Robin Hood Yard Page 8
Inskip turned his back on him and set off across the Artillery Ground. Johnny, ducking under the rope that encircled the smouldering pyre, followed him.
“Sure that’s the way you want to play it? When asked to comment on the return of a suspected blackmailer and whoremonger, Commander Inskip of the City of London Police turned his back on the Daily News … ”
There were too many witnesses for Inskip to knock his block off. Instead he gripped Johnny’s bicep as hard as he could.
“You mightn’t give a damn about your own well-being, but consider that of Detective Constable Turner. He’s an excellent copper – and a good man – but when it comes to his wife – and anyone else laying hands on her – he can’t help seeing red. It would be a crying shame if such a promising career were to be destroyed because his runt of a friend can’t keep his trap shut.”
Inskip was right. If he told Matt that Zick was back in London, he would certainly go after the bastard. Alternatively, if he kept silent, Matt would – sooner or later – find out that Zick was back in business. Either way, he’d go after him with a vengeance. And that was exactly what they didn’t want. The consequences could be fatal.
Johnny would have to solve this particular problem on his own.
Rubbing his arm, he watched the Commander take charge. The excited soldiers retreated when they saw the gold braid on his epaulettes. Here, as elsewhere, rank was everything.
The charred corpse was placed, still smoking, on to a stretcher. A sweet smell, not unlike that of the hog-roasts, seeped through the air. However, this one made Johnny lose his appetite.
“At least he’s still got his teeth,” said Inskip, poking what was left of the face with a pencil. “It’s the only way we’re going to get an identification.”
He was wrong. Johnny would have known that projecting jaw anywhere. He kept his trap shut.
Lizzie was at home. Where else would she be? It was Friday night and yet here she was, a prisoner of the hearth. Yes, she was warm and dry. Yes, she had eaten. Even Lila Mae was slumbering soundly for once. But was Lizzie content? Absolutely not.
Felix Aylmer, dignified and donnish, was reading one of Leslie Halward’s short stories on the wireless. The Money’s All Right was a typical morality tale in which the values of working-class life were tested and, depending on your point of view, found wanting or rewarding. Did she really need to be reminded that something that did not make a profit could still be of value?
Love, loyalty, discretion – all three were priceless. She couldn’t get Johnny out of her head. She replayed the events of the previous evening once again. It was her fault. If she hadn’t turned her head, if she’d kept her resolve, she wouldn’t be in this pickle. How could she live with the memory of her awful daring? A moment’s surrender had put all her relationships – with Matt, with Johnny, and with her family – in jeopardy.
The front door closed with a click. He was always careful not to disturb them. She heard the oven door open and then a curse as he dropped the hot plate on the table. He never learned. She crept into the hall.
His blond, close-cropped head was bent over his food. His right arm guarded his plate as if he were afraid someone would try to take it away from him. He shovelled the stew into his mouth as fast as he could. Lizzie sighed. He ate like a convict.
Matt glanced up and grinned at his wife. In spite of herself, she felt a rush of tenderness. No man – especially a boxer – should have such beautiful cheekbones. His face was flushed.
“You’re drunk. Again.”
“No I’m not. Only had a couple.”
“Of what? Bottles? Barrels?”
“Pints. It’s been a long day.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Matt pushed his plate away and belched.
“How’s Lila?”
“Fine. She missed you at bathtime. So did I.”
“Don’t start.”
Lizzie knew if he said anything else she would lose her temper. Without a word she returned to the parlour. Matt went upstairs to check on the baby. He didn’t come down again.
Rebecca insisted on staying at the Artillery Ground in case she was needed.
“This reflects badly on the Grocers’ Company. We’ll have to issue a press release.”
Johnny didn’t see why the livery company should be so concerned – unless it was one of its men who’d burned the informant.
It was after 8.30 p.m. when, entering the newsroom, he cried: “Hold the front page!”
The hoots of derision turned to howls of glee once he’d explained that he’d landed an exclusive.
“Shame you don’t know why Quirk was killed,” said Patsel.
“It must be because he talked to me,” said Johnny.
“You can’t confirm that,” said PDQ. “Nor can you reveal the information he gave you. You should have made contact with Hollom as soon as you had his name.”
“I tried – more than once. He’s not been at work. I don’t have a home address.”
“Let’s hope he still needs one,” said Patsel. “The flamboyant manner of Quirk’s death suggests it was intended as a warning to anyone else who was thinking of talking to you.”
“It may have been flamboyant but it was also cruel,” said Johnny. “How about The Flaming Boy as a headline?”
“Too flip,” said PDQ. “We need to know why he was released early from Pentonville. Tanfield, see if you can get a quote from the governor.”
“He’s probably at the lodge, sir.”
“If so, we’ll say he refused to comment.”
The final copy deadline was 9 p.m. but, in exceptional circumstances, it could be extended by up to an hour. Johnny filed his five hundred words in thirty minutes.
The absence of any official police report did not prevent him naming Quirk nor claiming his death was murder. However, Patsel blue-pencilled his implication that it could be connected to the recent murders of three other men.
“Save it for the follow-up tomorrow,” said PDQ. “Keep your gunpowder dry.”
Johnny was on the point of complaining that his mouth was dry when the telephone rang: a summons to the seventh floor.
“Bad news travels fast,” smirked Tanfield.
The red light went off and the green light came on. Several dark suits and grey heads were sitting round the conference table with copies of the early edition spread out before them.
“Ah, Steadman. Come with me.”
Johnny followed the editor along his private corridor, past a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, and out through the fire exit. Rather than descending the fire escape, they went up to the roof.
A hard frost now gripped the capital. However, it wasn’t only the cold that took his breath away. London always seemed more beautiful by night. The sky, way above the ever-present pall of smoke, was clear. Its stars gazed down on those of the West End. Fiat lux. Gas-lamps in Mayfair, floodlights in Trafalgar Square, strip lights in Soho. Beyond the Strand, the sweet Thames flowed like black silk. Big Ben bonged ten.
“I’ve a good mind to fire you.”
At first Johnny thought Stone was joking. He’d been expecting congratulations, not recriminations.
“What were you thinking, man? You might as well have called Adler a Nazi. Were you trying to be offensive?”
“No. Would you rather I pretended I hadn’t heard about a theft of six million? All I did was ask him about a deposit of Czech gold. I didn’t accuse him of taking it.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“Well, he’s a liar.”
“Why would he lie? I told you to help him, not hinder him.”
“I have been helping him. Instead of collecting mushrooms I could have been chasing the man whose name got my informant killed tonight.”
The more Johnny thought about it, the angrier he became.
“What’s Adler got on you? I appreciate you’re Jewish, but there has to be more to it than that. Is it mere coincidence, Herr Stein, that the G
estapo’s bank is J.H. Stein? I thought the Nazis were more interested in burning books than balancing them.”
If he were going to get fired it would be right now. He wasn’t that worried. With his track record, he could walk into another job tomorrow. War was coming: what did it matter whether he wrote for the Daily Brute or the Daily Beast?
His editor, or ex-editor, burst into laughter. He gripped the handrail and stared down the grand canyon of Fleet Street.
“That’s my boy!” His words hung, then slowly evaporated, in the thin air. He turned to face him. “Why take everything so personally?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“Leo is married to Honoria’s sister.”
Stone’s wife had taken a maternal interest in Johnny since his earliest days on the paper. Furthermore, Captain Vic, as he mentored him, had become a father figure. That was why it had hurt when he seemed to doubt him.
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“You’ve just answered your own question. I didn’t want any ugly rumours to start about another Jewish conspiracy. I should have borne in mind your over-active imagination. I’ve been waiting for someone to point out the coincidence regarding J.H. Stein. I assure you, there’s no familial connection.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I apologise for calling you Herr Stein.”
“Apology accepted. This is a time of heightened sensibilities all round. We need to tread carefully. Our impartiality is our greatest selling point. We can’t be seen to be in cahoots with anyone.”
He came back from the edge and patted Johnny on the shoulder.
“I’ll speak to Leo and say something about wires getting crossed. Concentrate on the murders now. Your top priority is to track down Quirk’s contact.”
TWELVE
Saturday, 5 November, 8.50 a.m.
A board between the two sash-windows of the establishment informed passers-by that Otarelli & Sanna sold barometers, thermometers and hydrometers. Johnny, standing in a doorway on the opposite side of Charles Street, stamped his feet. He’d been in position for only twenty minutes, yet already he was frozen.
Quirk had told him Rick Hollom drank in the Mitre but he didn’t want to wait till lunchtime nor ask the staff for him by name. Hollom was in enough potential danger as it was. Had news of his acquaintance’s death made him disappear?
Workers continued to enter the premises but Johnny failed to spot anyone who looked likely to have been an associate of his informant. Then again, Quirk had known a lot of people; his livelihood had depended on it.
How did you put a face to a name though? There was no correlation between the two: everyone’s name was a combination of inclination and inheritance. His own parents had liked the name John. However, that didn’t make him look like a John Steadman. Or did it? How strange that one’s spoken identity was so arbitrary …
A school photograph would do the trick – if you knew where your target was educated. A criminal record would have a mugshot – if you knew the right person to retrieve it. He hadn’t spoken to Matt since he’d seen Lizzie. More than twenty-four hours had passed, but he could still feel her lips meeting his. He must call him. There was a police box in Hatton Garden.
The long, wide street – the centre of the diamond trade – was a world unto itself. Clusters of Jewish men – Orthodox and otherwise – stood on the pavements, swapping information and gossip. Three Is dominated their working lives: Integrity, Intelligence and Industry. A merchant’s reputation was everything; trust had to be earned. Strangers – those outside the faith – found it a tough market to enter. Most of the businesses that bought and sold gold, silver, jewellery and objets d’art were family affairs.
For once he was put through straightaway.
“Why didn’t you tell Inskip it was Quirk?”
“He was being his usual obnoxious self. Bet his face was a picture when he saw the News this morning.”
“He hardly needs another reason to hate your guts,” said Matt. “What was so important that Quirk had to die?”
“I don’t know. All he gave me was a name …” He paused. Was it time to share his chocolate bar?
“What are you waiting for? D’you want me to beg?”
“Course not. It’s just …” He reminded himself that Matt couldn’t help him unless he shared the information. “You’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you? At least until I’ve had a chance to speak with him?”
“If you’re quick about it – and he doesn’t turn out to be wanted for anything else.”
“He’s called Rick Hollom. Works at Otarelli & Sanna in Charles Street. I’m round the corner from the shop now. Quirk said he drinks in the Mitre.”
“I’ll meet you there at two o’clock.”
The day had started like all the others that week. Lizzie, up half the night with Lila who was teething again, had been out for the count when he’d got up at six. Even if she had been awake, she was unlikely to have said much. How had the stony silences begun? What had he done wrong? Something or someone had disappointed her. He hoped it wasn’t him.
Lila, exhausted after her nocturnal caterwauling, was fast asleep. Matt stroked her fair hair – his hair – and kissed her on the forehead. She was his reason for living – the proof of his love for Lizzie. His family was his greatest asset. Only Johnny meant as much to him. And he was almost family …
He bought a copy of the Daily News at the station and, as usual, immediately scanned it for Johnny’s byline. He didn’t have to search for long. It appeared at the top of a single column headed EXCLUSIVE, which ran alongside the lead story: A PLANE CRASH IN JERSEY.
As soon as he read it he knew what kind of welcome awaited him at Snow Hill. Inskip and his cohorts would take it personally. The fact that he’d been in the dark as much as them would be no defence. They relied on him to keep Johnny under control.
He watched the suburbs of South London scroll by, willing the train to slow down. They should know by now that Johnny was a law unto himself.
Perhaps there was little demand for scientific instruments at the weekend. The window-shoppers seemed far more interested in diamonds. Girls with glowing cheeks, arm in arm with their catches, pointed to racks of rocks encased in rings. They believed they had a future together – or were they simply taking refuge while they could? Matrimony provided a degree of security in an uncertain age. Link arms or take up arms? What was he going to do? One failed marriage proposal was enough for him. There was safety in singledom. No love to lose.
A gang of street Arabs, bare feet blue with cold, propped up their dummy in the porch of a pub on Greville Street. “Penny for the Guy! Penny for the Guy!”
Two minutes later the attic windows of a workshop juddered open and a shower of coppers rained down. The kids scrambled to collect them but – with yells of outrage – dropped them immediately. The watching apprentices – who had heated the coins with their welding torches – cackled and returned to their benches.
Johnny stood his ground till ten o’clock. If Hollom were working today then he had to be in the building. The time for discretion was over.
The shop was an Aladdin’s cave of glittering devices. He remembered gyroscopes, theodolites and anemometers from his school days, but he could only guess what the others were designed to measure.
“Good morning, sir. How may I be of assistance?” The handsome young man had a slight foreign accent.
“I’m here to see Rick Hollom.”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“A friend.”
“One moment please.”
He disappeared into the back room. A conversation in rapid Italian ensued. The only word Johnny could make out was Tesoro.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” His teeth were dazzling. “Mr Hollom is not available.”
“Sure you weren’t speaking to him?”
“Quite certain.”
“What does he do here?”
“Why do you ask? Who are you?”
“No. I’m sorry. If you leave your details I’ll see that he gets them.”
“Thank you.” He gave the counter-jumper his card. “Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him if he needs help, he now knows who to call.”
Jock Wilderspin flung the document at him.
“You’re a bloody fool, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Alex did mind – very much so. You’d have thought the old bastard would have known how to spell embarrassment by now. After Monday’s performance he’d refrained from correcting any errors in his manager’s prose.
“A thousand apologies, sir. How could anyone forget it’s not as but ass?”
He deserved a medal for keeping a straight face.
Vanneck re-typed the document and, at ten to one, hauled himself up the dilapidated hydraulic lift, to get it signed again. Thank God it was Saturday. The game didn’t start till three. He’d have lunch at Lockharts. With any luck that bobby-dazzler of a waitress would be on duty.
Ye Olde Mitre was impossible to find unless you knew it existed. Hidden down a snicket called Mitre Court that ran between Hatton Garden and Ely Place, the ancient hostelry, with its low ceilings and oak-panelled walls, was the perfect place for secret assignations. Elizabeth I – no stranger to discreet trysts – was said to have danced round the trunk of the cherry tree that, now preserved, graced a corner of the bar.
Johnny, having tipped the landlord generously, asked him to let him know if Hollom made an appearance. The pub was packed. It required careful timing to lift a glass to your lips without spilling any beer.
Matt might as well have been Moses the way the sea of bodies parted to let him through. He was too big to argue with – and he was a man who invariably attracted second looks. Johnny was proud to be his friend.
“Any luck?”
“No,” sighed Johnny. “He must have gone into hiding. What are you having?”
“Pint of Hammerson’s, please.”
“Not fighting tonight?”