Everyone laughed—except Patsel. There were constant stories in the yellow press that young women were being chloroformed in cinemas and spirited away to serve in the harems of the east, but no evidence to corroborate this had ever been found. Laughter unsettled the humourless Patsel. If someone cracked a joke he would always be the last to laugh.
“Watch your step, Steadman,” he huffed. “No more complaints, if you please. Keep me informed.” He retreated to his dugout.
A paper aeroplane, thrown by Louis Dimeo on the sports desk, dive-bombed Johnny.
“A queer brothel, eh? When d’you start?”
“Why? Fancy being my first customer?”
Louis, by way of reply, grinned and gave him the finger.
“What was that all about?” Johnny asked Bill when
the spectators had turned back to their typewriters and telephones.
“He doesn’t like being overruled. He’d prefer you to stay at the Old Bailey where you can’t cause as much trouble.”
“The sooner he slings his hook, the better.”
“Santa may come early this year.” Bill winked. “Anyway, how are you getting on?”
“It’s been an interesting day.”
“What were you doing at Zick’s?”
Johnny paused.
“How come you know I visited that particular knocking-shop?”
“Let’s call it an educated guess.”
Johnny looked into his mentor’s rheumy eyes. Had he been following him? Or had Simkins been in touch? Could he still trust Bill?
Putting his suspicions to the back of his mind, Johnny asked, “D’you know the place?”
“I know of it. Know that it has police protection.”
“I gathered as much.” He would have liked to run a few ideas past Bill, and he had a whole list of questions forming in his mind, but in light of the mystery complaint it occurred to him that it might be better and safer to keep his thoughts to himself. Harry Gogg had been killed after Johnny had approached him—he did not want the same thing to happen to Stan.
Bill was looking at him expectantly. Johnny was searching for some flippant remark to ward him off when his telephone rang.
“There’s a young lady here to see you, Mr Steadman. Should I send her up?”
“No, that’s all right,” said Johnny, glancing at Bill. “I’ll come down.”
A mousy girl, huddled inside a thin, black coat, was standing underneath the giant four-faced clock that dominated the foyer. Each time the lift doors opened, a stream of secretaries, copytakers and advertising salesmen flowed round her, heading for the nearest Tube station or watering hole, but she stood her ground.
Johnny spotted her immediately. She seemed intimidated yet defiant.
“Hello. I’m John Steadman. What can I do for you?” They shook hands.
“Thanks so much for seeing me. Your friend PC Turner suggested I get in touch with you. My name is Lilian Voss. I’m trying to trace my fiancé George Aitken.”
It was as if she had punched him on the nose. He stepped back, his mind in a whirl. His heart went out to her, and his first impulse was to tell her the truth—but his head told him that he had to lie. If she knew too much, her own life might be in danger. And even assuming he could come up with a way to keep her safe, there was no telling what she would do in her grief. If she were to start screaming blue murder, it would alert every newspaper in the land. Somehow he had to protect her
and
his scoop.
Johnny led her to one of the green leather banquettes
that would not have looked out of place in the House of Commons. People on the top floor of double-deckers—which stretched down Fleet Street nose-to-tail like circus elephants—stared through the windows at them.
“When was the last time you saw George?”
“You know something, don’t you? I can tell.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please say he’s safe. I can’t bear not knowing what’s happened to him. The police wouldn’t tell me. Said it was against regulations to discuss staff movements. But he’d have let me know if he was going to be transferred. We’re in love.” She rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief. “We’re going to get married in March.”
“I don’t know what has happened to George,” said Johnny—which was true, in a way. “But I promise you I’m going to find out.” He gave her a moment then gently tried again: “When was the last time you met?”
“A week last Friday—the fourth. We saw
It’s Love Again
at the Paramount in Tottenham Court Road. I adore Robert Young and George likes Jessie Matthews. He was going to be on duty all weekend, so we arranged to meet on the following Monday evening. But he never turned up.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’m a trainee nurse at Bart’s. We used to see each other in the Red Cow—it took him ages to pluck up the courage to ask me out. It was good to know that he was literally round the corner at Snow Hill while I was on the ward.”
“The last confirmed sighting of him I have is Monday the seventh.”
“Where?” She grasped his hand with both of hers.
Johnny hesitated.
“At Bart’s.”
“Oh!” She suddenly smiled. “Was he looking for me?”
“I don’t think so.” The disappointment on her face made his heart ache. “He was with another cop.”
“Who? Not PC Turner?”
“No. Someone else. At this stage I can’t tell you anything else, but I promise you as soon as it’s safe I’ll explain everything. I can’t go into details now. George may have seen or done something he shouldn’t and gone into hiding. Trust me, I’m going to do everything I can to uncover the truth.”
“I trusted George—and now look at me.” She wiped her eyes again and put the handkerchief back in her bag. Then she stood up.
Johnny got to his feet as well. “I’m sure he’d get in touch if he could.”
Her hazel eyes, now bloodshot, searched his face for clues but found none.
“Thank you for seeing me. PC Turner said if anyone could help, you could.”
He was flattered by the recommendation. He wondered how much she had told Matt, and what he’d made of her story. It remained to be seen how he would take the news of Aitken’s death.
“Is there somewhere I can call you?” He retrieved his notebook from his pocket.
“We’re not allowed to receive calls at work, but there’s a telephone in the nurse’s home.”
“The one in Little Britain? I think I have the number somewhere.”
“I bet you do—but this will save you time.” She took the pencil and neatly inscribed her name and the number. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
He watched her disappear through one of the three sets of double doors. He was not looking forward to the moment when he would have to break the bad news to her.
Monday, 14th December, 7.30 p.m.
“So why was there a bloody knife in your pocket then?” Stella’s emerald eyes sparkled with mischief. He could not stop staring into them.
“I’d just killed someone who asked too many questions.”
The conversation at the next table in L’Amuse Bouche resumed as the pair of bankers pretended not to be eavesdropping. You needed to be in a Savile Row suit to afford to dine in such an establishment, but Johnny was out to impress. Silver service joints, like this one in Walbrook, made him uncomfortable. Simkins would be right at home here. Johnny grinned when he thought how furious his rival would be when he learned that it was his gift for ventriloquy that had given Johnny his big breakthrough.
“Do you ever give a serious answer?” She dabbed
her full red lips with her napkin before taking another sip of wine.
Daisy preferred to drink Mackeson stout and orange unless champagne was on offer—which it never was with Johnny. She hated foreign food too: “All that oily muck’s too fattening.” The thought of ramming Matt’s photograph down her throat made him smile. Although she did not know it yet, he had a date with Daisy later.
“I’m at my most serious when being playful,” said Johnny. “There’s no great mystery with the knife. I’d just found it.”
“Where?”
“Passing Alley.”
“And what were you doing down there at that time of the morning?”
“Looking for a policeman.”
“They’re never around when you need one.”
Johnny leaned forward. Stella did the same. She really was beautiful: almond eyes, slender nose, unusually white teeth. No wonder her father had fixed him with a glare—the kind that meant
keep your hands off!
—when he picked her up.
“My best friend works at Snow Hill. I was waiting till he came on duty so that I could hand it over,” said Johnny. “I wanted him to get the credit.”
He had called the station to tell Matt about Aitken but had yet to receive a reply to his necessarily cryptic message.
“What’s his name?” asked Stella, sitting back and checking automatically that the cameo brooch, borrowed
from her mother, was still pinned to her royal blue dress. It showed off her creamy skin to perfection.
“Matt Turner.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell—which is a good sign. Our family doesn’t have too high an opinion of the Snow Hill mob.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re as bent as you can get.” She lowered her voice. “When my father refused to contribute to the local police benevolent fund, he was threatened with the loss of his licence. A week later he was beaten up by a couple of heavies just after closing time. After that he started to pay up. Now one or other of them comes round every Friday to collect—and knock back a double malt.”
“Well, I’m sure Matt isn’t one of them.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Tall, blond, massive shoulders. He’s a talented boxer, but only violent in the ring. You couldn’t wish for a better mate.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him. I’ll certainly keep an eye out for him now though.” She winked.
“He’s married to a wonderful woman called Lizzie.” He paused and took a swig of Chablis, larger than intended. It went down the wrong way. Trying to stop the coughing only made it worse. Tears sprang to his eyes. Stella got up and slapped him on the back.
“Better?”
“Yes, thanks.” His breathing slowly returned to normal. He wiped his eyes with his napkin.
“The tears usually come after I’ve said ‘no’.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He sighed. “Why aren’t you married?”
“Haven’t met the right chap—although plenty have asked. Besides, I’m only twenty and don’t intend to pull pints for the rest of my life. I’m taking a secretarial course as well. I’d rather be behind a desk than a bar. What about you?”
“Same as you.”
“Haven’t met the right chap?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Very droll.” Johnny tried not to show he was hurt. That damn kiss in the alleyway had raised all sorts of difficult questions—most of which he had no intention of answering.
“It’s not true, though, is it?” Stella stared at him. “I know heartbreak when I see it.”
“I know you’ll break mine if I let you.” For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Johnny was the first to look away. “You’re right. There was someone, but she chose another bloke. I’ve been on my own since then.”
It was not a real lie: he and Daisy had never been together. Their relationship, to dignify it with a word it did not deserve, was a meeting of bodies, not minds.
“You’ll get over it,” said Stella. “Men always do. You must come across plenty of available girls in your line of work.”
“It depends what you mean by available.”
“Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. People are so desperate to handcuff themselves to each other. I call it holy padlock.” She sighed. “I wish I lived by myself,
had only myself to please, had no one to answer to except my conscience.”
“It’s reassuring to know you have one,” said Johnny. “Harry Gogg’s killer clearly hasn’t. How anyone could do what they did…I presume you heard about it—or even read my exclusive report.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Ma showed me the
News
on Friday and said you’d been asking after Harry. The whole market’s been talking about nothing else. That’s why I asked you about the knife.”
“It was used in his murder.”
“I thought he’d been found hanging,” said Stella.
“He was,” said Johnny. “On a meat hook.” He added in a whisper: “His crown jewels were in his mouth.”
“Ugh!” The bankers turned to look at her as she involuntarily raised her voice. She had another sip of wine. “I was always glad to see him in the Cock. He was a sweet lad, full of juicy gossip—that’s why he was so useful to the cops. They would send him into the underground conveniences opposite Bart’s, wait a few minutes, call Harry’s name and then hammer on the appropriate cubicle door. The culprit would do anything—pay anything—to be let off. Nicking perverts is a useful way of boosting the arrest figures—the same jar of Vaseline has been used as evidence in a hundred cases—but sometimes, just for a laugh, they would chuck a paper bag filled with water into the cubicle. Harry and his client would come out soaking. There was nothing Harry could do. He was terrified of being arrested too.”
Johnny helped Stella into her coat. Her cheeks were still flushed from the alcohol-soaked
crepes suzettes
. As they turned into Bucklersbury she slipped her arm through his.
“Thank you. It was a wonderful meal. I don’t get to eat in such places that often.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Johnny.
They turned into Cheapside. The only living creature in view was a skinny stray—a cross between a greyhound and a Dalmatian? It began slowly wagging its tail, in hope rather than expectation. Johnny stopped to stroke it but as soon as it realised that he had nothing on him that it could eat the rejected pet trotted on. Sometimes it seemed the whole world was hungry.
Johnny, with Stella by his side, was walking on air. He was in no way disappointed that the evening was ending with a walk back to Smithfield. He had known that she was not the kind of girl to put out on a first date but had still worn his lucky green tie—surely enough to win him a goodnight kiss. Just the thought of it was enough to warm him.
High above them, the golden dragon atop the steeple of St Mary-Le-Bow, its wings outstretched, swung round to face the freshening northerly.
Tuesday, 15th December, 7.40 a.m.
Just five more minutes. Johnny turned over, revelling in the warmth of his bed, reluctant to brave the glacial bathroom. There were still traces of Daisy’s make-up on the other pillow. He must do some laundry at the weekend. Stella would not have been impressed—had she agreed to come home with him.
Although aroused, he had not been stupid enough to ask.
They’d arrived back at the Cock just as her father was booting out the last of the boozers. Stella had pulled him into the shadows and treated him to a long, lingering kiss that took his breath away.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” she said. Johnny could not believe his ears. She was so out of his league. What did she want? Bill’s cynicism was contagious.
“I’ve been hoping you would all evening. Can I see you again?”
“Of course. Call me.” She seemed to find his boyish eagerness endearing. “And let me know what you find out. Sweet dreams.”
“All right, love? Have a good time did yer?” Her father’s voice was followed by the sound of the door being bolted behind her.
For a moment, Johnny stared at the door. Should he try and pump the publican for information about his beating and Snow Hill? There was no time. Besides, he did not want to get on the wrong side of him—or his daughter. He ran for the last tram to Camden Town.
Daisy’s digs were in a dead-end off the High Street. Her landlady, a typical theatrical battle-axe, locked the front door at midnight:
I run a respectable establishment
was the widow’s constant refrain. Gentlemen callers, no matter what the time of day, were frowned upon and never, ever, admitted. She liked to think of herself as a mother hen, clucking and caring for her clutch of young actresses and dancers, vulnerable girls at the mercy of hard and unforgiving businessmen. On the one occasion that he had met her—seeing Daisy home after another expensive date—Johnny could tell Mrs Osgood was nothing of the sort. She was simply a money-grubbing old cow.
He stared up at the narrow terraced house. Its soot-encrusted stucco gave it the appearance of a mouldy wedding cake. The hall-light was on but the rest of the
building was in darkness. Johnny quickly and quietly went down the area steps and stood against the basement door. He would not have long to wait.
The cold soon seeped through the soles of his shoes and into his bones. Fighting the urge to light a cigarette—it might give him away—Johnny strained his ears. A whistle shrieked as the last sleeper train of the night from Euston began the long, slow climb north.
The short cul-de-sac was lit by a single gas-light fixed to the wall at the end of the street. A pair of boots suddenly appeared through the area railings. Johnny looked up. They belonged to a policeman.
“Get yourself up here now.” Johnny had no choice. Feeling foolish, he joined the cop on the pavement.
“Good evening, officer.”
“Name?” The fresh-faced constable—who looked about the same age as he was—shone a red torch into his eyes.
“John Steadman.”
“Done this kind of thing before?”
“What kind of thing? I was waiting for my girlfriend.”
“Peeping Toms always say that.”
Johnny bridled. “What exactly am I supposed to have been peeping at? I was facing the street, not the window—which, if you care to look, is shuttered.”
“I don’t like your tone,” said the man from the Met, producing a notebook from his greatcoat. “You were acting suspiciously. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you.”
Johnny could feel his temper rising with his heart
rate. He had to stay calm. The last thing he needed was for Daisy to find him in this position. A face appeared at a first-floor window.
“I beg your pardon. No offence intended. Honestly, I was doing nothing wrong. I’m a journalist.” He handed over his press card. This was a risky move. Most coppers distrusted reporters. “My best friend is a City cop.”
“Where’s he stationed?”
“Snow Hill.” Both men turned at the sound of footsteps. Johnny’s armpits began to prickle. So much for ambushing the minx.
“What are you doing here?”
Johnny could see she had been drinking. Her powdered cheeks were flushed and her kohl-rimmed eyes were shining. However, the expected barrage of insults did not come. Daisy looked scared rather than angry. Of course: she thought that he and the cop were waiting for her! After all, she had stolen something from him.
“Waiting for you. What else?” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. Fortunately, she did not shove him away. If she had screamed
Get off me you pervert
, or words to that effect, he would have been in real trouble.
“Do you know this man?” The PC stepped towards them.
Johnny, seizing his chance, put his arm round Daisy’s waist as if to reassure her. When she glanced at him in alarm he winked. He was beginning to enjoy the situation.
“Yes, yes, I do,” said Daisy, trying unsuccessfully to keep the quaver out of her voice.
“What’s his name?”
“Johnny Steadman.”
“He says you’re his girlfriend. Is that true?”
She looked at Johnny, confusion and fear flitting across her face. He smiled encouragingly.
“Yes, officer. I am.”
“Very well then. I’ll leave you two alone.” He handed back the press card to Johnny. “Careful how you go.” He held Johnny’s gaze for a moment too long—as if to say
you don’t fool me
—and resumed his beat. They watched him in silence until he turned into the High Street.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She shoved off his arm.
“I need it back.”
“What?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. Or are you saying you stole more than one item?”
She sneered at him.
“Couldn’t face me by yourself? Needed a big man to hold your hand? I told you to stay away from me.”
“I could have had you arrested.”
“Oh, yeah? What for?” She had thought it through now. “If your friend in blue had found anything, you’d have been arrested for possessing indecent material. I’d have said it was yours—which it is. You could have left it in my room to frame me.”
“Except men aren’t allowed in this flop-house, are they?” He was beginning to lose his temper. The explosive combination of alcohol and tiredness was taking
its toll. “Don’t try to out-think me. You’re just a pretty face. Give me the photograph and I’ll be gone.”
“What’s going on?” The landlady, wrapped in a thick woollen dressing gown, stood on the top step, light—but not heat—streaming out behind her. Her head, covered in curlers, looked like a frightened hedgehog.
“Nothing, Mrs Osgood. I won’t be long,” said Daisy.
“I should hope not. Two minutes and this door will be bolted.” She went back inside.
Daisy made as if to follow. Johnny grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me, you little queer. I haven’t got your precious photograph.”
“Where is it?”
“I burned it. I was afraid she’d find it.” Daisy nodded towards the doorway, which, instead of causing her spirits to sink as usual, now held out the promise of safety.
“You had no right! It didn’t belong to me. I was looking after it for someone.”
“Who? Your boyfriend?”
Church bells began to chime the end of the day. If the front door of number six had not opened again he would have slapped her. Daisy ran up the steps. Mrs Osgood, choosing not to say good night, merely sniffed in his direction and shut the door. He heard the key turn in the lock and the bolts slide into their brackets. There was nothing more he could do. He had a long walk ahead of him.
As Johnny trudged back to Islington, Daisy sat on her single unmade bed with its stained and sagging mattress.
She had not burned the photograph.
The naked man in the foreground was a real dreamboat. She had recognised him straightaway. She had danced with him once, while Johnny was mooning over his wife.
It had taken a while for her to remember the woman’s name, but she knew where she lived, if not the number of the house: Devonia Street, round the corner from Johnny’s place. She was sure the GPO would have little difficulty in ascertaining the full address.
It was about time Lizzie Turner got to know Matt and Johnny’s dirty secret.
His fury had worn off by the time he closed the front door of his cold, dark house.
He was not queer. He did not care what Daisy thought—he would never see the hard-nosed floozie again if he could help it—but the idea that anybody could think he was unsettled him.
It was at times like this that he missed his mother most—not that he could have discussed such a subject with her. Having lost a father he had hardly known, it was inevitable that he had become closer, perhaps too close, to his remaining parent. Stella did not realise how fortunate she was to be the centre of a loving family.
Worse than losing the one piece of evidence that Matt was being blackmailed was the knowledge that he had
accidentally betrayed his friend’s trust. And there was no one he could talk to: Matt was the only one he could share such secrets with.
It seemed his head had barely hit the pillow when he was awoken by the sound of someone hammering on the door.
Whoever it was kept on hammering until Johnny had pulled on his dressing gown, hurried down the stairs—who the hell could it be at this unsocial hour?—and opened it.
“Matt!”
He did not wait to be invited in.
“You idle so-and-so. Glad to see you’re taking things easy while on special assignment. It’s good to know that someone’s sleeping well.”
“I had a late night,” said Johnny, judging from the thunderous look on Matt’s face that now was not the moment to tell him about Stella. “Still having nightmares?” Matt nodded. “Let me find my slippers and I’ll make us some tea. As it happens, I was going to come and see you today. I’ve loads to tell you.”
“Save your breath,” said Matt. “I’ve just received another picture—posted to Devonia Street.”
Once he had filled the kettle and left the lit oven open to warm the kitchen, Johnny sat down at the table opposite his seething friend.
“Let’s see it then.”
“No,” said Matt. “There was a message on the back:
Tell your friend to stop sticking his nose where it’s not wanted—or Lizzie gets the next one.
”
“It’s just as well she’s not the sort of wife who opens her husband’s letters,” said Johnny.
“Well, I wouldn’t open anything addressed to her,” said Matt. “Besides, she’d get in a right tizzy if I did.”
“True.” Johnny stifled a yawn. “You realise this proves I must be getting somewhere.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Matt thumped the table. “Will you pay attention: you’ve got to stop digging around.”
For a moment Johnny thought he was going to thump him as well. He forced his sleepy brain into action. He had to tell Matt what he’d learned, but there was no need yet to say who from. He was sure the terrified Percy was holding something back, and he knew he’d never get it out of him if the police started asking questions.
“Matt, I’m convinced a cop has been killed. You haven’t seen George Aitken—only spoken to someone impersonating him. And guess who took the body to Bart’s with Gogg: your mate Vinson.”
A look of confusion crossed Matt’s face—there was no doubt Johnny had managed to surprise him—but he refused to be distracted.
“That’s as maybe,” said Matt. “Nevertheless, you have got to stop snooping round the station.”
“Why send Lilian Voss to see me then?”
“Ah. She’s already been to see you, has she?”
“Yesterday evening. She’s at her wit’s end. No one at Snow Hill will tell her where George Aitken is, and it can’t be a coincidence that the original tip-off came from there.”
“How d’you know?”
Matt, scrubbed and in uniform, studied him. Johnny, hair tousled and with sleep still in his eyes, felt self-consciously grubby.
“I spoke to the messenger boy who collected it from the desk sergeant last Monday. He just happens to be a part-time whore who works at Zick’s place—as did Harry Gogg.”
Matt seemed uninterested in these revelations. Had he known all this already? Johnny got up to fill the teapot.
“I hadn’t received this new picture when I saw Miss Voss. It changes everything. Perhaps it was sent because I spoke to her.” He scratched the side of his head—a sure sign that he was agitated. “Promise me you’ll kill the story. It’s not just my career on the line.”
“What d’you mean?”
“We have a prime suspect for Gogg’s murder. He was seen leaving the cold-store in Green Hill’s Rents on the night in question. And the same person was seen in and around Smithfield asking after Gogg the previous day. He left his hat behind. We have the murder weapon—a butcher’s knife…”
“Which I gave to you!” said Johnny.
“Precisely,” said Matt. His sky-blue eyes blazed in triumph. “So whose fingerprints, the only set of prints, d’you think we found on it? So far the owner of them has not been identified.”
Johnny sat down. “You wouldn’t. You’d actually see me hanged? No, you’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” said Matt.
Johnny could not believe his ears.
“But I didn’t do it! You know that! D’you want the real killer—or killers—to go free?”
“I don’t care. Nothing we do can bring Harry back. Besides, I’m not going to lose Lizzie just because of some cocksucker.”
“She’d understand,” said Johnny. “She knows you’re not a pervert.”
“She would not. Put yourself in her place,” said Matt. “She’d never be able to get the images out of her head. I can’t get them out of
my
head. She’d never trust me again. Every time we went to bed, every time we…Whoever’s sending the pictures could destroy my marriage, destroy my job and destroy me—but I’m not going to let them.” He wiped away a tear angrily. “Promise me.”
Johnny could see that Matt was right: in one way. Despite all that he had been through, despite all his efforts that were just beginning to bear fruit, their friendship was not worth the story, no matter how big it might turn out to be. Matt must be truly desperate if he was prepared to frame him.
Misinterpreting his silence as refusal, Matt said, “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Lizzie. She’s pregnant again.”