Snow Hill (12 page)

Johnny could not be bothered to resist as Simkins led him out into Cheapside, hailed a cab and took him to his club in Watling Street—even though it was only a two-minute walk away. It was obvious he did not need to worry about expenses.

A white-jacketed waiter placed two brandies and a bowl of nuts on the highly polished table between the winged-back armchairs and retreated noiselessly. Johnny examined his surroundings: it was like being back in Zick’s parlour except everything was on a grander scale. His whole house would fit beneath the distant cloud-painted ceiling.

“Come on!” Simkins picked up his glass. “Your very good health.”

He downed his in one go. Johnny sipped at the resinous liquor and felt the healing fire spread through his veins.

“Congratulations, by the way, on breaking the story of the slaughtered butcher’s boy. I bet Herr Patsel loved that: degenerate scum swinging from a meat-hook. Must have made him feel homesick.” He took another swig of the expensive alcohol. “So did you discover anything useful before you were slung out?” Simkins tried—and failed—not to smile.

“I’ve been thrown out of better places,” said Johnny. It was true. Somehow his rival always succeeded in catching him at a disadvantage—and yet he was not an unkind man. This did not mean he had to like him, though.

“Am I to take it then that Miss Zick was less than forthcoming?” Simkins raised an eyebrow. “Sample any of her wares?” He laughed. “Just in the name of research, of course.”

“Hear that?” said Johnny. “It’s the sound of my sides splitting.”

“Ah, but the subject is
rump
-splitting, isn’t it?” Simkins leaned forward. “Harry Gogg was one of Zick’s boys, wasn’t he? She can’t be very pleased at losing one of her most popular employees. I’m told he could be very enthusiastic. Really put his back into it.”

“Who told you that? And why are you so interested?”

“As if I’d reveal my sources to you! Murder holds its own fascination, doesn’t it? Some might say the death of a male prostitute is of little consequence. In some ways, I have to say, I agree. However,
who
killed him and
why
is tremendously important, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Johnny. The brandy was soothing his
aching body but not his racing mind. He had taken a lot of punishment in the past few days. “So once again we’re chasing the same story. Well, good luck. You’ll need it.”

It had been some time since Johnny had beaten Simkins into print. Of course, he was at a disadvantage, thanks to Patsel: the Old Bailey was where stories ended not began. Nevertheless, in the two years he had been reporting from the Sessions House he had managed to pick up and run with a few leads, and three months earlier he had pre-empted Simkins in revealing a case of jury nobbling.

The fact that Simkins had not yet asked him about discovering Harry’s body suggested the dandy was unaware of his involvement—or the possibility that a cop had been killed. And he probably did not know that Harry’s partner worked in the Urania Bookshop. Johnny felt certain that, for the moment at least, he was ahead.

“Have you tried talking to Gogg’s fellow bummarees?” said Johnny. The thought of Simkins surrounded by the blood-spattered brutes was strangely amusing.

“Indeed. As expected, it was an utter waste of time. Bunch of taciturn ruffians,” sighed Simkins. “They actually seemed glad to be rid of him. Bet you a pound to a penny, though, one or two of them had availed themselves of his special skills. It’s the ones who boast about being family men you’ve got to watch out for.” He switched to stage Cockney. “Know what I mean, guvnor?”

He rattled on, switching accents with the greatest of ease. Everything seemed to come easily to him. When the waiter appeared to replace their empty glasses with new ones it occurred to Johnny that Simkins’ whole life had been presented to him on a silver salver.

“Penny for them.” Simkins tossed back his floppy, chestnut locks and crossed his legs.

Matt, half in jest, had once told Johnny that only effeminates did that. Real men sat with their legs apart.

“I was thinking how lucky you are—and wondering why it is you do what you do when you could do anything you want,” said Johnny.

“But I
am
doing what I want,” said Simkins. “There are too many doctors, lawyers and MPs—the majority of them less than mediocre. I’ve no doubt I could have made a name for myself in any of those professions, but I prefer the thrill of the chase, exposing crime and shocking my millions of readers. I also like enraging my father. Tell me, do you hunt?” Johnny snorted. “A thousand apologies. Stupid question. You should come down to the country one weekend, Steadman. See how the other half live. You might even enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I would, but I’m not sure why you’d want me as a house guest. Someone to entertain your toffee-nosed companions? A boy from the back streets set up to be bamboozled by the display of so much ostentatious wealth?”

“No wonder you didn’t grow any taller with such great big chips on both shoulders! Don’t be so suspicious, Steadman. I’m not being patronising when I say
you amuse me. There’s a whole other world out there—and if you let me, I’d be happy to show it to you.”

Was he lonely? Simkins was always boasting of his hectic social life, but his impressive poise could be an act. Perhaps they had more in common than Johnny had realised. He became aware Simkins was studying him, as if trying to read his mind. Suddenly he scowled.

“Oh Christ. Speak of the devil.”

A distinguished-looking gentleman with swept-back silver hair and hawkish eyes, passed by their table. His handmade suit failed to disguise a sizeable paunch.

“Shouldn’t you be in a gutter somewhere?”

Simkins stood up. “Father! What a delightful surprise. As a matter of fact, I’ve just fished my luncheon companion, Mr John Steadman of the
Daily News
, out of one.”

Simkins Senior made no effort to shake his hand. Seeing his presence acknowledged with only the merest hint of a nod, Johnny was glad he had remained seated. You only got to your feet for ladies—certainly not Tory MPs who were already enjoying the Christmas recess.

What was Aubrey Simkins doing here? Taking the opportunity to cultivate lucrative City connections? Perhaps he was missing the House of Commons. Mr Twemlow, in
Our Mutual Friend
, called it “the best club in London”.

The brusque back-bencher gave one last shake of his head, muttered loudly, “the boy’s a buffoon”, then headed for the dining room without a backward glance.

“He’s always saying that,” said Simkins bitterly. It was the first time Johnny had seen him lose his composure. “When I was five I got diphtheria and passed it on to Augustus, my older brother. There was no vaccine in those days. I survived, as you can see, but Augustus didn’t. My father has never forgiven me.”

“I’d have thought he’d have cherished you all the more,” said Johnny. “Have you any other siblings?”

“A younger sister, Victoria, who was only too happy to take on the role of favourite. She’s daddy’s girl all right.” His tone was almost envious.

For the first time Johnny was seeing that Simkins did indeed have a vulnerable side. Everybody was hiding something, it seemed.

“I never knew my father. He died at Passchendaele.”

“Count yourself lucky,” sighed Simkins. “If you don’t know them, you can’t hate them.”

“Hate is only the flip-side of love.”

Simkins sniggered. “You sound like Patience Strong, Steadman. Come on, let’s eat—as far away from the Right Honourable Member for Orpington as possible.”

After generous helpings of steak-and-kidney pudding and spotted dick, washed down with a bottle of claret—most of which Simkins consumed, downing it in great long draughts—Johnny thought it wiser to walk. Besides, he did not want his companion to know where he was going.

The knowledge that he was on to something put a spring in his step. The skin covering his cheekbones
tightened as his face met the freezing, sooty air. He had worked hard not to give anything away during the meal and in the end resorted to telling the toff about Daisy—but not, of course, Matt’s photograph—to divert him.

Once Simkins, his offer of a lift spurned, had disappeared in a taxi, Johnny was finally free to head back to Smithfield. He marched up Friday Street to Cheapside then cut down Roman Bath Street alongside the General Post Office en route to Little Britain.

As it turned out, he had more than just a fortifying meal to thank Simkins for. His fellow diner, slipping into and out of accents as he regaled Johnny with Fleet Street gossip, had reminded him of Sloppy in
Our Mutual Friend
who gave Mrs Higden “the Police-news in different voices”. Dickens would no doubt have known that “slop” was old back-slang for a policeman.

Matt said that George Aitken had telephoned him at Snow Hill. He had not actually seen him. Anyone could have been impersonating the cop. He must check whether the call came through on an internal line—which it would if Aitken were still a working policeman—or through the local exchange.

Johnny also needed to get hold of a photograph of Aitken—and he knew exactly where to lay his sore hands on one. Back in the spring, all officers serving at Snow Hill had been photographed on the steps of the Old Bailey—and the
Smithfield Sentinel
, a local rag, had published it. He remembered Matt proudly showing him a copy at the time.

The offices of the newspaper were in Long Lane. It took Johnny an hour to find what he was looking for in the back-issues department and by the time he was done his fingertips were black with ink.

Twenty tall, tough men, their whistle-chains shining as brightly as their boots, stood staring into the camera. Johnny’s eye was immediately drawn to the middle of the front row, where Inspector Rotherforth—the only officer, distinguished by his flat, peaked cap—was flanked by four men on each side. Matt was in the second row, next to Aitken, a half-smile playing on his lips. There were three constables in the back row, one of which was Vinson. Johnny recognised most of the men. He had seen them on points duty, giving evidence from their notebooks in court and cheering on Matt at boxing matches. A caption underneath the photograph identified each officer.

Johnny looked at Aitken again. He could not recall having met him. The wolly appeared to be the youngest of the group but seemed remarkably self-possessed, calmly meeting the camera’s gaze.

Perhaps he was alive and well—Johnny truly hoped so—but instinct told him otherwise.

And the man who could give him final confirmation was only round the corner.

“Now what d’you want?”

“And it’s lovely to see you too, Percy. Coast clear?”

“Looks that way, don’t it?”

Johnny was relieved to see that the slabs were unoccupied. Once again the disinfectant in the air pricked
his nostrils. He produced the old newspaper and showed the photograph to the mortuary assistant.

“Recognise anyone?”

Percy turned white and groaned.

“I knew I should have kept my gob shut.” He pointed to Aitken. “He’s the one they brung in.”

“Thank you.” Johnny gave him half a crown.

Pity for the young policeman instantly gave way to exultation: he had been right all along. There
had
been a murder—and someone was trying to cover it up. He needed to tell Matt straight away.

Slipping the
Sentinel
back into his pocket, he started towards the swing doors.

“Don’t you want to know who was with ’Arry, then?”

Johnny froze.

“He’s in the picture as well?”

Percy nodded. Johnny retrieved the paper and held it out.

“Show me.”

Percy held out his hand too. Johnny, tutting with impatience, produced his last half-crown. Surely he was not going to finger Matt?

“Ta very much,” said Percy with a smile of satisfaction. He pointed to one of the trio on the back row.

It was PC Tom Vinson.

The cold and dark streets of Smithfield matched Johnny’s mood. As always his route back to the office bypassed the main roads whose slimy pavements were clogged with exhausted workers making their way home or to
the pub. But whereas normally he thought of his backstreet shortcuts as steeped in history and literary associations, tonight he passed through Shoe Lane and Gunpowder Alley weighed down by the knowledge that something evil lurked here. Something the Smithfield Market police force, sworn constables answerable to the City of London Corporation, were powerless to check.

Right now he needed to see Matt and he needed to think. But first he had to put in an appearance at the offices of the
Daily News
.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Patsel, before Johnny had even had a chance to take off his coat.

“Well, you’ve found me,” said Johnny.

Bill, flicking through a copy of the final edition, its ink still wet, made a surreptitious gesture to warn him that this was not a good time for backchat.

“Where have you been?” His superior’s spectacles glittered in the light. It was impossible to see his piggy eyes and thus gauge what he was thinking. How Patsel always managed to find the perfect angle to achieve this effect was a much-discussed mystery.

“Smithfield. Why? Stone told you that I’m on special assignment, didn’t he?”

“He mentioned something along those lines, yes.” Patsel smiled—a sure sign that trouble was coming.

Johnny’s colleagues, sensing a confrontation, stopped what they were doing and eavesdropped.

“I’ve had a complaint,” continued Patsel. “You’re interfering in a police investigation.”

“What investigation? I’ve been to a queer brothel, Trump’s, Bart’s and the offices of the
Sentinel
. I wasn’t aware that any of those venues were under suspicion—or surveillance.”

Patsel remained silent. Johnny tried to stay calm. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No.”

“Who made the complaint?”

“They said they were from the press bureau. He didn’t give a name.”

“Did you ask? It would have been useful to know. I might have unwittingly stumbled on to something. The day-to-day life of a City cop is hardly top secret—unless they’re in league with white slave traders.”