“Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered.
Johnny plonked himself on the sofa and listened to the soothing sounds of running water. A long soak was just what he needed to thaw him out; he felt as though the cold hadn’t left his bones since he’d been locked in the freezer. His eyelids drooped…
Two minutes was all he got.
“Steadman! Come and make yourself useful!”
He staggered into the bathroom. Stone handed him a loofah. “Don’t be afraid of rubbing too hard.”
Johnny, wondering how much more bizarre his life could get, perched on the edge of the bath in a daze and started to scrub his editor’s back. Stone had a decent body for an old man. Then, if you liked to flaunt yourself in public, it made sense to ensure you had something worth flaunting: hence the morning manoeuvres.
“So, sir, you’ll place me on special assignment?”
“I’ll give you one week—but the sooner you get to the bottom of this the better. You might not be the only reporter to have received the tip-off.”
Johnny would have turned cartwheels had his hands not been so sore.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about it?”
“Just Fox, sir.”
“Very well. Don’t be shy of asking him for help. If you don’t make much headway I’ll have to bring in others with more experience.”
“Thank you, sir, that won’t be necessary. All expenses paid?”
“Within reason. You’ll need a cover story.”
“How about a series on the daily life of a City policeman? We could call it ‘Life on the Beat’. It’d give me an excuse to talk to the cops.”
“Okay. And if you don’t find anything juicy you can write the series anyway. I do hope your hunch is right, though. Exposing a police conspiracy would give us back some credibility. God knows, after Beaverbrook’s brown-nosing, we need it.”
The British press had been virtually the last to report Edward VIII’s relationship with Mrs Simpson making it a laughing stock around the world. Beaverbrook, owner of the
Daily Express
, in response to the King’s plea to spare his lover embarrassment, had not only sat on the story of a lifetime but also persuaded Esmond Harmsworth, owner of the
Daily Mail
and chairman of the Newspaper Proprietors Association, to follow suit.
The whole country, thanks to foreign newspapers, had been rife with rumour and speculation before the
Yorkshire Post
finally reported the affair on 3rd December—at least a month after Fleet Street had first got wind of the scandal.
“I’d be grateful, sir, if you didn’t tell anyone else about this,” said Johnny. “I don’t want gossip to complicate matters.”
“Of course, of course,” said Stone. “Any problems, call my office. Now, go and file your report. It should be an exclusive, in the first edition at least. Well done, Steadman. And try not to snore at the judge.”
“I thought I was on special assignment!”
“You are—from Monday. Mr Patsel will need time to arrange the necessary cover. Besides, you’ve got the weekend to get going. Good luck.” He stood up, aglow with health and vigour. “Towel please!”
Somehow Johnny resisted the urge to throw it at him.
Four cups of tea later, Johnny had written his account of Gogg’s murder. He thought it prudent to omit Matt’s name as well as his own. He hung around to check the subs did not mangle his pristine prose and, in the meantime, received a slap on the back from Patsel, who appeared to be in an unusually good mood. Perhaps he had found another job.
“Good stuff, Steadman. It reads as if you were actually there. Were you?”
“A friend in the force tipped me off, sir.”
“
Sehr gut
. That’s what it’s all about: information, information, information.”
When he got back to his desk he found Bill standing beside it reading the carbon copy.
“Morning, Coppernob. Rough night, was it? Worth it, though, for this. Should be one in the eye for Simkins.”
“Hope so.”
“Is this what you’ve been up to then? Consorting with lunch-mashers?”
“Only the one,” said Johnny, trying not to think of the cop’s tongue in his mouth.
“Enjoy yourself?”
“Not much.”
“By the way, this came for you.” He held out a thin white envelope.
It was stamped PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. Johnny tore it open. This time there were just three words:
DON’T STOP NOW.
Saturday, 12th December, 12.50 p.m.
Johnny decided to call into Gamage’s on his way to meet Matt. The Holborn department store, decked with fairy lights and paper chains, was packed with Christmas shoppers. Lizzie, fetching as ever in her uniform, was standing by one of the cosmetics counters, dabbing perfume on any passing woman who wished to sample the latest fragrance from Paris.
As usual, his heart leapt. Even though she was constantly in his mind’s eye, it still sent a jolt through him whenever she was actually present in the flesh. He wondered if he should buy some scent for Daisy, but was unsure whether he was ever going to see her again.
Their last encounter had not gone well. Accusing her of playing hard to get had, as it turned out, not been the best of tactics: it had only increased her indignation. He felt he’d had a good excuse for postponing
their date. Matt would always come first, and on this occasion he had been in real need of help. But Daisy had been in no mood to listen to explanations. He suspected she rather enjoyed a blazing row: as if there were not enough drama in her working, workaday, life.
Even so, a gentleman should make it up to her. Besides, selecting a gift for her would provide him with an excuse to talk to Lizzie.
Lizzie’s supervisor seemed unconvinced by the charade. Under her disapproving gaze, Lizzie took various samples down from the display so he could sniff each one in turn. As soon as the woman’s back was turned, she told him that Matt was still unaware that he was a father-to-be and that he was still having nightmares. When he departed empty-handed a few moments later, the supervisor gave a loud snort of disdain.
It was obvious that Matt had not caught up on his sleep. The face that looked up as Johnny entered Gianelli’s was haggard. Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
sprang to mind. Usually Matt radiated an air of well-being and vitality: whenever the station-house was struck by flu, he’d be the last man standing, more than happy to do a double shift to cover for a colleague and pick up some overtime to boost Lizzie’s “get-out-of-N1” fund.
Johnny felt sure that the news about the baby would buck him up. However, it was not down to him to break it. Besides, he had promised Lizzie.
The caff in Limeburne Lane, round the corner from
the Old Bailey, was crowded. A miasma of cigarette smoke and cooking fumes hung above the tables. The musty smell of damp wool mingled with the aromas of fried bacon and minestrone soup. The conversational hubbub was intermittently drowned out by the violent hiss of the hot-water machine.
Matt was sitting at a table for two at the back. It was hardly private, but it would have to do.
“Have you ordered yet?” asked Johnny, taking off his gabardine. He draped it over the other coats that hung from hooks in the corridor leading to the toilets. An image of Harry Gogg, naked and bleeding, came into his head. As of last night, Matt was not the only one having bad dreams.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Come on! You know I hate eating by myself,” said Johnny.
“You should be used to it by now.” Matt glanced up to ensure that the barb had hit its mark. He winked. For a moment he was his old, teasing self.
“Thank you,
Cunt
stable.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Johnny had already decided not to mention the kiss in Passing Alley. He was ashamed. Besides, it would only complicate matters.
Making sure no one was watching, he handed Matt a parcel—the knife carefully wrapped in newspaper—and gave him an edited version of the previous day’s events.
Matt listened without comment then slid a Manila
envelope across the ring-stained wood. Before he could open it, Arturo, the barrel of a proprietor, loomed over them.
“Aha! Bigger plates! City cop!”
This was an oblique, ironic reference to police corruption. It was endemic in every force but—in a perfect example of double-think—it was deemed not to interfere with their capacity to uphold the law. Not seriously, anyway. The Home Secretary or the Big Five, as the top brass at Scotland Yard were known, would occasionally make noises about stamping it out, but nothing much was ever done.
The corruption was casual rather than corporate: taking back-handers from street bookies for turning a blind eye; zealously enforcing traffic regulations, then dropping any charges in return for a generous gratuity; selling tickets for non-existent lotteries to local shopkeepers who knew they could not win. The bobby remained a pillar of the community—someone who could be relied on in a crisis; a source of reassurance in everyday life—even though it was known that such protection money was a perk of the job. A little graft was a small price to pay: the rozzers worked hard, they deserved it.
If a copper chose to be honest—and Johnny assumed Matt did—then that was fine too, as long as he did not peach on his colleagues. However, in the Robbery Squad, things had started to get out of hand: detectives were more interested in arranging break-ins than arresting thieves. The keepers of the peace invariably kept a piece for themselves.
Arturo suggested the dish of the day: fresh mutton pies with mushy peas. Johnny tucked in straight away.
“What?”
Matt glowered at him. “Open the envelope!” He lowered his voice. “And don’t let anyone else see.”
“Sorry,” said Johnny. He reluctantly laid down his knife and fork. It was just as well: what he was about to set eyes on would have made him choke.
The envelope contained a picture of Matt and another man whose head was out of shot. Both of them were naked. Matt was sitting in front of the other man with his back towards him: a pair of rowers, perhaps, except that they were on a bed not a boat and the man behind was not holding an oar but the shaft of Matt’s cock.
Johnny did not realise he was staring at the photograph until Matt, with a muttered curse, snatched it off him, turned it face down on the table and slid it back. Johnny blushed. He had not seen his friend in the nude since they had gone skinny-dipping in the canal as kids. The water by the power station in Poole Street was always warm.
They’d swim every chance they could get when they were kids. Wednesday’s swimming lesson had been one of the highlights of their school week. Johnny could still smell the chlorine of Hornsey Road Baths. It was so strong it stung your eyes and tickled your nostrils. The water, which was never warm enough, appeared green rather than blue. The walls, lined with wooden cubicles, were decorated with horizontal stripes of black and white tiles; the roof bare corrugated iron. Together they created
an echo chamber in which the teacher’s whistle and the cries of the excited boys (for many of whom this was their only bath of the week) bounced off each other. The noise was deafening. It was much quieter under the water. Johnny, letting himself sink to the bottom of the pool, would see how long the air in his lungs would last. The pale, kicking legs above him looked like the tentacles of an enormous sea anemone. As the oxygen slowly dispersed, the heaviness in his chest gradually increased. How could the absence of something weigh so much? It was his first glimpse of the paradox.
“Now I see why Lizzie chose you and not me,” said Johnny, resorting, as he usually did in difficult situations, to flippancy.
No wonder Matt looked tormented. His heart went out to him.
“Is that all you can say? My marriage and career are on the line.”
“Sorry.” Johnny picked up the photograph again, and studied it, searching for tell-tale signs such as blurred edges, weird variations in contrast or odd angles. The focus and lighting were so good you could see the tuft of black hair between Matt’s pecs. There was no doubt the picture was genuine. It was not a trick shot, a composite of two or three others: it was a print from an original negative. “Have you any idea when it was taken?”
“Of course not! D’you think I’d have let them take it if I’d been conscious?” Matt hissed. “I don’t make a habit of rubbing willies with other men. I am not a pervert!” Anger exacerbated Matt’s anguish.
“Calm down,” said Johnny. “I didn’t say you were.”
It was true Matt’s eyes were closed, but it was impossible to tell whether he was in a state of ecstasy or out for the count. He could have been lying back in abandon or being propped up by his molester.
Johnny, however, knew that there was no way Matt would have been photographed willingly in such a compromising position.
“I don’t suppose you recognise the other chap?”
Matt examined the shot as if for the first time.
“No. There’s not much to go on is there? Funny that.” He put the photograph back in the envelope and pushed it across the table. “Here, you keep it. I can’t have Lizzie finding the bloody thing.”
Johnny tried to hide his surprise. If it had been him he would have destroyed the incriminating evidence. Then he realised Matt was not embarrassed by it but enraged. As a boxer he was used to appearing virtually unclothed in public; he was, quite rightly, proud of his body. Besides, no newspaper would ever be able to publish it.
“When could it have been taken?”
Surely Matt must have some idea, thought Johnny. How on earth could you be in such a situation and not know about it?
“I’ve been racking my brains and I just don’t know,” said Matt. Then, as if sensing Johnny’s scepticism, he added: “I’ve woken up in my own bed at home—or at the station-house—every single day.”
Four workmen were sitting at a nearby table. One of
them made a remark, provoking a burst of laughter. Matt shot to his feet and went over to them.
“Care to share the joke, gentlemen?”
Silence. The whole café was listening. The quartet stared at him insolently. Their regulation brown coats suggested they were porters at Bart’s. The one with a hook-nose and sunken eyes took exception to Matt sticking his nose in.
“Fuck off!” It was said with real venom. The man’s thin, grey lips hardly moved.
“I’d make that
Fuck off, Constable
, if I were you,” said Arturo. “And if you want to use the foul language, do it somewhere else. Say sorry to my friend.”
The vicious porter mumbled an apology and stormed out with his cronies, one of them smashing a cup on the floor.
Matt was about to set off after them, but the proprietor told him to sit down while he brought some more tea.
“When did you receive this?” asked Johnny, for once knowing better than to offer a wisecrack.
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Matt. “The desk sergeant handed it to me before I went on duty.”
“I got this yesterday.” Johnny produced the second telegram.
“
Don’t stop now
,” said Matt. “I presume you think it’s from the same person who said a Snow Hill cop was dead?”
“Who else?” said Johnny. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Hardly,” said Matt. “You’re being told to carry on whereas I’m being warned off.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Johnny. “But what does the photograph mean? It’s an exposure in both senses of the word.”
“It’s certainly a threat,” said Matt. “What I don’t understand is what I’m being warned off from. I’m not doing anything I shouldn’t.”
Arturo placed two cups of tea—and two thick slices of chocolate cake—in front of them. “There you go.” He removed Matt’s untouched plate without comment.
“The pies were delicious, thank you,” said Johnny.
Arturo sniffed and went back behind the counter.
“Well, you’re talking to me,” said Johnny. “Not that you’ve told me anything. If we can find out who sent it, we’ll soon know why. What about fingerprints? You’d only need to submit the envelope.”
“True,” said Matt. “It’s been through too many hands though. Including yours. Besides, I don’t have the authority to send it to Dabs and I don’t want anyone in the force involved unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’d be a laughing stock if this got out. Can you imagine what the lads in the locker-room would say? My father might even get to hear about it.” He shook his head. “We’ve got to try and keep this between ourselves. You’re the only person I can trust.”
“It’s a strange coincidence, though, isn’t it?” said Johnny. “I discover Harry’s corpse. You rescue me. Then you receive this and I get the telegram. You said Harry was
off-normal—and the other chap in the photo definitely must be—so could he be Harry?”
“No,” said Matt. “The thought had occurred to me. Check out the biceps. Harry’s were much beefier.”
Johnny glanced at the picture. It was not difficult to compare the arms with Harry’s. The image of the dead bummaree was burned into his brain.
“The photo has nothing to do with Harry’s death—it can hardly have been taken in the time since we found his body yesterday. Just forget about this dead cop nonsense, Johnny.”
“Then who was taken to Bart’s on Sunday night?” demanded Johnny.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Matt. “Look, never mind your so-called tip-off. Try and find out what you can about the photo—discreetly. Look, I’ve got to blow. There’s a tug-of-war tournament this afternoon in Bunhill Fields. It’s for charity, but Rotherforth has promised us free beer if we beat the Bishopsgate mob. Let me know how you get on.”
It was only when Matt had gone that Johnny remembered he had not asked him about his lost hat. It was probably in an evidence box by now.
Matt had not eaten his slice of cake. It would be a shame to waste it. As Johnny savoured its rich, sweet moistness he chewed over what he had just learned: and what he had not told Matt.
He knew exactly where the photo came from.
Underneath the caption on the reverse—
PC Matt
Turner and friend
—it was embossed with the symbol of a snake swallowing its own tail.
Johnny had recognised it immediately but deemed it prudent to say nothing. He did not want Matt, overwrought as he was, going round there and causing a scene. He would go himself right now.
Reaching for his wallet, he waved to catch Arturo’s attention. But the proprietor looked at him incredulously when he asked for the bill.
“But you are the guest of the constable—it’s on the house, Signor.”