Robin Hood Yard Page 10

  Johnny sympathized with the desperate performers. He earned his living by entertaining the masses too. There were always more hoops to jump through.

  Perhaps he should get a pet. A dog, not a moggy – cats were too selfish. It would be good to be met by someone glad to see him, no matter what time he came home; to have a warm body to share his bed. Love without strings – if you didn’t count the lead. It would be unkind to keep a canine cooped up all day though. Dogs needed constant exercise – even small ones like Jack Russells. Short, determined, fiercely loyal: he saw himself as the human equivalent of a terrier.

  He’d certainly like to get Zick by the neck and shake the life out of him – but not until he’d told him where the photographs were stashed. What was Zick’s real motivation? Increased revenue, or naked revenge? The only way to find out was to ask him. The sooner he had an address for Zick the better. Perhaps he – or someone else – could trail Simkins to his lair. The Chronicle man was a liar. He must know where Zick was hiding.

  He’d have to keep the location a secret though. Matt might resemble a Golden Retriever, but he could also be highly disobedient.

  No, another time perhaps. He had enough on his plate without having to care for a dumb animal. Besides, you never knew when man’s best friend might turn on you. Even police dogs were known to bite the hand that fed them. Humans had to take precedence. He turned his back on the captives’ big, wet eyes and cut through Arnold Circus to Shoreditch High Street, in search of a number 6 bus to take him back to Hereflete House.

  Sunday afternoon was the most difficult time of the week. It was when their lives had changed for ever. Nothing had been the same since. Work kept the mind occupied. Concentrating on minor details blurred the bigger picture.

  The sun was already sinking behind the Royal Courts of Justice. The pale parallelogram slid across the dusty floorboards. Fear in a handful of dust. What was there to fear when everything you’d had was lost? Fear weakened you; fury gave you strength.

  Coughing chimneys expelled more coal-dust into the air. A brown haze hovered over the roofscape. What pleasures were being enjoyed, what atrocities being endured, beneath the lichened tiles? It was time to prepare for the next bout of bloodletting.

  Cecil Zick regarded himself in one of the new two-way mirrors that had cost him a fortune to install. Secrecy didn’t come cheap. He looked every inch the prosperous businessman – and there were a lot of inches. His portly frame was encased in a Turnbull & Asser shirt and a three-piece suit from Anderson & Sheppard. His tiny feet – which had helped Cecilia win several ankle competitions – were shod in John Lobb’s finest brogues. You would never guess they’d been fitted with steel toecaps – until they cracked your shins.

  Simkins would explode – with anger or glee? Probably both – when he learned the address. Hanging Sword Alley, off Fleet Street, was the perfect location. It wasn’t only a matter of cocking a snook at the Fourth Estate – which pretended to be appalled by his activities while purveying every last (publishable) detail to titillate its readers – the bordello had to be convenient for his clients, some of whom worked in the inky trade, and within the boundary of the City.

  The house could be approached from three directions: north, west and south. The Fleet Street entrance to the alley looked like an empty doorway and, if you didn’t know it was there, could be easily missed. A cut-through from Whitefriars Street was the shortest route, while the longest and most discreet access was from Tudor Street via a winding, uphill passage.

  It was coming, he could feel it. The air, even the very stones of London, seemed heavier. He’d been twenty years old the last time. The Zeppelins had brought out the hedonist in him. It was better to die fucking than fucking die – and he’d done a great deal of fucking behind the front line. Deemed unfit for combat, he’d found his place in the catering corps and did his best to cater for all tastes. Terrified men were grateful for any kind of affection – if the circumstances were right. He remembered them all: the ones who, overcome with shame, lashed out; the grateful ones who wouldn’t let go; the ones who cried when they came.

  He had a pornographic memory and yet tears still sprang to his eyes when he recalled one particular boy. Curly hair, hazel eyes, so strong and yet so tender. Delirium in a derelict barn. Soft lips, hot skin, pressing so hard as two became one. A single star glimpsed through the shell-damaged roof. He never saw him again.

  If the Great War – the war to end all wars – taught him anything it was that conflict created wealth. Capitalism was war by other means: safeguarding supplies, devising tactics, crushing the opposition. This time he was ready. Property prices would plunge as soon as the bombs started falling. Every cloud had a golden lining.

  Meanwhile, there were appetites to be piqued and quenched. Not all young men were keen to get to grips with Jerry. Some would rather stay at home for as long as they could – and he generously rewarded loyalty. There was nothing more satisfying than when the naked self-interest of several parties coincided for the greater good.

  And, regardless of what Inskip said, no junior detective was going to spoil this party. If he’d had his way, Turner would be dead already. Steadman, too, if he hadn’t been so potentially useful. Accidents happened every day …

  He licked his lips. Four thirty. The perfect time for afternoon tea. Scheming invariably gave him an appetite. He’d give Simkins one more day to straighten things out then, if the eunuch failed, he’d take matters into his own hands. He winked at himself in the mirror. No one was going to queer his pitch.

  Only a skeleton staff worked on Sunday afternoon. It was the deadest time of the week. Most of Monday’s first edition was put to bed on Saturday. The night shift didn’t turn up till six. Martial music was playing on the BBC.

  “Mr Steadman. What are you doing here?” Gustav Patsel roused himself from his slumbers. “You are not required until tomorrow morning.”

  “Nothing better to do. I’m meeting a source later on. Thought I’d catch up on some secondary reading.”

  “Most conscientious.” He couldn’t have sounded more sceptical. “How’s your new friend, Mr Adler?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t heard from him since Friday.”

  Why did he want to know?

  “The synagogue in Bevis Marks was set on fire last night.”

  “Don’t sound so pleased about it. Why wasn’t I told?”

  “The Fire Brigade, considering the date, was commendably prompt. Then again, its officers only had to come from Bishopsgate. Perhaps they were half-expecting such a call. Certainly, the damage was not extensive. A broken window, a few charred pews. Mr Tanfield can take care of it when he arrives shortly.”

  “There’s no need. I’ll chase it up now.”

  “As you wish.” Patsel slumped back in his chair. “Please keep your voice down.”

  Johnny didn’t bother to take off his coat before making the phone call.

  “Why didn’t you tip me off about the arson attack?”

  “I was about to,” said Matt. “Keep your hair on. Another hour or so won’t make any difference. As far as I know, none of your competitors have been in touch.”

  “Won’t make any difference to what?”

  “Your story. The culprits have been caught. The twerps crashed on their way home. They’re in Bart’s now. Two in the emergency ward. One in the mortuary.”

  “Congratulations. Let’s meet in the Coach & Horses. It’s closest.”

  “The first round’s on you.”

  Death never took a day off. Its scythe never needed whetting. There was no end to human stupidity.

  Percy Hughes was removing other, rather smaller, cutting tools from the autoclave when Johnny burst through the rubber doors. A couple of the ghastly instruments slipped off the metal tray and clattered on to the antiseptic ceramic tiles.

  “Now look what you bleedin’ made me do!”

  “What’s it matter? A corpse can’t catch anything.”

  “No �
�� but I can.” Hughes sniffed in disgust. “What you want this time?”

  “A body was brought in late last night or some time today. Vehicle smash.”

  “Harold Ensom. Broke his neck going through the windscreen. Sherman fished a fag out of his gullet.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Who?”

  “Sherman, you idiot. Ensom’s hardly likely to have walked out.”

  “He’s finished for the day. Think I’d be talking to you otherwise?”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “How much you willing to pay?”

  “Five bob.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Ten – if it’s worth it.”

  “See what you think.”

  Hughes walked over to one of the humming refrigerators and slid out the lowest shelf. With a heartless lack of ceremony he whipped off the sheet.

  A black-and-white still from a horror movie. Everything below the waist was carbonized. It was as if two bodies had been joined together by a latter-day Frankenstein. The forked incision down the torso had been sewn up with garden twine but did not obscure the large tattoo on his chest.

  “Pretty, ain’t it? Black and red go well together.”

  “If you say so.” The design didn’t seem to concern Hughes at all.

  “Satisfied?” He rubbed his fingers together. “Come on, Steadman. I’m on the ribs.”

  “So’s the swastika.” Gallows humour was a necessary sidekick on the crime beat. Johnny handed over a ten-shilling note.

  “I’ll say this for you – even though you’re a pain in the arm. You’ve never tried to twice me.” He sniffed again as though he’d finally made up his mind. “PC Watkiss said his cronies have the same tattoo.”

  FIFTEEN

  Monday, 7 November, 8.35 a.m.

  “Celebrating, were we?” Tanfield failed to disguise his pleasure in Johnny’s evident discomfort. He held up the front page. “I don’t blame you. This was quite the scoop.”

  “If it bleeds, it leads.” Johnny couldn’t stop coughing.

  “I don’t suppose you’d …”

  “You suppose correctly.” Johnny shuffled off to the canteen. He must be coming down with something.

  The seventh floor, prompted by PDQ if not Patsel, had decided to lead on his story of an anti-Jewish conspiracy. Having sweet-talked a nurse at Bart’s, he’d seen for himself the swastikas inked on the chests of the two survivors who remained in no condition to talk to him. Even so, he’d had no hesitation in naming them and their dead accomplice, or implicating all three men in the assault of the Lord Mayor-in-waiting as well as the arson attack on the synagogue. Ensom, Leask and Ormesher were mere foot soldiers though. Who was the general?

  It had been as well they’d changed the venue. By the time Johnny had filed his thousand words and returned to Smithfield the previous evening it was after 9.30 and Matt had been three sheets to the wind. The Coach and Horses in Bartholomew Close, hidden down a passage between two banks, made for a discreet watering-hole.

  “Glad you could make it.” Matt, sprawled in a corner like a punch-drunk pugilist, looked as if he’d got through several rounds. “It’s almost closing time – and it’s your shout.”

  Johnny knew better than to argue. He ordered them each a double whisky. Matt downed his in one. He’d absorbed too much alcohol to take in the news about the tattoos. An old couple, the only other drinkers, said goodnight to the landlord and left. Seeing the state Matt was in, he called last orders. Johnny refilled their glasses. He was exhausted.

  “Saved by the Bell’s!” Matt staggered to his feet. “All right if I stay at yours tonight?”

  When Johnny had woken that morning Matt had already left. He’d tried to get Matt to tell him what was wrong but, since he’d kissed Lizzie, his friends’ marriage had become even more of a minefield. “If you want to help, get hold of Simkins,” said Matt. After that he hadn’t said a word.

  Johnny was sweating yet shivering. Overnight a great heaviness had settled on him. His blood felt like molten lead. He was racked by a hacking cough. There was so much he had to get off his chest.

  It took a superhuman effort to shave, wash and dress. He didn’t even make the bed before he set off for the office.

  Matt stared at the figure bound – like Saint Andrew on the cross – to the double bed. He tried not to heave. It wasn’t the blood – it was what was in his own veins that was making him nauseous. He never used to get such vicious hangovers. He must be getting old.

  That was one problem Francis Felshie would never have to face. His gymnast’s body wouldn’t thicken round the middle, nor would hair start to spring from the unlikeliest of places. His ears wouldn’t grow larger, nor would his balls – which were, it had to be said, like hen’s eggs – hang lower year by year.

  “Poor bastard. Wonder what he did to deserve this?” Penterell strolled round the sodden mattress. “Perhaps he was a turd-packer.”

  “Meaning?”

  “No loss to humanity.”

  “Humanity? What would you know about that?” Matt resisted the impulse to grab one of the Indian clubs that stood in the corner. Braining his colleague would make him no better than the killer.

  The mournful horns of tugs and barges drifted through the open window. Ducksfoot Lane was an odd, dog-legged thoroughfare that climbed from Upper Thames Street to Cannon Street. Shrieks and hisses, slams and whistles, came from the Stygian terminus that was less than two hundred yards away.

  The photographer, encumbered with paraphernalia, arrived at the scene of the crime. Matt left him in the dubious company of Penterell. Death didn’t trouble him – well, no more so than anyone else – but there was something creepy about gazing at a corpse when it couldn’t gaze back. Dead people didn’t need privacy – their bodies were merely cast-off garments – but you wouldn’t stare at live folk’s discarded underwear either – unless you were sick in the head. And he wasn’t, he really wasn’t.

  However, the killer patently was insane. And sooner or later they’d make a mistake. The more confident they became, the more likely they were to blunder. Matt hoped that blunder came soon. He needed to shine on this case, get Inskip off his back. The Commander had made it abundantly clear that both their careers depended on keeping silent, maintaining the status quo. Matt couldn’t go on like this, though, knowing the sword of Damocles could fall at any moment.

  His life would be immeasurably simpler if it weren’t for other people. But Lizzie, Lila Mae and – damn him! – Johnny were his whole world. Without them, he was nothing. They all wanted so much from him. Could he give them what they wanted? What about what he wanted?

  A locked room, no witnesses, a single man unmanned. Johnny would love this.

  The telephone, as if to spite him, would not shut up. Each trill drilled into his aching head. The Hello Girls downstairs had no sympathy; they kept putting the calls through.

  Stone: “Bravo! Find out who paid the goons. They can’t be acting alone. We need another splash tomorrow.”

  Adler: “I owe you, Steadman. Keep up the good work. Your editor’s proud of you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  Simkins: “I need to speak with you. Not on the telephone – at my club. One o’clock.” Before Johnny could reply the line went dead.

  Rebecca: “I feel honoured to know you! There’s an exhibition of new work by the Euston Road School opening tomorrow night. Thelma Hulbert’s invited me. Fancy coming along? It promises to be a super evening. We could catch a bite afterwards …”

  Culver: “Tally ho! The hunt is on. Don’t stop now.” Johnny sneezed. “Someone getting up your nose?”

  “You could say that …”

  Johnny looked up, sensing eyes on him.

  Tanfield, annoyingly healthy, smirked from the next desk. “Acute nasopharyngitis.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a cold.”

  “Tell you what you need,” said Culver. “A
Turkish bath. Have you been to the ones in Ironmonger Row? Let’s meet there at noon tomorrow.” He lowered his voice. “Something else to tell you.”

  And, finally, there was a call from Turner: “You sound how I feel.”

  “I hope for your sake that’s not true. Simkins has proposed lunch. Three-line whip.”

  “Shift your arse, then – I need to see you first. Number four’s turned up.”

  Johnny grabbed his hat and coat.

  Tanfield, trying to find a fresh angle on the weekend’s litany of drunken mishaps and mayhem, stopped typing. “Bet the name begins with D!”

  The London Stone, next door to the Chamber of Commerce’s Court of Arbitration, was one of the most popular pubs in Cannon Street. It served Truman, Hanbury and Buxton ales and hot food in a grill room on the first floor and a dining room on the second. Tall, narrow and sloping westwards, it resembled one of its customers propping up the bar.

  “Why couldn’t we meet at the scene?”

  “Inskip’s on the warpath. He’s told everyone not to cooperate with you.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Well, he isn’t, is he? What’re you having?” Matt’s glass was almost empty.

  “I’ll get them.” Johnny ordered another pint plus a whisky and hot water for himself. “I feel as though I’m dying.”

  “There’s a lot of it about.”

  “So where is this crime scene?”

  They moved away from the counter.

  “Round the corner in Ducksfoot Lane. It’s a flat above the showroom of Price’s Candles. No other tenants.”

  “Name?”

  “Felshie. Francis Felshie.”

  Ha! Tanfield was wrong. Right end of the alphabet though.

  “Can’t tell you much more than that at present.”

  “Time of death?”

  “The manager saw him go out at midday on Saturday.”

  “So he could have died at any time over the weekend.”

  “We should have narrowed it down by the end of the day.”

  “Who found him?”

  “We did. A suspicious neighbour reported an open window. She’d seen pigeons flying in and out, clustering round something. The beat constable got the shock of his life when he kicked the door in.”