“Okay, okay,” said Johnny. “Congratulations. I was going to say yes anyway. You saved my life last Friday. How could I refuse?”
Matt did not bother to look relieved.
“You knew, didn’t you, Johnny?”
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. The baby!”
Johnny had a glimpse of how terrifying Matt would one day be in the interview room.
“No, I didn’t.” Johnny swallowed nervously. This was not the way he had imagined the day would be. Instead of impressing Matt with his findings, he was in danger of finding his head in a noose. “Sorry if my congratulations sounded insincere. I was just thinking of myself, as usual. I suppose I’ll have to go back to the Old Bailey, unfêted and unpromoted.”
“There’ll be other stories,” said Matt, suddenly mollified. “I’ll keep my ears open.”
A heavy silence descended on the table. Johnny could hear Matt’s breathing slowly returning to a more normal rate. His own heart was still thudding in his chest.
“Why don’t you get the first photo while I pour the tea?” said Matt eventually.
Johnny, mentally cursing Daisy once again, struggled to hide his dismay. He dare not tell the truth—in his current state of mind Matt might really hit him—but the trick about lying was to stick as close to it as possible.
“It’s not here.”
“I assume you’re having me on.”
“It’s at the office. I thought it was safer locked in my desk there than lying around here.”
Matt observed him for a moment then a half-smile formed on his lips.
“Sure you’re not just keeping it to wank over?”
“Why would I do that when I could have the real thing?”
They stared at each other in silence then burst out laughing and, having started, found it hard to stop. The tension in the room finally evaporated.
“So,” said Johnny, wiping his eyes, “who’s going to be the godfather?”
Tuesday, 15th December, 5.40 p.m.
“Don’t tell Matt you’ve seen me,” said Johnny, attempting, unsuccessfully, to keep out of the way of the stream of shoppers who had popped into Gamage’s on their way home. Lizzie, armed with a perfume bottle as usual, shot him an angry glance. If he was hoping for her blessing as he went behind her husband’s back, he was going to be disappointed. It was her fault for asking him for help in the first place. And yet, and yet…if anyone could get to the bottom of Matt’s problems it was Johnny. Only she knew Matt better.
“As if I would. He’s got enough on his plate without fearing that he can’t trust his friends.”
“That’s not fair. I never actually promised that I would drop the case,” said Johnny. “I agreed to stop snooping around Snow Hill. I’m trying to help.”
“Well, he’s under the impression that you did drop it.”
Lizzie stepped into the path of a highly coiffured, smartly dressed woman. A tyrant of the typing pool was Johnny’s guess.
“Would madam care to sample Summer Meadow?”
The matron pulled back the arm of her coat to bare her wrist, sniffed delicately at the dab of scent—“Very floral, I must say!”—and kept on going.
Lizzie sighed. “My feet are killing me—and you’re bad for business.”
Johnny watched her black bob swaying as she scanned the aisle for prospective customers. It was the men who slowed down, not the women.
“Have you ever met someone called Tom Vinson? He works with Matt.”
“No, I can’t say I have. Matt’s mentioned him though. If they’re on the same shift they often have a drink together after work. Why d’you ask?”
“His name came up. That’s all.” The less Lizzie knew the better. “Did Matt tell you why he wanted me to stop?” Johnny chose his words carefully: he was on dangerous ground. He must not provoke any further disapproval. Why had the second photograph had so much more effect than the first? Was it just the threat to tell Lizzie, or something in the photograph itself?
“Of course. Why d’you ask?” Lizzie looked at him quizzically. “Are you suggesting he was lying?”
“Not at all. It’s just that he said it was hush-hush and I know he’d never jeopardise an ongoing investigation by revealing operational details.”
“Precisely. The fact that the internal affairs squad are involved shows they are taking the boy’s death seriously.”
Johnny presumed she meant Harry Gogg, not George Aitken—who would be the real reason for the rubber heelers to interfere. All transfers had to have the written consent of the Commissioner. Why would he agree to transfer a dead man? So, it was likely Lizzie did not know about Aitken or the incriminating photographs. Good. It was time to placate her.
“You’ve told him about the baby then?”
“I thought it might cheer him up. Of course the first thing he said was that I should stop work—and at times like this I feel as though I might as well. Anyway, as soon as the baby begins to show I’ll be shunted off to the stockroom or the zoological department—the ideal place for a brood mare.”
Johnny laughed. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it. Just remember I want Matt’s nightmares to end as much as you do.”
“You don’t have to sleep with him.” Lizzie smiled thinly. “Be careful. You know what Matt’s like when he doesn’t get his own way.”
“A mule and a brood mare: what a pair!” Matt’s obstinacy and tenacity stood him in good stead in the ring. “See you soon.”
He could not kiss her goodbye here. As he made his way out of the huge department store, Johnny imagined it a microcosm of the capital itself. Like London it had started small—a shop with a five-foot frontage in High Holborn—and grown piecemeal by slowly absorbing its surroundings. Now the place was a maze of showrooms
connected by passageways, ramps and steps. It contained everything under the sun—but finding what you wanted was something of an art. The motto of the founder, A.W. Gamage, could still be read above the main entrance:
Tall Oaks from Little Acorns Grow
.
Lizzie watched him weaving through the tide of shoppers, his shoulders hunched in determination.
Should she have told him?
She could not get the sickening photograph out of her mind. Who had sent it? Why address it to her? Was it some kind of twisted joke?
There was no doubt that it was her husband yet, at the same time, she was sure that it must have been taken against his will. But how? She could not imagine the circumstances. Matt had no interest in other men’s bodies. He worshipped her body with an ardour and tenderness that could not be feigned.
She was skewered on the horns of a dilemma. The events caught on camera must be the cause of Matt’s nightmares. Did he know what had happened and was keeping silent to protect her? Or was he suffering in ignorance? Would telling him only serve to increase his torment?
Johnny would have known what to do. He would never sacrifice their friendship for the sake of a story. He had a heart of gold.
Somehow she had to preserve Matt’s dignity and the only way she could do that was to pretend she had never received the disgusting thing. That did not mean she would give up trying to think of a way to find the culprits.
Perhaps Inspector Rotherforth could help—in the strictest confidence, of course. He was someone she could trust, he appeared to have a high opinion of Matt, and Matt looked up to him.
But would Matt thank her for interfering?
It was too risky to take the most direct route to the Urania Bookshop—across Holborn Viaduct, past the end of Snow Hill and along Newgate Street—because he might bump into Matt.
Instead, jostled by the tide of careless commuters, their black umbrellas a forest of mushrooms, Johnny approached Amen Corner from Ave Maria Lane rather than Warwick Lane. St Paul’s, its dome slick with rain, loomed in the gloom.
He had spent the day torn between conscience and desire. It was true that he had led Matt to believe that he would drop his investigations. However, although he wanted to protect him and Lizzie, he also wanted to nail the killers of Harry Gogg and George Aitken.
He wished he knew which story the sender of the pictures was so anxious to spike—perhaps it was both. It seemed increasingly likely that the two murders were part of the same case.
Where was the harm in finding out more about them? Such research certainly fell under his remit for the series on the life of a City cop. Maybe he was blinded by ambition—but the figure of Justice that presided over the Central Criminal Court was blindfolded too.
Johnny could fully understand why Matt had decided
to shirk his professional responsibilities: he had personal ones too, and Lizzie was more important than any job. But the fact that his friend was being blackmailed only made it all the more vital that Johnny did his duty and exposed the evil-doers. They had to be stopped. The fact that doing so would make a great story was merely a bonus…
Somehow he would find a way to keep Matt’s name out of it.
He turned into Amen Corner and ducked beneath the entrance to Stationers Court to get out of the rain. The shop was directly opposite. Its lights were still on, the last few Greek lovers choosing their entertainment for the evening. Johnny lit a cigarette and waited. A customer emerged, looking anxiously round him before heading quickly for the anonymity of the crowds in Warwick Lane. A few minutes later a second man came out with his collar up and his hat tilted at an angle to conceal his eyes; he too wasted no time in leaving the vicinity.
It was almost six o’clock when the door opened a third time. Bill Fox came out.
Johnny stepped back into the shadows. What the hell was Bill doing here? Surely he was not one of them? He was a widower! It was far more likely that he was trying to steal Johnny’s story. But why? He had never done anything like that before.
Matt would go mad if he heard that yet another journalist was sniffing around. And what about Simkins? Neither of them knew about the naked photographs though.
Church bells across the City began tolling the hour. Johnny sprang into action. He crossed the road and managed to get the door ajar before Harry’s boyfriend blocked his way.
“Sorry, we’re closed.” To emphasise the point he turned the sign hanging in front of the blind around. Johnny stuck his foot in the gap. Stalemate.
“Remember me?” Johnny pushed.
The shop assistant pushed back.
“Fuck off! I’ve got nothing more to say to you.” His blood-shot eyes were full of anger and pain.
“Don’t you want to know who killed Harry?”
Johnny pushed again—and almost fell into the shop as the boy stood back. The door was locked behind him.
“Men are always falling for me,” said the boy with a laugh. Johnny, trying to regain his dignity, realised he did not even know what the boy was called.
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph Moss—but everyone calls me Jo.”
“Well, Jo. I need your help. Harry, as you’re no doubt aware, was forced to work for the cops, helping to snare sad souls like your customers. He was an informer too. There must have been lots of men who wished him ill, but can you think of anyone in particular who would want to shut him up for good?”
“Harry had no choice. He hated tricking folk like us.”
“Like
us
? I’m not queer.”
“If you say so. I meant meself and Harry.”
“I’m sorry.” He really must stop being so defensive. People would think he was protesting too much. “Go on.”
“Not last Sunday but the Sunday before, Harry didn’t come home. We lived together, upstairs.” The simple statement was said with pride—and defiance. “He said he’d had to do a job for the cops and gone straight to work afterwards. He started at four.”
“On a Sunday? The market’s closed. Did he say what he’d been doing?”
“No. He was scared. He said it was better for me if I didn’t know. Ignorance being bliss and all that. He always looked out for me.”
Johnny was afraid the boy would start crying again.
“Well, I can enlighten you. He helped take the body of a dead cop to Bart’s.”
Jo gasped.
“He wasn’t a killer!”
“Of course not. I don’t think he knew that the cop had been murdered. He might not have even known that the body was that of a cop. However, he was with another cop called Tom Vinson. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes. Harry said he was a good egg. Never clipped him round the ear or demanded a free gobble—unlike the others.”
“Do you get much hassle from the cops?”
“Only if we don’t pay up on time. They call it insurance. Ha! Protection money, more like. Even so, the owner is prosecuted from time to time—to protect the reputation of the cops.” He laughed at the irony. “Glad it’s not my lolly.”
“Who collects the cash?”
“I’m not that stupid. I don’t want to die like Harry.”
“How d’you know they’re not responsible for his death?”
“Why would they kill someone so useful to them? It don’t make sense.”
“Maybe.” He had some serious thinking to do. “Has anyone been round asking questions since Harry died?”
“Only you. Why would anyone ask me? Only the cops know about me and Harry.”
“Remember the photograph I showed you?”
“How could I forget?”
He searched Johnny’s face for a clue to what was coming next.
“Have you got any more of the same man?” He needed the evidence.
“Sold out.” Very convenient.
“How about that bloke who was in just before me—have you seen him before?”
“Course. He’s a regular.”
Johnny was shocked. How could he have worked with Bill for so long and not suspected anything? Naturally he understood why Bill had not told him, but what else had he kept from him? Perhaps Joseph was lying again.
Mistaking his silence for disappointment, the boy said, “If you’re normal, why are you so interested in the big, blond guy? I’ve returned the negatives to the photographer, but he’s probably still got them…”
Before Johnny could reply there was a knock on the door. A flash of panic flitted across the boy’s face.
“Quick! In here.” He led Johnny round the counter
and into the room behind it. “Keep quiet if you know what’s good for you.”
Johnny pressed his ear to the door but could only hear low murmurs. Then a door creaked at the far side of the shop and heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. He followed their progress as they crossed the ceiling above him.
When he tried to open the door of the stockroom he found it locked. The only window was barred. He was trapped.
A few minutes later the voices suddenly got louder. Joseph was shouting. Johnny was sure he heard his own name. The newcomer’s voice was much deeper. A sudden thump—that made the bare bulb above him sway—startled him. An eerie silence descended. The hairs on the back of Johnny’s neck stood up. He turned out the light.
Something was dragged across the ceiling. Johnny waited. He could probably break his way out—but he didn’t want to make any noise until he was sure the man had gone. Whoever it was could be heard coming down the stairs now. Johnny held his breath until the ring of the shop-bell was followed by the sound of the door closing quietly. Was it a trick?
He listened for movement from upstairs but there was nothing. What was Jo playing at? The ominous silence continued. Then he smelled smoke.
He smashed the lock with a heavy, newfangled, adhesive tape dispenser and wrenched open the door. The shop was in darkness. An orange glow outlined the door to the stairs. Johnny opened it and ran up them. Jo lay on the first-floor landing. Blood was oozing from a
gaping head wound—but that was not what had killed him. A piece of knotted garden twine encircled his neck and bit deep into the skin.
Knowing it was futile, Johnny nevertheless checked for a pulse.
From where he knelt he could see along the landing to a living room at the front of the building. A paraffin heater had been overturned on a rug. An old armchair was already ablaze, tongues of flame licking the flimsy curtains. Seconds later, they were alight. Smoke came billowing towards him.
Johnny got to his feet. The kitchen was unoccupied but, entering the room, he immediately saw that the oven door was wide open. The bastard had left the gas on but not lit it. Johnny ran over and turned it off. He opened the window; it overlooked a grim light-well. A pigeon fluttered its wings in panic. Johnny could see no way out from here.