Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “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 police
man 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.

  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.