Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “Are you okay?” His strength was astonishing.

  “I am now,” said Johnny. However, as soon as Matt let go, his knees buckled.

  Matt, expecting this, was ready to catch him. He lay him down on the floor and roughly rubbed his limbs to increase the circulation.

  “My head hurts,” groaned Johnny. It was as if someone were twisting a knife in his eye. “How did you find me?”

  “There was a tip-off about a burglary planned for tonight. This place is on my beat,” said Matt. “I found the doors open and decided to wait and see what came out. I stood in a doorway, had a spit and draw, then you came along. Didn’t know it was you, of course. Thought you were a sneak thief. After a bit, when you didn’t come out, I thought I’d better investigate.”

  “Didn’t you see anyone else leave?”

  “No.”

  “Then where’s the person who shut me in?”

  They looked round anxiously. Johnny’s teeth would not stop chattering.

  “Here.” Matt produced a hip-flask. “It used to be my father’s. Only thing that gets me through nights like this.”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  Commissioner Turnbull of the Metropolitan Police had recently sacked two frost-bitten constables for having a cup of tea in the street. Turnbull thought he was God and acted accordingly. While his men could be fired for “idling and gossiping”, rumour had it that Turnbull himself got away scot-free after he threw scalding water over his long-suffering wife to “teach her a lesson”.

  “Don’t you worry about me. Stay here. I’ll go and have a butcher’s.”

  “Ha, bloody, ha.” The whisky burned its way to his stomach. “Matt, don’t go. There’s something you should see here first. A porter called Harry Gogg’s been murdered. He’s in there.”

  Matt turned on all the lights in the freezer and, glancing back to check that he was not being had, crossed its threshold. He did not trip as Johnny had.

  Johnny remained shivering on the stone floor and took another sip. He heard Matt take three tentative steps on the duckboards then stop. He did not say a word.

  Johnny pictured the scene back in St Bartholomew-the-Great just twenty-four hours earlier, saw Harry grinning at his frustration, his brown eyes sparkling with life; his brawny body radiating health. Now he was just so much dead meat: his own balls stuffed in his mouth.

  Anger surged through him. Johnny clambered to his feet, wincing at his stiffness, and hobbled over to the door.

  Matt was staring at the corpse. He was no stranger to death: year in, year out children were crushed by cartwheels, workers were mangled by machinery, floaters were fished out of the Thames and tramps found frozen to the ground. Murder, though, was different. It had its own gruesome glamour.

  “Matt?”

  He turned round. Instead of being pale and calm as expected, he was flushed and excited.

  “Did you touch him?” His voice was shaking.

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Good. You better get out of here now that you can stand on your own two feet. I must report this right away. Should be worth a few brownie points. I can’t believe my luck. My first murder case!”

  “Matt, the boy’s dead. It’s hardly a cause for celebration.”

  “I know that. You don’t have a monopoly on compassion. I’d given up nicking the poor sod. He spent more time in the toilets under the market than he did in it. Being sorry won’t help him now. I want to find out who killed him—and who tried to kill you.” Johnny was shocked. The rent-boy had been nothing like the nancies he usually saw snivelling in the dock.

  “He and an accomplice were paid to take a body to Bart’s early on Sunday morning,” said Johnny, realising for the first time that he had lost his only lead. “He was going to tell me everything. It must have been the dead cop.”

  “Well, you’re wrong there,” said Matt with barely suppressed irritation. “The wolly who got transferred to the Met is called George Aitken. He’s a fine chap—from Aberdeen, I think.” Men were often recruited from outside the capital: farm-hands and soldiers had better lungs than those who had grown up in the Smoke. “We were in the same tug-of-war team. He called me yesterday afternoon to say goodbye. I did warn you that the tip-off sounded dodgy. Just drop it: someone’s pulling your leg.”

  Johnny was surprised—and disappointed. He had been so sure he was on to something.

  “Whose body was it then? Why has someone choked Harry with his own cock?” The very idea made his gorge rise. “And why did someone try to kill me? I nearly died, for Christ’s sake.” His rage returned. The blood surging through his veins felt good.

  “Calm down. You were only in there for ten minutes or so. You’ll be okay. We’ll get the killer, just you see if we don’t. You wanted an exclusive and now you’ve got one.”

  He was right: Gogg’s murder would still make a good story.

  “Sorry. You saved my life and I haven’t even thanked you.”

  They shook hands. The shadows under Matt’s eyes were darker than ever. Johnny felt a pang of sympathy for his friend. However, this was not the time to try and persuade him to see Dr Meikle.

  “Go on. Get out of here. I won’t mention your involvement unless I have to. I take it you’re unwilling to make a statement at this stage?”

  Johnny nodded. “Let’s meet up over the weekend.”

  “It’ll be difficult. All leave’ll be cancelled. The detective squad will need help with their enquiries.”

  “You’ll let me know what happens, won’t you?” Johnny did not want Simkins queering his pitch.

  “If I can.”

  They went upstairs to the ground floor. A startled man in a white coat came beetling towards them.

  Matt blocked his path. “Morning, sir. May I use your telephone? There’s no call to be alarmed.”

  Johnny left him to it and emerged into a world he had not been meant to see.

  In the event, he could not see much. The mist had thickened so much it was like swimming through porridge. His clothes, already damp with melted frost, seemed to soak up the moisture. The cold seeped back into his bones.

  Blast! He had left his hat in the freezer. It was too risky to go back to retrieve it now. He quickened his pace, hoping to stave off the cold that way, and hurried towards home and a hot cup of tea.

  As he approached the mouth of the cul-de-sac he heard a low muttering. He slowed down, stepping softly. Poking his head round the corner he could make out two men, standing at the far corner. Johnny crept closer, trying not to give himself away.

  “Do it, damn you!” said the taller of the two.

  The other man took something from him and headed off towards Farringdon. The one who had spoken pulled up his collar and took off in the direction of Smithfield, which, judging by the noise, had already come to life.

  There was a little more light in Cowcross Street. Johnny realised the shorter man was wearing police uniform. He had no choice: he had to follow him.

  Making no allowance for the fog, the cop charged on up St John’s Lane, leaving murky swirls in his wake.

  As Johnny followed, a pile of paraffin rags in the doorway of an ironmonger’s assumed the bleary form of a tramp. The man grunted and tried to sit up. A battle-scarred moggie escaped from his arms with a yowl.

  The rapid footsteps ahead of him suddenly became muffled. The cop had turned into Passing Alley. Within seconds of entering the dark passageway, Johnny was reminded of its former name—Pissing Alley—which had been amended to something more respectable by the prudish Victorians. Human nature was harder to change: men still used the snicket as a urinal. In summer the stench was overpowering, but even in winter a persistent tang hung in the air.

  Johnny would have held his nose except that he needed both hands to guide himself. It was an unusually long passage, so narrow that it was impossible to pass someone coming in the opposite direction without rubbing up against them. Women tended to avoid the place.

  Alt
hough the fog could not penetrate the gap between the five-storey buildings, it was pitch black in the cut-through. Slimy brick walls closed in on him. His head began to throb. The claustrophobia, which had threatened to overwhelm him in the cold-store, returned. Should he go back?

  Johnny stared ahead, straining his eyes to make out any sort of shape in the dancing darkness. Nothing. There was no light at the end of the ginnel.

  The footsteps stopped. Johnny froze. For a moment there was silence then the footsteps started again.

  This time they were coming towards him.

  Johnny turned and began to retrace his steps. A bad move: he was making too much noise and, if the cop had suspected he was being followed, this would only have served to confirm his suspicions.

  Heart thumping, Johnny halted and prepared to confront his quarry.

  He counted the slow, deliberate steps.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. They stopped.

  The cop was listening. If Johnny could not see anything, neither could he.

  Johnny held his breath and prayed that the cop would not come any closer. He should have known better.

  Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. He could not be more than six feet away now.

  He would have to punch him in the balls and run like hell.

  Eleven. Twelve. He could hear him breathing. His own lungs, meanwhile, were about to burst. Sweat prickled his upper lip and armpits.

  Thirteen. Fourteen. The cop sniffed. Paper rustled.

  The point of the knife pricked his skin just above the Adam’s apple.

  “Keep your eyes shut.”

  Hot breath brushed his left ear. He concentrated on trying not to swallow. Seconds passed. Was this how he was going to die? Stabbed in a back alley reeking of piss? This was not how it was supposed to be: he had not got where he was going, still had many things to achieve. Promotion, a novel, a wife and lots of kids. Well, what was the bastard waiting for?

  The knife moved. Johnny, full of fury, braced himself.

  However, the cop did not kill him.

  He kissed him.

  I had to do it—he left me no choice. He started babbling as soon as he saw the hat-pin. He was on his knees straight away—invert that he was, he’d already spent half his miserable life on them, begging for it—but I wasn’t in the mood for forgiveness or anything else.

  He swore he hadn’t tipped off Steadman, promised he’d given nothing away. I almost believed him.

  When I produced the knife, he stopped squealing. He was crying as I made him strip, snivelling like some little kid. His cock shrivelled to almost nothing. Fear or the cold? Both most likely. It actually grew afterwards—which made it easier to slice off. The blood was so hot.

  I can still hear him screaming.

  Steadman’s a lucky blighter. I thought he’d cop it for sure. Didn’t expect anyone to be on the scene that time in the morning. He must have a guardian angel. We’ll see.

  The murder might stop him sniffing around. I doubt it, though. Most likely there’ll have to be another mishap…and I won’t leave anything to chance next time.

  TEN

  The man’s tongue was in his mouth before he knew it. An image of Gogg’s severed penis slid into his mind. He jerked his head away and retched. Why the hell would a cop do that? His terror turned to rage. He spat savagely at his assailant but the pervert was already making his getaway, whistling a familiar tune which, for the moment, Johnny could not name.

  A clink and a clatter echoed down the alley. The knife had been dropped—or discarded. Johnny wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hand. He supposed he ought to go and check.

  The alley became even narrower as it neared its end. He found the knife by kicking it. He hated to think what his peeled fingers were touching as he groped about on the filthy ground. He took off his muffler—a present from Lizzie last Christmas—and picked up the knife with it.

  Back in St John Street he stood beneath a lone gas-light and examined the blood-stained blade. He shuddered. It was a butcher’s knife, about ten inches long, and very sharp. The blood was no doubt that of Harry Gogg.

  Why had the cop thrown the murder weapon away? If the men he had seen were responsible for Harry’s death, why on earth had such incriminating evidence been left for him to find? Did they want to be caught?

  His mind was racing but he could not think about it now. He was shaking with exhaustion. Shock and the cold, plus his hangover and lack of sleep, were taking their toll. He did not have the energy to trail all the way home then back to the office.

  The Cock would be opening soon. There he’d find warmth and safety in numbers. Wrapping the knife in the muffler, he carefully placed it in an inside pocket of his overcoat. It was an awkward fit. The blade had to point upwards otherwise it moved around too much. He would just have to make sure he did not fall on it.

  He could not face going through Passing Alley again so he trudged down to Peter’s Lane. Already he could hear the shriek of the first freight trains of the day pulling into Farringdon. The fumes from the gin distillery in Turnmill Street hung heavily in the damp air.

  By the time he re-emerged into Cowcross Street, the tramp had disappeared. A single policeman was on guard duty at the entrance to Green Hill’s Rents. A group of his colleagues were standing outside the cold-store, which was now ablaze with light.

  Pulling up his collar to hide his face, Johnny walked by on the other side. When a black van pulled up at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, the constable waved it on.

  The meat market was in full swing. The big hand of the clock in Grand Avenue now pointed north-east. A lot had happened in forty minutes. The recreation ground where he had first spoken to Harry was deserted.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to tell Harry that the body he had helped to move was that of a cop. The knowledge that he was involved in serious skulduggery must have spooked the boy. Harry could have told someone that a newshound was sniffing around—and if it was the person who had paid him to dispose of the corpse, they might have decided to shut his pretty mouth for ever.

  “Look what the cat’s dragged in!” Dolly regarded him with a mixture of amusement and concern. The few early customers smiled into their beer. Johnny sat on the same stool that he had occupied almost twenty-four hours before. “What on earth have you been up to?” She nodded at his coat, which he could now see was smeared with streaks of green and brown filth.

  “Don’t ask. I’ll have a wazzer please.”

  “First things first. Come on, take it off.”

  “It’s all right, thanks. I’ll drop it off at the cleaners on my way to work.”

  “Oh no you won’t. What’ll you wear in the meantime? You’ll catch your death in this weather.”

  She was right. He was such an idiot. He should have hidden the knife or, better still, handed it to the cop on sentry duty. It was too late now.

  There was nothing else for it. Dolly looked honest enough—not the type to go through a bloke’s pockets. He undid the buttons.

  “What’s that on your neck? Looks like blood to me. Cut yourself shaving?”

  He handed the coat to her over the bar. “I’ll go and clean myself up.”

  “I should think so too. Those hands are a disgrace.”

  The wazzer was waiting for him when he returned from the Gents. He concentrated on not spilling it. The hot tea tasted like nectar. His shakes slowly subsided.

  “There you are!” The landlady slammed a full English breakfast down in front of him. “Get that inside you.”

  Food, especially meat, was the last thing on his mind, but he was too tired to argue. He started slowly but soon picked up speed as the salt and spices aroused his appetite. It felt obscene to be stuffing his face after what he had just seen, yet the hot meal reminded him that he was still alive.

  He so easily might not have been.

  Dolly looked on with approval. He washed the last of the grease down with the dregs of the wazzer.

  “Another o
ne?”

  “Please.”

  She picked up the plate and went off to the kitchen. “Stella? You done with that coat yet? Stella! Where are you?”

  “Here you are.”

  Johnny spun round. His eyes met those of a girl. They were dazzlingly green and fringed with long, dark lashes. The day had hardly begun, yet she seemed all set for a night on the town.

  “What’s up? Never seen a beautiful woman before?”

  “One or two,” said Johnny with as much nonchalance as he could muster—which was not much. He stood up and put his coat back on. “Thank you, it’s as good as new.” He patted his pockets.

  “Don’t worry, the knife’s still there.”

  A smile played on her full red lips. He wanted to kiss them. Before he could think of what to say, they were interrupted.

  “I see you’ve met my Stella,” said Dolly. “She’s not a bad girl. Considers herself too good for this place though.” The landlady winked.

  “She is,” said Johnny.

  “Don’t say it.” The green eyes bored into him.

  “What?”

  “Let me take you away from all this—or words to that effect.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. You must’ve heard every chat-up line going.” He cleared his throat. His life had suddenly become a surreal series of misadventures. What else could possibly happen to him? He had nothing to lose. “So how about letting me take you to dinner to say thank you? Anywhere you like. I wouldn’t mind being taken to the cleaners by you.”

  “Okay.”

  He tried to mask his astonishment by fishing a business card out of his wallet but only succeeded in dropping it at her feet. They both knelt down to retrieve it.

  Out of sight of her mother, she blew him a kiss. “Monday night. Six o’clock. Pick me up here. If you’re a second late you’ll be sorry.” Then she swanned out of the bar.

  “So tell me, Mr Journalist,” said Dolly. “Did you get what you wanted from Harry Gogg?”

  The question brought him down to the ground with a bump.

  “’Fraid not. Nice lad, though.”

  Dolly nodded sagely. The spaghetti hair swayed.