Robin Hood Yard

Johnny turned his attention to the second post. Press releases, book launches, exhibition openings and an invitation to a premature Guy Fawkes party hosted by the Grocers’ Company at the Artillery Ground on Friday evening. There was a handwritten message on the back:

Do come! Rebecca.

How could he refuse?

SEVEN

Alexander Vanneck didn’t like Mondays. After a blessed day off, the drudgery of the London branch of the Guaranty Trust Co. of New York seemed even more depressing. Modern Times didn’t show the half of it. Today, though, he’d reached rock bottom.

As a male typist it was his job to keep his manager happy – but Jock Wilderspin was not a happy man and made it his business to share his misery with as many of his subordinates as he could. He stood on ceremony even when seated on his throne-like chair. Woe betide a minion caught using the Partners’ Entrance. As for sneaking into their marble lavatory, you could forget it. It wasn’t enough that the nobs had their own dining room: Fullers in Gracechurch Street was off-limits too. Staff wishing to pop out for a sandwich were expected to restrict themselves to the nearby ABC or a Lyons tea-shop but – fuck it! – Wilderspin had seen him leaving Fullers at lunchtime.

The bastard took his revenge at four o’clock when he presented Alex with three pages of foolscap and told him to type it up immediately. He did so and – trying to please – corrected a few spelling mistakes. Twenty minutes after he’d taken the letter up to be signed the buzzer went. Wilderspin was in a right tizzy: he objected to being corrected and demanded the letter be typed exactly as it had been written. Alex had nearly bitten his tongue in half trying not to answer back.

His good intentions had led to him leaving the office thirty minutes late. Oh for a tommy-gun! He imagined the gutters of Lombard Street flowing with blood. Pinstriped bodies lying everywhere. Top hats rolling down the pavement …

His stomach rumbled angrily. He’d half a mind to return to Fullers – but he couldn’t afford it twice in one week. He’d go to Lockharts in Fenchurch Street instead.

Johnny, unable to contact Matt all afternoon, took the liberty of using the police box in Eastcheap to have one last go.

“Working late?”

“Could say the same for you,” sighed Matt. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

“Anything to report?”

“No. Spent most of the shift being passed from pillar to post by the army. It was suggested there might be some sort of a military connection between Bromet and Chittleborough – they were both fighting fit – but getting information from the War Office is a thankless task.”

“The top brass have other things on their minds. What did you make of the post-mortem reports?”

“Not much.”

“At least we know they weren’t Jewish – unless they were force-fed.”

“There’s no evidence of that. What’s religion got to do with it anyway?”

“No idea. Might be completely irrelevant. Our new Lord Mayor, on the other hand, was clearly attacked because he is Jewish. Any arrests so far?”

“Not for blood sports.”

“Why did you want me to call then?”

Matt sighed again. “It’s Lizzie. She thinks I’m seeing another woman.”

Johnny was early. He couldn’t help it: age had not diminished his eagerness, his keenness to follow a story wherever it led. He stamped his feet and blew into his cupped hands.

They had arranged to meet outside the Post Office on the corner of Eastcheap and Philpot Lane (named after a former Lord Mayor). On the opposite corner, high up on the front of the building, two mice nibbled a piece of cheese. The small sculpture commemorated a fight that had broken out on the roof of the building when one workman accused a colleague of eating one of his sandwiches. During the exchange of blows that followed, one of the men fell to his death. Only then was it discovered that the actual culprits were mice.

Talk about hard cheese. Johnny lit a cigarette. He should have made more of an effort to contact Lizzie. He could have put her mind at ease.

The bell of St Margaret Pattens in Rood Lane chimed seven times.

“Steadman! How the devil are you?” Culver shook his hand with enthusiasm. After the day he’d had it made a pleasant change to be greeted warmly.

“All the better for seeing you.”

Johnny followed him through the doors of the General Wolfe Tavern. A blast of heat, noise and smoke engulfed them.

In his line of work Johnny was no stranger to the company of thieves but he’d yet to encounter a more plausible rogue. David Culver was the black sheep of a good Yorkshire family, privately educated, morally bankrupt. He made his money in one of the 180 or so bucket shops that tarnished the jealously protected image of the City. Their brokers, not bound by the rules of the Stock Exchange, were free to pursue share-plugging projects that were little better than systematic attempts to defraud the public. Nevertheless, Johnny – aware of the paradox – considered them more honest than their regulated, apparently respectable, rivals.

“Champagne?” Culver grinned, revealing surprisingly small, sharp teeth. Then again, he was known as the Shark. “It’s been a good day.”

“Don’t tell me. I’m all out of righteous indignation. It’s the sins of others that interest me today.”

In fact Culver was the nearest thing the City had to a saint. He gave away a lot of his ill-gotten gains merely to prove a point. If people could afford to play the stock market, they could afford to lose. Or rather, they should be compelled to share their fortunes with those less fortunate.

“Your very good health!” Culver lifted his silver tankard. The landlord kept it behind the bar for him; Culver claimed the precious metal was the only thing that did not taint the Laurent-Perrier.

Johnny raised his glass.

“Typical socialist!” Culver sneered. “Always willing to share his thirst with your champagne.”

The bottled sunshine tasted exquisite.

“I take it you’ve heard about the murders?”

“Who hasn’t? I also heard the poor buggers lost more than their lives.”

“Where’d you get that from? So far I’ve only written mutilated. The police haven’t released any specific details.”

“Officially.”

As usual Culver was extraordinarily well informed. “Chittleborough worked round the corner. The rumour mills, naturally, have been spinning yarns.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He was small fry. Can’t think why anyone would want to kill him. As you know, I only go after big fish. When I make a killing, it’s strictly metaphorical.”

“Why bother though? You could do anything you want.”

“I’m doing precisely that.” He waved his arm expansively. “It’s all a game. I enjoy it. There are a lot of clever, rich people in the City. I want to prove I’m cleverer – and want to be richer – than all of them.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Culver swigged from his tankard. “Don’t play the innocent. You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking. Knowledge is power.”

“Indeed – but information is not a bar of Cadbury’s. If you eat the chocolate, the bar is gone.”

“And if you give it to a friend, he’ll eat it, not you.”

“So that’s where shares, selective leaks, come in.”

“Yes – but open secrets are worthless. The more people who know, the less powerful the knowledge, the less profit you’ll make. And, of course, word travels fast. I knew about Chamberlain’s little piece of paper before the ink on it was dry.”

“Pease in our time.”

“Peace in our time.”

“Indeed – but the dead men had both eaten pork and pease pudding shortly before they died.”

“Ha! Jack the Quipper strikes again.”

Culver poured the last few drops into Johnny’s glass. Some believed that meant he’d never have a child. So far the superstition had not been disproved.

“Let’s have another. One is never enough.”

The Shark disappeared into the sea of swaying backs and soon returned with a second bottle plus a plate of oysters. The landlord clearly knew where his best interests lay.

“So will there be another war?” Johnny helped himself to one of the creatures that, until recently, had – like him – survived by picking up tidbits.

“Indubitably. The City doesn’t want military action – it interrupts revenue streams – but it will, of course, make the best of it. Arms manufacturers, textile makers and anyone else who lands a government contract will earn millions. Then there are the deals that will never see the light of day.”

“Such as?”

Culver leaned closer. “Cheques can bounce but Hitler’s proved Czechs can be double-crossed too.”

Johnny’s antennae quivered. Culver was a master bam-boozler, a king of bluff, but he sensed that on this occasion he was on the verge of telling the truth.

“Montagu Norman is forever on the phone to Berlin.”

The governor of the Bank of England – accurately nicknamed Mountebank – was anxious for business with the Third Reich to continue.

“Deutsche Bank, Kleinworts, Schröders – there are plenty of German banks in London and there are still plenty of people willing to arrange credit for the Fatherland.”

“The City’s bankrolling the Nazis?” Culver feigned astonishment.

“You might say that. I certainly didn’t.”

“Does Leo Adler know about this? He’s Jewish!”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Don’t you worry, I will. Thank you, David.”

A surge of adrenalin swept through him. This was the break he’d been searching for. His spirits soared.

“What can I do for you in return?”

“Nothing, Steadman.” He watched a bead of condensation trickle down the side of his tankard. “Nothing yet. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. A big chocolate bar.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me – whatever your motives.”

“Remember to keep my name out of it. As a glorified salesman, my mouth is all I’ve got.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Johnny, somewhat unsteadily, got to his feet and shook Culver’s hand. The moneyman didn’t let go straightaway.

“While you’re at it, you might ask about the gold deposited in the Bank of England by the Czechoslovak National Bank. It’s worth at least six million …”

EIGHT

Tuesday, 1 November, 6.20 a.m.

Someone was hammering on the front door. The vibrations, travelling through the floorboards and up the frame, triggered the recurrent nightmare in which an unknown figure loomed over his bed, where he lay paralyzed with fear. However, before the incubus could crush his chest, reality intervened.

The room was pitch-black and freezing. He dragged himself out of bed, fragments of bad dreams – half-remembered lovers, pain and guilt – clogging his head. A hangover from Halloween? More like all the alcohol still in his blood. He must cut down. The hammering continued. Repercussions.

Johnny, clad only in pyjamas, stumbled down the narrow staircase and flung open the door. Had he forgotten to lock it? A young constable from the Met, fist still raised, stood on the step. Startled, he didn’t bother to say good morning. He was chilled to the bone, dog-tired and at the end of a very long shift. He’d also been knocking for more than three minutes.

“Detective Turner sent me, sir. He’s just around the corner in Packington Street.”

“Why?”

“A man’s been murdered.”

A discarded pumpkin lantern lay in the gutter. One kick wiped the grin off its face. The flames of the gas-lamps flickered palely in the frigid air. Dawn was a pale smudge behind the spire of St James’s. A milk-cart came rattling down the hill from Essex Road. Johnny tried to flag it down but the driver looked the other way.

There was no mistaking which house it was in the shabby Victorian terrace. Two police cars – one from the City and one from the Met – and an anonymous black van were parked in the empty street. Even at this hour a flock of early birds had gathered by the area railings. They stared enviously as Johnny was allowed to climb the six, awkwardly steep, steps and enter the lobby of the raised ground floor. Matt came clumping down the stairs.

“You could have brought me breakfast.”

“I tried.” Johnny yawned.

“Bad night?”

“Yes – and no.”

“This way.”

The stale air smelled of damp clothing, fried food and nappies. On the first floor Matt rapped then opened a door to reveal a harassed young couple being interviewed by DS Penterell, who scowled at Johnny but said nothing. A baby in the woman’s arms started wailing. Matt pointed to the ceiling, where there was a heart-shaped stain. A drop of blood plinked into a metal bucket.

The room above was like thousands of others in the capital: little more than a box for living in. Cheap furniture: table, two chairs and a bed. Threadbare rug and thin curtains. A few books on a shelf, a few clothes on pegs. A cracked sink. Cobwebs.

The bare bulb cast a yellowish pallor over the corpse tied to the bed. It was that of a fat, middle-aged man with more hair on his body than his head. Once again there was a shocking absence in the groin – and the inevitable presence of far too much claret. Johnny pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose. Blood wasn’t the only thing that had leaked from the victim. He walked over to the open window.

“He who was living is now dead.”

“What?”

“Eliot. The Wasteland.”

“If you say so,” said Matt. “He’s Karl Broster. A tallyman.”

Someone else who milked the misery of the poor.

“Is he German?”

“If he was, he didn’t have an accent. Not very popular with the neighbours though. Too fond of beer.”

“You can see that.” Johnny pointed at the proud pot-belly.

Matt sniffed disparagingly. Smells never troubled him. “I think we can say that the motive wasn’t sexual.”

“Wrong! We can’t all have a body like Tarzan.” While Matt was no ringer for Johnny Weissmuller, his body attracted almost as many admirers. The only thing Johnny had in common with the actor was his Christian name. “Sex must have something to do with it. Mind you, he’s nothing like the other two.”

“Well, he’s dead – and died slowly. It takes a while to bleed to death.”

“Perhaps he was unconscious.”

“Look at the wrists and ankles. The restraints have sunk into the flesh. He was awake all right – and he must have fought for as long as he could.”

“Christ! Imagine having your cock chopped off.”

“I’d rather not,” said Matt drily.

“It must hurt like hell.”

“Pray you never find out. If it’s any consolation, it appears to have been a single slice. Quick and clean.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Commander Inskip blocked the doorway. They had been so engrossed in the horror of the scene they’d failed to hear the stealthy tread of the superior officer. Matt turned pale.

“Get out, Steadman, before I have you arrested.”

“Get out of the road then. I was just passing by on my way to work. As you’re no doubt aware, I happen to live around the corner.”

Inskip didn’t move. He was at least six feet four. His deep-set eyes glared at Matt.

“Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

The way he said it, you’d have thought friend was a dirty word. However, Inskip was the one rumoured to be dirty.

Johnny, once again, was glad of Matt’s company. Had he not been there it would have come as no surprise if the Commander had clipped him round the ears or even cuffed him and given him a kicking. Their paths – and swords – had crossed several times.

They paused in the hall before opening the front door.

“Sorry for getting you into hot water.”

“It’s hardly the first time,” said Matt. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Inskip.”

“More trade secrets? Care to tell?”

Penterell, oozing smugness, appeared on the landing.

“Not now,” said Matt. “Let’s just say, if I go, he goes.”

“So what else is new? One of these days his luck will run out.”

“It will if you have anything to do with it.”

The door swung open to admit two men with a stretcher. “Sorry, gents,” said Matt. “The photographer’s not here yet. You can leave that here, but you’ll have to wait in the van.”

The men rolled their eyes and – like Tweedledum and Tweedledumber – toddled off down the steps.

There was no sign of any other pressmen. Johnny needed to capitalize on his head start.

“Thanks for the wake-up call. Which reminds me – I must telephone Lizzie today. I’ll do my best to put her mind at rest.”

“Do that.” Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Careful what you say though.”

The thousand words – more colour than content – were on PDQ’s desk before 9 a.m. Johnny scanned the other newspapers. His competitors were as much in the dark as he was. There was nothing new about Adler’s attackers or the double murders. The New York Stock Exchange had introduced a fifteen-point plan intended to beef up protection for public investors. The Great Depression refused to lift.

“Excellent stuff!” Quarles was still wearing his coat. “Not many facts though. I’m sure Patsel, wherever he is, will splash on this, but see what else you can find out.”

He went off in search of the tea-lady.

It was too early to contact Adler, and Matt would still be out making enquiries. To pass the time, Johnny picked up a copy of a new weekly magazine called Picture Post. The cover showed two women in polka-dot blouses leaping in the air.

“Colposinquanonia!”

Louis Dimeo, who wouldn’t let anyone forget that Italy had won the World Cup again in June, was breathing down his neck.

“Sixteen letters,” said Tanfield. “Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest.”

“How on earth d’you know a word like that?” said Johnny, looking at Dimeo in astonishment. “Anything over seven letters usually gives you a headache.”

“That would be telling.” The sports freak bestowed a dazzling smile upon his colleagues. “That said, breast-stroking is the national sport of La Bella Italia – after football, of course.”

“A quid says no one can get the word in the paper,” said Johnny.

“You’re on,” said Dimeo and, before nipping smartly back to his desk, took the risk of ruffling his red hair in a gesture of friendship. He was wasting his time; Johnny would never forgive him for sleeping with Stella, even though he knew how Johnny felt about her. Dimeo’s behaviour was rarely sporting.

Johnny had only loved one other woman more than Stella – and Lizzie was married to Matt. He’d made up his mind to ask Stella to marry him but instead of meeting him at St Paul’s so he could get down on one knee she had deliberately disappeared. It turned out that she’d been secretly seeing Dimeo as well. And that wasn’t the only way she’d betrayed him.

“What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.

“Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”

“Suburban neurosis.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“Very good. I’ll use that.” He chewed his lip. “Lord knows why they always land me with these stories. Anyone stuck inside the same four walls day after day would go out of their minds.”

“Prisoners don’t.”

“Sure about that?”

“No – but many of them are mad before they go in.”

“It’s a sign of the times,” said Blenkinsopp. “Freed from the necessity of foraging for food or seeking shelter, the pampered middle-classes have nothing to occupy their tiny minds. That’s why they lose their marbles. Mark my words, it’ll vanish once war breaks out.”

The London Tavern on the corner of Fenchurch Street and Mark Lane was a temple devoted to pleasure. Within its walls there were snack bars, cocktail bars, oyster bars, grill rooms and restaurants. The original tavern in Bishopsgate – where, in Nicholas Nickleby, a public meeting is held “to take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company” – had been demolished half a century ago but the owners were determined to keep its spirit of service with a bow and scrape alive. Consequently, it was a popular venue for City banquets.

Simkins had reserved a table in the fish restaurant. A bottle, tilted at the angle of a Nazi salute, was chilling in an ice-bucket beside it.

“Johnny dearest!” Simkins leapt to his feet and kissed him on both cheeks.

A murmur of disapproval rippled round the dining room. Bloody Continentals!

Johnny, accustomed to his rival’s flamboyant antics, merely smiled. Once upon a time he would have blushed.

“Hello, Henry. What do you want?”

“Don’t be like that.” Simkins, gratified by the stir he had caused, finally sat down. “It’s All Souls Day. Don’t you want to enter the kingdom of Heaven?”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“Doesn’t stop you being in purgatory though.”

Simkins twiddled the stem of his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Have a drink.” He pulled the wine bottle out of the bucket. It was already half-empty.

“No, thank you. Just Perrier for me.”

“Water? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I overdid it last night, that’s all. What d’you want?”

“Let’s order first. The turbot’s supposed to be divine.”

Johnny, in his days as a cub, had written too many stories about fatal fish bones for his liking so he restricted himself to Morecambe Bay shrimps and scallops from Whitstable. Simkins, chitchatting away, filleted his food with admirable dexterity but Johnny could tell he was nervous. His trademark insouciance seemed put on.

“Come on then, Simkins. Spit it out.”

“In the circumstances, not the best choice of words.” Simkins winked at the waiter, who was ceremoniously pouring coffee from a silver pot.

“Henry, I won’t ask again.”

“Our old friend is back in town.”

“Who?”

“Cecilia Zick.”

There were times when Johnny wished he’d never saved Henry’s life – and this was one of them.

“Don’t hit me.” Simkins tossed his chestnut curls – the envy of many a girl.

“I’ll say this for you,” said Johnny. “You’ve got balls.”

“Not remotely funny. Not funny at all. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Steadman.”

“Where is he?”

Johnny balked at referring to the transvestite as a woman.

“I don’t know, I swear. He hardly trusts me any more than you.”

“What brings him back here? Surely he knows he’s playing with fire?”

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