposedly getting fucked.
He followed Zick out of the parlour and waited while she went into the room next door. The dog yapped at him again. Johnny hated such excuses for pets.
A moment later Stan emerged, gave Johnny a cheeky grin, and started climbing the stairs. Johnny felt as though he were ascending the scaffold.
The room was on the top floor of the building under the roof. Johnny smiled to himself: in Cockney rhyming slang “up on the roof” meant “poof”. Its sloping sides would have troubled anyone taller than him. Stan stripped with practised rapidity and lay on the bed. His big, brown eyes met Johnny’s.
“What you waiting for, lover boy?” He frowned, sensing the lack of interest. “Don’t you like what you see?” Stan stretched out his pale, sleek body like a Siamese cat.
“I’m not here for sex. I’m a reporter.”
Stan immediately leaped to his feet and grabbed a handbell from the nightstand.
Johnny grabbed it off him. “Keep your hair on. I’m not going to get you into trouble. Look, you’re being paid to do nothing. Where’s the harm in that?”
Stan pouted—apparently injured at being turned down. “Keep your voice down then.” He started rolling around on the bed to make the springs squeak, unabashed in his nudity. “What d’you want to know?”
“Did you deliver a message to the
Daily News
, addressed to John Steadman, last Monday?”
“Can’t remember. I deliver dozens of messages to all the papers everyday. This is just a sideline.” He winked.
“Sure you don’t fancy a quickie? You’re just the way I like ’em. The shy ones are the best. So randy, so grateful, so quick. Except some of them cry when they come.”
“No, thank you. The message might have come from Snow Hill police station.”
Stan got up with a sigh and began to get dressed. “Okay. I remember now. I did collect one from the cop-shop and take it to the
News
.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The desk sergeant.” So the whistle-blower was an insider.
“Ever heard of someone called Harry Gogg?”
“Everyone knew Harry. He was an angel. A favourite with the clients.”
“You know what happened to him?”
“Course I do. And I don’t want the same thing happening to me, so do me a favour and mind your own beeswax.”
“Don’t you want his killer to be brought to justice?”
Stan laughed. “Jesus, get you! The likes of us don’t get justice. There’s those that do bad things and get caught, and those that do bad things and get away with it. Believe me, Gogg’s killer ain’t never going to swing. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. If I tell Zick you’re a reporter, Alf’ll make—”
“There’s no need to tell me anything, dear.” The door flew open and Zick stood there, her white cheeks now florid—from rage and no doubt the exertion of climbing three flights of stairs. She grabbed Johnny’s left ear and twisted it, hard. “I knew you were a wrong ’un. Julius
Handford, indeed! I wasn’t born yesterday. Stan, get back downstairs at once. I’ll speak to you later.”
Stan shot through the door, his face full of fear.
Zick twisted Johnny’s ear again.
“Ow! Will you please stop doing that?”
She dragged him out on to the tiny landing and kicked him down the stairs.
“Get out of my establishment, you dirty little muckraker. You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll regret it. If you think Harry had it bad, believe me it can be worse. Much worse. The fucking nerve of it! Not much of an undercover journalist, are you? Didn’t even get into bed with your snitch. What’s the matter? Can’t get it up? Alf!
Alf!
Where the fuck are you?”
Dazed and bruised from his headlong fall, Johnny felt the chihuahua nipping his ankle. Instinctively he kicked out at it, which only served to increase Zick’s fury.
“Stop that! Don’t you dare take it out on an innocent creature, you big bully. If I ever see you again, you’ll be sorry.”
Johnny felt a pair of giant paws haul him to his feet. Alf dragged him down the remaining stairs, past the gaggle of staring boys in the hall, opened the front door and flung him down the steps. The door slammed so hard the lion’s head gave a single knock that seemed to say
and good riddance
.
Slowly, Johnny got to his feet and patted himself down. Nothing seemed to be broken. His head ached, his ear was burning and his healing hands, still sore from the floor of the freezer, were scuffed and red raw
again. He brushed his coat off as best he could and leant against the area railings, trying to compose himself. This proved impossible. A familiar voice rang out:
“Enjoying yourself?”
It was Henry Simkins.