Snow Hill (5 page)

“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.

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?

Wednesday, 9th December, 4.05 p.m.

Johnny breathed a sigh of relief when the trial of Rex v. Yelloff, a fruit importer accused of torching his own warehouse in Australian Avenue, was adjourned until the following morning. He’d have to be back at the office to file his daily round-up of court news by the 5.30 p.m. deadline, but in the meantime there was someone he wanted to see.

Imprisoned in the Old Bailey for most of the day, Johnny had been unable to contact Matt to find out the name of the rookie cop. That would have to wait now. It was more important to establish whether a body had turned up over the weekend. The dead cop—if there was one—might not have been a new recruit. Whoever the supposed victim might be, their body would have to have been taken somewhere.

The City of London Police comprised four divisions:
A Division, based in Moor Lane; B Division, in Snow Hill—where the tip-off said the victim was stationed; C Division, in Bishopsgate; and D Division, in Cloak Lane. Although the headquarters of the “gentlemen cops” was in Old Jewry, the mortuary for the force was in Moor Lane. Johnny’s contact there had assured him that no officer or unidentified person had been brought in over the weekend. His opposite number at the Metropolitan Police mortuary in Horseferry Road, a truculent tyke, swore that “no dead pigs of any sort” had been delivered there. That left only one other place a corpse could feasibly be taken: Bart’s.

Johnny crossed the courtyard, its fountain chuckling to itself in the gloom, and went round to the pathology block at the back where, via Little Britain, black vans could come and go day and night without attracting too much attention.

It felt warm in the morgue. The sudden contrast to the Arctic air outside made his nose run. He let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He was looking for Percy Hughes, the mortuary assistant. Ever on the lookout for money-making opportunities, Percy had been a part of the Bart’s drugs ring. He was only a lowly delivery boy to the pharmacist, but it would have been enough to get him sent down had it not been for Johnny agreeing to keep his name out of the investigation in exchange for his services as an informant.

Today he was sluicing the black-and-white tiled floor with some sort of brown disinfectant.

“Mind where yer standin’!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Johnny stepped back in the nick of time, the puddle advancing within inches of his toes. It looked like diarrhoea. “Have you got a minute?” He glanced round. The basement was empty. He jingled the change in his pocket.

Hughes’ hand shot out and grabbed the two half-crowns from Johnny’s palm.

Johnny laughed and said: “I’m looking for a policeman.”

Percy carried on mopping. He had none of that cheerful callousness which those who work with the dead sometimes adopt to disguise their true feelings. Johnny could not imagine how he got through the endless night shifts with only corpses for company. No wonder he was always miserable; his normal expression was that of a moose not getting enough moss.

“Yer won’t find one ’ere—dead nor alive.”

“What d’you know about a dead cop?”

“Nuffink.” Percy kept his eyes on the floor. He was clearly uncomfortable. As he spent most of his time with folk who would never talk again, he was usually glad of the chance to chat. Not today though.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what’s up then? Your price gone up?”

“Nope.” He squeezed his mop out and began to push the last of the foul liquid down the drain. There was something in it that made the eyes sting. It did not smell too good either. Johnny took a deep breath and, looking around, waited for Hughes to break the silence.

There were three slabs in the mortuary. The green curtains used to screen cadavers from view were at present pushed back against the tiled wall. On the opposite wall were six refrigerators, each with three drawers: filing cabinets for stiffs. Johnny’s eyes took in the glass-fronted cupboards with their intimidating array of glistening surgical instruments: saws and scalpels, trepans and trocars, forceps, xysters and specula. He tried not to linger too long on the specimen jars, labelled in copperplate, which held various body parts pickled in formaldehyde, like denizens of an obscene aquarium.

Johnny tried again:

“Forget about the patients. Were any corpses brought in over the weekend?”

Hughes concentrated on making figure-of-eight swirls with the mop.

Johnny snatched it off him. “Have you been told to keep your trap shut?”

“What d’yer mean?”

“Percy, I won’t ask again. It’s not too late for me to turn you in—one phone call, that’s all it would take.”

“Okay, okay. Keep yer ’air on. A dead ’un did come in, early Sunday mornin’.”

“Thank you. Was it a cop?”

“’Ow the ’ell should I know? ’E was in ’is birthday suit.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Name?”

“Dunno. They didn’t tell me ’is name. Said they didn’t know it either.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The two geezers what brung ’im in. And before you ask, I’d never seen ’em before in my life.”

He was lying.

“How old was he?”

“Early twenties, I reckon.”

“Was there a post mortem?”

“Nope.”

“Cause of death?”

“Dunno. Register says hypothermia.”

“Is there going to be a funeral?”

“’Ardly. The body’s bin donated to medical science. Stuck-up students’ll be chopping ’im into cat-meat as we speak.”

“On whose authority?”

“None needed. No next of kin. Barnardo’s Boy, so they said.”

“Very convenient…Go on.”

For a moment, Hughes had been about to say something. He was not usually so reluctant to spill the beans. Seeing how afraid Percy was, Johnny was certain that he must be on the right track. He took out another half-crown. To a lad who earned less than £3 a week, this was significant encouragement. It was a pretty significant amount to Johnny, too; well beyond his usual budget for informants. He prayed that Patsel would sign off his expenses.

“I ’aven’t spoken to yer, awright?”

“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

“Mr Steadman, I’m serious. Sumfink’s up, but I don’t want to lose my job.”

Johnny suddenly wondered if Percy had a wife and family to support. Probably not. Few women, knowing what Percy did for a living, would want those hands touching their flesh.

Realising that he was still holding the mop, Johnny handed it back.

“Here you are. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. And don’t you go talking to anyone else either. We’ve got an exclusive arrangement, remember.”

“No danger of me blabbing.” Percy dropped his voice. “As it ’appens, I did know one of the geezers. Don’t get me wrong, ’Arry’s a good lad. Wouldn’t ’urt a fly.”

“Who is this Harry? What does he do?”

“’Arry Gogg’s ’is name. ’E’s a porter at Smithfield. Drinks in the Cock most days.”

“Thank you.”

Johnny glanced at his watch. He had under an hour to get his copy to the subs. As usual, most of it was already written in his head.

Someone was coming down the corridor with a trolley. Its wheels needed oiling.

“What made you decide to tell me?”

“I ’aven’t said nuffink, remember.” Percy was whispering now. “But it’s the only case of hypothermia I’ve seen wiv broken bones sticking out the skin.”