Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “I’ve got to go back on the beat.” Matt nodded up the hill towards the Old Bailey. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

  “Thank you. I don’t know who else to turn to: no one will give me a straight answer.” She took a deep breath as if composing herself and then said, “My name is Lilian Voss. George Aitken is my fiancé. I’m so worried about him. He seems to have disappeared…”

  FIFTEEN

  Monday, 14th December, 9.30 a.m.

  Bill was most put out.

  “Come on then, Coppernob. Spill the beans. What’s so special about this assignment? ‘Life on the Beat’ doesn’t sound at all special to me. Sounds like a cover story for something else.” His eyebrows formed themselves into circumflexes.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Johnny. “Stone’s orders. Sorry.”

  He did not want to involve Bill unless it was absolutely necessary. He wanted his name—and no one else’s—on the byline.

  The seasoned hack regarded him quizzically. “I could help, you know. A week is not a long time. No one likes to see a cop-killer go free.”

  It was no good. Bill knew him too well. “I’ve nothing to tell you—yet.”

  “My dear Johnny, it’s me you’re talking to. You’re not the only one with friends at Snow Hill.”

  Johnny looked round anxiously, hoping Patsel was not in the vicinity. The last thing he needed was advice from the bossy buffoon. “If you trust me, you’ll keep your lips sealed.”

  “Afraid I’ll steal your glory?”

  “Not at all. I wish I could call on your expertise.” A little flattery never went amiss. “I haven’t even been able to establish if a murder has taken place.”

  “You mean apart from that boy-whore last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not going to provoke a tidal wave of moral outrage, is it?” mused Bill. His chair complained as he leaned perilously backwards. “Who cares about a dead catamite?”

  Johnny was going to say he did but bit his lip. Catamite? They were not in Ancient Greece. The sooner the conversation came to an end the better. “I’ve got to go.”

  “If you say so. I’ll let you know if any more telegrams turn up.” He winked.

  Johnny had the distinct impression Bill knew more than he did. He grabbed his mackintosh.

  Sighing in defeat, Bill swiped the return lever on his battle-scarred typewriter. “Watch your back, Coppernob.”

  The only reason Johnny had gone into the office was to find out if any more messages had been delivered. However, his pigeonhole was empty. It looked as though his informant was maintaining his silence. It had to be someone at Snow Hill. Unless…

  Had Bill got there first and removed a third telegram?

  Johnny shook his head. He was becoming paranoid.

  In the eighteenth century, Honey Lane had been the site of the City’s smallest meat market but its hundred or so stalls had long since disappeared. However, if you knew where to look—or rather knock—it was still home to a meat-rack of sorts.

  The house in question was just off Milk Street, with an emergency exit that led through the building at the back and out on to Russia Row. It was the only male brothel in the City—and the cops, who accepted backhanders if not hand-jobs—discreetly ensured it remained so.

  Johnny approached it via a passage off Cheapside between a pub and a cobbler’s and, as though he had not a care in the world instead of a stomach full of butterflies and an urgent desire to empty his bowels, grasped the brass lion’s head and hammered on the glossy black front door.

  A bloodshot eye appeared at the peep-hole. There was a pause as it sized Johnny up, then the door swung open and an unshaven thug—who resembled one of Oswald Mosley’s myrmidons—stood aside to let him in.

  “After an audition are we, sonny?”

  Johnny, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered, decided on the former.

  “Don’t be so impertinent. Do I look that desperate for a job?”

  “Some do it for the pleasure as much as the pay.” The human guard-dog sniffed as if he couldn’t care less either way. “Anyway, you’re a bit keen, aren’t yer? Not all the boys are ’ere. Won’t be till midday.”

  “Lunch time your busiest period then?” asked Johnny.

  “Why d’you want to know?”

  “Just asking. It’s my first time.”

  “If you say so,” said the bouncer in a tone that implied disbelief. Then, looking over Johnny’s shoulder, added: “Sir.”

  “And what do we have here?”

  The high-pitched voice right behind him made Johnny jump. It belonged to a portly middle-aged woman in a sequinned dress that was at least a decade out of date. Her heavily powdered jowls were the colour of junket. A chihuahua quivered in the palm of one hand. She held out the other. There were rings on every finger and the way the gems sparkled suggested they were not costume jewellery. The lapdog yapped.

  “Cecilia Zick. How d’you do?”

  “Julius Handford.” They shook hands. “A mutual friend suggested I visit when next in town.”

  Johnny was certain she would never recognise the character from Dickens’ novel. It was the name John Harmon gave when viewing the drowned body supposedly his own.

  “And who might this ‘friend’ be?”

  “John Gielgud. I was told that discretion was guaranteed.”

  “It can be. I run a top-class establishment and it costs me a lot to keep it running, if you know what I mean. Palms to grease as well as arses.”

  “I’m not a policeman,” said Johnny, with an attempt at a smile.

  “I can see that, Ducky. Way too short. Hope your little man is bigger.” She tittered. The doorman guffawed—out of duty rather than delight. She nodded to the left. “This way.”

  The sequins shimmered on her plump posterior as she opened a door into an ornately decorated parlour. There was a faint smell of stale cigar smoke and Ronuk’s Furniture Cream. A fire, which appeared to have just been lit, crackled in the grate. A pair of leather armchairs either side of it, and a chesterfield that had clearly supported thousands of backsides, lent the room the air of a gentleman’s club—for gentlemen who liked gentlemen. Oil paintings of naked youths covered two of the walls but the one facing the shuttered windows had a large curtained aperture. Zick pulled the golden tassel that dangled at one side and the drapes swept back to reveal an internal window.

  “Don’t worry, love,” said the madam. “They can’t see you. It’s a one-way mirror. That’s why they keep looking at it. They’d eat themselves if they could.” She laughed. “But that’s why you’re here.”

  Johnny could not believe his eyes. He had reported on brothel raids, seen prostitutes of both sexes in the dock, but the casual way the boys presented themselves was somehow obscene. Some wore nothing but their drawers; others were in uniform. There was an army cadet, a sailor, a policeman—Zick certainly had a sense of irony—and a lad from the District Messenger Company. Its young employees in their smart, closefitting uniforms were notoriously available. Rumour had it that DMC actually stood for Devour My Cock. There was no smoke without fire.

  “Take your time,” said Zick, watching him closely. “If you fancy someone older, they’ll be here later on—earning a bit of extra in their lunch-hour. I’ve got a couple of bankers if pinstripes are your thing.”

  “I’ll have him,” said Johnny, pointing to the DMC boy.

  “An excellent choice, if I may say so. Our Stan’s very popular. Or should I say, accommodating? I take it that’s what you’re after?”

  “What d’you mean?” asked Johnny.

  “You want to fuck rather than get fucked?” Johnny reddened. Such matter-of-factness about unspeakable acts embarrassed him. And he thought he was a man of the world.

  “Er, yes please.”

  Zick eyed him shrewdly. “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tip-top. That’ll be a guinea then for half an hour.” Johnny was amazed. He barely had eno
ugh. If Stone refused to allow him to claim it on expenses, Stan would not be the only one supposedly getting fucked.

  He followed Zick out of the parlour and waited while she went into the room next door. The dog yapped at him again. Johnny hated such excuses for pets.

  A moment later Stan emerged, gave Johnny a cheeky grin, and started climbing the stairs. Johnny felt as though he were ascending the scaffold.

  The room was on the top floor of the building under the roof. Johnny smiled to himself: in Cockney rhyming slang “up on the roof” meant “poof”. Its sloping sides would have troubled anyone taller than him. Stan stripped with practised rapidity and lay on the bed. His big, brown eyes met Johnny’s.

  “What you waiting for, lover boy?” He frowned, sensing the lack of interest. “Don’t you like what you see?” Stan stretched out his pale, sleek body like a Siamese cat.

  “I’m not here for sex. I’m a reporter.”

  Stan immediately leaped to his feet and grabbed a handbell from the nightstand.

  Johnny grabbed it off him. “Keep your hair on. I’m not going to get you into trouble. Look, you’re being paid to do nothing. Where’s the harm in that?”

  Stan pouted—apparently injured at being turned down. “Keep your voice down then.” He started rolling around on the bed to make the springs squeak, unabashed in his nudity. “What d’you want to know?”

  “Did you deliver a message to the Daily News, addressed to John Steadman, last Monday?”

  “Can’t remember. I deliver dozens of messages to all the papers everyday. This is just a sideline.” He winked. “Sure you don’t fancy a quickie? You’re just the way I like ’em. The shy ones are the best. So randy, so grateful, so quick. Except some of them cry when they come.”

  “No, thank you. The message might have come from Snow Hill police station.”

  Stan got up with a sigh and began to get dressed. “Okay. I remember now. I did collect one from the cop-shop and take it to the News.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “The desk sergeant.” So the whistle-blower was an insider.

  “Ever heard of someone called Harry Gogg?”

  “Everyone knew Harry. He was an angel. A favourite with the clients.”

  “You know what happened to him?”

  “Course I do. And I don’t want the same thing happening to me, so do me a favour and mind your own beeswax.”

  “Don’t you want his killer to be brought to justice?”

  Stan laughed. “Jesus, get you! The likes of us don’t get justice. There’s those that do bad things and get caught, and those that do bad things and get away with it. Believe me, Gogg’s killer ain’t never going to swing. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. If I tell Zick you’re a reporter, Alf’ll make—”

  “There’s no need to tell me anything, dear.” The door flew open and Zick stood there, her white cheeks now florid—from rage and no doubt the exertion of climbing three flights of stairs. She grabbed Johnny’s left ear and twisted it, hard. “I knew you were a wrong ’un. Julius Handford, indeed! I wasn’t born yesterday. Stan, get back downstairs at once. I’ll speak to you later.”

  Stan shot through the door, his face full of fear.

  Zick twisted Johnny’s ear again.

  “Ow! Will you please stop doing that?”

  She dragged him out on to the tiny landing and kicked him down the stairs.

  “Get out of my establishment, you dirty little muckraker. You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll regret it. If you think Harry had it bad, believe me it can be worse. Much worse. The fucking nerve of it! Not much of an undercover journalist, are you? Didn’t even get into bed with your snitch. What’s the matter? Can’t get it up? Alf! Alf! Where the fuck are you?”

  Dazed and bruised from his headlong fall, Johnny felt the chihuahua nipping his ankle. Instinctively he kicked out at it, which only served to increase Zick’s fury.

  “Stop that! Don’t you dare take it out on an innocent creature, you big bully. If I ever see you again, you’ll be sorry.”

  Johnny felt a pair of giant paws haul him to his feet. Alf dragged him down the remaining stairs, past the gaggle of staring boys in the hall, opened the front door and flung him down the steps. The door slammed so hard the lion’s head gave a single knock that seemed to say and good riddance.

  Slowly, Johnny got to his feet and patted himself down. Nothing seemed to be broken. His head ached, his ear was burning and his healing hands, still sore from the floor of the freezer, were scuffed and red raw again. He brushed his coat off as best he could and leant against the area railings, trying to compose himself. This proved impossible. A familiar voice rang out:

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  It was Henry Simkins.

  SIXTEEN

  Johnny could not be bothered to resist as Simkins led him out into Cheapside, hailed a cab and took him to his club in Watling Street—even though it was only a two-minute walk away. It was obvious he did not need to worry about expenses.

  A white-jacketed waiter placed two brandies and a bowl of nuts on the highly polished table between the winged-back armchairs and retreated noiselessly. Johnny examined his surroundings: it was like being back in Zick’s parlour except everything was on a grander scale. His whole house would fit beneath the distant cloud-painted ceiling.

  “Come on!” Simkins picked up his glass. “Your very good health.”

  He downed his in one go. Johnny sipped at the resinous liquor and felt the healing fire spread through his veins.

  “Congratulations, by the way, on breaking the story of the slaughtered butcher’s boy. I bet Herr Patsel loved that: degenerate scum swinging from a meat-hook. Must have made him feel homesick.” He took another swig of the expensive alcohol. “So did you discover anything useful before you were slung out?” Simkins tried—and failed—not to smile.

  “I’ve been thrown out of better places,” said Johnny. It was true. Somehow his rival always succeeded in catching him at a disadvantage—and yet he was not an unkind man. This did not mean he had to like him, though.

  “Am I to take it then that Miss Zick was less than forthcoming?” Simkins raised an eyebrow. “Sample any of her wares?” He laughed. “Just in the name of research, of course.”

  “Hear that?” said Johnny. “It’s the sound of my sides splitting.”

  “Ah, but the subject is rump-splitting, isn’t it?” Simkins leaned forward. “Harry Gogg was one of Zick’s boys, wasn’t he? She can’t be very pleased at losing one of her most popular employees. I’m told he could be very enthusiastic. Really put his back into it.”

  “Who told you that? And why are you so interested?”

  “As if I’d reveal my sources to you! Murder holds its own fascination, doesn’t it? Some might say the death of a male prostitute is of little consequence. In some ways, I have to say, I agree. However, who killed him and why is tremendously important, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” said Johnny. The brandy was soothing his aching body but not his racing mind. He had taken a lot of punishment in the past few days. “So once again we’re chasing the same story. Well, good luck. You’ll need it.”

  It had been some time since Johnny had beaten Simkins into print. Of course, he was at a disadvantage, thanks to Patsel: the Old Bailey was where stories ended not began. Nevertheless, in the two years he had been reporting from the Sessions House he had managed to pick up and run with a few leads, and three months earlier he had pre-empted Simkins in revealing a case of jury nobbling.

  The fact that Simkins had not yet asked him about discovering Harry’s body suggested the dandy was unaware of his involvement—or the possibility that a cop had been killed. And he probably did not know that Harry’s partner worked in the Urania Bookshop. Johnny felt certain that, for the moment at least, he was ahead.

  “Have you tried talking to Gogg’s fellow bummarees?” said Johnny. The thought of Simkins surrounded by the blood-spattered brutes was strangely a
musing.

  “Indeed. As expected, it was an utter waste of time. Bunch of taciturn ruffians,” sighed Simkins. “They actually seemed glad to be rid of him. Bet you a pound to a penny, though, one or two of them had availed themselves of his special skills. It’s the ones who boast about being family men you’ve got to watch out for.” He switched to stage Cockney. “Know what I mean, guvnor?”

  He rattled on, switching accents with the greatest of ease. Everything seemed to come easily to him. When the waiter appeared to replace their empty glasses with new ones it occurred to Johnny that Simkins’ whole life had been presented to him on a silver salver.

  “Penny for them.” Simkins tossed back his floppy, chestnut locks and crossed his legs.

  Matt, half in jest, had once told Johnny that only effeminates did that. Real men sat with their legs apart.

  “I was thinking how lucky you are—and wondering why it is you do what you do when you could do anything you want,” said Johnny.

  “But I am doing what I want,” said Simkins. “There are too many doctors, lawyers and MPs—the majority of them less than mediocre. I’ve no doubt I could have made a name for myself in any of those professions, but I prefer the thrill of the chase, exposing crime and shocking my millions of readers. I also like enraging my father. Tell me, do you hunt?” Johnny snorted. “A thousand apologies. Stupid question. You should come down to the country one weekend, Steadman. See how the other half live. You might even enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I would, but I’m not sure why you’d want me as a house guest. Someone to entertain your toffee-nosed companions? A boy from the back streets set up to be bamboozled by the display of so much ostentatious wealth?”

  “No wonder you didn’t grow any taller with such great big chips on both shoulders! Don’t be so suspicious, Steadman. I’m not being patronising when I say you amuse me. There’s a whole other world out there—and if you let me, I’d be happy to show it to you.”

  Was he lonely? Simkins was always boasting of his hectic social life, but his impressive poise could be an act. Perhaps they had more in common than Johnny had realised. He became aware Simkins was studying him, as if trying to read his mind. Suddenly he scowled.