Snow Hill (18 page)

He was right. Johnny’s heart sank. He still was not thinking clearly.

“He’s just raped me—and there are photographs to prove it. Could you get hold of them?”

“Are you sure you want the world to know?”

“Of course not: but they would be proof of Rotherforth’s pornographic interests. If he knew I had them, if he knew his fate lay in my hands, he might turn himself in.”

“Not a chance. He’d just try to kill you again. Besides, you’ve got to promise me that you’ll keep away from him.
If he knows you’re still alive, he’ll kill me—slowly. At the moment Matt is his main concern. The only way we can stop Rotherforth for good is if we catch him trying to bribe Matt into silence or, if that fails, trying to kill him. Rotherforth really wouldn’t want to do that though. He adores him.”

“Not as much as you do.”

“Hark at you!” Vinson laughed. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. You love him.”

“Yes, I do. More than any other man—and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But I don’t like him the way you do.”

“And what way is that?”

“You know, sexually.”

“You may be right—although I wouldn’t be too sure about it. Anyway, I’ve just saved your life. Promise me you’ll lie low until I say so. Tomorrow’s Sunday and Rotherforth won’t be on duty. He’s unlikely to do anything until Monday.”

“Okay. I promise—but the sooner he’s arrested the better. I’d still like you to get hold of the photographs and their negatives though. I don’t want perverts getting off on what happened tonight.”

“I’ll do my best. Where can I contact you?” Johnny gave him the number of the Stone residence. Vinson started the engine.

“Aren’t you worried about what Rotherforth will say when he’s arrested?” Johnny was still unsure of his saviour’s motives. “The scandal could destroy your career as well.”

“Why should it? Rotherforth can’t say anything about me without incriminating himself. I’m a victim too.” Vinson stared off into the night as if recalling the moment when his life switched tracks. “So where should I drop you?”

“Holborn Circus will be fine. That’s hardly out of your way.”

“You’d better lie down on the back seat—just in case.”

They turned into Milk Street and headed towards Cheapside. Neither of them saw the big man who had just entered Honey Lane and, at the sound of the car, stepped back into the shadows.

But Matt had recognised the Wolseley—and its driver.

Johnny, running on empty, said good evening to the butler and tried to sneak across the cold marble floor. The Stones, however, had just returned from a dinner party in Kensington. As soon as she saw Johnny, Honoria rushed to his side and, ignoring her husband’s volley of questions, helped her “wounded soldier” to the bathroom.

There were angry welts on his wrists and ankles where the cuffs had cut into him as he had writhed on the bed. A devout nudist, she tut-tutted at his reluctance to undress but the blood on the inside of his trousers made her hold her tongue. She added disinfectant to the water. Its lingering sting made him wince as he lowered himself gingerly into the claw-footed tub.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs Stone.

“It’s not your fault,” said Johnny. “Cuts and grazes must be cleaned.”

“I wasn’t talking about them.” The water was turning pink.

“Oh,” said Johnny, averting his eyes as she gently raised his chin to wipe away the blood. He really did not want to discuss his assault—especially with a woman, even if it was usually women who got raped. He was ashamed. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

He meant, of course, her husband. The last thing he needed was for this to get back to the office. He could hear the comments now:
A real man would never let himself be used like a woman
;
He must have secretly wanted it
;
I’d kill any man who touched me like that.

All he had tried to do was uncover the truth about how a cop had died. Three other young men had subsequently been killed, and Johnny himself—like Matt before him—had been treated like a mere piece of meat.

Even so, he refused to be a victim. It was up to him to avenge all their deaths.

In the meantime, though, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Sunday, 20th December, 9.20 a.m.

The next morning, when Rotherforth’s semen came spluttering out, Johnny vowed that the inspector would not see the next Christmas. Rotherforth had in effect killed him three times: in the freezer, in the fire and in the bed. The last time, though, he had done more than end his life: he had robbed him of his manhood.

Johnny was intelligent enough to know that he must not allow it to ruin his life. He
would
get over it, eventually—and Matt would too.

He had survived. He was just sore all over—inside and out—and missing another tooth.

Nevertheless, it was difficult not to feel like a virgin ravished on her wedding night.

Johnny, unlike many members of his generation, had not had to get married to lose his virginity. He was
twenty-one when a secretary on the local newspaper, perhaps seeing the glint of ambition in his green eyes, invited him to the pictures. They had been flirting for weeks—but then Johnny flirted with all the secretaries. He could not remember the film that they had seen but he remembered Ann’s parents returning earlier than expected—fortunately after the event. Her father had taken one look at their flushed faces and tousled hair and thrown him out of the house. Johnny did not care—he was a real man at last!

Now, however, he wondered whether it might have been better to wait and do it for the first time with someone he loved.

Ann had not loved him and he had not loved Ann. He’d been relieved to discover that she was not a virgin: in fact, he could not have had a more expert guide to the intricate and delicate parts of a woman. She had taken hold of him, told him what to do and he had done it—all too quickly.

Something in her masterfulness, her no-nonsense pleasure-seeking had made a part of him recoil. Their feelings were of the body, not the mind, and, while they were wonderfully intense, they left his thumping heart untouched. Johnny was a romantic. Perhaps it came of having seen too many films.

Matt, he was pretty sure, had been a virgin when he married Lizzie. As usual, Matt had gone about things in the right way; Johnny the wrong. Perhaps he would have fallen in love with Ann, had they continued to see each other. However, she had made it abundantly clear
that her father would not countenance such a thing. Johnny had stopped flirting with her and gone on to bed other good-time girls, but the steady supply of uncomplicated sex had proved to be unsatisfying. Lizzie was the only woman he loved.

Alas, as R. Wilfer Esq said in
Our Mutual Friend
: “What might have been is not what is.”

Johnny could detect no change, no matter how subtle, in the manner of his boss when he described the progress he’d made with the investigation the night before. It was clear that Mrs Stone had kept her word.

“There’s still no evidence though,” said Stone, getting up from his desk to poke the fire. Silence settled in the room as he stared into the flames and thought.

It was now four o’clock and already a servant was closing the shutters in the massive house across the road. The gilt of an ornate French clock on the mantelpiece gleamed in the light from the gasolier.

Finally, Stone cleared his throat. “You think this Rotherforth is going to try silencing your friend Turner as well?”

“That’s what Vinson said. Rotherforth doesn’t know how much I told Matt.” Johnny tried not to grimace as he shifted on the sofa. “Vinson promised to call as soon as he got his instructions. I gave him the telephone number here. It will probably be tomorrow.”

“Excellent. If he doesn’t telephone, we’ll have to consider other ways of catching Rotherforth. We could have him tailed—by professionals. It might be a good
idea to bring a couple of your colleagues into the investigation as well. Bill Fox has not made much headway.” Stone, unaware of Bill’s secret proclivities, held up his hand to silence Johnny’s objections. “Vinson’s testimony and that of the photographer, even if we could trace him, only amounts to hearsay. There’s only his word that Rotherforth shoved Aitken—who may still have been alive—out of the window. For all we know, Aitken could have jumped.”

Stone hung up the poker and returned to his desk. He was frowning.

“We can’t rely too much on Vinson’s word. For all we know, he could have been the one who killed Gogg, and who’s to say whether he was acting under Rotherforth’s orders when he did it? Same goes for Moss. You didn’t actually see who strangled him and set the fire in the bookshop; you only heard the murder.” He shook his head. “No, Rotherforth needs to be caught in the act. And the more witnesses there are, the better. It will be difficult, mind—if not downright impossible. The devil must be very clever to have remained undetected for so long. Don’t worry,” he added, noticing how crestfallen Johnny seemed, “the fact that a cop is running a pornography racket and a brothel is a great story, even if we can’t pin the four murders on him.”

Johnny gave a splutter of indignation, but Stone waved him down.

“I know, I know. You’ve had a very tough week—one that most people would not have survived. But trust me: it will be worth it in the end.”

“I won’t be happy till the bastard’s dead,” said Johnny.

The Christmas tree ornaments sparkled in the firelight. Lizzie watched Matt snoozing in the armchair. He was still not himself. The nightmares had been bad enough, but since Johnny’s death he’d been not only grieving the loss of his friend but also blaming himself for it.

It did not seem to occur to him that she was upset too. His nightmares were getting worse all the time and his refusal to discuss their possible cause was driving a wedge between them. They had almost had a row as they decorated the aromatic fir, its needles already beginning to drop.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said when she tried, yet again, to help him. “You just look after yourself and my baby.”

My
baby—not
our
baby. It was all right for men: one spasm of pleasure and a woman was destined for months of discomfort. No doubt the first glimpse of her child would make all the back pain and morning sickness worthwhile, but she didn’t know how she would cope with a newborn if Matt was still in this terrible state.

The photograph, never far from her mind, rose to the surface of her thoughts for the thousandth time. It was carefully hidden under her withered bridal bouquet, which was stored, wrapped in tissue paper, in a shoebox on their wardrobe shelf. Since she could not bring herself to ask Matt about it—the fact there was something she could not ask her husband niggled her; there should be
no secrets between them—she would have to find out the answers for herself.

Inspector Rotherforth had advised her to burn the “offending item”—which was probably an off-colour joke that had backfired—and remain silent. It was, he assured her, bound to be a fake—perhaps concocted by so-called friends at the gym. Much wiser not to mention it to Matt. His patronising tone suggested that she should not worry her pretty little head about such nonsense.

But Lizzie was worried. And she wasn’t about to stop trying to find out the truth.

Rotherforth was sitting at the dining table with his devoted wife and three children. They were playing Ludo. On the wireless, toothy George Formby was busy cleaning windows.

Edith, the inspector’s eldest daughter, who would be fourteen next month, was winning. The youngest, Elsie, was bored of the game. Thinking she might bring it to an early end, she waited until no one was looking and then surreptitiously shifted a counter.

She should have known better. Her heart leapt when she caught her father’s coal-black eyes boring into her.

He did not utter a word. He just flipped the board into the air, sending the die and counters everywhere.

The game was over.

Lilian Voss sang the words to “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, but her heart was not in it. Her world had turn to ashes. Everything was black and grey.

John Steadman had been a good man, she could tell—he’d had a face that invited trust—but now he was dead. She could think of no one else to turn to.

Since George’s disappearance she had prayed constantly for his return yet found no relief.

No matter what anyone said, he was not the sort of man who would jilt a girl.

Something bad must have happened. Something told her she would never see him again.

Tears trickled down her colourless cheeks.

Henry Simkins, pleasantly exhausted after the day’s shoot, wallowed in a bath that was big enough for two. Poor old Steadman, six feet under. He actually missed the dear boy.

Johnny had always reminded him of his closest schoolmate. He could see Freddie Cumming now, his lovely green eyes—the midnight green of a magpie’s tail feathers—blazing in panic.

One afternoon there had been an impromptu tuck-box inspection after lessons had finished for the day. Freddie had stood, frozen in fear, his hands resting on the unopened lid. It turned out he was trying to hide a tatty old teddy bear which, if seen by his confederates, would have earned him hours of merciless ribbing.

Simkins remembered the look of gratitude he’d received when he lifted the lid of his own box, which had already been inspected, and let Freddie slide the stuffed toy into it. The approaching prefect—Gibbs, or was it Darbyshire?—had seen nothing.

This small act of kindness had earned him Freddie’s undying friendship. Thereafter they were inseparable—often visiting each other during the vacations—until one Christmas Freddie’s father went bankrupt.

Freddie had never returned to school and all Simkins’ letters had come back marked
Unknown at this address
.

Where was Freddie now? he wondered, taking another swig of claret.

His thoughts returned to Johnny Steadman. He had watched his rival go into the bookshop but the only person he saw leaving the premises was Rotherforth. When he’d questioned the inspector afterwards, Rotherforth had sworn that he’d seen someone slip out via a rear entrance and he’d assumed it must have been Steadman.

Unable to prove his suspicions, Simkins was afraid to ask more questions. The inspector was too good a source to alienate. The promise of photographs that would compromise his father’s beloved Tory party was enough to force even him to have the patience of a saint. However, that did not mean he would stop sniffing around.

Could Steadman’s death have been connected to the photographs? Had he found out about them? Had Rotherforth killed him to stop them falling into his hands? If that were the case, why kill Joseph Moss as well?

Rotherforth, sounding uncharacteristically flustered, had banned him from Zick’s bordello:
If you ever show your face there again, I can guarantee you’ll see never your precious pictures
.

What Simkins needed now was a stooge, someone who would do his dirty work for him and take the rap if discovered—but who? It would come to him.

He held his nose and sank under the expensively perfumed water, his long hair spreading out like the tendrils of an exotic plant.

Bill Fox had followed his usual Sunday routine: a walk along the canal to Kensal Green Cemetery to place flowers on his wife’s grave—the gasometers sinking as a million roasts cooked slowly in the oven—then back home to a cheese and piccalilli sandwich and the afternoon spent reading all the newspapers.

Rotherforth had told him—no, ordered him—to stop nosing around. The bookshop fire had been investigated thoroughly. Johnny’s death was a tragic accident, nothing more.

He had no choice but to believe him. He was going to miss the extra cash when he retired. Besides, he had no wish to spend what time he had left in prison.

The bottle of Scotch was almost empty. The open book of naked youths slipped off his lap.

Tom Vinson had his own copy of the photograph that lay hidden under a bridal bouquet in Devonia Road. He did not need to look at it: every detail was etched into his brain.

Matt had a beautiful body. He was the embodiment of perfection. Just the memory of those miraculous minutes when they were alone together—moments he had longed
for and never dreamed would come true—still made him hard.

He didn’t care that Matt thought people like him were sick, a disgrace to humanity. Matt was his ideal man; he really did worship the ground he walked on.

In this respect he was by no means alone. Although he flushed with anger at the memory of his idol’s defilement, he knew that if it hadn’t been for Rotherforth, his abiding fantasy of making love to Matt would never have become a reality.

Still he hated Rotherforth more than any man alive. The humiliation he had felt when his abuser, sensing his enjoyment, had immediately withdrawn, never to touch him again, still stung.

His efforts to do the right thing had ended disastrously. Images of the dead flashed through his mind: Aitken, looking over his shoulder in the showers, soap suds snaking down his spine into the cleft of his buttocks; Harry, his arm round Jo’s shoulders, happiness radiating off them; Charlie, rejected by the father he loved, putting a brave face on his pain. All of them killed by Rotherforth.

And now Matt was in mortal danger. Rotherforth’s attempt at blackmail had already failed, and though he might think he could buy anyone, where Matt was concerned bribery would never work.

Matt had only one hope. And he wasn’t about to let him down.

Whatever it took, he was going to protect him.