Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “Oh Christ. Speak of the devil.”

  A distinguished-looking gentleman with swept-back silver hair and hawkish eyes, passed by their table. His handmade suit failed to disguise a sizeable paunch.

  “Shouldn’t you be in a gutter somewhere?”

  Simkins stood up. “Father! What a delightful surprise. As a matter of fact, I’ve just fished my luncheon companion, Mr John Steadman of the Daily News, out of one.”

  Simkins Senior made no effort to shake his hand. Seeing his presence acknowledged with only the merest hint of a nod, Johnny was glad he had remained seated. You only got to your feet for ladies—certainly not Tory MPs who were already enjoying the Christmas recess.

  What was Aubrey Simkins doing here? Taking the opportunity to cultivate lucrative City connections? Perhaps he was missing the House of Commons. Mr Twemlow, in Our Mutual Friend, called it “the best club in London”.

  The brusque back-bencher gave one last shake of his head, muttered loudly, “the boy’s a buffoon”, then headed for the dining room without a backward glance.

  “He’s always saying that,” said Simkins bitterly. It was the first time Johnny had seen him lose his composure. “When I was five I got diphtheria and passed it on to Augustus, my older brother. There was no vaccine in those days. I survived, as you can see, but Augustus didn’t. My father has never forgiven me.”

  “I’d have thought he’d have cherished you all the more,” said Johnny. “Have you any other siblings?”

  “A younger sister, Victoria, who was only too happy to take on the role of favourite. She’s daddy’s girl all right.” His tone was almost envious.

  For the first time Johnny was seeing that Simkins did indeed have a vulnerable side. Everybody was hiding something, it seemed.

  “I never knew my father. He died at Passchendaele.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” sighed Simkins. “If you don’t know them, you can’t hate them.”

  “Hate is only the flip-side of love.”

  Simkins sniggered. “You sound like Patience Strong, Steadman. Come on, let’s eat—as far away from the Right Honourable Member for Orpington as possible.”

  After generous helpings of steak-and-kidney pudding and spotted dick, washed down with a bottle of claret—most of which Simkins consumed, downing it in great long draughts—Johnny thought it wiser to walk. Besides, he did not want his companion to know where he was going.

  The knowledge that he was on to something put a spring in his step. The skin covering his cheekbones tightened as his face met the freezing, sooty air. He had worked hard not to give anything away during the meal and in the end resorted to telling the toff about Daisy—but not, of course, Matt’s photograph—to divert him.

  Once Simkins, his offer of a lift spurned, had disappeared in a taxi, Johnny was finally free to head back to Smithfield. He marched up Friday Street to Cheapside then cut down Roman Bath Street alongside the General Post Office en route to Little Britain.

  As it turned out, he had more than just a fortifying meal to thank Simkins for. His fellow diner, slipping into and out of accents as he regaled Johnny with Fleet Street gossip, had reminded him of Sloppy in Our Mutual Friend who gave Mrs Higden “the Police-news in different voices”. Dickens would no doubt have known that “slop” was old back-slang for a policeman.

  Matt said that George Aitken had telephoned him at Snow Hill. He had not actually seen him. Anyone could have been impersonating the cop. He must check whether the call came through on an internal line—which it would if Aitken were still a working policeman—or through the local exchange.

  Johnny also needed to get hold of a photograph of Aitken—and he knew exactly where to lay his sore hands on one. Back in the spring, all officers serving at Snow Hill had been photographed on the steps of the Old Bailey—and the Smithfield Sentinel, a local rag, had published it. He remembered Matt proudly showing him a copy at the time.

  The offices of the newspaper were in Long Lane. It took Johnny an hour to find what he was looking for in the back-issues department and by the time he was done his fingertips were black with ink.

  Twenty tall, tough men, their whistle-chains shining as brightly as their boots, stood staring into the camera. Johnny’s eye was immediately drawn to the middle of the front row, where Inspector Rotherforth—the only officer, distinguished by his flat, peaked cap—was flanked by four men on each side. Matt was in the second row, next to Aitken, a half-smile playing on his lips. There were three constables in the back row, one of which was Vinson. Johnny recognised most of the men. He had seen them on points duty, giving evidence from their notebooks in court and cheering on Matt at boxing matches. A caption underneath the photograph identified each officer.

  Johnny looked at Aitken again. He could not recall having met him. The wolly appeared to be the youngest of the group but seemed remarkably self-possessed, calmly meeting the camera’s gaze.

  Perhaps he was alive and well—Johnny truly hoped so—but instinct told him otherwise.

  And the man who could give him final confirmation was only round the corner.

  “Now what d’you want?”

  “And it’s lovely to see you too, Percy. Coast clear?”

  “Looks that way, don’t it?”

  Johnny was relieved to see that the slabs were unoccupied. Once again the disinfectant in the air pricked his nostrils. He produced the old newspaper and showed the photograph to the mortuary assistant.

  “Recognise anyone?”

  Percy turned white and groaned.

  “I knew I should have kept my gob shut.” He pointed to Aitken. “He’s the one they brung in.”

  “Thank you.” Johnny gave him half a crown.

  Pity for the young policeman instantly gave way to exultation: he had been right all along. There had been a murder—and someone was trying to cover it up. He needed to tell Matt straight away.

  Slipping the Sentinel back into his pocket, he started towards the swing doors.

  “Don’t you want to know who was with ’Arry, then?”

  Johnny froze.

  “He’s in the picture as well?”

  Percy nodded. Johnny retrieved the paper and held it out.

  “Show me.”

  Percy held out his hand too. Johnny, tutting with impatience, produced his last half-crown. Surely he was not going to finger Matt?

  “Ta very much,” said Percy with a smile of satisfaction. He pointed to one of the trio on the back row.

  It was PC Tom Vinson.

  The cold and dark streets of Smithfield matched Johnny’s mood. As always his route back to the office bypassed the main roads whose slimy pavements were clogged with exhausted workers making their way home or to the pub. But whereas normally he thought of his backstreet shortcuts as steeped in history and literary associations, tonight he passed through Shoe Lane and Gunpowder Alley weighed down by the knowledge that something evil lurked here. Something the Smithfield Market police force, sworn constables answerable to the City of London Corporation, were powerless to check.

  Right now he needed to see Matt and he needed to think. But first he had to put in an appearance at the offices of the Daily News.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” said Patsel, before Johnny had even had a chance to take off his coat.

  “Well, you’ve found me,” said Johnny.

  Bill, flicking through a copy of the final edition, its ink still wet, made a surreptitious gesture to warn him that this was not a good time for backchat.

  “Where have you been?” His superior’s spectacles glittered in the light. It was impossible to see his piggy eyes and thus gauge what he was thinking. How Patsel always managed to find the perfect angle to achieve this effect was a much-discussed mystery.

  “Smithfield. Why? Stone told you that I’m on special assignment, didn’t he?”

  “He mentioned something along those lines, yes.” Patsel smiled—a sure sign that trouble was coming.

  Johnny’s colleagues, s
ensing a confrontation, stopped what they were doing and eavesdropped.

  “I’ve had a complaint,” continued Patsel. “You’re interfering in a police investigation.”

  “What investigation? I’ve been to a queer brothel, Trump’s, Bart’s and the offices of the Sentinel. I wasn’t aware that any of those venues were under suspicion—or surveillance.”

  Patsel remained silent. Johnny tried to stay calm. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No.”

  “Who made the complaint?”

  “They said they were from the press bureau. He didn’t give a name.”

  “Did you ask? It would have been useful to know. I might have unwittingly stumbled on to something. The day-to-day life of a City cop is hardly top secret—unless they’re in league with white slave traders.”

  Everyone laughed—except Patsel. There were constant stories in the yellow press that young women were being chloroformed in cinemas and spirited away to serve in the harems of the east, but no evidence to corroborate this had ever been found. Laughter unsettled the humourless Patsel. If someone cracked a joke he would always be the last to laugh.

  “Watch your step, Steadman,” he huffed. “No more complaints, if you please. Keep me informed.” He retreated to his dugout.

  A paper aeroplane, thrown by Louis Dimeo on the sports desk, dive-bombed Johnny.

  “A queer brothel, eh? When d’you start?”

  “Why? Fancy being my first customer?”

  Louis, by way of reply, grinned and gave him the finger.

  “What was that all about?” Johnny asked Bill when the spectators had turned back to their typewriters and telephones.

  “He doesn’t like being overruled. He’d prefer you to stay at the Old Bailey where you can’t cause as much trouble.”

  “The sooner he slings his hook, the better.”

  “Santa may come early this year.” Bill winked. “Anyway, how are you getting on?”

  “It’s been an interesting day.”

  “What were you doing at Zick’s?”

  Johnny paused.

  “How come you know I visited that particular knocking-shop?”

  “Let’s call it an educated guess.”

  Johnny looked into his mentor’s rheumy eyes. Had he been following him? Or had Simkins been in touch? Could he still trust Bill?

  Putting his suspicions to the back of his mind, Johnny asked, “D’you know the place?”

  “I know of it. Know that it has police protection.”

  “I gathered as much.” He would have liked to run a few ideas past Bill, and he had a whole list of questions forming in his mind, but in light of the mystery complaint it occurred to him that it might be better and safer to keep his thoughts to himself. Harry Gogg had been killed after Johnny had approached him—he did not want the same thing to happen to Stan.

  Bill was looking at him expectantly. Johnny was searching for some flippant remark to ward him off when his telephone rang.

  “There’s a young lady here to see you, Mr Steadman. Should I send her up?”

  “No, that’s all right,” said Johnny, glancing at Bill. “I’ll come down.”

  A mousy girl, huddled inside a thin, black coat, was standing underneath the giant four-faced clock that dominated the foyer. Each time the lift doors opened, a stream of secretaries, copytakers and advertising salesmen flowed round her, heading for the nearest Tube station or watering hole, but she stood her ground.

  Johnny spotted her immediately. She seemed intimidated yet defiant.

  “Hello. I’m John Steadman. What can I do for you?” They shook hands.

  “Thanks so much for seeing me. Your friend PC Turner suggested I get in touch with you. My name is Lilian Voss. I’m trying to trace my fiancé George Aitken.”

  It was as if she had punched him on the nose. He stepped back, his mind in a whirl. His heart went out to her, and his first impulse was to tell her the truth—but his head told him that he had to lie. If she knew too much, her own life might be in danger. And even assuming he could come up with a way to keep her safe, there was no telling what she would do in her grief. If she were to start screaming blue murder, it would alert every newspaper in the land. Somehow he had to protect her and his scoop.

  Johnny led her to one of the green leather banquettes that would not have looked out of place in the House of Commons. People on the top floor of double-deckers—which stretched down Fleet Street nose-to-tail like circus elephants—stared through the windows at them.

  “When was the last time you saw George?”

  “You know something, don’t you? I can tell.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please say he’s safe. I can’t bear not knowing what’s happened to him. The police wouldn’t tell me. Said it was against regulations to discuss staff movements. But he’d have let me know if he was going to be transferred. We’re in love.” She rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief. “We’re going to get married in March.”

  “I don’t know what has happened to George,” said Johnny—which was true, in a way. “But I promise you I’m going to find out.” He gave her a moment then gently tried again: “When was the last time you met?”

  “A week last Friday—the fourth. We saw It’s Love Again at the Paramount in Tottenham Court Road. I adore Robert Young and George likes Jessie Matthews. He was going to be on duty all weekend, so we arranged to meet on the following Monday evening. But he never turned up.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’m a trainee nurse at Bart’s. We used to see each other in the Red Cow—it took him ages to pluck up the courage to ask me out. It was good to know that he was literally round the corner at Snow Hill while I was on the ward.”

  “The last confirmed sighting of him I have is Monday the seventh.”

  “Where?” She grasped his hand with both of hers.

  Johnny hesitated.

  “At Bart’s.”

  “Oh!” She suddenly smiled. “Was he looking for me?”

  “I don’t think so.” The disappointment on her face made his heart ache. “He was with another cop.”

  “Who? Not PC Turner?”

  “No. Someone else. At this stage I can’t tell you anything else, but I promise you as soon as it’s safe I’ll explain everything. I can’t go into details now. George may have seen or done something he shouldn’t and gone into hiding. Trust me, I’m going to do everything I can to uncover the truth.”

  “I trusted George—and now look at me.” She wiped her eyes again and put the handkerchief back in her bag. Then she stood up.

  Johnny got to his feet as well. “I’m sure he’d get in touch if he could.”

  Her hazel eyes, now bloodshot, searched his face for clues but found none.

  “Thank you for seeing me. PC Turner said if anyone could help, you could.”

  He was flattered by the recommendation. He wondered how much she had told Matt, and what he’d made of her story. It remained to be seen how he would take the news of Aitken’s death.

  “Is there somewhere I can call you?” He retrieved his notebook from his pocket.

  “We’re not allowed to receive calls at work, but there’s a telephone in the nurse’s home.”

  “The one in Little Britain? I think I have the number somewhere.”

  “I bet you do—but this will save you time.” She took the pencil and neatly inscribed her name and the number. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

  He watched her disappear through one of the three sets of double doors. He was not looking forward to the moment when he would have to break the bad news to her.

  SEVENTEEN

  Monday, 14th December, 7.30 p.m.

  “So why was there a bloody knife in your pocket then?” Stella’s emerald eyes sparkled with mischief. He could not stop staring into them.

  “I’d just killed someone who asked too many questions.”

  The conversation at the next table in L’Amuse Bouche resumed as the pair of bankers pretended not to be eavesdr
opping. You needed to be in a Savile Row suit to afford to dine in such an establishment, but Johnny was out to impress. Silver service joints, like this one in Walbrook, made him uncomfortable. Simkins would be right at home here. Johnny grinned when he thought how furious his rival would be when he learned that it was his gift for ventriloquy that had given Johnny his big breakthrough.

  “Do you ever give a serious answer?” She dabbed her full red lips with her napkin before taking another sip of wine.

  Daisy preferred to drink Mackeson stout and orange unless champagne was on offer—which it never was with Johnny. She hated foreign food too: “All that oily muck’s too fattening.” The thought of ramming Matt’s photograph down her throat made him smile. Although she did not know it yet, he had a date with Daisy later.

  “I’m at my most serious when being playful,” said Johnny. “There’s no great mystery with the knife. I’d just found it.”

  “Where?”

  “Passing Alley.”

  “And what were you doing down there at that time of the morning?”

  “Looking for a policeman.”

  “They’re never around when you need one.”

  Johnny leaned forward. Stella did the same. She really was beautiful: almond eyes, slender nose, unusually white teeth. No wonder her father had fixed him with a glare—the kind that meant keep your hands off!—when he picked her up.

  “My best friend works at Snow Hill. I was waiting till he came on duty so that I could hand it over,” said Johnny. “I wanted him to get the credit.”

  He had called the station to tell Matt about Aitken but had yet to receive a reply to his necessarily cryptic message.

  “What’s his name?” asked Stella, sitting back and checking automatically that the cameo brooch, borrowed from her mother, was still pinned to her royal blue dress. It showed off her creamy skin to perfection.

  “Matt Turner.”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell—which is a good sign. Our family doesn’t have too high an opinion of the Snow Hill mob.”