Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  Daisy screamed when the bomb went off on the bus. “Who would ever do such a thing?” she said. She did not shrug him off when he put a comforting arm round her shoulders.

  The other fine feature of the super-cinema was that it was less than five minutes away from Cruden Street. Daisy, not even bothering to ask for a cup of tea, went straight upstairs, stripped off her second-best dress—the sight of her breasts making him instantly hard—and slipped into bed. She lay there shivering, her shiny black hair caressing her bare shoulders.

  “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

  He did not need asking twice. She watched him as he threw his clothes off, eyeing his erection with hunger, and giggled as it bounced when he leapt beneath the blankets. He put his arms round her and sighed: she was so warm and curvy and smelled so sweet. However, when their lips touched he involuntarily recoiled. The kiss in the alley flooded his brain. It had felt just the same: just as soft yet strong and tender, filled with the promise of pleasure to come.

  “What’s the matter?” Daisy stared into his eyes. “You seeing someone else? You couldn’t look more guilty if you tried.” She grabbed his balls and squeezed. Hard. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Ow! Let go. Of course not. Why would I be treating you like royalty if I were?”

  “Guilt. Tell me again why you couldn’t see me on Thursday.” She gave his balls an extra squeeze.

  “For fuck’s sake, Daisy. I told you: I had to meet an informant. Now let go or I’ll be sick all over you.”

  “Charming.” She relinquished her grip and turned her back on him. He lay there limply, staring at the ceiling.

  “How many more times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  “Something’s going on. I can tell. You’ve changed.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it.”

  “You can put all five on it if you like…” He was not going to tell her about the murder or the kiss. He had to pretend that the latter had never happened.

  Afterwards he went downstairs to make some tea. Daisy, satisfied for the moment—although she always demanded an encore—had fallen asleep. She was prettier when she stopped pouting and relaxed her face. The bloom on her cheeks, the redness of her swollen lips, were beautiful.

  He was on his way back when a shriek almost made him drop the tray. Now what?

  When he got back upstairs Daisy was scrambling into her clothes, her face white with rage. Brandishing the photograph of Matt with one hand, she took a last drag on her cigarette and flung the dog-end at him.

  “Pervert! You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  “I’m not queer. Let me explain—”

  “So what was this doing in your bedside drawer?”

  “I might ask what you were doing looking in there in the first place.”

  “I was looking to see if you had any more French letters, okay? Instead I find this filth.”

  “Don’t pretend to be shocked, Daisy. The theatre is packed with poofters.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t sleep with them.”

  She slipped on her high heels, shoved past him and clomped down the stairs. The front door slammed shut.

  Johnny sat on the edge of the bed and helped himself to one of Daisy’s fags that she had forgotten in her fury. He would not miss Daisy—she was not interested in his explanation or, when it came down to it, him; she had got what she had come for, a free night out and an uncomplicated fuck—but he would miss the company. He slept better with a woman beside him.

  He wished Lizzie was with him—then, with a stab of guilt, immediately reproached himself for the thought. Why was it so difficult to find intimacy rather than sex? He was alone again.

  Lost in thought—angry, disappointed and upset—the tea grew cold beside him. Eventually he picked up the tray to take it back to the kitchen and gazed at the rumpled sheets where, only half an hour before, he had lost himself in the mindless pleasures of sexual abandon.

  His eyes drifted to the bedside table, its drawer wide open. He had thought it was the safest place to keep the incriminating evidence. Where was the photograph now? He checked the bed, the floor, emptied out the drawer of the bedside table. No sign of it. Had Daisy thrown it down on her way out? He ran through the house, searching everywhere he could think of.

  The photograph had vanished.

  The ungrateful bitch had taken it.

  The hall in King Street, round the corner from Snow Hill, was heaving. The roar of conversation, competing with the band, threatened to lift the roof. Paper chains swung gaily in the hot air. Matt watched his colleagues, all in casual clothes, knocking back the beer and Scotch that had kindly been “donated” by various local publicans.

  The tug-of-war team had won the tournament. Unlike the rest of them he had been in no mood for a celebratory Christmas party, but despite that he was now well on the way to being drunk.

  For some reason, Lizzie had said she could not face the annual event but insisted he go ahead and enjoy himself. He was usually never happier than when he was in the centre of a crowd, joking with friends, flirting with their wives. His sporting prowess earned him plenty of admiration in and out of the ring. However, the fact that both men and women sought out his company had not made him arrogant. Modest to a fault, he could not understand what they saw in him—apart from his biceps. Johnny said he made people feel good about themselves.

  He was no longer feeling good though. His initial elation, as the alcohol took effect, had turned to exhaustion. It was time to go home. He had to be at work tomorrow. Most of his superiors, including Rotherforth, had already left.

  A loud crash, followed by the sound of smashing plates, came from the other end of the room. Several women screamed. The band, out of curiosity rather than necessity, stopped playing. Matt pushed his way through the throng.

  Herbert Watkiss, his sloe-black eyes wide open in surprise, lay sprawled amid the debris of a broken trestle table. Meat pies, sausage rolls and shards of crockery littered the floor. Tom Vinson stood over him, his fists still clenched.

  “What happened?” asked Matt. Watkiss took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. They had been in training together at Bishopsgate. The constable rubbed his chin. He glared at Vinson. “Tom?”

  “It was nothing, Matt. I overreacted, that’s all.”

  “You can say that again, Vinson.” Watkiss tried to brush off the food that smeared his Sunday best.

  “Everything all right?” Sergeant Dwyer surveyed the damage. “Get this lot cleared up.”

  The band started playing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” said Watkiss.

  Vinson smiled. “I can’t wait.”

  “I suggest you go and clean yourself up, Watkiss,” barked Dwyer.

  “Yes, Sarge.” He shoved past Vinson, muttering something that was drowned out by the music.

  “I’d make myself scarce, Tom, if I were you,” said Matt, steering Vinson away before Dwyer started asking questions.

  “He doesn’t scare me.” Vinson yawned. “But you’re right. It’s time for bed. You kipping at the station or going home?”

  “Home.”

  “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Any other time, Matt would have tried to find out what Watkiss had said to make Vinson fly off the hook like that. He must have really struck a nerve to provoke such a reaction. But Matt had enough problems of his own, without sticking his nose in anyone else’s. He decided to make a speedy exit before Watkiss reappeared, looking for someone to tell his side of the tale to.

  Grabbing his coat, he stepped out into the cold night air, hoping the effects of the drink and tiredness would last long enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

  FOURTEEN

  Sunday, 13th December, 4 p.m.

  Johnny hated Sundays. The shops were shut, the pubs were closed most of the time and, once he had worked his way through th
e newspapers, he was at a loose end.

  He could have gone to visit his mother’s grave, but Finchley cemetery was such a trek. Anyway, she was no more there than she was here. A schoolboy memory of a saying by the Venerable Bede flitted through his brain: life is as brief as the time taken for a single sparrow to fly into and out of a lighted hall in winter wherein the feasting goes on regardless.

  He could have gone round to Daisy’s lodging house, but there seemed little point: she would only slam the door in his face. Best give her time to cool down. He would only have one chance to get the photograph back; he didn’t want to waste it by picking the wrong moment.

  Besides, the photo aside, he had no desire whatsoever to see her. Stella was a much more attractive proposition. He was already looking forward to their date.

  He could have gone to a matinee to idle away a few hours, but there was too much on his mind. His special assignment would start tomorrow. The five days Stone had given him would soon fly by, so he needed to come up with a plan of attack to make every second count.

  Who had sent him the notes? Apart from being more certain than ever that it was not one of Simkins’ tricks—there was no way he could have foreseen the murder of Harry—Johnny was no nearer to finding out who had tipped him off.

  There was really only one thing he was certain of: somehow Smithfield was at the heart of the mystery. It was where Harry had worked. It was a mere stone’s throw from Snow Hill police station. The dead cop—if the naked, unidentified corpse Harry delivered was indeed a cop—had been taken to Bart’s.

  And so he made his way to St Bartholomew-the-Great, arriving just in time to hear the bells chiming the hour. Visiting time at the hospital must have just ended, for families began emerging to make their way home, their faces showing a mixture of sadness at leaving their relatives and relief at escaping the smell of antiseptic and the clinical atmosphere of the wards.

  As he tried to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order, he wandered aimlessly towards Pye Corner where, high up on the wall, a small gilt statue of a cupid marked the furthest extent of the Great Fire of London. It was supposed to be a warning against the avarice that tub-thumpers claimed had caused the fire in the first place: punishment for gluttons.

  He turned into Cock Lane—London’s first red-light district—where prostitutes had once plied their trade outside the City walls. It was certainly dark enough for a knee-trembler in a doorway, even at this time in the afternoon.

  The road curved downhill, past the back of Snow Hill police station. Number 33 was supposed to be haunted and had been since 1762 when crowds—including Dr Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, Joshua Reynolds and Horace Walpole—had flocked to hear the ghost of “Scratching Fanny”, the late sister-in-law of William Parsons, the officiating clerk at nearby St Sepulchre’s. She had died of smallpox, but it was claimed the scratching was a sign that she had been a victim of arsenic poisoning. The noises had stopped when Parsons’ eleven-year-old daughter, the first person to have heard them, was moved to the home of the rector of St John’s, Clerkenwell. But by the time the fraud was exposed, local taverns had already made a fortune from supplying the ghost seekers with liquid refreshment.

  Johnny felt as if he was haunted by a deception where someone was trying to create a smokescreen to hide the true cause of a young person’s death. Only whereas in Scratching Fanny’s case the cause of death had been natural and the suspicious circumstances invented, the corpse delivered to Bart had a death certificate that read “hypothermia” and injuries that could only have come about as the result of foul play. Or possibly an accident—but if that were the case, why dump the body anonymously?

  Who was the cop that, according to PC Vinson, had been transferred “for personal reasons”? Could Vinson’s unnamed wolly and Matt’s old team-mate Aitken be the same man? Or was Vinson deliberately sending him down a blind alley?

  It was eerily quiet. Johnny stopped and listened. Not a sound. His nerves were constantly on edge since finding Harry’s butchered corpse. He was forever looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was being followed. He waited a moment, steeling his nerves, and then walked on.

  And what of Harry? Why had he been mutilated in such a fashion? He was a cock-sucker, to be sure, but there was real malice in his emasculation and it suggested the murderer had taken his time in wreaking his revenge. It was all right for naked boys to be mounted on walls in the name of history, but mounting them in private for pleasure was against the law. The same law that didn’t really give a toss about the killing of a pervert; there was no way Harry’s murder would be given priority by the murder squad.

  Harry died because he’d been about to tell him something. He had to find out what. Who else might know? His lover? Perhaps he had been too soft on him. Johnny had been so unnerved—some might say unmanned—by the surroundings he had not been thinking straight. He needed to see the boy away from the shop.

  “En garde!”

  Johnny gave an involuntary yelp as his heart leapt into his mouth. A figure emerged from a doorway, assumed the fencing position, and pointed his epée at him. It had a cork on the tip of it so it could not be classified as an offensive weapon.

  The would-be assailant also happened to be entirely unclothed.

  Johnny relaxed. “The Naked Swordsman” was a Smithfield regular, a harmless lunatic who refused all attempts to help him. He was rumoured to be the illegitimate son of George V.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Johnny. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

  How he had not already done so was a perpetual mystery.

  “And I wouldn’t be the first one either. Only a week ago, dear sir, I saw something that would make your blood run cold. Get thee hence. This is a place of evil.”

  “Then why are you lurking here?”

  “I intend on getting arrested and spending the night in a nice warm cell.” He nodded at Snow Hill station.

  A light suddenly shone down from the top floor. The madman removed the cork and stuck the ice-cold tip under Johnny’s chin.

  “Thus far and no further. If you wish to live to see me in the dock again, newspaperman, look elsewhere for a story. The boy would have died hereafter. And others will do so if you insist on ferreting around this dung-hill. Move on, I say, move on.”

  Johnny backed away a few paces, then turned to climb the hill to Giltspur Street. There was no point in questioning a fruitcake. Which boy was he talking about? He couldn’t mean Harry—that was less than a week ago. Was he referring to the dead cop? His body turned up at the morgue early on Sunday. Could it be that the poor lunatic had glimpsed the aftermath? If he had seen something at the back of Snow Hill station that night, his insanity had probably saved his life.

  Who would believe the naked wretch, even if he were telling the truth?

  Matt took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead where it always left a red mark. His hair was damp with sweat. He escorted the now docile Frank Bundock—aka Frank Wilson and George Wilson—down to the cells where the custody sergeant booked him before banging him up with the regular haul of Saturday-night drunks trying to sleep off their hangovers. Matt had spotted the habitual criminal picking the pocket of an American sightseer in Cannon Street. It had not been difficult: not many dippers had a deformed left arm. Although Bundock had tried to do a runner, Matt collared him in Red Lion Court. There were times when he felt like a glorified street-cleaner: Bundock would be back thieving after six months inside. Birching was too good for him. Still, the grateful Yank had got his money back—and even tried to give Matt a tip!

  He had fifteen minutes to write up his report before returning to his beat. Apart from the kitchen staff, the canteen on the first floor was almost deserted. It was too early for the night shift to gather before going on duty, and those on the morning shift had long since left. The officers had their own mess on the floor above. He was glad of the chance to rest his feet and grab a quick cup of tea. His own hangover had still not quite dissi
pated.

  Herbert Watkiss came slouching in. The handsome constable looked peeved.

  “What’s up with you?” said Matt. “Still feeling sore about last night? On the sheet again?” Watkiss’ beat was one concentric circle closer to the station than Matt’s.

  “Looks like it. Rotherforth called me in. I probably failed to break one of his bloody pieces of cotton.” The inspector was known to tie pieces of black cotton across alleyways and doorways to check that his men were hitting every mark.

  “So, come on then. What did you say to Vinson to make him hit you?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean any harm. It was a joke, that’s all.”

  “What was?” Matt rolled his eyes. It was like pulling teeth.

  “I just held up a sprig of mistletoe.”

  Sergeant Philip Dwyer was on desk duty when Matt got back down to reception. Seeing Matt, he put down the second-hand copy of Hogarth’s London by H.B. Wheatley that he should not have been reading, and nodded to a pretty girl clutching her handbag by the frosted-glass doors.

  “Someone to see you, PC Turner.” He managed not to wink. “Make it snappy.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  Matt went over to the young lady. She looked up at him and smiled nervously. He studied her features, wondering if he should recognise her. She had enormous hazel eyes: he could almost see himself in them. An Alice band kept her unruly auburn curls in check. She licked her lips with the tip of a very pink tongue and held out her hand.

  “How d’you do.”

  As they shook hands he could feel the girl trembling.

  She looked round. “Could we go outside?”

  The bored Dwyer could contain himself no longer:

  “Now there’s an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Matt ignored him and pushed open one of the doors. Cold air hit them in the face, making their eyes water.

  They paused underneath the blue lamp. Still she seemed too nervous to speak.