“And Aitken?”
“He wasn’t as strong as you. I overdid his dose. It was an accident. A stupid bloody accident. Vinson and Gogg, acting under my orders, took the body to Bart’s.”
Matt groaned, took a step forward but stopped dead when Rotherforth raised the gun.
“That’s right. You just stay there and listen,” said the inspector. “I don’t expect you to understand. I never wanted it to come to this—believe me, I like you—but if you hadn’t rescued Steadman from the cold-store that would have been the end of the matter. Gogg should have known better than to blab. He deserved everything he got. As did Steadman—a persistent bugger, if ever there was one.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” said Matt, fighting back the rage, trying to keep his voice low and even. The temptation to shout abuse—if not cry for help—was almost irresistible.
“Don’t tell lies, Turner. I saw you talking to him in the Viaduct.”
“So what? I didn’t know about Aitken until Johnny came to me! Later on, I told him that Aitken had called me—which he obviously didn’t as he was already dead.”
“I was surprised you didn’t recognise my voice.” Rotherforth smiled wolfishly.
“Well,” said Matt, “there are a lot of Scots in London.”
“Indeed. Though there’s one less now.” Rotherforth paused.
It was a bit late to pretend he was sorry—but, thought Matt, the bastard was going to try anyway.
“I really didn’t mean for Aitken to die, you know. It was an accident, I swear. I did my best to revive him. He was a lovely lad.” A catch crept into his voice. “I just couldn’t wake him up afterwards.”
For a moment Matt thought Rotherforth was going to break down. He took another step. He so wanted to kill him.
“Don’t move!” hissed the inspector. “Another inch and I’ll blow your head off.”
Matt swallowed. “You said
afterwards
. After what?”
“Christ, you can be a dumb ox,” said Rotherforth bitterly. “In a way, that’s what first attracted me to you. I couldn’t wait to have you.”
The scales finally fell from Matt’s eyes. “You knocked me out so that you could sodomise me?”
“What’s the problem?” said Rotherforth. “You survived, didn’t you? You’d never have known if you’d kept your mouth shut. I didn’t mean any harm.” If he could not persuade Turner then he would humiliate him. “All I did was enjoy your beefy arse. All the hours at the gym have certainly paid off. You should thank me. You were the best, Turner. Much better than Vinson. Mind you, he didn’t go round blabbing. He took it like a man.”
“Like a man? What do you know about being a man?” Matt said with a sneer. “Real men don’t have sex with other men.”
Rotherforth cocked his old service revolver. The click seemed incredibly loud.
“You’re doing it again, Turner. Saying things you shouldn’t. I should never have given you a second chance. I should’ve killed you straight away.”
“Why, though? You’re married. I don’t understand why you did it.”
“Why not? I did it because I could. Because it felt right.”
“You cunt.” Matt’s teeth—and fists—were clenched. “You won’t get away with this. I told PC Watkiss that I was meeting you. If anything happens to me, he’s got a letter for Superintendent Inskip.”
A sad smile spread across Rotherforth’s face.
“Bad choice, Turner. You might as well have written in invisible ink.”
Matt had recovered from the initial shock. His racing mind was full of questions. “You’re bluffing—you’re not going to fool me again. That said, you can’t have done it all by yourself. Who helped you?”
“PC Vinson, of course. He’s besotted with you. He was so grateful when I let him have his way with you. But then, you can see that just by looking at the pictures. I believe you’ve seen the one where he has his mouth full. There are dozens more like that. He’ll be most distressed when he sees your corpse.”
“So you’re going to kill me after all?” Matt, ignoring the gun, stared straight at the murderer. All he had was his night-stick. His luck had finally run out.
“’Fraid so,” said Rotherforth, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit Vinson in the chest, the force of it, at such close range, spinning him round. He crumpled like an empty paper bag.
It took Matt a couple of seconds to realise that he was unscathed. He knelt down beside Vinson and raised him into a sitting position. The blood turned the snow black.
The gunshot had been deafening in the close confines of the courtyard. Johnny’s ears were still ringing. It was so much louder than in the movies. He had been sure Matt was a goner. Vinson had come out of nowhere, moving with such speed that Johnny had not even had time to react—and neither had Rotherforth. He was still standing in the same spot, gun in hand.
With a roar, Matt rushed the inspector. More out of annoyance than surprise, Rotherforth swatted him on the side of his head with the hot gun. Stunned, Matt collapsed beside Vinson on the ground.
Vinson’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he coughed and blood gushed out of his mouth.
“Don’t be silly,” muttered Matt. “You saved my life. Hang on. Someone’s bound to have heard the shot. Help will be here any minute.”
“It’s too late,” said Vinson, grimacing. “Fuck, it hurts. I’ve nothing left to lose now…I love you, Matt. Always have, always will.”
He did not say another word.
“Very touching,” said Rotherforth. Wisps of smoke still curled from the gun. “On your feet, Turner. A gentleman doesn’t shoot a man when he’s down.”
Matt, still dizzy, got up. His greatcoat was soaked with snow and Vinson’s blood.
“Go on then, if you’re going to do it,” he said, flinging down his night-stick. “What are you waiting for? One more dead body isn’t going to make any difference. They can only hang you once.”
“You’re the last one,” said Rotherforth grimly. “There’s no one else. If it’s any consolation, I meant it when I said you were the best.”
“It isn’t,” said Matt and spat at him.
The spittle landed bang in Rotherforth’s left eye. He did not even bother to wipe it away: he merely raised the Webley and aimed it at Matt’s head.
Johnny felt as if his feet were rooted to the ground. Surely they’d have heard the shot from inside Snow Hill. Where was the sound of running footsteps and police whistles?
But there was just a click as Rotherforth thumbed the hammer back on the gun.
It was down to Johnny. He had to do something
now
.
“Put the gun down, Rotherforth,” he shouted. “You’re surrounded. The whole world knows about your sexual depravity and the murders of George Aitken, Harry Gogg, Joseph Moss, Charles Timney and John Steadman. You’re a disgrace to that uniform. Your crimes will disgust all right-minded people.”
Rotherforth, startled, turned and fired three shots into the darkness. Acrid smoke hung in the air.
Matt dropped into a crouch and picked up his nightstick.
Desperate to keep the gun from swinging back towards Matt, Johnny jeered,“Is that the best you can do?”
Another shot whizzed past him. Johnny had ducked his head back round the corner just in time.
“Give yourself up before anyone else is killed,” he shouted. “Aren’t you sick of death?”
Raised voices could be heard in the distance. All three men turned to look in the direction of Snow Hill police station. They had woken up at last—and they were running this way.
“Ah, fuck it,” said Rotherforth.
And he pulled the trigger again.
Blood and brain tissue spattered the wall of the church and stained the snow-covered ground. The sound of the shot ricocheted round the courtyard. For one astonishing moment he remained on his feet, then he toppled like a felled oak.
The two on-lookers did not move. They had only seen people shot on the silver screen: real life was different. The inside of someone’s head was a fascinatingly ugly sight.
Matt, who had involuntarily shut his eyes when the gun went off, could not believe them now. Rotherforth had eaten his last bullet. The bullet he’d thought would end his life. He stared at the rapidly cooling corpse.
The excited voices got louder as they came up the hill.
“Matt! Come on!” Johnny stepped into the moonlight. Matt clutched his heart and stared at the black-haired
double of his friend. Try as he might, he could not speak.
“Snap out of it. I’m not a ghost!”
Matt remained stock-still as Johnny embraced him joyfully.
“See, it really is me!” Johnny said, tugging at his arm. “Come on, we have to get to Zick’s before word gets out Rotherforth is dead and the rest of the gang do a runner.”
Matt, in a daze, followed Johnny down the alley to Giltspur Street. They broke into a run as policemen’s whistles began to shriek.
The bodies had been found.
The snow made it hard going but Johnny did not care as they skidded and slid alongside the massive walls of the Old Bailey. He was so glad to be reunited with Matt.
He had felt like whooping when Rotherforth had topped himself—the bastard had had it coming for a long time—but now he was beginning to realise that the inspector had escaped justice once again. His death had been too quick and too painless.
Johnny had been counting on Rotherforth being brought to trial. He’d wanted to see him in the dock, forced to explain why he had turned from enforcing the law to breaking it. Now they would probably never know.
Though they didn’t know it, they were following the same route that Lizzie’s cab had taken hours earlier. There were few footprints on the pavements of Newgate
Street. The snow, which had long since leaked into Johnny’s shoes, made his socks chafe.
To begin with the two men said little; each was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Eventually Matt broke the silence:
“Well, at least we know what—or rather who—caused my nightmares,” he said, attempting a jocular tone in an effort to hide his embarrassment. “It makes sense now. I’d kind of suspected as much, but was hoping against hope there’d be another explanation.”
“There’s none so blind as those who will not see,” said Johnny. Did that sound like an accusation? It was not meant to be. “He did the same thing to me, more or less. God, it hurt.”
“He did? When?”
Johnny was touched by Matt’s concern.
“I went back to Zick’s on Saturday to have another go at questioning Stan the messenger boy, but she saw through my disguise.”
“
She?
”
“The madam. She’s Rotherforth’s business partner.”
“You mean ‘he’. Surely you knew Zick was a man?” Matt stopped in amazement. “Didn’t you notice the size of those hands? He used to work down the docks. Sometimes, Johnny, you’re so naïve.”
“I had my mind on other things,” Johnny said huffily. At least the darkness hid his red face. Everybody must have assumed he had known all along and was just being polite. He did not like cross-dressing and found pantomime a bore.
“Well, I’m sorry that Rotherforth got to you as well,” said Matt. “Now you know how I felt. One thing’s for certain: I’ll never drink cocoa again.”
They laughed, too loudly, the noise echoing off the sleeping buildings in Cheapside. It was like old times: the two of them against the world, safe in each other’s company.
“You’re not going to write about it, are you?” Matt looked down at the virgin snow.
“There’s no need,” said Johnny. “I’ve got enough evidence that Rotherforth was a killer and a pornographer on the side without going into everything that happened. Some truths are best left untold. What about Superintendent Inskip, though?”
“Without proof, there’s nothing we can do. I don’t like the idea of anyone being untouchable. I’ll try and keep tabs on him. The odds are he’ll slip up sooner or later.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Johnny as they turned into Honey Lane.
“It’s simple,” said Matt. “I’m going to beat the crap out of Zick—and then arrest him for living off immoral earnings.”
Johnny suddenly halted.
“What is it?”
“Simkins,” said Johnny. “He was outside when I got turfed down the stairs on my first visit. He never did say what he was doing here.”
“Same as you, probably,” said Matt. “He came to your funeral. He’s not a bad fellow—for a hack. He
claims to have alerted the fire brigade when the bookshop went up.”
“Perhaps he was following me,” said Johnny. “Or just following the same clues. I was at the cemetery.”
“You were?” Matt shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, causing all that grief.”
“I’m sorry. I will, of course, reimburse you for the wreath. The fire was too good an opportunity to miss. I heard Rotherforth kill Joseph Moss, but there was someone else there as well—the son of the man who took the photographs. He was the one whose body they found and buried in my name.”
“Shame it wasn’t the photographer himself.”
“He’s called James Timney.”
“Well, we’ll see what he has to say for himself.” Matt took off his helmet and scratched the side of his head. “I presume Rotherforth killed Harry Gogg as well.”
“Indeed. You wouldn’t have really framed me, would you?”
“Of course not,” said Matt. “I was going out of my mind at the thought of Lizzie being dragged into it all. I thought if I could just get you to back off, I’d be able to sniff around and do a bit of investigating on the quiet myself. Knowing how persistent you can be when you’re on the trail, I had to come up with something pretty drastic to make sure you took me seriously. I was just trying to protect you really.”
“I know,” said Johnny. “But you’d saved my life at the cold-store and I was determined to unmask your blackmailer.”
“Well, we’re quits now. As for Simkins, I wouldn’t worry about him. You know something that he doesn’t: you’re alive!”
“So I am,” said Johnny. “I suppose he would look rather stupid if he blames Zick or Rotherforth for my demise.”
“Zick will be able to tell you what Simkins knows. Rotherforth’s death may loosen his tongue—and if it doesn’t, we’ll loosen it for him. Okay, here we are—are you ready?”
The house was in total darkness. Not a chink of light showed through its shutters and blinds. It was the dead of night: most law-abiding citizens—and many who were not—would be fast asleep at this hour.
Matt hammered on the door but no one came. Johnny stepped forward and tried the knocker himself.
“What?” asked Matt.
“The sound,” said Johnny. “It’s different.”
He knelt down to peep through the letter-box.
“It’s blocked up!”
Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you hear that cry for help?”
“No,” said Johnny.
Matt rolled his eyes.
“Well, I did,” he said, and rammed his massive shoulder against the door. It hardly moved. “I could do with a little help here.”
It took a while but eventually the pair of them, breathing heavily, managed to break into the brothel.
“Zick clearly didn’t like unexpected visitors,” said Matt, wiping his brow.
“We’re too late,” said Johnny. He stamped on the bare boards. There was no trace of the Turkey rug that had covered them.
The chesterfield, wing-back armchairs and aspidistras had vanished from the parlour. The brocaded drapes had been taken down. The bedrooms on the first, second and third floors—where so many illicit liaisons had been enjoyed and recorded—were without their enseaméd beds.
Johnny stared through the two-way mirrors in amazement. A window in the floor of a walk-in cupboard looked down on the bed where he and Stan had kissed. He hoped there were no pictures to prove it.
The boys, the bouncer and the little mutt had all vanished, along with their boss.
“The turd has flown,” said Johnny. “What do we do now?”
A crash in the cellar startled both of them. They rushed down the stairs. All the doors were open except one. It was locked.
“Stand back,” said Matt. It took just two kicks with his regulation boots for the lock to give way. He switched on the light. For a moment he stood frozen in horror.
Johnny pushed past him. Lizzie was spread-eagled on a cross that was now lying on the floor. When she saw him she gave a muffled scream.
“It’s all right. I’m not a ghost.” He knelt down, removed her gag and undid the straps that held her wrists and ankles.
Matt swept her up in his arms and buried his face in
her neck. Even though she had been through a painful ordeal—as her bruised face testified—it was her husband who was in tears.
“Put me down, Matt. I’ve wet myself. Apart from that, I’m all right, honest. You know I like to stand on my own two feet.”
But her legs were still too wobbly to support her, so Matt took most of her weight as she hobbled towards the door.
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you mad—and in your condition? You could have been killed!” Matt’s distress manifested itself in fury.
“I was trying to help!”
“How did you even know about this place?”
She produced a business card from her pocket. “He came to see me today.”
“Henry Simkins!” Matt turned to Johnny, anger distorting his features.
“Don’t look at me. I had nothing to do with this.”
“He gave it to me this afternoon,” said Lizzie. “He said that Johnny’s killer was still at large and that he may have been killed because he was investigating this place. I thought a woman would be safe in a queer brothel.”
“Well, you were wrong,” said Matt, relief suddenly replacing his rage. “Why didn’t you tell me what you planned to do?”
“You were at work. And I knew you’d stop me from interfering. Can’t we just go home?”
“Not yet,” said Matt. “What happened here? Why did everyone clear out?”
“I don’t know—I was locked up down here so I couldn’t tell what was going on. Suddenly there was a lot of running about and banging of doors and heavy things being moved. Then everything went quiet. It didn’t take them long to clear out,” said Lizzie. “They must be used to doing a bunk. They forgot all about me.”
“I hate to think what would have happened if we hadn’t found you when we did.”
“I heard your footsteps and, in a panic, the only thing I could think of doing was tipping the damn contraption over.”
“It was a stroke of genius,” said Johnny. “How’s the baby?”
“Fine, I think.”
“We’ll let the doctors decide that,” said Matt firmly. “We’re going to Bart’s before we go home.”
“I need to go to the office to write this up,” said Johnny. “It’ll take me the rest of the night. You don’t need to speak to Simkins immediately, do you, Matt?”
“No. Relax. You can have your moment of glory. Remember what we talked about though.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll ensure both our reputations are enhanced. Why don’t you go and find a cab? It won’t be easy on a night like this. I’ll stay with Lizzie.”
As soon as she heard Matt tramping up the stairs Lizzie opened her handbag and gave Johnny an envelope.
“I was trying to find an explanation for this.” He recognised what was inside immediately. “I assume you’ve already seen something like it.”
“Unfortunately I have,” said Johnny. “Matt was drugged by Rotherforth. He had no idea what was happening to him. The pictures were being used to blackmail him—but you must never let on you know. It’s all over now. Rotherforth has just shot himself.”
“Oh! I went to him for help. He told me to burn it.”
Johnny studied the envelope. “Is this what it came in?”
“Yes. You recognise the handwriting?”
“I’m afraid so. Remember Daisy, the chorus girl who claimed to be an actress?’
“We only met the once.”
“She found the photograph at my place—Matt had given it to me so that I could try to find out what was going on. Daisy jumped to the wrong conclusion and stormed out with it. She told me later that she had burned it. It looks as though sending it to you was her way of getting back at me—and Matt.”
“I did notice she was most put out when he wasn’t bowled over by her cheap charms.”
“Unlike me, you mean?”
“You aim too low, Johnny, always have.”
“Then how come I’m in love with you?”
“You’re not. Not really. Once, perhaps—but not now. You needed me, especially when your mother was ill, but you have to let go of the past. You’re a good-looking, kind young man. It’s time you stopped behaving like a randy schoolboy and found yourself someone
who actually meant something to you. You’ll always have a special place in my heart though.”
Matt came clomping down the stairs. “Thank God for this uniform. You can drop us off at the hospital on your way to Fleet Street, Johnny.”