Snow Hill Read online

  Snow Hill

  Mark Sanderson

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  In memory of Drew Morgan (1964-1994)

  Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,

  And bear their trophies with them as they go:

  Filths of all hues and odour, seem to tell

  What street they sail’d from, by their sight and smell.

  They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,

  From Smithfield to St ’Pulchre’s shape their course;

  And in huge confluence join’d at Snow Hill ridge,

  Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge,

  Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts and blood,

  Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,

  Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood…

  From A Description of a City Shower

  Jonathan Swift, October 1710

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  Part One: Smithfield

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two: Honey Lane

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Three: Snow Hill

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Afterword

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  I went to my funeral this morning. I expected more people to be there—if only, like Simkins, to make sure the coffin lid was nailed down properly. The turnout was so disappointing I felt like joining the mourners as they huddled round the gaping grave—but, of course, I couldn’t. It was short notice, and it is the week before Christmas, so I suppose it’s a miracle that anyone, apart from Matt and Lizzie, bothered to traipse from Fleet Street to Finchley. Mr Stone told me that more came to the service in St Bride’s. Then my colleagues only had to walk about a hundred yards to the church. At least they made the effort. My killer didn’t.

  I’ve been through a lot in the past few days. I nearly froze to death. I nearly burned to death. Daisy’s walked out. I’ve been blackmailed and nearly framed for murder. And I know there’s worse to come. The bastard thinks he’s got away with it. He won’t stop now. I can’t wait to see his face.

  It began to snow as Lizzie threw her handful of earth into the grave. Not the usual thin, grey flakes that look like dandruff: thick, white, fluffy ones, the sort you see in children’s picture books. The gardens of stone soon disappeared under a shroud: God was organising his own cover-up. A real snow-job.

  It is weird watching yourself being buried. I was a wraith at my own wake—which is somehow rather apt. This whole affair is about ghosts, bringing the dead back to life, giving a shape to the past. The world is not the sort of place I thought it was.

  I’m still not sure what went on in the small hours of 5th December, but I do know it should never have happened. I know it was evil.

  I will uncover the truth even if I have to kill to get it. A dead man can’t be tried for murder.

  From the diary of John Steadman

  Friday, 18th December, 1936

  PART ONE

  Smithfield

  ONE

  Monday, 7th December 1936, 12.35 p.m.

  About bloody time. Johnny Steadman stood up and yawned. No matter how much he kicked and cursed, Quicky Quirk, a lantern-jawed youth from Seven Sisters, was off to Pentonville for a five-year stretch. Judge Henshall, hungry for his club’s steak-and-kidney pie and claret, had decided to overlook the house-breaker’s deplorable lack of respect in favour of a quick exit. Johnny was starving too. He would grab a sandwich on the way back to the office.

  As he emerged from Court Number Three and slipped into the stream of gowned functionaries, witnesses and spectators, a large hand gripped his shoulder. It belonged to a policeman.

  “Ah, Inspector Rotherforth. Congratulations. Another thief off your patch.”

  “Unfortunately there are plenty more where that blighter came from. Poverty breeds prisoners.” The cop smiled but did not relinquish his grip. He was known for always getting his man. At six foot two he towered over Johnny, but his height was not exceptional; some members of the City of London Police were seven feet tall. “I trust you’ll give me a mention in dispatches.”

  “But of course.” Johnny relaxed as the long arm of the law finally released him.

  Rotherforth was one of the first people he had interviewed for the Daily News. The senior officer had rescued a young girl from drowning. One moment she’d been playing happily on the beach beside Tower Bridge, the next she was being swept away by the current and dragged under the surface of the crowded waterway. With no thought for his own safety, Rotherforth, alerted by the screaming mother, had dived off the bridge into the Thames. To the applause of a crowd of red-faced Cockneys—who would be feeling cold, sick and dizzy by the end of the day, despite the knotted handkerchiefs on their heads—the policeman had dragged the unconscious child from the filthy water and administered mouth-to-mouth, undoubtedly saving her life.

  To begin with, Johnny had been slightly intimidated by Rotherforth. He was strong as well as long, a well-trimmed moustache accentuating the whiteness of his even teeth, with handsome features that were remarkable for their perfect symmetry. There was a glint in his black eyes that, depending on the occasion, could promise mischief or menace. Johnny had gradually warmed to the man as he described his distinguished war record and showed off his “pip squeak”, the set of medals awarded to those servicemen who—unlike Johnny’s father—had somehow survived the Great War. Rotherforth had the full set: the 1914-15 Star, the General Service Medal and the Victory Medal, affectionately named by their proud bearers after the characters in a Daily Mirror strip cartoon called Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.

  Anxious to be portrayed as a devoted family man as well as a career cop, Rotherforth had talked about his three daughters—Edith, Elaine and Elsie—before going on to describe how he had come to join the “gentlemen cops”, as the City of London Police were known. Like many officers, when the war ended he’d found that he missed the discipline and camaraderie. Pressed for anecdotes, Rotherforth’s face lit up as he began to recount various exploits involving an old comrade-in-arms by the name of Archie, only for his voice to catch with the recollection that his friend had not returned from France. Johnny had caught a glimpse of the titan’s vulnerable side as he refused to elaborate any further on Archie’s fate.

  Rallying swiftly, Rotherforth stated that the only lie he’d ever told was giving his age as eighteen when he enlisted in the Black Watch. Johnny did not believe him; he knew that Rotherforth had knocked two years off his real age. Now in his thirty-ninth year, the inspector was popular with his men but no push-over. Any constable who went off his beat
even for a minute, no matter what the reason, would be immediately recommended for dismissal.

  “I’m glad I bumped into you,” said Johnny. “Did you lose a man over the weekend?”

  “No. Who suggested we had?”

  “I received an anonymous tip-off this morning.”

  “Someone must have it in for you,” said Rotherforth, flashing his teeth. “It’s pure balderdash.” His sharp eyes lit up. “Ah, here comes my favourite PC.”

  Another helmet with its distinctive crest and Roman-style comb—a tribute to the City of London Police’s civic-minded predecessors—was bobbing towards them through the mob.

  “Matt!” said Johnny. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “PC Turner to you, sunshine.”

  Johnny laughed. At six foot one, his closest friend was a lot taller than he was: then, since he was only five foot six, most people were. He was about to come back with some cheeky retort when he remembered Rotherforth, but on turning he realised that the inspector was no longer behind him.

  “I’ve just been speaking to your boss.” Johnny stepped out of the path of a clerk laden with a perilous pile of folders. “He called you his favourite PC.”

  “That’s because I won the match on Saturday. Rotherforth made a packet betting on me. He’s a good trainer, considering he’s never boxed himself.”

  “Afraid of damaging his pretty face.” Noticing that Matt’s face was marred by dark smudges, the colour of raw liver, under his deep-blue eyes, Johnny asked: “Everything okay? Is Lizzie all right?”

  “She’s fine,” said Matt. “And so am I.”

  His tone of defiance could not disguise the fact that he was lying. Matt did not lie very often, especially to him. In their own way, both men had an ingrained respect for the truth. Johnny wondered how he could help.

  “Got time for lunch?”

  “No,” said Matt. “They’ve done cross-examining me so I’ll have to go back on duty till two.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Johnny. “I wanted to ask if you’d heard anything about a cop dying over the weekend.”

  “Which station was he based at?”

  “Snow Hill,” said Johnny.

  “That can’t be right,” said Matt. “We’d know if one of ours had bought it. Besides, if a cop from any station had been killed, there’d have been a huge to-do by now.”

  “I didn’t say the cop had been killed,” said Johnny. “He could’ve been run over by a bus.”

  “Still, if he worked at Snow Hill, we’d have been told,” said Matt. “Bad news travels fast, and losing one of our own—whatever the cause—always affects morale. I’ll ask around, but don’t hold your breath. I reckon someone’s having you on.”

  “Rotherforth said much the same thing.” Johnny half turned, then swore under his breath. “Don’t look now.”

  It was too late.

  “What’s this? Hobnobbing with the boys in blue, Steadman? You know full well officers of the law are forbidden to talk shop with gentlemen of the press.”

  “You’re no gentleman,” said Johnny.

  “Oh, but I am—and that’s what really gets your goat, isn’t it?” Henry Simkins smirked as Johnny, despite his best efforts, flushed. It was not just the fop’s sandalwood scent that got up his nose.

  For some reason, instead of squandering the Simkins family fortune in the time-honoured fashion—drink, drugs and debutantes—Henry preferred to use his wealth, public-school education and social connections to further a career which his father, a Member of Parliament, considered no better than venereal medicine. Then again, perhaps Simkins senior wasn’t so far off the mark. Like doctors, journalists got to see mankind at its most naked.

  As always, Johnny felt scruffy standing beside Simkins in his Savile Row suit and a shirt from Jermyn Street. What rankled even more was the fact that the slim and slimy Henry was a blood with brains—and an excellent crime reporter.

  Grudgingly, Johnny introduced his arch rival to Matt. As Simkins launched into his usual self-congratulatory spiel, Johnny let his eyes and attention wander around the foyer. Multicoloured marble seemed an odd choice of building material for an arena in which everything was cast in black and white. Barristers might argue for hours about the minute variegations of the law, but when it came down to it the defendant was either guilty or not guilty, freed or for the drop. The smooth stone and polished wood of the Sessions House appeared impervious to the torrent of human misery that swept through its portals.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Simkins braying:

  “You may congratulate me, Steadman.” Grinning at the scowl which had instinctively appeared on Johnny’s face, Simkins turned to Matt. “Look at that! He’s piqued by my latest exclusive. Did you see it in the Daily Chronicle?”

  “I read the News myself,” said Matt. Johnny was touched by his loyalty. He knew his friend usually just made do with whatever was lying around the canteen.

  “Never mind. Two million other people saw it.” Simkins gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  Johnny’s reply was lost as around them the crowd swelled as yet another court emptied of spectators; the prospect of some hapless fool losing their liberty or life was always enough to add an edge to even the most jaded of appetites.

  “Well, gentlemen, must dash,” said Simkins. “I’ve got a table at Rules. Coming, Steadman? Fancy a nosh-up on my expenses? Success should always be celebrated.” He looked Johnny up and down slowly, then tossed his flowing, chestnut locks. “Perhaps another time then. I think you’d like the restaurant.”

  Johnny resented the assumption that he had yet to darken the doors of the fashionable restaurant. What made it worse, Simkins was right. Johnny was more of a greasy-spoon gourmet.

  He wondered what lay behind the invitation. Had Simkins received the same tip-off? Was it a fishing expedition, hoping for corroboration, or was he just seizing an opportunity to rub Johnny’s nose in his expense account?

  With a final nod in Matt’s direction and a smarmy, “PC Turner, it’s been a pleasure,” the tiresome toff shot off, oozing self-assurance, seemingly oblivious to the female heads turning in his wake.

  “The world is his lobster,” murmured Johnny.

  “You’ve used that one before,” said Matt, watching Simkins sweep through the doors, arm already raised to hail a taxi. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

  “I can be,” said Johnny without hesitation, hoping that Daisy, his latest cutie, would understand. A chorus girl who, of course, harboured acting ambitions, she had asked him to get tickets for Mazo de la Roche’s Whiteoaks, which had been running at the Little Theatre in John Adam Street since April. Daisy, who had a fiery temper and big breasts, would inevitably make a fuss at missing out on a promised treat, but he would enjoy making it up to her later.

  “How about the Viaduct at seven?”

  “Great. I’ll see you there.” Matt gave him the ghost of a smile and hurried towards the daylight.

  Intrigued, Johnny watched his friend’s broad back negotiate the milling crowd.

  Clearly Matt had heard something after all.

  TWO

  Johnny crossed Old Bailey and hurried down Fleet Lane. Weaving through the crowds of office workers on Ludgate Hill would take too long, and he was spurred on by the thought that, even now, Simkins was probably trying to find out what he had been talking to Matt about. Wondering how much his rival had heard of the conversation, he took a short cut through Seacoal Lane—a dark, narrow passage which burrowed under the railway from Holborn Viaduct Station—and emerged into Farringdon Street just before it gave way to Ludgate Circus. He was in the foyer of the Daily News before it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten, so, spinning on his heel, he went straight back out again to the café next door. Three minutes later he was dropping crumbs over the piece of paper that had been preoccupying him all morning.

  The newsroom was unusually quiet. Most of the reporters were out chasing stories or sinking a lunchtime pint in one of th
e dozen or so pubs that fuelled Fleet Street. A faint cloud of cigarette smoke lingered. Telephones went unanswered. Typewriters remained silent. Johnny preferred the place when, deadlines looming, it buzzed with barely controlled panic. He enjoyed the banter, the friendly rivalry which ensured he always tried his best. Moreover, since he’d found himself all alone in the world, his colleagues had become a sort of surrogate family, keeping the emptiness at bay.

  He breathed in the sweet, acrid smell of ink from the presses on the ground floor. For once, it wasn’t mingled with the scent of a hundred sweaty armpits. Even in December, it was always hot in the newsroom. All around him, whirring fans fluttered papers on empty desks. Despite frequent requests from upstairs, no one ever bothered to turn off their fan or angle-poise lamp. The air of ceaseless activity had to be maintained at all times.

  No matter how often he entered the newsroom, Johnny just couldn’t get over that sense of stepping out on to a stage. His heart rate would pick up each time he came through the door, and he still experienced the same adrenalin rush he’d felt on his first day in the job.

  Four years on, he could not quite believe he had made it to a desk in the newsroom of a national daily. In the scheme of things, his was still a lowly position. In the newsroom, your place in the pecking order was reflected by your location in the vast maze of desks: the closer you were to the centre—where the news editor held court—the more senior you were. Johnny was only a couple of yards from the door.

  Getting a foot in the door had been a struggle. With no connections in the industry, Johnny had had to do it the hard way. On leaving school a week before his fourteenth birthday—the same day Johnny Weissmuller broke his own hundred metres freestyle world record at the Amsterdam Olympics—the young would-be journalist had landed himself a job running editorial and advertising copy down to the typesetters. From Sunday to Friday, he would put in long hours at the day-job, then three nights a week he’d head off to evening classes at the Technical College to get his diploma in Journalism.