Snow Hill

The whole thing had been going on under Johnny’s nose for a while before he smelled a story; back then, his mind had been on other things. It was during a visit to his dying mother that he had been surreptitiously offered cheap morphine by a member of the medical staff. He would have accepted, except that the drug was useless when, as in this case, the patient had bone cancer.

Johnny used his rage at his mother’s imminent death to work tirelessly—with Bill’s help—to expose the racket. The finished piece had raised questions in Parliament and renewed demands for the establishment of a National Health Service. However, apart from a few more prison cells being filled, nothing came of it all.

Johnny’s reward had been promotion from office junior to fully-fledged reporter. Unfortunately, thanks to Patsel, that had translated into the dubious distinction of reporting from the Old Bailey.

Court reporters—not to be confused with those that dealt with the affairs of the once German residents of Buckingham Palace—were afforded little respect because their authors were spoon-fed the copy. They did not have to sniff out stories, follow up leads or track down witnesses. They only had to get off their backsides when the judge stood up. Trials dealt with the aftermath of crime in a calm and clinical fashion. There was none of the excitement of the hunt, no vying to get ahead of the pack in pursuit of your quarry.

To make matters worse, Simkins—who was not confined to the courtrooms of the Old Bailey—had just landed a scoop that had eclipsed Johnny’s drug-ring effort, being simpler and juicier.

On the very morning that the police released details of the murder of Margaret Murray, a nineteen-year-old girl who worked for a firm of solicitors, the Chronicle had run an interview with the killer’s wife. It was an excellent piece of reporting—except, in Johnny’s indignant opinion, it should never have been written at all. Simkins had come by his exclusive using dubious means.

The moment the tip-off came in from his source inside the Metropolitan Police, Simkins had got on the phone to Scotland Yard. Realising that no information would be forthcoming if he identified himself as a reporter, he’d passed himself off as the concerned spouse of the man in custody. Though his normal speaking voice was tainted with the trademark drawl of an Old Harrovian, Simkins was a master of verbal disguise. Shortly after their first meeting, he had taken to calling Johnny at the crime desk with bogus complaints about his latest report or cock-and-bull tip-offs delivered in a variety of accents ranging from a thick Irish brogue, Welsh lilt or stage Cockney. His ability to mimic women’s voices as well as men’s was uncanny. Nevertheless, Johnny, who was not that wet behind the ears, soon caught on. The pranks had, however, taught him a valuable lesson: it was always advisable to meet informants face-to-face. In the flesh it was easier to be certain that someone was who they said they were, and he could watch for the tell-tale clues that revealed when they were lying.

Unfortunately the dozy detective Simkins spoke to at the Yard had fallen for the ruse and told him everything he needed to corroborate the story. Having winkled out the address of the arrested man—“He’s told you where we live, has he, officer?”—Simkins had gone straight round there.

Turning up on the poor woman’s doorstep ahead of the local constabulary, he’d given her the impression that he was a plain-clothes detective, and then delivered the news of her dear husband’s arrest.

Until that moment, Mrs Shaw had believed her Arthur, a travelling salesman for a toy company, was away on business in Newcastle. Within minutes she had learned that he’d been unfaithful to her, that he’d got a young secretary not even half his age in the family way and, in the heat of a furious post-coital row about a backstreet abortion, had strangled the poor girl to death. Mrs Shaw had thought the worst she had to fear was a visit from the tallyman. That was before Simkins came along and revealed that her husband of seventeen years was destined for the scaffold.

Simkins’ exclusive had not stinted on the woman’s shock, anger and grief. He had captured in minute detail every aspect, right down to the dreary landscape reproductions on the wall of the spick-and-span parlour where she sat sobbing uncontrollably; the ember-burns on the hearth rug; and the half-excited, half-fearful reactions of the neighbours who, alerted by her cries, had gathered in glee by the railings, peering through the open door for a glimpse of whatever misfortune had befallen the Shaws.

Part of Johnny admired Simkins’ skill and brass neck, but he’d vowed he would never stoop to such underhand methods. It wasn’t that he was a prig: he simply refused to inflict such pain on another human being—especially when it was for no better cause than the amusement of others. Bill’s motto when it came to composing a report was “titillation with tact”. Well, Simkins had no tact. If he had stopped for one moment to imagine how his mother might have felt if she’d found herself in Mrs Shaw’s position, then Johnny was sure his conscience, however atrophied, would have silenced him.

Johnny had lost his own mother two years ago. Watching her die a long and painful death had knocked the stuffing out of him. An only child with no near relatives, he’d had no one to turn to but a few close friends, like Bill and Matt and Lizzie. It was only afterwards that he’d learned how much they’d been worried about him. Somehow, he’d bounced back. Instead of letting the bitterness overwhelm him, he’d managed to maintain his cheery outlook—in public, at any rate. He had learned how to conceal his emotions. Professional callousness, a prerequisite of the job, often clashed with personal compassion, but the two were not mutually exclusive. The best journalists were those who managed to bring both detachment and compassion into play when writing their copy.

Wiping away the last crumbs of his lunch, Johnny shook off all thought of Simkins and returned to studying the typewritten note that had been delivered by the District Messenger Company soon after eight thirty that morning. He had no idea who had sent it. The thin white envelope was sealed and stamped with thick black letters: PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. The tip-off inside could not have been more succinct:

A SNOW HILL COP HAS SNUFFED IT.

Johnny had checked all the news agencies for bulletins on a dead or missing policeman and drawn a blank. He’d tried calling the press bureau at Scotland Yard and the desk at Snow Hill but in both cases the response was the same: they had no idea what he was talking about. The messenger company claimed they had no record of who had paid for the message to be delivered. Now he pulled out his notepad and drew a line through Rotherforth and put a question mark next to Matt.

He stared at the piece of paper. Those seven words hinted at so much and revealed so little. Mishap or murder? True or false? Could it be one of Simkins’ tricks? Johnny dismissed the idea; it wasn’t Simkins’ style. Besides, even though he had so little to go on, there was something about this tip-off that made his nerves tingle. Something told him this was genuine.

“What you got there, Coppernob?”

Startled, Johnny looked up. Bill was swaying down the aisle towards him.

“Something or nothing. I can’t decide,” he said, handing over the flimsy slip of pink paper. “For your eyes only.”

“Say no more,” said Bill. A blast of beery breath hit the back of Johnny’s neck. “Very interesting.”

“I’ve just asked Inspector Rotherforth if he’s lost a man, but he said the suggestion was—and I quote—‘balderdash’.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” said Bill.

Johnny could almost hear the liquid lunch sloshing around in his stomach.

Bill handed back the message. “I’ll make a couple of calls.”

“Thank you.” Johnny checked his watch and began gathering up his things. “It’s time I got back to court.” His voice was heavy with resignation: the mere thought of sitting in those punishing pews made his backside ache.

“Very well.” Bill dropped into his battered chair. As always, it rocked alarmingly, on the verge of tipping over backwards, then somehow defying gravity to remain upright. “Off you go then.” He sighed heavily. “You know where I am if you need me.”

Putting his feet up on the desk, Bill watched as his protégé scurried out of the office. A frown spread across his crinkled face. As soon as Johnny was out of sight, he picked up the telephone receiver.

THREE

Monday, 7th December, 8.30 p.m.

Lizzie was waiting on his doorstep. This was a pleasant surprise. His thoughts had been taken up with Daisy, wondering whether he should nip round to explain face to face that he’d arranged to spend tomorrow evening with Matt instead of taking her to the show, debating whether she could be persuaded to let him make it up to her tonight. Seeing Lizzie, he felt a stab of guilt and then mentally scolded himself: you could not be unfaithful to a fantasy. Mrs Matt Turner was, and always had been, strictly out of bounds.

“Come on! Open the door,” she said, brushing off his attempt to kiss her. “I’m half-dead with cold, standing out here. Been at that flea-pit again?”

She meant the Blue Hall Annexe on the corner of Packington Street. The cinema had started life as a district post office before being converted into the Coronet. Twenty-five years on, its four onion-domes remained but the blue-and-gold tiled façade had worn as thin as the velveteen covering the oversprung seats inside. The only thing the new owners had changed was the name.

The little cinema was a favourite haunt of Johnny’s, his mother having introduced him to the delights of the silver screen back in the days when talkies were still a novelty. As a boy, he’d been fascinated by the actors who’d sometimes appear during screenings, striking up conversations with members of the audience. He remembered one paid stooge who always seemed to mangle his lines and would invariably end up being pelted with peanuts. It wasn’t until years later that Johnny learned the man had a habit of preparing for his appearances by nipping into the Queen’s Head next door for a quick one, or two, to steady his nerves.

Lizzie made her way straight through to the kitchen and Johnny followed, turning on lights and through force of habit switching the wireless on. “The Way You Look Tonight” came warbling out. He filled the battered kettle, lit the gas and set it on the stove.

“What did you see?” she asked, sitting down at the table with her coat still wrapped around her for warmth.

“Bullets or Ballots. A gangster pic. Edward G. Robinson, Joan Blondell and Humphrey Bogart.”

“Any good?” She was toying with her gloves. Johnny could see she was nervous. Why? Was it because she was uncomfortable being alone with him nowadays? She knew his feelings for her had not changed when she’d married Matt.

“The action sequences were great: tommy-guns spitting fire everywhere. Robinson plays a detective called Johnny Blake who feigns dismissal from the force so that he can go undercover to smash a major crime ring.”

Johnny had been a fan of Robinson’s ever since he’d seen him in Five Star Final, playing a ruthless editor whose investigation of a murder case drives two of those involved to suicide. Earlier that year he’d gone along to see the remake, Two Against the World, with Bogart in the starring role, but it wasn’t a patch on the original. The focus had been shifted to the goody-goodies who thought the story should not be published, and the worthy result had only provoked yawns.

Hollywood had nurtured Johnny’s ambition to be a journalist. It set him dreaming of a global exclusive where he’d interview Al Capone through the bars of his tiny cell in Alcatraz. He did not care if cinema was “neither art nor smart”: it offered a picture window into other people’s lives. Movies could provide an escape from reality or turn powerful searchlights on it. The same could be said of the press—and Johnny’s sense of fair play made him determined to use that power to right wrongs. Social inequality made his blood boil. What was so bad about making breakfast stick in the throats of the bourgeoisie when many children did not have their first meal till midday?

“You might as well tell me the ending,” said Lizzie. “It’ll save me going to see it.”

“Robinson gets a bullet in his belly.”

“Now there’s a thing—especially since I’ve got something in mine. Well, more or less. I’m pregnant.”

Johnny, who was spooning tea into the pot, froze. He turned slowly. Lizzie was regarding him quizzically, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Lizzie, that’s wonderful news!” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. This time she did not shy away.

“Is it?” Her brown eyes blazed.

What was she so angry about? Even as he registered her mood he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was. No one else made his heart leap the way she did.

“Of course it is. Unless…you don’t you want it?”

Lizzie, much to the annoyance of her long-suffering parents, was an independent woman who knew her own mind. They thought their one and only daughter had married beneath her—Matt was a good chap, salt of the earth, but indisputably working class. What’s more, they seemed to think she’d done it just to spite them. Johnny knew better.

She had once told him that it had been love at first sight: He seemed so comfortable in his own skin. She knew instinctively that Matt was a man who could look after her and who would be a wonderful father to the children he gave her. His good looks were almost an irrelevance—but not quite. She still got a thrill each time she set eyes on him. As for Matt, it had never occurred to him that she might be out of his league. He had the confidence of a natural athlete, one who was used to setting goals and achieving them.

Johnny recalled only too well the moment he had grasped how true and deep their love was. The realisation had crushed him.

It had taken Lizzie ages to persuade her father, a surgeon, to give his consent to the morganatic marriage—let alone allow her to get a job. Her mother, a raging snob, still disapproved of both. They were the sort of people who took a hotel room to afford themselves an excellent view of the Jarrow marchers as the “agitators” had reached the end of their 291-mile journey. Lizzie was outraged that the public had only donated £680 to the demonstrators and thought it obscene that people should sip champagne while unemployed men fought for an opportunity to put food on their families’ tables.

Lizzie’s mother had relaxed a bit when her daughter’s employer—Gamages, the “People’s Popular Emporium”—had promoted her from kitting out middle-class brats in Boy Scout uniforms to the more genteel cosmetics department, where her high cheekbones, straight nose and fashionably short, black hair could be shown off to commercial advantage. Although secretly impressed, she could still not understand why her daughter had decided against becoming a secretary to a chief executive and opted to stoop to common shopwork. She was blind to the fact that the lowliness of the position was precisely the point. Lizzie, indignant that British women had only won the right to vote eight years previously, was showing solidarity with her sisters. She wanted to prove herself, succeed according to her abilities rather than her social connections, though she would have been the first to acknowledge that she was fortunate enough to have the luxury of choice. Matt had been only too glad to take advantage of the fact that his father had been a policeman.

“I do want it, I think.” She sighed. “It’s just happened sooner than expected—and, well, look what happened last time.”

The Turners had lost their first child the year before in a miscarriage that the doctor had put down, in part at least, to stress. Lizzie was highly strung by nature, but Matt, bitterly disappointed, had blamed the loss on her refusal to give up her job immediately the good tidings were announced. Neither her family nor his had said anything to contradict this opinion. She was bound to be fearful of a second tragedy.

“Promise me you won’t tell Matt. He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’s been sleeping awfully badly of late. He has the most terrible nightmares. Wakes up shouting and crying. The sheets are positively sopping with sweat. He won’t tell me what’s the matter and gets cross when I try and find out. I want to help the silly billy, but he won’t let me.”

Johnny couldn’t imagine Matt crying. In all the years they’d known each other he had never seen him shed a tear. Matt had been the calm, even-tempered one—unlike Johnny, whose quick tongue often landed him in trouble with bigger lads who didn’t like being made fools of by a short-arse. Back in their schooldays, Johnny had shed many a tear, but invariably they were tears of fury and frustration at his opponents’ refusal to stay down when he finally succeeded in landing a punch. All too often they’d just pick themselves up and knock him down. It was only when Matt intervened that they’d give up the fight. He was a year older than Johnny and had three elder brothers who’d taught him how to look after himself. A talented southpaw, he’d amassed quite a collection of silverware over the years, first at schoolboy level and then representing his station in the amateur league. He seemed to soak up the punishment, showing no sign of emotion even when a vicious warhorse, anxious to prove he was not quite past it, almost beat his brains out; somehow Matt just hung in there, patiently waiting for the opening that would allow him to land the knockout blow.

To Matt, Johnny was the kid brother he’d always longed for—he hated being the baby of the family. He’d been only too happy to pass on the lessons he’d learned from his brothers: teaching Johnny how to turn and throw his weight from the hip, not the shoulder. As his confidence grew, Johnny learned an even more effective form of defence: making people laugh. Where once his big mouth had landed him in trouble, he began to rely on his wits, an engaging smile and a clever way with words to get him out of sticky situations. And when Matt began turning to him for advice he realised that he was no longer the junior partner in their friendship but an equal, their different talents complementing each other and making them a winning combination. It had been a highlight of both their careers when Matt arrested the crooked pharmacist exposed by Johnny’s investigation.

“Is everything else all right?” said Johnny. He was flattered that Lizzie had chosen to confide in him, but uneasy about being asked to keep a secret from Matt. They told each other everything. Lizzie looked up sharply.

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“I was only asking. Look, I’m seeing Matt tomorrow night so I’ll try and find out then what’s troubling him. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the baby—but you should tell him soon. He’ll be over the moon.”

He wished it were his.

The kettle started to rattle on the stove and he busied himself pouring water into the teapot, conscious of Lizzie watching his back. It was so hard to keep up the pretence, constantly trying to hide the way he felt towards her. In those dark days following his mother’s death, she more than anyone had pulled him through. She was the one who’d got him out of the house, made him forget his troubles, taught him to laugh again. It was ironic that one of the things that united them was their love for Matt. He was the one who needed help now.

“Don’t bother.” The bentwood chair scraped on the bare floor as she got to her feet. “I’d better be heading off—Matt finishes at ten.”

“I thought he was on six till two.”

“He’s doing a double shift. They’re short-handed because of the ’flu. Everyone seems to have it. Mrs Kennedy popped her clogs this morning.”

“The old dear who lived at the end of Rheidol Terrace? Always sucking a humbug? She looked after me a few times when I was a kid. Here, it won’t be too long before you’ll be needing a babysitter.”

“I’m sure Bexley’s full of them.”

Johnny’s heart sank. It was as if she couldn’t wait to increase the distance between them.

“So you’re definitely moving then?”

“The house is supposed to be ready by March. It’s a lovely semi—exactly what we were after.”

“Just like the ones in the posters on the Tube.” He could see them now: chessboards with model homes instead of pieces. “How does their slogan go? ‘Your next Move and your best is on to the Underground. Houses to suit all classes.’”

“There’s no call to be sarcastic. Islington’s no place to bring up children. The air’s much better in Bexley.”

“It didn’t do me and Matt any harm.”

“That’s what you think!” She put her gloves on. “I’ll see myself out. Do let me know how you get on tomorrow night.” She was already halfway down the hall.

“Hey! Don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”

Of course not. He never got what he wanted.

The door slammed shut. And it was then the full force of her two bombshells finally hit him.

FOUR

Tuesday, 8th December, 6.45 p.m.

The last edition had gone to press. The familiar scramble was over—until tomorrow. Johnny grabbed his coat. Those starting on the night shift chatted to their daytime counterparts. The cracked leather of the seats they traded did not even have a chance to cool down. The search for stories, the proprietor’s pursuit of sales and money, never stopped.

“Coming for a livener?” said Bill, licking his lips. “I’m spitting feathers.”

“I’d like to…Thing is, I’ve got a date,” said Johnny. It was not a lie…exactly. He did have a date with Daisy for tonight—until he broke it off. He just needed some pretext to ensure that his mentor would not want to tag along.

“Just one, old boy, I promise.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes took on a pleading expression.

Johnny felt guilty. Bill had gone to the trouble of calling round his contacts, all of whom assured him everyone was present and accounted for at Snow Hill. He owed the guy a drink, at the very least. But he knew from experience that there was no such thing as “just one” drink where Bill was concerned; invariably their sessions would expand into full-blown binges and another evening would be lost before he knew it.

“Let’s make it Thursday instead, eh?”

“Right you are.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “Happy spooning.”

Wasting no time, Johnny legged it along Fleet Street before any other colleagues tried to waylay him. He headed up Shoe Lane, past the cacophonous printing works, and under Holborn Viaduct. As he ran across Farringdon Road, skirting the western end of Smithfield Market, he glanced up Snow Hill, wondering whether he’d see Matt leaving the police station. The steep, winding road was deserted. Back before the Viaduct was built, all traffic from the City to the West End had been forced to negotiate Snow Hill. Nowadays it was something of a backwater. The police station was one of the few places showing any sign of life: its reassuring blue light was a beacon in the dark.

Built just over a decade ago, the station was an odd, bow-fronted building in the middle of a curving terrace. Five-storeys tall, narrow and gabled, it was reminiscent of a uniformed constable standing to attention. The compact façade was deceptive: Snow Hill station-house extended all the way back to Cock Lane at the rear, so there was plenty of room inside for the whole of B Division. A blue plaque informed passers-by that it stood on the site of the Saracen’s Head Inn. Matt, who often had to endure the protracted company of Philip Dwyer, a desk sergeant who fancied himself something of a local historian, would occasionally regurgitate the fascinating facts—especially concerning murders and executions—with which he had been forcibly fed. Johnny knew a few additional facts of his own: it was in the Saracen’s Head that Nicholas Nickleby had met the one-eyed Wackford Squeers.