Robin Hood Yard Read online

  Matt shook his head. “Not in the ring, anyway.”

  Once they’d been served, they elbowed their way into an anteroom called Ye Olde Closet where a table had just become free.

  “Find anything on Hollom?”

  “Not a sausage.”

  “Ah, well. We tried. I gather you spoke to Tim Tanfield on Tuesday.”

  “What of it?” The bitter had given Matt a froth moustache. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Did you mention Broster’s last supper?”

  “No. He was only interested in the traces of Gold Cap.”

  “Was there any pork in the stomach?”

  Matt shook his head. “No. He appears to have had a liquid dinner.”

  “So he was drunk and drugged.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps he moved in different circles to Bromet and Chittleborough.”

  “Perhaps he was Jewish.”

  “He was definitely a juice-hound. His liver was cirrhotic.”

  Johnny sighed. “We’re going round in circles – different or not. Anything else to tell me?”

  “I wish there was. Inskip’s on the warpath. Four murders and a spate of anti-Semitic attacks. Adler’s demanding the culprits be found before the Lord Mayor’s Show on Wednesday.”

  “Shame he won’t lose his job if he fails.”

  Johnny stared through the bottle-glass window.

  “All of us need a break,” said Matt. “What’s the matter? Seen a ghost? This place is said to be haunted.”

  Johnny took a slug of beer to give himself time to think. He hadn’t seen a ghost. He’d seen Henry Simkins leaving the pub, followed by Cecil Zick.

  What should he do?

  He knew Matt would have received a lot of flak because of what he’d written. He owed him more than a couple of pints. There was no good reason to withhold the information any longer: Zick and Simkins were clearly not bluffing.

  “They were ghosts, of a kind. Henry Simkins has just left – with Cecil Zick. Wait!”

  It was no good. Matt steamed out of the pub leaving overturned tables and slopped beer in his wake. Johnny, apologizing profusely, righted the furniture and offered refills to the disgruntled drinkers.

  “Don’t worry,” he told the landlord. “He’s a copper.”

  “They’re the worst of the lot! Is he coming back?”

  “I hope so. Do you know Henry Simkins from the Chronicle?”

  “The geezer with a taste for champagne?”

  “That’s him. Where was he? I didn’t see him when I came in.”

  “Closeted with an older chap who can’t be short of a bob or two. He hired the Bishop’s Room. Always does.”

  “He’s been here before?”

  “Twice a week for the past month.”

  “Why? What’s so special about this place?” Before the host could answer Matt appeared at Johnny’s side.

  “There was no sign of them. Must have flagged down a taxi.”

  Johnny bought another round and returned to the snug. “What would you have done if you’d caught Zick?”

  “Beaten the shit out of him. Slowly.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather get him sent down for a long time?”

  “We both know how difficult – and how improbable – that would be.”

  “Friends in high places.”

  “Don’t I know it? That’s why it’ll be so satisfying when my fist meets his face. He deserves it for what he did to Lizzie – and he’s hardly likely to go crying to the cops.”

  Johnny wasn’t going to waste his breath saying violence was a tacit admission of defeat. Matt had taught him how to fight but he still considered his tongue his best weapon.

  “Why d’you think Zick’s come back? He knows you’ll be after him.”

  “You asking questions that you know the answers to again?” Matt wasn’t stupid.

  “Simkins told me a couple of days ago. This is the first time I’ve seen you since.”

  “Go on.” Matt’s blue eyes deepened – a sure sign of emotion.

  “He’s intending to set up shop again.”

  “You mean a knocking-shop.”

  “Yes – and he wants me to persuade you to back off.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Johnny leaned closer. “He’s still got the photographs.”

  Matt put his head in his hands and groaned. “Fucking hell. Will this never end?”

  The sordid business had awoken forbidden feelings in both men. He, unlike Johnny, refused to acknowledge them. He’d long suspected that Johnny harboured strange ideas about their friendship but he would not discuss them with him. What was the point of talking about something that could never become a reality? He had no desire to live with another man. He preferred the company of women. And yet the disturbing dreams – not exactly nightmares, not always – persisted.

  “The photographer kept copies,” said Johnny. “Simkins is desperate for us to come to an arrangement.”

  “What’s he got to do with this? Hasn’t he learned his lesson?”

  “Knowing Zick, he’s probably blackmailing him too. Simkins is acting as his go-between.”

  “After you saved his life. There’s gratitude for you.”

  “He’s as trapped as I am. We have to find a way of putting Zick out of business once and for all.”

  “If we’d known Quirk was going to die, we could have pinned Zick’s murder on him.”

  Was he joking? Once upon a time Johnny would have had no hesitation in saying yes. However, Matt’s youthful idealism – his unwavering faith in the rule of law – had been challenged and found wanting as he’d gained experience on the streets of the City and in the offices of his superiors. Day by day his black-and-white world had blurred into one giant grey area.

  Zick’s death would be the simplest solution to the problem. What did the life of one villain matter when so many innocent people were under the threat of war? Johnny had killed a man before – but not in cold blood. Besides, it had been to save the life of another as well as his own.

  Johnny drained his glass.

  “We have to get Zick arrested outside the City of London so that his protectors can’t intervene.”

  “The brothel is bound to be within the Square Mile though. Crooks are like dogs – they always return to their vomit. His previous places have been in the City so it’s a fair bet his new one will be too.”

  “Simkins swears he doesn’t know where it is.”

  “He might do now. Why’s he met Zick today?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I’m taking Rebecca Taylor to the pictures.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Both – but I’d settle for the latter.”

  “Good luck. I’m working tomorrow, so call me,” said Matt, getting up and ruffling Johnny’s hair on his way out.

  Johnny remained sitting at the table even though a brace of bankers was casting covetous glances at it. How different his life would have been had he and Matt not been placed in the same class at Essex Road. He’d known him longer than anyone else on the planet. It was his only lasting relationship. No one – not even Lizzie – should be allowed to come between them. She’d threatened to do so once before but somehow he’d managed to do the right thing, or rather to do nothing while she chose Matt over him. She must have had her reasons. So what was she up to now?

  His reverie was broken by the landlord.

  “Hollom’s at the counter. The eyetie’s drinking red wine. Always does.”

  Johnny followed him into the main room. He appeared to be chatting to one of his countrymen. White teeth flashed. Rick Hollom was the shop assistant he’d spoken to earlier that morning.

  THIRTEEN

  Johnny’s first impulse was to interrupt the animated conversation by introducing himself – loudly. He didn’t like being taken for a fool. Discretion, discretion, discretion. Once again doing nothing, saying nothing
, was the equivalent of doing the right thing. Johnny remained at the end of the bar and stared at the man.

  It wasn’t long before Hollom’s primeval instinct kicked in. Humans, whether hunting or gathering, quickly sense when they’re being watched. His eyes widened and his mouth closed when he spotted Johnny. What would be his reaction? Fight or flight? Neither – they were no longer roaming prehistoric plains. He nodded towards the door and, saying farewell to his friend, who did not look round, walked out of the tavern.

  Instead of turning left towards Hatton Garden, Hollom turned right and headed for Ely Place. His shoulders were so broad they brushed the sides of the narrow passage.

  They emerged opposite a terrace of stately Georgian houses. The autumnal sunlight made them squint. A watchman was polishing the window in the door of his lodge. Hollom, though, turned away from Charterhouse Street and, walking past St Etheldreda’s, made for the high brick wall that formed the end of the cul-de-sac.

  However, if you were a pedestrian, Ely Place was not a dead end. A rickety wicker gate led into Bleeding Heart Yard. The name of the cobbled courtyard fascinated Johnny almost as much as Dickens, who discussed its origins at length in Little Dorrit. Heraldic imagery? Tragic romance? Cabbies would have none of it: the place was “bleedin’ ’ard to find”.

  Hollom stopped outside a garage that had already closed for the weekend. Oil and grease had left iridescent stains on the stones. Johnny prepared to grease the palm of his only lead.

  “Put that away.” Hollom nodded at the wallet. “I don’t take bribes.”

  “Why couldn’t you speak to me in the shop?”

  “Would you like your employers knowing your private business?”

  “Quirk gave me your name. You know he’s dead?”

  “Yes. That’s why we’re here.”

  He glanced round to check that the yard was deserted.

  “Are you in danger too?”

  “Don’t think so. I’m not a snitch. Also I can take care of myself.”

  Johnny didn’t doubt it.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He was a member of England For Fascism – as am I.”

  If he was trying to shock Johnny, he’d failed.

  “Are you British?”

  “My mother is Italian. She married beneath her so I was brought up in Clerkenwell. I was christened Ricardo but, as far as Londoners are concerned, I’m Richard. My cousins are supporters of Mussolini. Quirk admired him too. We fought together in Cable Street.”

  “Is that why he was killed?”

  “I do not think so. He was hardly alone in his views. Why would our enemies choose him? There are plenty of more prominent members to target if the murder was supposed to make a political point.”

  “He was sent down for burglary soon after Cable Street, so he can’t have been active since then.”

  “That’s true. He was busy trying to look up old friends, but his early release from prison made them suspicious.”

  “Did he tell you how it came about?”

  “It was a reward – for keeping his mouth shut.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No.” The Italian was serious. “He’d learned something that, in his words, was pure gold. He said it was more than his life was worth to reveal it. His vow of silence earned him remission.”

  “So,” said Johnny. “He must have broken his word.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No, he bloody didn’t, and now it seems he should have.”

  Hollom appeared to share his disappointment.

  “He died for nothing then. A great shame. I’ve got your card now. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Quirk may have been a petty criminal, but his heart was in the right place. If I were you, I’d search for his killers elsewhere – they deserve to be punished.”

  “Are you warning me off?”

  Hollom smiled. It was unusual for an EFF boy to have all his teeth.

  “Giving you friendly advice, that’s all. I’d hate for you to waste your time – or get hurt.”

  He crossed the yard and turned into Charles Street. They had come full circle. And Johnny still didn’t know why Quirk had given him Hollom’s name.

  Fleet Street was due south. Johnny, deep in thought, strode down Shoe Lane, determined to confront Simkins. The marble foyer of the Chronicle was a dance floor on which telegram boys, reporters and visitors waltzed round each other with only the occasional collision.

  “After a job, Steadman?” The managing editor, who had evidently enjoyed a splendid lunch, slapped him on the back. “Where’s your portfolio?”

  “I’m happy where I am, thanks.”

  “Well, if you change your mind …” He sauntered over to one of the lifts. Its door slid open and Louis Dimeo stepped out.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at a football match?”

  “Not this weekend. I’m covering the boxing at Olympia tonight.”

  The receptionist informed Johnny that Simkins was not in the building but was expected shortly. He didn’t leave a message.

  Dimeo accompanied him back to the office.

  “Don’t tell anyone you saw me. They’d only get the wrong end of the stick.”

  “So let me guess,” said Johnny. “If you’re not jumping ship, you’re sniffing round a girl.”

  “With a body like mine it would be selfish not to share it.”

  “Are all Italian men arrogant?”

  “Not arrogant. Self-confident.”

  “If you say so – but it’s your brain that interests me. What does Tesoro mean?”

  “Are you actually asking me for help?”

  “If you don’t know, I can easily look it up in the library …”

  “Of course I know. It means treasure.”

  The Blue Hall on Upper Street was said to be the oldest cinema in Britain. Films had been shown there since 1900. Part of the Agricultural Hall complex, the space had originally been designed to show pigs. Tonight it was showing The Lady Vanishes. Although set in the fictitious Central European country of Bandrika (Yugoslavia? Czechoslovakia?), Hitchcock had shot some sequences just up the road at Islington Studios.

  The comedy thriller had been released four weeks ago, yet the magnificent red-and-gold auditorium, which seated more than thirteen hundred, was full. Johnny and Rebecca were not alone in gasping at the fireworks on the screen. A collective sigh of satisfaction could be heard when the credits rolled and the lights went up.

  “Yes,” said Johnny. “But who killed the folk singer at the start? We’re never told.”

  “He must have been a British agent as well,” said Rebecca, slipping her arm through his. “Hitch likes to leave you guessing.”

  “Did you spot him?”

  “He’s hard to miss. He was at Victoria Station.”

  “His first-ever appearance was as a newspaper editor in The Lodger.”

  “So that’s why you’re such a fan.” She looked at her watch. “It’s time I caught a train too.”

  “Sure?”

  He could see himself reflected in her fathomless eyes. Rejected too. He had planned to invite her back but it was probably for the best. When she’d kissed him on arrival, an image of Lizzie had popped into his head.

  “I’m sure.”

  He walked her to the Angel tube station on City Road. It was a direct journey to Tooting Bec.

  “Why haven’t you mentioned last night?”

  “I’m trying to forget it – although I did, of course, read what you wrote.”

  “That’s not why I asked. The victim, Quirk, was a Mosleyite.”

  “No loss there then.” She raised her chin as if expecting contradiction.

  “Was Wally a fascist?”

  “Yes. I was shocked – no, revolted – when he told me.”

  “Is that why you stopped seeing him?”

  “It would hav
e been – but, as I said, he spurned me before I could spurn him. Fascism is only another name for bigotry.”

  So why had Wally stopped seeing her? Was she too clever for him? Didn’t he like women with brains? Was he so lacking in self-confidence he became angry if a girl dared to challenge or contradict him? Poor sap. Mental attributes could be just as arousing as physical ones.

  “Let’s have dinner next week.”

  “That would be lovely.” She kissed him on the lips. “Thanks for the picture show.”

  He waved to her as she entered the brightly lit station. Hereafter he would always think of her as Tooting Becky.

  There was a whiff of gunpowder in the air. Pigeons wheeled in panic as rockets whooshed past their roosts. Homeward bound, he could hear the distant detonations of the display in Highbury Fields. A taste of things to come.

  The Bevis Marks Synagogue, the oldest in Britain, was unoccupied. Its seven brass chandeliers from Amsterdam were unlit. Moonbeams made the fake-marble ark gleam. It was actually made of oak. The clock above the entrance showed it was five minutes to midnight.

  The first firebomb broke one of the lower arched windows. The second smashed against the double doors. Others hit the bare brick walls. The sweaty thugs were enjoying themselves so much they ignored the first policeman’s whistle but when it was answered by that of a colleague, and the sound of running feet, they darted down the alley leading to Mitre Square where an accomplice, fag dangling from his mouth, was already gunning the engine of a truck.

  Lights off, rattling loudly, the rusty crate and its exultant crew swung into Mitre Street and careered towards Aldgate. The bus came from nowhere. It struck the getaway vehicle head-on. Female passengers screamed, male passengers cursed, but none of them were seriously injured. The same could not be said of the arsonists. Legs crushed, yelling in panic, the trapped men soon had more than their fingers burned.

  FOURTEEN

  Sunday, 6 November, 2.45 p.m.

  A man stood on his head in the middle of Club Row. Another, dressed in reach-me-downs, tore sheets of newspaper into doilies and silhouettes. Most of the strolling crowd ignored the beggars – they were more interested in the competition: caged animals. Some of them, dreaming of new homes, also knew how to sit up and beg. It was a dog-eat-dog world.