Tuesday, 22nd December, 7.35 a.m.
Johnny was roused from his slumber by a well-aimed kick. He had been out cold beneath his desk.
“I thought you were dead! What on earth have you done to your hair? Trying to copy my good looks?” Louis Dimeo stood over him grinning, his scrubbed skin glowing with health. The football fanatic was fitter than many of the sportsmen he wrote about.
Johnny groaned and stiffly clambered back into his chair.
“The report of my death was an exaggeration—as Mark Twain once said.” Adding, as an afterthought: “He was an American writer.”
Dimeo wagged his finger.
“Don’t patronise me. ‘The Creator made Italy from designs by Michael Angelo…’”
Johnny was impressed. “Where’s that from?”
“No idea. Anyway, why the subterfuge?”
“I was working undercover. A bent cop tried to kill me—three times. It’s the scoop of the year.”
The young Italian must have been surprised. He handed him the mug of tea he was holding.
“Here you are. I’ll get myself another one.”
“Thanks.” He took a sip and winced.
Dimeo must have put at least four sugars in it.
The article was finished by 4.30 a.m. Johnny knew that he should go home, catnap, wash and change, but the effort had left him completely drained. Every ounce of energy had gone into the writing: it was as if the three thousand words had just flowed. The problem had not been what to include but what to exclude. As Twain told Rudyard Kipling:
Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.
He had portrayed the popular and widely respected Rotherforth as a corrupt pervert who had drugged a young constable under his command with the intention of raping him, only to accidentally kill him in the process. To cover up what he had done, he’d murdered Harry Gogg, a police informer who had spoken to the
Daily News
, and then tried to kill a
News
reporter by locking him in a Smithfield cold-store. Matt’s role in the story was restricted to his role in rescuing Johnny.
The article had gone on to describe the inspector’s torching of the pornographic bookshop, and the murders of Joseph Moss and Charles Timney. Rotherforth’s association with Cecil Zick and his brothel was also outlined,
without mentioning the names of any of the boys. It ended with an account of the heroic death of PC Tom Vinson, who had first tipped off the
News
, and the moment when Rotherforth, faced with exposure and disgrace, had shot himself.
Johnny omitted to mention the fact that Gogg and Moss were lovers, knowing it would cause most readers to have less sympathy for them. Nor did he mention Vinson’s homosexuality.
He decided to leave Percy Hughes’ name out of the piece because the mortuary attendant had been acting under duress—and his gratitude should ensure his future co-operation.
And, because the peace of mind of the living—Matt, Lizzie and himself—was more important than the further denigration of the dead, he made no mention of the photographs.
The lift-boy sniffed when he saw Johnny’s unshaven face and smelled his stale clothes.
“Did you miss me?” asked Johnny.
“If I say yes, will you give me a Christmas box?”
The lad’s cockiness reminded him of his younger self.
“Nice try. How about, if you don’t say yes, I’ll box your ears?”
Victor Stone was already sitting behind his enormous desk when Johnny was admitted to the inner sanctum.
While Johnny sat fidgeting on one of the sofas, his editor read the article not once but twice.
“Well, this should set the cat among the pigeons!
The police will no doubt want to speak to you, but the fact that Rotherforth and Vinson cannot contradict you means they can’t refute the accusations—although they’re bound to try. And if Cecil Zick has any sense he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“He’s probably in Paris by now,” said Johnny.
“I dare say you’re right. Well done, Steadman. It’s too long—but the subs can take care of that. We’ll lead with it on tonight’s front page and continue it on page two. A sad tale’s best for winter.” He paused for a moment, seemingly ambushed by a painful memory. He cleared his throat. “It’s about time you became a fully-fledged crime reporter. I’ll speak to Patsel, see what we can do. In the meantime, I’m going to raise your pay by ten shillings a week.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for your hospitality. Please give my regards to Mrs Stone.”
Much as he’d been well looked after by the Stones, Johnny couldn’t wait to go home. He was accustomed to waking up to windows paisley-patterned with frost. Steam-heating made you soft.
“You’re welcome. Honoria, for some inexplicable reason, took quite a shine to you. Now, I suggest you make your first priority a visit to the barber’s—there must be something they can do about the colour of your hair. You look like a tiger-cub. I assume you’ll want to look your best in the photo that will accompany your exclusive. You’re going to be famous—for a day or so.”
Bill was banging away on the typewriter, cigarette dangling from his lip, when Johnny returned with his cheeks glowing and his bleached hair almost back to its natural orange.
“Coppernob! What a surprise. I never thought I’d live to see the second coming. You’re the talk of the town. I’ve read the piece—it’s one of your finest. We must celebrate your miraculous survival.”
“Indeed. It is most marvellous.” As usual, Patsel had crept up on them. He moved with uncanny stealth for a lumpen man. “You have done a great service, Steadman, in ridding the world of such a degenerate. Rotherforth’s suicide has a certain last-ditch nobility, but he would have done us all a favour had he shot himself sooner.”
“He also shot a lot of Germans in the war,” said Johnny.
“Mr Stone tells me that he’s promoted you to the position of crime reporter.” Patsel’s tone suggested he disagreed with his superior’s decision. “I shall have to find a replacement for you at the Old Bailey.”
“I hear Louis Dimeo is very keen to broaden his horizons,” said Johnny.
“Really?” Patsel’s eyebrows shot above the rims of his glasses. “Are you joking with me?”
“No, sir,” said Johnny.
Dimeo, seated a few desks away, behind Patsel, shook a fist at him.
“I will consider the matter,” said Patsel. Then with a curt bow he turned away and moved on through his micro-Reich.
Bill looked at the clock. “I’ll just finish this item about
a serious assault in Cornhill last night and then we can go for an early lunch.”
Johnny waited until they were sitting at their favourite table in the Tipperary—a quiet spot in the corner from where they could monitor the comings and goings of other drinkers without being overheard—two full pints and meat-and-potato pies in front of them, cigarettes lit, before going on the offensive:
“You lied to me.”
“When?”
“When you said your contacts at Snow Hill had assured you that everyone was accounted for. You said someone was sacked, not transferred or injured. Rotherforth told you to say that, didn’t he?”
“What makes you think I took orders from him?”
“I saw you coming out of the Urania Bookshop.”
“Ah.” Bill took a long swig of beer. “So my little secret is finally out.”
“Which one? Your collaboration with Rotherforth, or your taste for young men?”
“One led to the other, actually. It started the usual way: he would give me the odd tip-off and I would occasionally write something favourable for him. He paid good money. How d’you think I could afford to help you with your mother’s medical bills?”
Johnny put down his pint. The notion that pornography had paid for her treatment was an unpleasant one. Then again, at least some good had come out of the whole dirty business.
“Look, Johnny, I had no idea what the murdering bastard was up to. He seemed like one of the good guys—war hero, family man, all-round decent cop. He lied to me. When I learned about his involvement in the bookshop it was too late—and seeing its wares stirred something inside me.” He leaned forward to whisper: “What harm is there in looking at books? So what if I like looking at naked men as well as women? You’d be surprised how many people do.”
“Nothing surprises me any more,” said Johnny. “I owe you a lot, Bill, and you can rely on my discretion. But if you’d told me the truth about Rotherforth, three lives could have been saved. It’s not something I’d like on my conscience.”
“Who are you to lecture me about conscience! You’ve no right to come on all holier-than-thou. Gogg, Moss and Timney—who, by the way, was a good lad—would all be alive today if you hadn’t been so concerned about boosting your career.”
“It wasn’t just about that,” said Johnny, shifting uncomfortably. “I was trying to help a friend.”
“You mean PC Turner? He can look after himself.”
Johnny hung his head. “You’re right. I always knew that. Perhaps I was using him as a pretext.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, lad. You were doing what I taught you to do: following the truth wherever it led.”
“One thing I have learned,” said Johnny. “Queers—no disrespect intended—are just like the rest of us. Only having seen them in the dock, I was looking at
them from a false perspective. When it comes down to it, there are just good men and bad men—and most of us are a mixture of both. Good and bad, I mean.” He gazed into his glass. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”
Bill’s laughter dissolved in a fit of coughing. “My dear boy! I adore you—but not in that way. Never have, never will.”
Johnny was relieved yet at the same time vaguely insulted. The expression on his face made Bill laugh—and cough—all the more.
“Just three more months, Coppernob, and you’ll be shot of me. They’ll put me out to grass like a purblind pit pony. I shall go into enforced exile like Trotsky—although in my case it’ll be Margate not Mexico.” He raised his glass and winked. “Bottoms up!”
There it was in black and white—KILLER COP SHOOTS HIMSELF—and in smaller letters underneath: John Steadman
Crime Reporter
.
He gathered up three copies, said goodnight to Bill, flicked Louis’ earlobe as he passed, and made his way to the lift. The cries of congratulation, some mixed with envy, were only cut off by the closing doors.
Lilian Voss was just emerging from the gate by St Bartholomew-the-Little when he arrived. He’d had to dash to get there in time for the end of her shift. She looked taken aback when she saw him, said something to her two colleagues who carried on towards Little Britain, and crossed the road to join him on the recreation
ground where, thirteen days earlier, he had first spoken to Harry Gogg.
He handed her a copy of the
Daily News
.
“I wanted to give you this personally. I’m afraid George is dead. He died in Snow Hill. His inspector drugged his cocoa—his intention was to molest George while he was under the influence of the drug, but he miscalculated the dose. George would have known nothing about it: he never woke up. The inspector shot himself last night. The exact circumstances leading up to their deaths are unlikely to be revealed.”
“I knew he wouldn’t have jilted me.” There were no tears, just a dignified stoicism. Perhaps her job had inured her to untimely death and the viciousness of human nature. She held out her hand. “Thank you.”
Johnny took her hand in both of his. “I’m so sorry. By all accounts, George was a fine man. I know it’s too soon for you to think of such things, but I don’t believe he would want you to live your life in mourning; he’d want you to be happy, to find another man to love. When that time comes, I’m sure you won’t be short of suitors.”
“You’re very kind. You may be right, but I’ve always believed that we each have just one soul mate. I’m lucky that I found mine. Nothing and nobody can take away my love for George. I’ll always love him.”
Johnny handed her a large brown envelope. It contained a copy of the photograph from the
Smithfield Sentinel
that had been used to illustrate his exclusive.
Inspector Rotherforth, Tom Vinson, George Aitken and Matt stood proudly among their colleagues on the steps of the Old Bailey.
Lilian traced George’s outline with her index finger. She was shaking but she still did not cry. “Thank you. You’re a true gentleman. Goodbye.”
As soon as she’d got the words out she turned and ran across the road.
Johnny had one more errand to run before he could go home to get some much needed sleep, but first he needed a drink. On the other side of the recreation ground, he could hear sounds of jollity as shift-workers made their way into the Cock. The place was packed with office workers, porters and postmen determined to make the most of the festive season.
Stella, helping out behind the bar, did a magnificent double-take when she clocked him.
“Full of surprises, aren’t we?” Looking genuinely pleased to see him, she placed a Scotch on the bar.
When she refused to take any payment, he gave her a copy of the newspaper. “I don’t think your father will have any more trouble. This will explain why I had to, er, lie low for a few days.”
“Thanks. I’ve already heard about your exploits. What are you doing on Christmas Day?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” He was lying: he’d been expecting to spend it by himself as usual.
“Why not come for dinner? About one o’clock? We’ll be closed, but there will be about ten of us. Pa will
want to shake your hand when he realises that you’re the man who cleaned out Snow Hill.”
“He’ll want to shake me by the neck when he realises my plans for you.”
Her blush gave him a warm feeling inside. It was a long time since he had felt that way.
The receptionist at the
Daily Chronicle
looked him up and down with disdain as she tried Simkins’ extension.
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no reply.”
“That’s because I’m here,” said a posh voice. “Come to gloat, Steadman?” He held a copy of the
Daily News
in his hand. “Congratulations, anyway. You had me fooled. I’m on my way to Trump’s. Fancy coming along?”
Johnny had several things he wanted to say, but the foyer of a newspaper was not the place to say them—after all, he might want a job there one day—so he reluctantly agreed to endure Simkins’ company a while longer.