Snow Hill (10 page)

Situated in Amen Court opposite Stationers’ Hall, the Urania Bookshop was within shouting distance of the Old Bailey. This was convenient for the proprietor, who regularly found himself called to appear, facing charges under Lord Campbell’s Obscene Publications Act.

Johnny had recognised the logo of the self-swallowing snake from court sessions where he’d watched prosecuting counsel brandishing items seized from the shop. Their hypocritical show of recoiling in horror invariably had the jury craning their necks for a closer look.

Today there were no bystanders ogling the dingy array of plaster-of-Paris statuettes in various athletic poses—window undressing rather than window dressing. Johnny pushed open the door, hoping that the shop would be quiet on a Saturday afternoon, its regular clientele poring over their pornography in the privacy of their own homes.

The jingle of the bell over the door summoned a personable young man in a burlap apron from the back room. He closed the door behind him. He seemed more nervous than Johnny.

Having checked that he was the only customer, Johnny retrieved the envelope from his inside pocket and placed the photograph of Matt on the counter.

“Seen this before?”

“What,” said the assistant. “A bit of the hard stuff?”

“Don’t try and be funny,” sighed Johnny. “I know you’ve got all kinds of filth under the counter. I’ve seen your boss fined several times for peddling smut. Do you recognise the men in the picture?”

“Why you asking?” The boy, blond and blue-eyed, was barely out of his teens but must have been over twenty-one else the proprietor would have faced yet another court visit. Chosen for his looks, no doubt. He licked his lips. His air of bravado wasn’t convincing.

“Stop wasting my time,” said Johnny, keen to be out of the place as quickly as possible.

He had never realised so many picture books on Ancient Greece and Rome had been published. Then there were the usual suspects: Edward Carpenter, Richard von Kraft-Ebbing, Baudelaire, Verlaine and, of course, Oscar Wilde. The novels in the fiction section looked particularly well-thumbed.

There was a rack of postcards by the door. It creaked as it turned. Cecil Beaton’s swooning portraits of Johnny Weissmuller; Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympic heroes clad only in loincloths; raunchier pictures featuring the Ritter
Brothers, gym-toned and brilliantined, black dots obscuring their genitalia. They may have had perfect bodies but the Americans still looked ridiculous playing tennis in the nude.

“See anything you like? I’d never have guessed you were into Greek love—but that’s half the fun, isn’t it? You never can tell.” The boy had regained what was clearly his usual cockiness. “D’you want to see what I’ve got underneath?”

Johnny tried not to laugh. “Fuck off! Have you seen this picture before or not?”

“It was developed, along with several others, for a gentleman who came in last week. The photographer made a good job of it, don’t you think?”

“Name?”

“I maybe a sissy, but I’m not stupid.” He rubbed his fingers together. “My memory’s ever so rusty. It could do with a bit of lubrication…”

“You should be on the stage.” Johnny produced a half-crown.

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Boris Ignatovich.”

“Nice try.” Johnny put the money away. He pulled a postcard from the rack. A naked man sat looking at half a dozen others with their backs to him. It was titled “The Bath”. According to the credit on the back, it had been taken by Ignatovich.

“It was worth a go.” The boy shrugged. “I could give you a gam instead…” He licked his lips lasciviously.

Before Johnny could reach over to punch him, the bell rang and someone entered the shop. Keeping his
back to the newcomer, Johnny moved over to the bookshelves. He stood there fuming at the titles:
Man and Boy
,
Henry’s Heroes, Arthur and George…
Footsteps crossed the ceiling. What—and who—was up there?

The customer had his collar up and his hat pulled well down.

“Good afternoon, sir. The usual?”

The man murmured his assent, palmed something off the counter and slipped it into his pocket. The cash draw slid open and closed. The whole transaction was over in less than a minute. The doorbell tinkled again.

“Come on then, if you’re going to give me one.”

Suddenly Johnny just wanted to be out of the place. Its sordid silence, the flaunting of flesh for money not love depressed him. He held up the half-crown again. “Have you developed other photographs for this chap?”

“Yes.”

“Who keeps the negatives?”

“He does, of course.”

“D’you know someone called Harry Gogg?”

He wasn’t sure what had made him ask the question. Perhaps it was the fact that the shop-boy, though slimmer, bore a passing resemblance to the dead bummaree with his fair hair and blue eyes.

It was as if Johnny had lunged across the counter and landed a punch in the boy’s solar plexus. He uttered a low moan and burst into tears.

As the boy stood there, wailing, Johnny looked on in amazement. Men did not cry. Well, not often. He had cried at his mother’s funeral, but not during the endless
weeks leading up to her death. It was the final act of throwing earth on to her coffin that had set off the waterworks—and once they had started it felt as if they would never stop. He could still smell Lizzie’s perfume as he had sobbed into her shoulder.

He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. He could hardly put his arms round the nancy to comfort him as he would have done with anyone else. The gesture might be misinterpreted.

“I loved him so much,” said the boy. “He meant the world to me. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I feel so alone.”

The doorbell rang again. Johnny—thinking that only he could get himself into such a compromising position—wished the ground would swallow him up.

Fortunately the prospective customer, seeing the state of the boy and sensing trouble, turned on his heels and fled.

As the boy’s convulsions finally began to subside, Johnny patted his arm and did his best to express his sympathy.

“I’m sorry about Harry. I only met him the once, but I liked him.”

“He was a lovely boy, wouldn’t hurt a fly,” sniffed the assistant. “No one deserves to die like he did—butchered like one of the beefs he carried.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

Johnny gave him the half-crown and picked up the photo of Matt, grateful that the first customer had not swiped it. Matt would have killed him.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me? I’m a reporter investigating Harry’s death.”

There had to be a connection between the business with the dead cop and the photograph. It was too much of a coincidence that Harry’s lover knew who had developed it. Anyway he did not believe in coincidence: it was simply the moment when preparation met opportunity.

“Sure as hell. Anyway, what’s his death got to do with that photo?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. That’s why I’m asking around.”

“Well, do us both a favour and do it somewhere else. Mind you,” he said, adopting a more conciliatory tone, “tip us the wink if you do find out anything.”

“You have my word.”

“Rather have your arse. You’re not bad-looking, for a ginger.”

Johnny, who had heard all the jokes before—in Cockney rhyming slang
ginger beer
meant
queer
—did not bother to answer.

It was a relief to step back out into the cold.

For a few moments the boy stood at the counter. He watched in silence until Johnny had disappeared from sight.

The door behind him opened.

“Well done, Joseph.”

I can’t believe he’s given the photograph to Steadman. It was meant to be a warning, to put an end to him consorting with the press. Instead, he hands the bloody thing over. Who in their right mind would want their mates to see them looking like that? The big bastard clearly has no shame.

Well, it looks as though I’ll have to find another way to shut him up.

I’m going to have to fix that ginger bastard too. The last thing I wanted was to hand him a new lead. I should have been more careful, made sure there was nothing on the photo that would connect it to the shop.

Still, Joseph did well. He’s a good lad—for a turd-burglar. Good for business, too. He makes a splendid usherette.

Of course, if he ever finds out who killed his bum-chum, that would be the end of the affair—and the end of him.

Saturday, 12th December, 8 p.m.

Daisy had finally said yes. It had taken all his powers of persuasion during another pleading telephone call to her digs in Camden—and the promise of a pair of art-silk stockings—before she accepted his invitation to dinner and a film. Halfway through the call he wondered why he was going to so much trouble—he would much rather have been with Lizzie—but, and he would not have admitted this to anyone, the photo of Matt had made him randy, frustrated and hungry for sex. Daisy was a cert.

From the minute he picked her up he was regretting it. She kept reminding him how lucky he was to have her company—she was not short of offers for a Saturday night out. However, Johnny suspected she
was
short of cash: her latest show,
Revudeville
, had closed the week before so she was kicking her heels until another chorus line required her dubious talents.

To prove how sorry he was for standing her up earlier in the week, he whisked her off to the luxurious Carlton Cinema. Its Egyptian façade dominated the crossroads of Essex and Canonbury Roads. The sumptuous interior—a riot of marble, mirrors, silver and gold—boasted 2,500 seats. Johnny splashed out on a couple that cost two shillings each, the most expensive, which positioned them right underneath the chandelier that hung from the centre of the vast domed ceiling. They had eaten in the lounge—every single wicker armchair and glass-topped table occupied—before entering the auditorium to hear the orchestra perform before the main feature:
Sabotage
.

Johnny was amused to see that Verloc’s dirty bookshop had been turned into a small independent cinema in Hitchcock’s version of Joseph Conrad’s novel,
The Secret Agent
. And the film being screened was
Who Killed Cock Robin?
The director had a warped sense of humour.

Daisy screamed when the bomb went off on the bus. “Who would ever do such a thing?” she said. She did not shrug him off when he put a comforting arm round her shoulders.

The other fine feature of the super-cinema was that it was less than five minutes away from Cruden Street. Daisy, not even bothering to ask for a cup of tea, went straight upstairs, stripped off her second-best dress—the sight of her breasts making him instantly hard—and slipped into bed. She lay there shivering, her shiny black hair caressing her bare shoulders.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?”

He did not need asking twice. She watched him as he threw his clothes off, eyeing his erection with hunger, and giggled as it bounced when he leapt beneath the blankets. He put his arms round her and sighed: she was so warm and curvy and smelled so sweet. However, when their lips touched he involuntarily recoiled. The kiss in the alley flooded his brain. It had felt just the same: just as soft yet strong and tender, filled with the promise of pleasure to come.

“What’s the matter?” Daisy stared into his eyes. “You seeing someone else? You couldn’t look more guilty if you tried.” She grabbed his balls and squeezed. Hard. “Tell me the truth.”

“Ow! Let go. Of course not. Why would I be treating you like royalty if I were?”

“Guilt. Tell me again why you couldn’t see me on Thursday.” She gave his balls an extra squeeze.

“For fuck’s sake, Daisy. I told you: I had to meet an informant. Now let go or I’ll be sick all over you.”

“Charming.” She relinquished her grip and turned her back on him. He lay there limply, staring at the ceiling.

“How many more times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“Something’s going on. I can tell. You’ve changed.”

“How?”

“Don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it.”

“You can put all five on it if you like…” He was not going to tell her about the murder or the kiss. He had to pretend that the latter had never happened.

Afterwards he went downstairs to make some tea. Daisy, satisfied for the moment—although she always demanded an encore—had fallen asleep. She was prettier when she stopped pouting and relaxed her face. The bloom on her cheeks, the redness of her swollen lips, were beautiful.

He was on his way back when a shriek almost made him drop the tray. Now what?

When he got back upstairs Daisy was scrambling into her clothes, her face white with rage. Brandishing the photograph of Matt with one hand, she took a last drag on her cigarette and flung the dog-end at him.

“Pervert! You haven’t heard the last of this.”

“I’m not queer. Let me explain—”

“So what was this doing in your bedside drawer?”

“I might ask what you were doing looking in there in the first place.”

“I was looking to see if you had any more French letters, okay? Instead I find this filth.”

“Don’t pretend to be shocked, Daisy. The theatre is packed with poofters.”

“Yeah, but I don’t sleep with them.”

She slipped on her high heels, shoved past him and clomped down the stairs. The front door slammed shut.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed and helped himself to one of Daisy’s fags that she had forgotten in her fury. He would not miss Daisy—she was not interested in his explanation or, when it came down to it, him; she had got what she had come for, a free night out and
an uncomplicated fuck—but he would miss the company. He slept better with a woman beside him.

He wished Lizzie was with him—then, with a stab of guilt, immediately reproached himself for the thought. Why was it so difficult to find intimacy rather than sex? He was alone again.

Lost in thought—angry, disappointed and upset—the tea grew cold beside him. Eventually he picked up the tray to take it back to the kitchen and gazed at the rumpled sheets where, only half an hour before, he had lost himself in the mindless pleasures of sexual abandon.

His eyes drifted to the bedside table, its drawer wide open. He had thought it was the safest place to keep the incriminating evidence. Where was the photograph now? He checked the bed, the floor, emptied out the drawer of the bedside table. No sign of it. Had Daisy thrown it down on her way out? He ran through the house, searching everywhere he could think of.

The photograph had vanished.

The ungrateful bitch had taken it.

The hall in King Street, round the corner from Snow Hill, was heaving. The roar of conversation, competing with the band, threatened to lift the roof. Paper chains swung gaily in the hot air. Matt watched his colleagues, all in casual clothes, knocking back the beer and Scotch that had kindly been “donated” by various local publicans.

The tug-of-war team had won the tournament. Unlike the rest of them he had been in no mood for
a celebratory Christmas party, but despite that he was now well on the way to being drunk.

For some reason, Lizzie had said she could not face the annual event but insisted he go ahead and enjoy himself. He was usually never happier than when he was in the centre of a crowd, joking with friends, flirting with their wives. His sporting prowess earned him plenty of admiration in and out of the ring. However, the fact that both men and women sought out his company had not made him arrogant. Modest to a fault, he could not understand what they saw in him—apart from his biceps. Johnny said he made people feel good about themselves.

He was no longer feeling good though. His initial elation, as the alcohol took effect, had turned to exhaustion. It was time to go home. He had to be at work tomorrow. Most of his superiors, including Rotherforth, had already left.

A loud crash, followed by the sound of smashing plates, came from the other end of the room. Several women screamed. The band, out of curiosity rather than necessity, stopped playing. Matt pushed his way through the throng.

Herbert Watkiss, his sloe-black eyes wide open in surprise, lay sprawled amid the debris of a broken trestle table. Meat pies, sausage rolls and shards of crockery littered the floor. Tom Vinson stood over him, his fists still clenched.

“What happened?” asked Matt. Watkiss took the
proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. They had been in training together at Bishopsgate. The constable rubbed his chin. He glared at Vinson. “Tom?”

“It was nothing, Matt. I overreacted, that’s all.”

“You can say that again, Vinson.” Watkiss tried to brush off the food that smeared his Sunday best.

“Everything all right?” Sergeant Dwyer surveyed the damage. “Get this lot cleared up.”

The band started playing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” said Watkiss.

Vinson smiled. “I can’t wait.”

“I suggest you go and clean yourself up, Watkiss,” barked Dwyer.

“Yes, Sarge.” He shoved past Vinson, muttering something that was drowned out by the music.

“I’d make myself scarce, Tom, if I were you,” said Matt, steering Vinson away before Dwyer started asking questions.

“He doesn’t scare me.” Vinson yawned. “But you’re right. It’s time for bed. You kipping at the station or going home?”

“Home.”

“In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Any other time, Matt would have tried to find out what Watkiss had said to make Vinson fly off the hook like that. He must have really struck a nerve to provoke such a reaction. But Matt had enough problems of his
own, without sticking his nose in anyone else’s. He decided to make a speedy exit before Watkiss reappeared, looking for someone to tell his side of the tale to.

Grabbing his coat, he stepped out into the cold night air, hoping the effects of the drink and tiredness would last long enough to keep the nightmares at bay.