Robin Hood Yard

“Lord Beaverbrook, Viscount Rothermere and their cronies are powerful men. It’s not called the press for nothing. If they want something, they can exert great pressure.”

“Even they can’t stop a world war though. They’re more concerned about their livelihoods – the supply of newsprint – than the lives of their readers.”

“Agreed,” said Adler. He sipped the fine claret. “There’ll be no shortage of news though.”

“There will. Dora will see to it.” The Defence of the Realm Act was introduced in 1914. “The government is bound to tighten its grip on the flow of information.”

“The Nazis are fond of censorship as well,” said Adler. “The problems facing Jews in Germany are far worse than leaks suggest. They’re now being rounded up and expelled to Poland. Not only men of working age but women and children too.”

Johnny had long campaigned for the Daily News to highlight Hitler’s atrocious treatment of the Jews. However, he was a crime reporter. Foreign news was not his concern. Patsel dismissed such reports as gross exaggeration, propaganda spread by embittered refugees.

Fleet Street preferred to reflect public opinion rather than change it. Britannia ruled the waves but her citizens were insular in outlook. There was enough suffering at home without worrying about Johnny Foreigner. Only last week the Daily Telegraph had run an advertisement for typists with the proviso that “no Jewesses” need apply.

“Why d’you think Hitler hates Jews so much?”

“Fear. Paranoia. Perhaps he’s secretly afraid there’s a tincture of Jewish blood running in his veins. Self-hatred is even more corrosive.” He sighed. “It’s easier to blame other people for your own weaknesses, shift the responsibility away from yourself. Conspiracies are convenient ways of explaining the inexplicable. Otherness – difference – produces a primitive, instinctive reaction in the brain, but most people choose to override it.”

“A tribal survival mechanism.”

“Exactly. If there weren’t any Jews, new scapegoats would soon be found. Negroes, Catholics, Armenians, homosexuals …”

“And yet Jews invented the concept.”

“That’s right.” Adler raised his glass to him. “Which university did you attend?”

“I didn’t. Couldn’t afford it.”

“Ah, well it stems from the Hebrew word Azazel. You can find it in Leviticus: And Aaron shall place lots upon the two he-goats: one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for Azazel.”

“So why would someone select you as a scapegoat?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the attack has nothing to do with my being Jewish.”

“It must have. It’s Saturday – the Jewish Sabbath. The blood must be a reference to historic blood libels.”

“But I haven’t crucified any Christian kids or drunk their blood. I haven’t poisoned any wells.”

Suddenly the expensive Bordeaux didn’t taste as good.

“No, but you’re about to become the figurehead of the financial centre of the world. Many people see bankers as bloodsuckers. In their blinkered eyes, the fact you’re Jewish simply makes matters worse.”

“I’m not a practising Jew though. As you see, I don’t observe the Sabbath. I don’t have ringlets. I don’t dress entirely in black. I don’t work for a Jewish bank. You could say I’m totally unorthodox.”

“Why did you want to be Lord Mayor?”

“What financier wouldn’t? It’s an honour. Proof I’ve assimilated myself into a secretly hostile environment. Chairmanships and presidencies are all very well, but the mayoralty is a unique position. It’s a chance to do an immense amount of good – for both the companies and charities I’m involved with. And, of course, I’ll be able to help my friends …”

He topped up Johnny’s glass.

“What d’you want me to do?”

“Find out who’s behind this campaign. I don’t have much faith in the police. Ironic, isn’t it, that the top brass are based in Old Jewry? Did you know the Great Synagogue there was burned down before Edward I expelled the Jews …”

When Johnny, somewhat squiffy, re-emerged into daylight, the working week was over. The army of bank messengers, dispatch cases chained to their wrists, had marched off home, leaving the streets to the City’s “submerged tenth”: watchmen, sandwich-men, hawkers, beggars and bible-bangers. The lamps slung on wires above them swung in the strengthening wind. Plane trees shed their last few leaves.

Johnny hadn’t finished work though. He decided to walk back to the office to clear his head.

He preferred being on foot – relying on his own resources – to being driven by someone else. London was a never-ending variety show, every pedestrian a character in an impromptu promenade performance. It was impossible not to cheer.

Even so, as he strode down Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s standing proud behind him, his spirits sank. He’d two meaty stories to pursue, but what was the point if the country was waltzing towards war? His flat feet would keep him out of the army yet he was determined to make himself useful. Perhaps Adler could recommend him to the Ministry of Information when it was finally re-established.

He’d read too much to harbour any illusions about the reality of war. Chamberlain had declared there must be “no more Passchendaeles” – Johnny’s father had been killed in the battle in 1917 – but, for all his good intentions, he was a politician not a magician. Peace couldn’t be produced, like a rabbit, out of a hat. Before long, ignorant armies would once again clash by night. If Johnny couldn’t report on it he could at least help pick up the pieces: carry a stretcher or drive an ambulance. Matt, Lizzie and Lila Mae were the only family he had. It wouldn’t matter if he were blown to bits.

What bollocks! He shook his head to dispel the gloom. Evil had to be confronted wherever it lurked. He nodded to the commissionaire and headed for the lifts, noticing in passing that the sunburst ceiling, dazzlingly lit, made the doorman’s shoes shine.

A pall of silver cigarette smoke drifted over the stalls. Johnny, sprawled on the front row, smirked at the portrayal of hard-drinking, hard-talking newspapermen in I Cover the Waterfront. He could see why the American tale of people-trafficking had taken five years to reach these shores.

The ABC in Islington High Street had been the Empire until a few months ago. Movies had replaced music-hall turns in 1932. When he was a child his mother had often treated him to a Saturday afternoon show. In those days the Victorian concert venue had been known as The Grand. The more things changed the more they remained the same.

There was no food at home so he’d hopped off the tram at the Angel and bought a couple of stale rolls – at a discount – from the French & Vienna Bread Co. next door and smuggled them into the picture house.

If he was with a girl he usually steered her to the back row where, inevitably, the film took second place to smooching. However, when alone, he liked to be as close to the screen as possible so that the characters were literally larger than life.

Claudette Colbert, especially in the brothel sequence, was captivating – although he preferred her darting eyes in It Happened One Night – but Ernest Torrence’s evil sea-captain stole every scene. His best line came as one of the Chinamen he’d drowned was fished out of the Pacific: “Not more’n a day. Crabs ain’t got ’im yet.” The Scottish actor was dead now: gallstones.

As he cut through the crowd of couples dawdling in the foyer, reluctant to return to the real world, he regretted not asking Rebecca for a date. Once outside, all thoughts of her disappeared as torrential icy rain threatened to drown him.

His flat was not far away so he decided to make a run for it. Dead leaves made the pavements treacherous. Each time he skidded the gutters seemed to gurgle with laughter.

Key in hand, he turned into Cruden Street. There was someone huddled in the doorway.

“About fucking time,” said Matt.

FIVE

Monday, 31 October, 8.30 a.m.

Despite reports to the contrary, the world was not coming to an end. Planet Earth had not been invaded by Martians. Johnny grinned at the gullibility of the public. The War of the Worlds was a radio play, not reality. Did no one read H. G. Wells across the Atlantic? All the same, he couldn’t wait to hear the programme.

Orson Welles, the director, claimed the whole thing had been a prank to mark Halloween. If so, why had it been broadcast the day before? And why had it created so much hoo-ha?

There was nothing new about using fake news bulletins for dramatic effect on the radio: Ronald Knox had used them in Broadcasting from the Barricades on the BBC, during which rioters were supposed to have taken over the streets of London. Johnny suspected the American press, like its British counterpart, was suspicious of the relatively new medium, afraid of its ability to report news so much quicker, and was seizing the opportunity to bash the competition. However, with Germany and Japan banging the drums of war, it had been cynical of Welles to capitalize on fears of global invasion.

“The balloon won’t go up for another year or so, if Wells is to be believed,” said PDQ. “In The Shape of Things to Come he predicts that a new world war will begin in January 1940.”

“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”

“Let’s hope you haven’t done anything wrong. Stone wants to see you.”

The red light above the door to the editor’s office went off and the green light came on. Johnny tapped on the polished wood and entered.

“Ah, Steadman. What have you been up to now?” Victor Stone peered at him over the top of his half-moon glasses.

“Sir?”

“I’ve had a call from our new Lord Mayor. Anything to tell me?”

“Wish I had.”

Stone smiled. “Stand at ease. Must be getting old, Steadman – no one’s complained about you recently. Quite the opposite, in fact. Leo said what a personable chap you were. I gather you met on Saturday.”

So Adler and his boss were on first-name terms …

“He wants to know who attacked him. Doesn’t trust the police.”

“Quite. Yet they’ve already ascertained the attackers used pig’s blood. Talk about adding insult to injury.”

“Attackers? Adler said the man was alone.”

“Indeed. But, according to the times established by the bluebottles, a single individual couldn’t have attacked all five banks as well as Adler.”

Where was Stone getting his information from? Why hadn’t anyone told him this? It was supposed to be his story. Johnny knew better than to ask.

“Is Adler clean?”

“As far as I know. Go on …”

Conscious of the black eyes boring into him, Johnny obliged. “Well, pigs aren’t kosher, are they? Jews consider them unclean. The blood could be a reference to some sort of dirty business. Insider dealing is even more common than people suspect.”

“Adler has only got where he is today by being whiter than white. He is extremely conscious of his reputation.”

“He that filches from me my good name …”

Johnny, not for the first time, had opened his mouth without thinking. Iago was a villain and, at this moment, quoting from Othello immediately raised the spectre of Shylock.

“Precisely. Reputation, reputation, reputation! Lose the immortal part of yourself and what remains is bestial. That’s why you must help him. It’s your number one priority.”

“So the two murders are less important?”

Stone stood up and came round the corner of his enormous desk. The fitness fanatic did callisthenics every morning in his office. “Beauty hurts!” was his catchphrase. He had a good body and, as a member of the Open-Air Tourist Society, was not afraid of showing it.

“Anyone else been killed?”

Johnny could smell the carrot juice on Stone’s breath. He stood his ground.

“No.”

“Anyone been arrested?”

“No.”

“Anything new to report at all?”

“Not at this point.”

“Well, get going then. Who’s to know what your snouts have unearthed? If they haven’t heard anything about Adler’s attackers they may have heard something about the dead men.”

He strolled over to the window that – despite the janitor’s best efforts – was still flecked with blackout paint.

“Adler isn’t going to speak to anyone but us. It’ll be an exclusive. One in the eye for the Financial Times. A successful outcome would benefit us all – especially you. Herr Patsel is an excellent news editor, but he can’t stay here, cling on to power, much longer. A reshuffle is on the cards.”

“I’m a newshound, sir, not a house cat. I belong on the streets not behind a desk.”

“Think about it. Now go get me a story.”

Most newspapers used City spies and featured City diaries – published under such pseudonyms as Midas and Autolycus (“a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles”) – to prove it. The City had a tradition of secrecy and worked hard to cultivate its mystique. Attempts to cast light on its activities were viewed askance. Consequently, relations between Fleet Street and Threadneedle Street were often strained.

In the Square Mile it wasn’t only the streets that followed mediaeval courses. The business of buying and selling remained the same. The exchanges didn’t like change. Profit always came at someone’s expense. It was all a game: beggar-my-neighbour or strip-Jack-naked.

Johnny shared Dickens’s opinion of bankers. The crooked financier Mr Merdle – who was full of shit – lived down to his name. Was Adler a mutual friend?

Moneychangers – even before Jesus threw them out of the temple – had never been popular. In a time of hardship though – and when wasn’t it? – Johnny deemed it obscene to be a fat cat while everyone else was tightening their belts. The poor, as Jesus said, were always with us, but that didn’t mean they had to be grist for the City’s satanic mills. Moneymen were routinely demonized in some sections of the press. To counter this, Sir Robert Kindersley, the head of Lazards – aka “The God of the City” – tried to establish a “Bankers’ Bureau” to enhance the image of the Square Mile. However, when the clearing banks failed to cooperate, the talking shop failed.

The City could only do what it always did: put a brave face on it. The banks conducted their business in imposing buildings, the columns – whether Corinthian, Ionic or Doric – hinting at the figures being totted up by hand-operated machines inside. Tap-tap-tap screw! Tap-tap-tap screw! However, it was all a front. The white stone was hung on steel girders like so much sugar-icing. Inside, the banking halls had their own marbled façades. Behind the mahogany veneers, away from the public gaze, there lay a maze of dark and dingy cubbyholes where the real work was done. No matter how much money was donated to charity, bankers couldn’t disguise the fact that, robbing from the poor to give to the rich, they were the opposite of Robin Hood.

Which of his informants should he call first? Johnny reached for the phone but then pushed it away. He would speak to them face to face. It would make it easier to tell if they were lying.

Hughes, no doubt, would be bothering corpses at Bart’s: he wasn’t going anywhere. Culver had switched bucket shops but wouldn’t be free till the evening either. Quicky Quirk, on the other hand, had been released from Pentonville only last week. It was time they caught up.

Lila Mae would not stop screaming. It was astonishing that such a little thing could make so much noise. Lizzie had fed her, changed her, rocked her and sung to her without success before giving up hope and returning the baby to her cot in the boxroom that Matt had decorated. He had been so proud, and so pleased, when she’d told him she was pregnant. Rampant too.

Lila’s brick-red face was scrunched up, her tiny fists clenched, her bootied feet kicking the air. Lizzie, sleep-starved and nipple-sore, stared at her daughter. How quickly a bundle of joy became a ball of fury.

If she cried much longer she would have a convulsion. What was the matter with her? What should she do? She picked Lila up and clutched to her breast. For a second there was silence then, lungs refilled, the caterwauling resumed.

Lizzie walked round the room, shushing her baby, whispering into one of her beautiful, neat ears.

“Hush-a-bye baby, in the tree-top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock …”

The rocking horses on the wallpaper seemed to mock her. Was she going off her rocker?

Who could she call? Not her mother. She’d offered to pay for a nanny, but Lizzie didn’t want a stranger under the roof of their new home. When she’d said she could manage, her mother had said nothing but smiled as if to say she knew better. Maybe she did. Lizzie wasn’t going to admit it now.

She couldn’t stay within these four walls any longer. She’d never felt so alone or so frustrated. She had to get out. Perhaps a ride on a choo-choo train would do the trick.

The incessant rumble of traffic in Holborn Circus came through the ill-fitting window. A draught wafted the thin, striped curtains that shut out prying eyes. The occupant of the top floor room remained oblivious. All the person could hear was a man screaming for his life. Sheer, naked terror. When it came down to it, that’s all there was.

The freshly sharpened, freshly polished knife reflected the killer’s handsome face. The sealed vial stood to attention on the table. Mask, gloves: just one more thing. How little was needed to take a life!

If you were lucky, death was instantaneous, a flick of a switch producing eternal darkness. If you weren’t, if the fates were unkind, your last moments could be filled with infinite agonies. Everyone was helpless in the face of death. No one could turn back the clock.

The past, if you let it, would imprison you. Each man was serving a life sentence. And yet one quick movement, a simple gesture, could change the world.

SIX

The last time Johnny had seen Quirk he’d been in the dock at the Old Bailey. The boot clicker turned house-breaker had been given a five-year stretch and yet here he was, free as a bird instead of doing bird, after less than two years.

The snug of the Thistle and Crown in Billiter Square was empty except for Quirk and an old man nursing a pint at the bar. Johnny had ten minutes before the lunchtime crowd would pack out the pub.

Quirk’s lantern-jaw was busy chewing a pickled egg. He scowled, swallowed and began to get up.

“What? Not pleased to see me? Stay where you are.” Johnny pointed at his beer glass. “Another?”

“You said you’d put in a word with the judge.”

Bits of yolk flew through the air. Johnny narrowly avoided getting egg on his face.

“I tried, but your record spoke for itself. Stop sulking. D’you want a drink or not?”

Quirk sniffed. “Bell’s. A double.”

Johnny, hiding a smile, went to the bar. What the hell? He’d have the same.

“So why the early release?”

“You know me. Made myself useful.”

“If you were that useful I’m surprised they didn’t keep you.”

There was no shortage of snitches inside. It was a dangerous business: eyes and ears could be gouged out or lopped off with ease. Then, given Quirk’s previous profession – cutting out shapes of leather for a shoemaker – he was a dab hand with a knife. He’d only got into trouble when he realized how quickly a blade could open a sash window.

Quirk sipped the Scotch and licked his lips.

“I see you’ve done all right for yourself. Read the News in Pentonville – before I wiped my arse with it. How d’you hear I was out?”

“You of all people should know how rumour spreads. What have you been up to since?”

“Not much. Sitting here. Enjoying the company – till now.”

Quirk hailed from Seven Sisters but, having worked in nearby East India Street, the Crown had once been his local. It was strange how humans were such creatures of habit. Perhaps, surrounded by warehouses full of textiles, furs, dried fruit and furniture, he found comfort in the ceaseless commerce. Traders were not the only ones who thrived on word of mouth.

“Anything to tell me?”

“About what?”

“Pig’s blood, for starters.”

Quirk grimaced. “There’s no blood on my hands.”

“Any idea who’s behind the attacks?”

“Take your pick. Bloody Jews. Cause grief wherever they are.”

“What have they done to you?”

“Nothing, yet, but if they get their way we’ll all be in the shit come Christmas. I’ve just got out of uniform. Don’t want to put on another.”

“Ever worn a black shirt?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you? No harm in standing up for your own folk.”

“I thought you only believed in money. If you believe in Mosley too, perhaps you should try growing a moustache.”

“Not likely. Don’t want a skidmark on my lip.”

“Still in touch with any Biff Boys?”

“Might be.”

“Ask around. It’ll be worth your while.”

Quirk drained his whisky glass and held it out. Johnny ignored it. “Anything on the grapevine about Chittleborough and Bromet?”

“Who?” He waggled the glass. “Oil my cogs – and I’ll have another egg while you’re at it.”

Johnny, after his first drink of the day, was feeling benevolent. As he suspected, Quirk claimed to know nothing about the two murders but the squealer promised to keep his ear to the ground.

They left the pub together and, to avoid the endless stream of peckish secretaries, clerks and messengers, turned into the covered passageway that dog-legged between Billiter Square and Billiter Avenue.

The man at the bar followed.

Hughes, emerging from the mortuary at the rear of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, spun on his heels and walked quickly in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Percy! Don’t be like that.” Johnny ran down the corridor. The green linoleum, rain-slick, was like an ice-rink. He had to grab Hughes to keep his balance.

“Gerroff me! I ain’t done nuffink.”

“Did I say you had? Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Canteen.”

“Good idea. Fear not, I’ll pay.”

They crossed the courtyard, piled high with sandbags, and entered the mess-room for non-medical staff. Janitors, porters and cleaners, all in brown dustcoats, sat elbow to elbow on benches either side of long trestle tables. No wonder the floors had not been mopped. A miasma of steam and cigarette smoke hung over the plates of mutton stew and sausages and mash.

Hughes, all arms and elbows, wolfed down his meal.

“How you can have an appetite after what you’ve been doing is beyond me.”

Hughes shrugged. “A man can get used to anyfink.”

The pathologist’s unglamorous assistant refused to say another word until his belly was full.

Outside, the shower had passed so they paused by the central fountain. Its water music was the last sound Johnny’s mother had heard.

“The lads weren’t brung ’ere. Got taken straight to Bishopsgate – but Farrant did the PMs.”

“And what did your boss say?”

“Never seen anyfink like ’em. Todgers sliced clean off.” He winced. “No funny bottom business though.”

“That’s good to know.” Johnny wasn’t sure that would have been the case had Hughes been left alone with them. “And …?”

The gannet held out a callused hand. Johnny produced a ten-shilling note but ensured it was out of reach.

“Speak!”

“The lads had something else in common. Stomach contents. Their last meal was boiled pork and pease pudding.”

The “Hello Girls” had been busy in his absence. Several people had telephoned and left messages. Matt: Call me. Lizzie: I need to see you. Henry Simkins: I’ve booked a table for 1 p.m. at the London Tavern tomorrow. Be there!

Matt was not at Snow Hill police station. Lizzie was not at home in Bexleyheath. Simkins, his long-time rival at the Daily Chronicle, was, of course, out to lunch. He liked nothing more than sweet-talking waiters at his club.