Snow Hill Page 8

  “He is. Harry’s a lovely boy, no harm to anyone. It’s a shame the police won’t leave him alone.”

  The lift-boy raised his eyebrows when he asked for the seventh floor. Galley-slaves like Johnny did not visit the bridge very often.

  The first time he’d entered the editor’s suite had been the day he joined the News; like all new employees he’d been summoned up to receive a welcoming handshake.

  The second time he’d got a pat on the back to congratulate him on becoming a junior reporter, a reward for a series of articles on childhood poverty which Captain Vic had found “both passionate and pioneering”. The series had generated a lot of comment and not a jot of change.

  The last time he crossed the carpeted expanse he’d been given a bottle of champagne—the paper had an excellent, extensive wine cellar—and promoted to the post of fully-fledged crime reporter. His exclusive about the drugs ring at Bart’s had caused a sensation and had been much appreciated by the high-ups. He was told he had a great career ahead of him—and then he went back downstairs where Patsel promptly sent him into exile at the Old Bailey.

  Johnny was determined that his current investigation would prove to be his means of escape.

  The well-appointed calm of the top deck was in stark contrast to the raucous chaos of the engine rooms below. It housed, in addition to the editor’s suite, the proprietor’s apartment, six offices for senior management and their secretaries, and a boardroom with a table the length of a cricket pitch.

  At 6.30 a.m. there was no sign of the snooty brunette who controlled access to the editor. Johnny thought he could hear grunting coming from the other side of the door. He knocked anyway.

  “Enter!”

  As the door swung open, Johnny was confronted by the sight of the editor, wearing nothing but a pair of soiled combinations, hanging upside down from a set of wall-bars. Sweat dripped on to the carpet.

  “Ah, Steadman. What can I do for you?” he panted, immediately resuming his workout.

  Victor Stone was a dedicated newsman who burned off excess nervous energy with callisthenics. “Beauty hurts” was one of his favourite catchphrases. Rumour had it that he and his wife were committed members of the Open-Air Tourist Society—which meant they spent their holidays running around with no clothes on. Bill reckoned it was how they got their OATS. Whether this was true or not, worshipping the sun had certainly given Stone a Mediterranean complexion—and his darker skin made his teeth appear even whiter. He claimed to be forty-five but looked much younger, especially when he was surrounded by his grey-haired superiors.

  Johnny told him about the tip-off, his meeting with Harry Gogg, his murder and mutilation, the attempt on his own life and the knife.

  He did not tell him about his encounter with the policeman in the alley. He could not get it out of his mind. The one consolation was that nobody need ever know. Why had the cop kissed him? Had he known whom he was kissing? Did he think he was a shirt-lifter? Thinking about it, Johnny found it hard to resist the urge to spit.

  “Almost done.”

  Stone embarked on a final set of chin-ups. Johnny, unsure what his story amounted to, or what his editor would make of it, took the opportunity to inspect the room more closely.

  There was little to show that this office housed a member of the fourth estate. Rather, it resembled the library of a stately home. Two of its walls were lined with leather-bound books. Busts of famous authors surmounted the shelves: he was gratified to spot Dickens standing shoulder to shoulder with Tennyson and Thackeray. The huge double-pedestal desk was lit by a brass lamp with a green, opalescent glass shade. Its surface, inlaid with tooled green leather, boasted an eau-de-nil leather blotter, olivine pen-stand and no less than four Bakelite telephones, all of which were black. A chesterfield, set against the front, prevented anyone getting too close. The three square windows, their baize blinds still drawn against the December darkness, looked down on a table and eight chairs. Next to them stood a pair of drawing-boards, still spread with pages from the previous day’s final edition.

  Stone, his exercise routine completed, dropped to the floor. The telephones tinkled faintly. He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and rubbed himself down.

  “So there are two dead men, one of whom was definitely murdered, and you’ve only a hunch that their deaths are connected. Since you were the man on the spot I’m going to let you write up Gogg’s killing—but leave out any mention of your own involvement and the other death. The murder of a male tart is a great story, but it won’t cause much of an outcry.”

  “The murder of a cop would, sir.”

  “Indeed. Unfortunately, apart from the anonymous tip-off, you don’t have any evidence that the body delivered to Bart’s by Harry Gogg and his mystery accomplice was a cop’s—or that he was actually murdered. You’ll have to dig around some more before we can run anything on that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s suppose, just for a moment, that your hunch is correct. What d’you think this cop was up to that landed him in the morgue?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir. Maybe nothing at all.”

  “No one, especially a cop, is totally innocent. I know you, Steadman. You can’t read someone’s copy month after month and not get an insight into their character. You instinctively saw the dead man as a victim, didn’t you? This is another opportunity for you to champion the underdog, to rage against the cruel workings of faceless authority. But there are other possibilities. The bluebottle may have been a bad ’un who ended up being squashed when one of his scams went wrong.”

  “He was naked, sir.”

  “Was he now? Perhaps he was stripped afterwards to hide his identity. Perhaps he was attacked at home in bed. Perhaps he was blackmailing someone who couldn’t pay any more. Perhaps he fell out with an accomplice who came after him seeking revenge. Find the motive and you’ll find the killer. The connection with Gogg may be pure coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said Johnny. “Surely the fact that the death has not been reported is suspicious? If it was a cop, bent or otherwise, Scotland Yard could have issued a press release full of the usual lies and that would have probably been the end of the matter. They’d have been quick enough to put out a statement if he’d died in the line of duty. Everyone loves a dead hero.” He shook his head. “No. Something, somewhere’s not right. I can feel it in my bones. Bill Fox was told that a cop had been sacked, but I’ve now heard from two sources at Snow Hill that the only officer unaccounted for was a rookie cop who transferred to the Met. Which is it? Someone certainly doesn’t want the truth to come out: why try and kill me otherwise?”

  “They might have just been trying to scare you off. After all, you’re here now.”

  Johnny nodded. That would explain why the cop had not killed him in the alley—after all, there would have been no witnesses, and had he used the knife instead of just holding it to Johnny’s throat it would all have been over in a matter of seconds. Of course, it still didn’t explain why the cop had kissed him.

  Stone began undoing the buttons on his vest. He strode over to the bookshelves and pressed a copy of Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies. A hidden door sprang open to reveal a small, black-and-white tiled bathroom. It was not unknown for him to conduct editorial meetings from his bathtub.

  “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.

  PART TWO

  Honey Lane

  ELEVEN

  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, Cuntstable.”

  “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 booki
es 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.