Snow Hill

Dickens, who’d started out as a newspaperman, was Johnny’s idol. He had been introduced to him at school by Mr Stanley, otherwise known as Moggy. The English teacher had returned from the Great War with an artificial leg which his pupils took to be mahogany. As Silas Wegg in Our Mutual Friend would have said, he was “a literary man—with a wooden leg.” Moggy’s lessons became the highlight of the week. Dickens’ stories were funny and scary and he was writing about the place where they lived. He had walked the same streets, passed the same buildings, seen the same things. He made Johnny want to be a journalist. Even today, a part of him still could not believe he was writing for the newspaper that Dickens had once edited.

His most treasured possession was a mildewed set of Dickens’ novels that he’d found one Saturday afternoon on a second-hand bookstall in Farringdon Road. He’d paid for it with the money he had made hanging around Collins’ Music Hall on Islington Green with Matt, collecting discarded programmes and selling them on at bargain prices to the punters going in for the next show: the better the clothes, the lower the discount. He’d continued faithfully working his way through the set all the way through school and college.

Dickens’ work provided a living map of the capital. He did not care if it was out of date; the characters lived on in his mind and the echoes reverberated each time he visited a location which had featured in one of the novels. The Old Bailey, for example, had been built on the site of Newgate prison; in the confines of its stuffy courtrooms, whiling away the hours as lawyers argued and judges jawed, Johnny could not help but recall Dickens’ “horrible fascination” with the gaol which featured in Barnaby Rudge; in whose condemned hold Fagin awaited his end; and where, in Great Expectations, Pip viewed the Debtors’ Door through which doomed culprits were led to be hanged.

It was inconceivable to Johnny that anyone could be bored by Dickens; but Matt—lulled by Moggy’s droning and the hissing of the gas-lamps—would invariably drift off to sleep. The English master took a sadistic pleasure in twisting Matt’s ear as slowly as he could, seeing how far he could go without waking him, and then, having fully regained his attention, dragging him to his feet and rapping him on the knuckles with the edge of the ruler, all the while continuing to read. Moggy never lost his place; Matt never made a sound.

By now, Johnny was drawing near to the Rolling Barrel—a favourite watering hole for many of Matt’s colleagues. The pub was said to have derived its name from a local legend: the site was apparently notorious for a gang of tearaways who used to snatch unsuspecting little old ladies off the street, stuff them in a barrel and roll them down the hill.

Finally he reached St Sepulchre’s churchyard and the Viaduct Tavern came into view, just across the road on the corner of Giltspur Street and Newgate Street.

A Victorian gin palace glittering with cut glass, painted mirrors and plush seats, its regulars were mostly off-duty postmen from the General Post Office in King Edward Street. The ornate clock behind the bar told Johnny he was five minutes early.

It was only when he had been served and wriggled his way through the crowd—without spilling more than a few drops of Ind Coope Burton—that he saw Matt sitting alone at one of the small, round tables at the back. His friend was staring morosely into the empty glass in front of him.

“Penny for them.”

Matt looked up. His handsome face, white with exhaustion, did not bother to smile. The liver-coloured welts under his eyes seemed to have deepened.

“Evening. One of those for me?”

“Who else?”

Johnny handed him a pint. He downed half of it in three gulps.

“That’s better.”

“Bitter, actually.”

“Jack the Quipper strikes again.” Matt drained his glass. “Refill?”

“Hold your horses—what’s the rush?”

“D’you want another or not?”

“Go on then.”

Johnny watched, concerned, as his friend lurched off towards the bar, the mass of bodies miraculously parting before him like the Red Sea. Matt was too big to argue with. It looked as though he’d downed a few while he was waiting.

With Lizzie’s words of the previous evening running through his mind, Johnny lit a cigarette and leaned back on the banquette, watching the smoke spiral towards the high, intricately patterned ceiling. Its once white mouldings were now stained the yellow of bad teeth.

“Here we are.” Matt suddenly reappeared with two glasses, took a slurp from one and smacked his lips. “I needed that.” He flashed a grin that was half-grimace. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Impatient as ever, Johnny cut to the chase: “So, what have you got to tell me?”

“Nothing about a cop dying, if that’s what you mean. I checked the Occurrence Book.”

“Oh.” Johnny could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I told you yesterday, I haven’t heard anything.”

It wasn’t like Matt to clam up this way. One of the things he loved about police work was the range of characters it brought him into contact with—the suspected burglar who turned out to be a doctor on his way to deliver a child at three in the morning; the incontinent woman who wandered the streets in a coat made from the pelts of her pet cats; the boy who thought he was a Number 15 bus. Usually he couldn’t wait to describe his latest odd encounter to Johnny—but not tonight. Clearly there was something else that he needed to say, something he could not say to anyone else.

Whenever Matt needed advice, Johnny was invariably his first port of call. He’d always been clever, and since he’d gone into journalism he’d begun to build up an impressive network of informants and experts and people who owed him favours. His contacts book, scrupulously maintained and augmented throughout his career, was one of his most prized possessions.

Resisting the urge to fire questions at his friend, Johnny took a pull on his drink and waited. But it seemed Matt still wasn’t ready to get to the point:

“On the other hand, there’s been quite a bit of talk about your friend Mr Simkins,” he stalled.

“Go on,” coaxed Johnny.

“Mrs Shaw—the murderer’s wife—killed herself last night. They found her this morning. It looks as though she drank a bottle of bleach.”

Johnny put down his glass. He couldn’t imagine a more agonising death; her vital organs dissolving bit by bit in the chlorine. As if she had not been in enough pain already, what with her husband confessing to the murder of Margaret Murray. Murder rarely involved just one victim.

“I feel sick,” he said.

“Me too,” said Matt. “Back in a tick.”

He certainly looked queasy as he picked his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the gents. Matt was not squeamish—in his job he could not afford to be—and could hold his liquor better than most.

A few moments later, Matt returned, negotiating the packed bar with uncharacteristic caution. His slightly exaggerated air of being in control could not disguise the fact that he was well on the way to being blotto.

“Come on, Matt—tell me what’s up.”

Turner shook his head in confusion. Advice was one thing, but he’d never found it easy to ask for help: to him, it was an admission of weakness. Johnny was the one person he trusted enough to turn to. When they lost the baby, Matt had been desperate not to add to Lizzie’s pain by burdening her with his grief; he’d tried drowning his sorrows and venting his fury on a punch-bag or some over-confident sucker at the gym. It was only when all else had failed that he turned to Johnny. It helped that his friend had experienced loss himself and knew that words, however well meant, changed nothing.

“I’m having these nightmares…” He lifted his gaze as if challenging Johnny to laugh, then continued: “I’ve tried to ignore them but, rather than going away, they’re just getting worse. It’s got to the stage where I’m almost afraid to go to sleep.”

“Can you remember much about them?”

“They’re always the same. It’s pitch black…very hot. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Just when I think I’m going to suffocate, there’s this incredible pain—pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Then there’s this blinding white light and I wake up.” Matt wiped away the perspiration on his upper lip. He was so blond he only needed to shave every other day.

“Have you been to see the doctor?”

“Of course not! There’s nothing wrong with me physically. And can you imagine what they’d say at the station if I went to see a head-doctor? I’d never hear the end of it. I’d lose my job.”

“What about Lizzie’s father? He could give you something to help you sleep.”

“And have him think his son-in-law is a lunatic as well as a prole?”

“You’re not mad. Besides, you needn’t tell him why you can’t sleep.”

“True.” He did not seem convinced.

“When did the nightmares start?”

“About three weeks ago. It wasn’t too bad at first. They weren’t that frequent. Now, though, I’m having the same dream every night. It’s like I’m dying.”

“Well, you’re not.” Johnny patted his forearm. “You’re only supposed to worry when you dream that you don’t wake up.”

“That’s a big help. Thanks a bunch!” Matt slid a finger round the inside of his collar and glowered. His rage had come from nowhere. Johnny, for the first time, felt afraid in his friend’s company.

“Matt…what is it you want me to do? I could speak to a psychiatrist…I can get you some pills. Just let me know what it is you want. No one will ever know.”

“Just forget it. Sorry to bother you.” Matt drained his glass and made as if preparing to leave.

“Don’t be like that,” said Johnny, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “Give me a chance. There’s got to be a reason why you’re having these nightmares. Did anything significant happen three weeks ago?”

“No. I’ve thought and thought about it. There’s nothing. It was the usual routine: work, bed, work, bed.”

“Anything out of the ordinary at work?”

“Nothing. I was on point duty, freezing my balls off on Blackfriars Bridge. The sooner I stop being a straight bogey and pass my sergeant’s exams the better. We were short-staffed that week so I had to go out on the beat for a couple of nights as well. The extra money will come in handy—you know we want to start a family—but I didn’t make it home for three days.”

“Well, houses in Bexley don’t come cheap.”

Matt’s eyes bored in to him. Their blueness deepened. “So she’s told you, has she?”

Johnny cursed himself. He would have to lie. In his current state of mind, Matt would kill him if he thought he had been seeing Lizzie behind his back. Besides, he would want to know why—and, at this stage, the knowledge that he was about to become a father would only increase the pressure on him.

“Nobody’s told me anything—I’m just teasing. I know you prefer Stanmore. Why Lizzie wants to live south of the river is a mystery to me.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re spot on. She’s got her own way—again. We signed up for a house in Bexley a couple of weeks ago.”

“Congratulations.” Johnny raised his glass even though his heart was sinking.

“My dad’s pleased, at any rate.”

Turner’s father had been a detective inspector when he had retired five years ago. His son was very conscious of following in his footsteps. Although he made an exemplary constable—a friendly face to those in need and a daunting prospect to villains—Matt was determined to reach a higher rank than DI, and passing his sergeant’s exams would see him progress to the next step on the ladder. His athletic prowess had stood him in good stead so far, but he wasn’t a natural when it came to matters academic; knowing he daren’t leave anything to chance, he’d been spending all his spare time cramming for the upcoming exams. He’d need to attain first-class certificates in English Composition, Arithmetic, General Knowledge and Intelligence, Geography and Preparation of Police Returns to get through. But even if he passed with flying colours, any whisper of mental instability would undo all his good work and instantly scupper his chances.

“So Bexley it is. Lizzie must be delighted.”

“Yeah, she is. Course, once we move, I’ll have to sleep most nights at Snow Hill until I get promoted, just like I do when I’ve got a double shift. Lizzie’s never liked the idea of Ferndale Court.”

Constables were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station-house, and with affordable housing hard to come by in central London, the force provided its own accommodation. Ferndale Road, Stockwell, was the nearest base for married officers.

“At least we’ll still see as much of each other as before.” Matt stared into the bottom of his pint glass.

“I hope so,” said Johnny, and meant it.

The level of conversation around them had risen to a roar. The drinkers had become more raucous as the alcohol transformed cold, dog-eat-dog reality into a warm fug of camaraderie and security.

“Look, I’ve got to go.” Matt suddenly got to his feet. He seemed unsteady, holding on to the table for support. “If you can have a word with someone for me, I’d be grateful. And if I hear anything about a dead cop I’ll let you know. Bye.”

He laid his hand on Johnny’s shoulder as he passed; Johnny covered it with his own.

When Matt had moved away, Johnny turned, craning his neck to scan the crowded bar. Something had happened to make Matt leave so abruptly. He’d looked as if he had seen a ghost. All Johnny could see was a wall of backs.

He fought his way to the bar. It was not yet seven thirty; he needn’t have cancelled his date with Daisy after all. True to form, when he broke the news last night she had wildly over-reacted then pretended not to give tuppence. This time she might not even let him make it up to her. Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it was all over between them.

Why did he keep chasing after these good-time girls? He was the ultimate stage-door Johnny. He’d asked Daisy out because she reminded him of Carole Lombard in My Man Godfrey, but for all that her glossy, black hair, curly lashes and pouting lips made him hot under the collar, there was a hardness about her that repelled him. Like the other actresses and dancers he’d dated, the only thing she cared about was getting some publicity for her stuttering career. If he hadn’t been a reporter on a national daily, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance. And he had no real interest in her—so why did he persist?

Because he was lonely.

It was odd how, after their encounters, he felt even lonelier.

Rather than head straight home, he decided to order one for the road.

The man who would kill him watched him in a mirror.

What the devil were those two talking about? That Steadman’s getting to be a real nuisance, always sticking his nose where it’s not wanted. Persistent little bugger. So determined to get a big scoop, make his name as a reporter—that ambition’s going to land him in trouble if he’s not careful.

Still, there’s no way he knows what happened Saturday night. It’s impossible. I made damn sure there was no one else around. Christ, it felt good.

Pity I needed help with the clearing up, but I picked the right lads for the job. They won’t breathe a word—they’ve got too much to lose. Not as much as me, mind. Won’t hurt to remind them that I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid discovery. Even if it means killing them too.

FIVE

The cold air slapped his face. It was like walking into a washing line on Monday morning. He was half-sober already.

“Had a good time?” A policeman blocked his path, towering over him. Was he a marked man? He could not seem to turn round this week without bumping into a cop.

“Yes, thank you, officer.”

“Johnny Steadman, isn’t it?” His interrogator smiled pleasantly. All City cops were neat but this one somehow seemed neater. He had an open face and kind, slate-grey eyes.

“I’m Tom Vinson. I believe we have a mutual friend. Matt Turner?”

“You’ve just missed him.”

“Actually, I haven’t. I saw him just now, heading back to collect something from the station-house. That’s how I knew it must be you.” He took off a black glove and held out his hand. Johnny shook it.

“How d’you do.” Vinson’s grip was warm and firm.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time,” said Vinson. “Matt often talks about you. He looks up to you.” Johnny was surprised—and embarrassed.

“We’ve known each other since we were four years old.”

“That’s some friendship. Matt’s a good man to have on your side.”

“Indeed.” There didn’t seem much else to say, but Vinson was still blocking his way. “Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Johnny moved to the right. Vinson followed suit. He moved to the left. So did the policeman. “Was there something else?”

Vinson hesitated and looked round to check no one was within earshot. “This did not come from me, right? I believe you want to know if a cop has gone missing from Snow Hill. There’s only one person who was at the station last week who isn’t there now—a wolly who’s transferred to the Met.”

“That’s a bit odd. It’s usually the other way round.”

The City of London Police—stationed at the hub of the British Empire and accustomed to rubbing shoulders with the bankers and brokers of the financial capital of the world—considered themselves a cut above the Metropolitan Police who patrolled the rest of London. Rozzers were not being complimentary when they referred to their City counterparts as “the posh lot”.

“And how come a new recruit was given an instant transfer?” Johnny was fully alert now. “These things normally take weeks to arrange.”

“I don’t know when he applied to be moved,” stated Vinson. “The notice doesn’t say. What it does say is that it was for personal reasons. Something to do with a family tragedy.”

“What was his name?”

“Ah, I can’t help you there. It’s forbidden to divulge operational information.”

“Then can you at least tell me where he was transferred to?”

“Sorry. Still, there’s no need to go wasting your time investigating that dodgy tip-off now.”

“Thanks very much. It was good of you to tell me. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it—really!” With a cheery nod, Vinson continued on his beat.

As Johnny continued down Giltspur Street his mind was so full of questions he barely registered his surroundings. Why was Vinson being so helpful? Had Matt told him about the tip-off? Was he trying to put him off the scent? It would be easy enough to find out the recruit’s name—Matt would tell him tomorrow—so why had Vinson withheld it? Was he afraid that Johnny would want to interview the lad? That didn’t make sense; policemen were forbidden to talk to the press—officially, anyway.

If Vinson was being straight with him, it would explain the absence of an outcry: nobody had died and there was nothing to hide. But if that were all there was to it, why bother to tell a journalist anything at all? And why had Bill not come up with anything about the transfer?

Johnny smelled a cover-up.

Johnny closed the front door and did not bother to lock it behind him. He stood in the narrow hallway shivering as the cooling sweat trickled down his back. It had unnerved him to see Matt so disturbed; he resolved to do everything he could to help without betraying Matt’s confidence. He felt he owed it to his friend, who had never ceased to trust him—even though he was in love with his wife.

One moment he had never been in love, the next he was head-over-heels. Lizzie was unlike any other woman he knew. She was witty, not flighty; independent, not clingy. She wore Chanel No. 5, not Coty Naturelle. Although middle class, she never betrayed the slightest hint of condescension. She infuriated her father by voting for the Labour Party. She liked Molière as much as musicals; read Compton Mackenzie, Elizabeth Bowen and Pearl S. Buck as well as movie and fashion magazines. And she loved Dickens.

Occasionally, when Matt was boxing in a tournament or wanted to meet up with his brothers to go to a match, he was only too happy for Johnny to take Lizzie to a matinee; earlier in the year the two of them had sat enthralled in a Shaftesbury Avenue theatre while Matt watched Arsenal beat Sheffield United in the FA Cup final at Wembley.

Back in the days when they were courting, Matt and Lizzie had often gone dancing with Johnny and whichever chorus-girl he was seeing at the time. It was only when they swapped partners, and Johnny slipped his arm round Lizzie’s slender waist, holding her tightly, sweeping her across the polished floor, her breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck, that he felt truly alive. She had known how he had felt before he did. Nothing was said; nobody was to blame. It was not Johnny’s fault he loved her; it was not Lizzie’s fault that she merely liked him.

He could see why she’d fallen for Matt—he was good-looking, fearless and kind, someone who never hesitated to go to the aid of those in distress whether he was in uniform or not—but he could not help being disappointed. However, he put on a brave face—thus gaining stature in Lizzie’s eyes—and tried to concentrate on Matt’s blind happiness rather than his own overwhelming misery.

There was no doubt they made a beautiful couple. His speech had made every one laugh: “The trouble with being best man is that you don’t often get a chance to prove it.”

Standing in the darkness and silence of his empty house he wondered what the hell he had hurried home for. There was only his journal and a few family photographs to keep him company. Johnny’s father, Edward, had been killed at Passchendaele when he was three. He knew all too little about the short, stocky infantryman grinning proudly at the camera with a baby in his arms.

At school he had pored for hours over history textbooks, hoping to find out what men like his father had been forced to endure, but mostly the authors skated over the realities of warfare and instead focused on the causes and consequences of the conflict, with a paragraph or two of waffle about the honour and heroic sacrifice of the troops. He had tried to imagine the blood and the mud; the stench of the trench; the crawling lice and gnawing rats; the random, wholesale carnage and the mind-splitting shriek of the shells. However, reading was no substitute for the real thing. He had tried to talk to those who had returned from France, men who had seen the atrocity of war at first hand, but most of them, like Inspector Rotherforth, had clammed up or changed the subject, clearly reluctant to release the painful memories. The wounded look in their eyes was similar to the one now staring back at him in the mirror.

Johnny was haunted by his mother’s death. Having to stand by while she had screamed and screamed in agony—not for a few seconds, not for a few minutes, but until she was too exhausted to scream any more—had taught him all there was to know about powerlessness. He had been totally unprepared for the messiness of death.

He tramped up the wooden stairs to the bathroom that had once been his bedroom. The cold always made his bladder shrink. After the funeral he had made a conscious effort to jettison the past. Most of his wages as a reporter—which, although pretty low, were far more than he had ever earned before—had gone on converting the terraced two-up, two-down in Cruden Street into a modern bachelor pad. When the landlords learned about his new bathroom they had increased the rent and said they would do so again if he made any further alterations. He was on the mains now, what more did he want?

Why was it that any attempt to better yourself or your situation always proved, one way or another, so costly?

SIX

Wednesday, 9th December, 4.05 p.m.