The cab picked up speed once it had negotiated the Angel which, as usual, was clogged with trams, buses, vans and carts—and their vociferous, gesticulating drivers. It rattled down St John Street, went round the Central Markets of Smithfield, past Bart’s and paused at the end of Giltspur Street. Her husband was probably patrolling
his beat but he might equally well be just yards away round the corner. The thought of what he had been through brought tears to her eyes. She admonished herself for being silly—he was a big, brave man—and rested her hands on the new life growing inside her.
When they arrived at Honey Lane, the young driver, who had been eyeing her in the rear-view mirror, actually got out to hold open the door for her. She rewarded him with a big tip.
“Sure you got the right place, madam?” She looked up at the imposing house with its glossy black front door. The fanlight above it was decorated with a large figure six.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I can wait for you, if you like. I’ll turn the meter off.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He touched the peak of his cap, hopped back into his cab, executed a perfect U-turn and headed back towards Cheapside. A cloud of grey fumes hung in the icy air. It was beginning to snow. The silence was unnerving.
She climbed the steps and raised the lion’s-head knocker but, before she had even let go, the door opened and a mountain of a man looked down at her.
“Sorry, no women allowed.” He slammed the door in her face. Lizzie immediately used the knocker and did not stop until the brute glowered over her once again.
“I’d like to see the manager, please.”
“And what would you be doing with Miss Zick?”
“I thought women weren’t allowed.”
“Miss Zick runs the place.”
“Well, tell her I’d like to talk to her about John Steadman.”
The name produced a look of confusion.
“Come in.” He stood aside to reveal a wide entrance hall with wooden panelling. A large jardinière took pride of place on a Queen Anne side-table. “I’ll see if she’s available.” He lumbered off down a corridor that led to the rear of the building.
Lizzie listened. She had never been in a brothel before. She had imagined a place of loud music and lewd behaviour, laughter and raucous conversation. This house of ill-repute was as quiet as the grave. A well-dressed gentleman clattered down the stairs carrying a top-hat. He did not seem the slightest bit abashed to see her.
“Most convincing, I must say.” He let himself out.
The doorman returned followed by a corpulent woman in a dress that was at least two sizes too small for her. She was wearing too much make-up but her French perfume, to Lizzie’s trained nose, seemed expensive. They did not sell it in Gamage’s, that was for sure. A little dog trotted behind the madam, its claws clicking on the polished floor.
“Cecilia Zick. How may I be of service?” The question was not accompanied by a smile.
“I’m here about a friend of mine,” said Lizzie. “John Steadman. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he was killed last week.”
“I had heard something to that effect. And you are…?”
“Mrs Elizabeth Turner. My husband is a policeman at Snow Hill.”
“How nice for you.” The ageing flapper put a hand to her neck. The powder did not quite conceal what appeared to be bruises. “Coppers are some of my best customers.” She laughed at Lizzie’s look of horror. “Just my idea of a joke. What exactly d’you want to know?”
“Johnny was a reporter investigating the murder of Harry Gogg. It’s said that both of them were killed by the boy who set fire to the shop in question. However, I’ve been told by another reporter—who is working on an exposé of your sordid set-up—that someone else may be responsible for Johnny’s death.”
“What? That’s poppycock. Who told you that? I can assure you there’ll be no newspaper stories about me—that’s what I pay insurance for. What’s the name of the toe-rag?” Lizzie knew better than to reveal her source. Johnny would have been proud of her.
“Why don’t you tell me what Johnny was doing here?”
“He was bothering one of my boys, that’s what. He was disrupting business, making a right nuisance of himself. I got Alf here to throw him out.”
Lizzie retrieved the photograph from her handbag and reluctantly showed it to the woman.
“Have you seen it before?”
“Can’t say as I have.” Zick picked up the lap-dog that was yapping at her feet.
“Could it have been taken here?”
“Certainly not. We don’t provide souvenirs.”
A stocky man, forearms covered in red and blue tattoos, emerged from the parlour on the right.
“I haven’t got all night, Cecilia. Got to be back in barracks by ten.”
“A thousand apologies, Sergeant. Roberto shouldn’t be much longer. I’ll bring you another Scotch.” The soldier went back into the waiting room. Zick turned to Lizzie. “As you can see I’ve clients to attend to. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Show Mrs Turner out, Alf.”
“One moment please. When did you last see Johnny?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I see so many people. The days all blur into one. Saturday, wasn’t it? No, silly me. It was last Monday. Just one week ago.”
“Hold yer ’orses,” blurted Alf. “The little squirt was ’ere on Saturday. Your memory’s playing tricks, Cissy. It were only two days ago.”
“But he was buried on Friday!” Lizzie stared at the mismatched pair of criminals. “You’re lying to me. If the City of London police are in your pocket, the Metropolitan police will still listen to me. They’ll no doubt be only too happy to expose their rivals’ corruption.”
“Idiot!” said Zick, glaring at Alf. However, she swung her fist not at him but at Lizzie, catching her right on the chin.
She packed a hell of a punch for a woman.
When Lizzie came round she was in a threadbare armchair in an old-fashioned kitchen. A single tap dripped into a
stone sink. Grey laundry aired on a frame suspended from the peeling ceiling. Her jaw ached. Cecilia Zick was seated at the table watching her. The chihuahua was asleep in front of a feeble fire.
“You wait till Inspector Rotherforth hears about this,” said Lizzie, checking to see if any of her teeth were loose. Apparently not. Zick gave a hollow laugh.
“That will be much sooner than you think.” Lizzie rubbed her face.
“What d’you mean?”
“Rotherforth is my guardian angel. In return for a share in my considerable profits he ensures that my business is not interrupted. It’s taken years for me to find the ideal premises and build up a list of trustworthy clients. It makes sense to have the police on my side.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you’ll be able to ask him yourself later. He and his associates owned the bookshop too.”
If Johnny had found all this out, thought Lizzie, it was hardly surprising he had been murdered. And, fool that she was, she had gone to Rotherforth for help. The photograph of Matt must be incriminating evidence. No wonder the inspector had told her to destroy it. If only she could get a message to Matt. Rotherforth had to be stopped.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but there are a lot of hungry men upstairs. In the meantime it’s the dungeon for you, my love. Don’t worry, there aren’t any rats.”
Lizzie knew it was now or never.
Go for the eyes,
her father had told her.
It doesn’t matter how big or
strong someone is, their eyes are as vulnerable as yours.
She launched herself at the woman, her carmine nails ready to scratch and gouge.
Zick, however, was ready for her. She grabbed Lizzie’s wrists before her nails could find their target and wrestled her to the floor. The dog woke up and, in a ridiculous attempt to protect its mistress, leaped on top of Lizzie, yapping for all it was worth. When she instinctively brought her knees up, one of them, by fluke rather than design, found her captor’s groin. The woman let out a huge groan, rolled over and shrieked. Her wig had fallen off.
Of course—that was it!—she could see it now.
This woman was a man.
She should not have laughed. However, the sight of the roly-poly man in a dress rolling around clutching his wig was too much for her.
Zick, unfortunately, could not see the funny side. He flung the syrup to the floor and finally got to his feet.
“Let’s see if you’re still laughing in a minute.” He dragged her out of the kitchen and down the back stairs. “Alf!
Alf!
” The gorilla came up to meet them. “Put her in the dungeon.”
The hulking doorman slung her over his shoulder and carried her, kicking and screaming, down another two flights of stairs into the cellar. He unlocked a door, switched on the light—a bare bulb of low wattage—and dropped her into what appeared to be a real-life torture chamber. Lizzie gasped in disbelief.
Three of the walls, which were painted black, boasted a vast array of whips, chains and other restraints. She could not even begin to guess what some of them were designed to do. A large, full-length mirror took up most of the fourth wall. There was a cage in the shape of a man, rather like a cross between an iron maiden and a suit of armour, at one end of the room and, at the other, an X-shaped board tilted at an angle of seventy degrees.
Alf dragged her across the lino to the board and, having slapped her face when she tried to resist, cuffed her hands and feet to it.
Zick, breathing heavily, in female guise once again, came in and stood on the spotted rubber mat in the middle of the floor. The lap-dog was nowhere to be seen or heard.
“What’s the matter? Lost your sense of humour?” He was still livid. “I’ve got better things to do than deal with interfering bitches like you.”
“Wait till my husband finds out about this,” said Lizzie. “You’ll be sorry then.”
Zick laughed. “What makes you think you’re going to see him again?” He turned on his high heels and left.
The faithful henchman gagged her tightly with a filthy rag then trailed after his boss. He locked the door behind them.
The transvestite’s cruel words hung in the air. Lizzie felt a stab of fear—for herself and Matt. What had she done?
A sense of dread spread through her veins.
Sooner or later Simkins is bound to realise that I haven’t got any photographs of frolicking Tory grandees—yet…I can’t keep increasing the price to fob him off. “They’re worth every penny, Simkins. Wait till you see what they’re doing…” If he gets too pushy, I’ll have to get Timney to fake some. Shouldn’t be difficult.
Mind you, I can’t see Simkins being a major problem. He’s too ambitious. With the right handling, he might well be a good substitute for Fox.
Zick will keep his trap shut, too. Living off immoral earnings is a slap on the wrist compared to what he’d get for conspiracy to murder. He’s in too deep now to risk blabbing.
What I don’t get is why Moss sent Turner’s wife the photograph. Was he after revenge for Gogg’s death? Maybe it was him rather than Gogg that sent the tip-off to Steadman. Well, it’s lucky for him I didn’t know
about that when I throttled him—I’d have made him suffer a lot more if I’d realised he was going to cost me the bookshop and the brothel.
Still, we’ll soon be back in business, poncing in pastures new. There’s only a couple of loose ends left to tie up tonight and then this mess will all be sorted.
If Turner’s got any sense, he’ll fall in line like a good lad. He won’t want that pretty wife of his coming to any harm. And he’ll be signing both their death warrants if he doesn’t do as he’s told.
In the meantime, I’ll have to put off dealing with Hughes. He’s become a liability, that one—since he found out Aitken was a cop, he’s been scared shitless. He’d rather be exposed as a corpse-fucker than take the drop for murder. Well, thanks to Turner, he’s got a few hours’ reprieve. I’ll let him stick around long enough to dispose of the bodies—then I’ll dispose of him.
Monday, 21st December, 11.45 p.m.
Johnny stood outside the Globe and shivered in the borrowed overcoat. He had lost his own in Honey Lane and was waiting for the right moment to ask if he could claim for a new one on expenses. The clearing sky had sent the temperature plummeting. The public house had long since shut its doors. Most of its patrons would now be tucked up warm in bed.
The prospect of kicking his heels till closing time had been unbearable, so he had left the luxurious warmth of Stone’s home—without his irksome false nose—at 9 p.m. Before leaving he had taken the precaution of writing down the details of the rendezvous. If he was not back by breakfast-time, the butler would pass the note to his master. Of course, it was a futile gesture: it would surely be too late by then.
The snow, as he had correctly surmised, was causing
transport chaos. As he’d made the journey, Johnny’s excitement had been mixed with something else: not fear exactly but a sense of dread. Something was not quite right. Too many things could go wrong. Was he walking into a trap?
Vinson could have killed Gogg.
Stone’s words haunted him. Vinson had been outside the cold-store that night. The taller man Johnny had seen with him must have been Rotherforth. From what he’d observed, Johnny had assumed that Vinson was following Rotherforth’s orders in trying to get rid of the knife. Except…he had not got rid of it: he had ensured that it was found by a journalist. Why? Vinson said that he was trying to expose Rotherforth.
But what if neither of the two cops had killed Harry Gogg. What if they were both following orders, protecting someone else?
Johnny wondered how long it had taken Vinson to realise he was being followed. Had he planned to lead him down Passing Alley, or had he simply reacted to unforeseen circumstances?
The trouble with this story all along was the lack of concrete evidence. There was the bloody butcher’s knife and that was it. The rest was nothing more than hearsay. He only had Vinson’s word for it that Rotherforth the rapist was also a killer.
Given Vinson’s jealousy over his friendship with Matt, perhaps the tip-off was actually a set-up designed to get him killed. With him out of the way, the love-sick Vinson would have Matt all to himself—assuming Lizzie were ignored.
No, it was too outlandish. He was being paranoid. Had Vinson wanted him dead, he could have knifed him in the alley or suffocated him at the brothel. But then, either way he would have ended up with blood on his hands. If, however, Vinson made it look as though he’d saved Johnny’s life, Matt would be extremely grateful to him.
The tip-off had been a clever move: whether or not it succeeded in unmasking Rotherforth, whether or not his supposed rival for Matt’s affections lived, the anonymous Vinson could not lose. All the cop had to do was light the blue touchpaper, stand back and watch.
Johnny was bitterly regretting the two pints of IPA he’d downed before the pub closed. It was no good. He had to go. He nipped round the corner into Hosier Lane and relieved himself in a dark doorway.
He looked over his shoulder at Bart’s. Its brightly lit windows recalled an advent calendar. For months after his mother’s death Johnny had not been able to go near the hospital. Its very name was enough to bring back the endless, sleepless nights of pain. The smell of people rotting from the inside. The shame of waiting for loved ones to die—and the grief and guilt when they did.
“I could arrest you for that.”
Johnny jumped. He buttoned himself up hastily. He had not heard Vinson coming. A ligature could have been round his neck before he knew it. The snow muffled sound—which was probably in their favour.
“Don’t you ever hang up on me again.”
In truth Johnny was no stranger to having the phone
slammed down on him, but that did not mean he was going to let Vinson get away with it.
“Or what?” The copper towered over him. “Do you want my help or not?”
“You don’t frighten me,” said Johnny. “Don’t forget your job is on the line as well. Boys in blue aren’t meant to be bum-boys. Tell me, why did you become a cop?”
Vinson studied him for a moment, as if checking that he was being serious.
“I suppose I craved a sense of belonging. All my life I’ve felt like an outsider, different from everyone else. Wearing a uniform, looking the same, made me feel safe. Besides, I wanted to do something worthwhile and exciting, to help people, not waste my life in a factory or an office. It wasn’t just about spending a lot of time in the company of men.” He gave a sigh. “And it was all going so well until Rotherforth got his claws into me.”
“I’m still not clear why you sent me the tip-off.”
“I told you: you’re a friend of Matt’s. I knew you were bound to turn to him for help. It worked like a dream to begin with: he got all the credit for finding Harry Gogg. How do you think he found you in Green Hill’s Rents? Harry thought he’d win favour by telling Rotherforth about your meeting.” Vinson shook his head. “Fatal mistake. Rotherforth was furious: he was certain that Harry had already squealed—then, with his hat-pin, really made him squeal. Harry swore on his life that he hadn’t told you anything, that he hadn’t sent you the tip-off, but Rotherforth didn’t believe him. He persuaded him to go ahead with the meeting and
told him exactly what he was supposed to say—some cock-and-bull story.”
“But he was dead when I got there.”
“I don’t think Rotherforth ever intended for him to actually meet with you. It’s more likely he’d decided the cold-store would be the ideal location to kill Harry and maybe get rid of you in the process. Leaving Harry’s corpse displayed like that was intended to be a warning to everybody else to keep their mouths shut.”
“But if you knew all this—”
“I didn’t know it then; I put it all together, bit by bit, afterwards. At the time, I thought I could put a stop to Rotherforth’s games by making sure Sergeant Dwyer passed on the report of a possible break-in at the store when Matt called from the police-box on his beat.” He sighed. “I never meant for Harry, let alone Jo and Charlie, to die. I really liked George Aitken, too. Now Rotherforth is finally going to pay for all the things he’s done.”
“Hang on a sec—you do realise that you could have sent Matt to his death? What if he’d turned up as Rotherforth was butchering Harry, or trying to kill me? There’s no way you could have guaranteed he’d arrive after my meeting—or the killing.”
“It was a risk worth taking. If Matt had arrived sooner and seen Rotherforth entering the cold-store, he might have been able to save Harry as well as you.”
“Okay.” It was a valid point. “When did you realise I was following you?”
“In the alley. It was a strange moment. I was going
to see that Matt found the knife, but then I recognised your scent.”
“I don’t wear scent!”
“I know you don’t, but everyone has a scent unique to them. Yours is a mixture of soap, sweat and something else. It reminded me of freshly baked bread. It’s nice. I decided to leave the knife with you.” He met Johnny’s gaze. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”
Johnny remained silent.
Vinson gave a sorrowful shake of his head. He produced a white envelope from his greatcoat and gave it to him. “Here you are.”
Johnny moved into the moonlight. It was a photograph of a football team. Vinson pointed to the boy holding the ball. He was tall, narrow-shouldered but by no means weedy. His curly hair softened his chiselled features. A big grin lit up his face.
“Charlie was the leading goal-scorer that season,” said Vinson. “He represented St Mary’s in Stoke Newington. The local rag ran a picture when they beat a team from Tottenham in a really rough derby. There wasn’t much turning of the other cheek.”
“Thank you.” Johnny could still hear the boy’s scream as he fell to his fiery death. “Have you told his father?”
“The bastard didn’t shed a single tear. He’s apparently very grateful to you for arranging the burial. You saved him a lot of money.”
“And that’s all he said?”
“Yes, apart from
good riddance
.”
Johnny’s blood ran cold.
“And Rotherforth?”
“He just shrugged and said something like
only another few thousand to go
.”
Johnny could not think of a suitable response.
Vinson shivered. “Come on. Matt’s already there.”
“And where is ‘there’?” asked Johnny as they tramped past the Watch House—once a defence against resurrection men—in Giltspur Street. The snow, blue in the moonlight, was a foot-deep in places.
“Here,” said Vinson, stopping at the mouth of an alley which ran alongside the Bluecoat School where the poet Charles Lamb had once been a pupil. “Rotherforth sent a message to Matt telling him to be at the foot of St Sepulchre’s bell-tower at midnight.”
Johnny stared down the passage into the darkness. It was a good place for an ambush. He hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” said Vinson. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
The church did not have much in the way of a graveyard. Its original one, south of Cowcross Street, had long since been built over. A barnlike structure, with no division between nave and chancel, it was nevertheless known to generations of children. The great bell in its tower was rung each time prisoners began their final journey from Newgate to Tyburn. The night before, a handbell, still on display in the church, was rung outside the condemned man’s cell. These were the “bells of Old Bailey” in the nursery rhyme.
The priest, who entered the gaol via a tunnel which
ran from the crypt, would recite the following verse as he rang the handbell:
All you that in the condemned hole do lie,
Prepare you for tomorrow you shall die,
Watch all and pray; the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent,
And when St Sepulchre’s bell in the morning tolls
The Lord have mercy on your souls.
The few square yards at the foot of the tower had been given the grand name of Snow Hill Court; a short passage connected it to Snow Hill itself. Two other alleys also led into it: one from Giltspur Street—down which Johnny and Vinson were making their way—and a longer, narrower snicket which wound past the rear of the Rolling Barrel. Anyone who turned down the latter soon found their progress blocked by a black door without a lock or handle. This door was a fire escape for those inside the police station.
It slowly began to open.
Matt, who had been standing anxiously in the shadows for five minutes, heard a noise from the alley leading to Giltspur Street. He tapped his night-stick against his leg. Nothing happened. Had he imagined it? Perhaps it was a cat—although most living things seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. He strained his ears
—and thought he detected a sound coming from the other alley.
Why had Rotherforth suggested they meet here rather than in the comfort of the station? He had promised to explain about Aitken’s death and Vinson’s role in it. He had also impressed upon him the need for absolute discretion. Matt supposed the inspector had his reasons. He was in no position—and had no authority—to question them.
Johnny, forced to wait behind Vinson, was as impatient as ever, keen to see their mutual friend. He peered round the cop and into the courtyard which was sliced diagonally in half by the tower’s shadow. The contrast between the darkness and the moonlit snow was dazzling.
Unable to stop shivering—nervous anticipation only made it worse—he stepped even closer to Vinson and tried to absorb some of his body-heat.
Suddenly he heard Matt’s voice whisper, “Sir!”
Rotherforth emerged into the yard and stood there for a moment in silence. What was he going to do?
Vinson and Johnny, not daring to move, watched intently.
Above them the great bell began to toll midnight. All over the city, church bells cut through the icy, crystalline air.
The shortest day of the year—which in so many ways had been the longest—was ending.
Rotherforth cleared his throat. “I’m not the man you think I am, Turner. However, I can assure you Aitken wasn’t murdered. His death was an accident. When Steadman found out about it I sent you those pretty pictures to make you stop him digging around. Alas, the plan backfired.”
Matt, unable to comprehend his superior’s confession, simply stared at him.
“But where did the photographs come from? How did I come to be in them?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute—maybe. First you have a decision to make. Some people are prepared to pay a lot of money for such photographs—especially when they feature in them.”
“You’re talking about blackmail.”
“I prefer to call it punishing perverts. Whatever it is, it’s extremely lucrative. Couldn’t you and your wife, with a baby on the way, do with some extra cash? You’ll be paying a mortgage soon.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“No.”
“Can you really afford to turn down hundreds of pounds? We’re branching out into moving pictures. One of my associates works at Gainsborough Studios. In the meantime, imagine the hoo-ha if your debut were to appear on the station notice-board.”
“I’m a copper: I can’t just ignore blackmail and murder.”
“And I can’t let you just walk away.” The two men stared at each other. “You’ll be sitting the sergeant’s exam next month. A good report from me will be essential.”
“What makes you think you’ll still be in the job?
“This—” Rotherforth pulled out a gun. It glinted in the moonlight.
“If you’re planning to kill me too, you might as well tell me how you managed to photograph me in such a compromising position.”
“Does it really matter?” The inspector’s voice took on an air of resignation. “Okay, I suppose I do owe you an explanation. Someone who had no choice took them for me. You were—what’s the word?—selected because you’re a fine figure of a man. I doped your cocoa one night when you were staying in the station.”