Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re as bent as you can get.” She lowered her voice. “When my father refused to contribute to the local police benevolent fund, he was threatened with the loss of his licence. A week later he was beaten up by a couple of heavies just after closing time. After that he started to pay up. Now one or other of them comes round every Friday to collect—and knock back a double malt.”

  “Well, I’m sure Matt isn’t one of them.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, blond, massive shoulders. He’s a talented boxer, but only violent in the ring. You couldn’t wish for a better mate.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen him. I’ll certainly keep an eye out for him now though.” She winked.

  “He’s married to a wonderful woman called Lizzie.” He paused and took a swig of Chablis, larger than intended. It went down the wrong way. Trying to stop the coughing only made it worse. Tears sprang to his eyes. Stella got up and slapped him on the back.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks.” His breathing slowly returned to normal. He wiped his eyes with his napkin.

  “The tears usually come after I’ve said ‘no’.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He sighed. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Haven’t met the right chap—although plenty have asked. Besides, I’m only twenty and don’t intend to pull pints for the rest of my life. I’m taking a secretarial course as well. I’d rather be behind a desk than a bar. What about you?”

  “Same as you.”

  “Haven’t met the right chap?”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Very droll.” Johnny tried not to show he was hurt. That damn kiss in the alleyway had raised all sorts of difficult questions—most of which he had no intention of answering.

  “It’s not true, though, is it?” Stella stared at him. “I know heartbreak when I see it.”

  “I know you’ll break mine if I let you.” For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Johnny was the first to look away. “You’re right. There was someone, but she chose another bloke. I’ve been on my own since then.”

  It was not a real lie: he and Daisy had never been together. Their relationship, to dignify it with a word it did not deserve, was a meeting of bodies, not minds.

  “You’ll get over it,” said Stella. “Men always do. You must come across plenty of available girls in your line of work.”

  “It depends what you mean by available.”

  “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. People are so desperate to handcuff themselves to each other. I call it holy padlock.” She sighed. “I wish I lived by myself, had only myself to please, had no one to answer to except my conscience.”

  “It’s reassuring to know you have one,” said Johnny. “Harry Gogg’s killer clearly hasn’t. How anyone could do what they did…I presume you heard about it—or even read my exclusive report.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Ma showed me the News on Friday and said you’d been asking after Harry. The whole market’s been talking about nothing else. That’s why I asked you about the knife.”

  “It was used in his murder.”

  “I thought he’d been found hanging,” said Stella.

  “He was,” said Johnny. “On a meat hook.” He added in a whisper: “His crown jewels were in his mouth.”

  “Ugh!” The bankers turned to look at her as she involuntarily raised her voice. She had another sip of wine. “I was always glad to see him in the Cock. He was a sweet lad, full of juicy gossip—that’s why he was so useful to the cops. They would send him into the underground conveniences opposite Bart’s, wait a few minutes, call Harry’s name and then hammer on the appropriate cubicle door. The culprit would do anything—pay anything—to be let off. Nicking perverts is a useful way of boosting the arrest figures—the same jar of Vaseline has been used as evidence in a hundred cases—but sometimes, just for a laugh, they would chuck a paper bag filled with water into the cubicle. Harry and his client would come out soaking. There was nothing Harry could do. He was terrified of being arrested too.”

  Johnny helped Stella into her coat. Her cheeks were still flushed from the alcohol-soaked crepes suzettes. As they turned into Bucklersbury she slipped her arm through his.

  “Thank you. It was a wonderful meal. I don’t get to eat in such places that often.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Johnny.

  They turned into Cheapside. The only living creature in view was a skinny stray—a cross between a greyhound and a Dalmatian? It began slowly wagging its tail, in hope rather than expectation. Johnny stopped to stroke it but as soon as it realised that he had nothing on him that it could eat the rejected pet trotted on. Sometimes it seemed the whole world was hungry.

  Johnny, with Stella by his side, was walking on air. He was in no way disappointed that the evening was ending with a walk back to Smithfield. He had known that she was not the kind of girl to put out on a first date but had still worn his lucky green tie—surely enough to win him a goodnight kiss. Just the thought of it was enough to warm him.

  High above them, the golden dragon atop the steeple of St Mary-Le-Bow, its wings outstretched, swung round to face the freshening northerly.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday, 15th December, 7.40 a.m.

  Just five more minutes. Johnny turned over, revelling in the warmth of his bed, reluctant to brave the glacial bathroom. There were still traces of Daisy’s make-up on the other pillow. He must do some laundry at the weekend. Stella would not have been impressed—had she agreed to come home with him.

  Although aroused, he had not been stupid enough to ask.

  They’d arrived back at the Cock just as her father was booting out the last of the boozers. Stella had pulled him into the shadows and treated him to a long, lingering kiss that took his breath away.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” she said. Johnny could not believe his ears. She was so out of his league. What did she want? Bill’s cynicism was contagious.

  “I’ve been hoping you would all evening. Can I see you again?”

  “Of course. Call me.” She seemed to find his boyish eagerness endearing. “And let me know what you find out. Sweet dreams.”

  “All right, love? Have a good time did yer?” Her father’s voice was followed by the sound of the door being bolted behind her.

  For a moment, Johnny stared at the door. Should he try and pump the publican for information about his beating and Snow Hill? There was no time. Besides, he did not want to get on the wrong side of him—or his daughter. He ran for the last tram to Camden Town.

  Daisy’s digs were in a dead-end off the High Street. Her landlady, a typical theatrical battle-axe, locked the front door at midnight: I run a respectable establishment was the widow’s constant refrain. Gentlemen callers, no matter what the time of day, were frowned upon and never, ever, admitted. She liked to think of herself as a mother hen, clucking and caring for her clutch of young actresses and dancers, vulnerable girls at the mercy of hard and unforgiving businessmen. On the one occasion that he had met her—seeing Daisy home after another expensive date—Johnny could tell Mrs Osgood was nothing of the sort. She was simply a money-grubbing old cow.

  He stared up at the narrow terraced house. Its soot-encrusted stucco gave it the appearance of a mouldy wedding cake. The hall-light was on but the rest of the building was in darkness. Johnny quickly and quietly went down the area steps and stood against the basement door. He would not have long to wait.

  The cold soon seeped through the soles of his shoes and into his bones. Fighting the urge to light a cigarette—it might give him away—Johnny strained his ears. A whistle shrieked as the last sleeper train of the night from Euston began the long, slow climb north.

  The short cul-de-sac was lit by a single gas-light fixed to the wall at the end of the street. A pair of boots suddenly appeared through the area railings. Johnny looked up. They belonged to a policeman.

  “Get yours
elf up here now.” Johnny had no choice. Feeling foolish, he joined the cop on the pavement.

  “Good evening, officer.”

  “Name?” The fresh-faced constable—who looked about the same age as he was—shone a red torch into his eyes.

  “John Steadman.”

  “Done this kind of thing before?”

  “What kind of thing? I was waiting for my girlfriend.”

  “Peeping Toms always say that.”

  Johnny bridled. “What exactly am I supposed to have been peeping at? I was facing the street, not the window—which, if you care to look, is shuttered.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” said the man from the Met, producing a notebook from his greatcoat. “You were acting suspiciously. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you.”

  Johnny could feel his temper rising with his heart rate. He had to stay calm. The last thing he needed was for Daisy to find him in this position. A face appeared at a first-floor window.

  “I beg your pardon. No offence intended. Honestly, I was doing nothing wrong. I’m a journalist.” He handed over his press card. This was a risky move. Most coppers distrusted reporters. “My best friend is a City cop.”

  “Where’s he stationed?”

  “Snow Hill.” Both men turned at the sound of footsteps. Johnny’s armpits began to prickle. So much for ambushing the minx.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Johnny could see she had been drinking. Her powdered cheeks were flushed and her kohl-rimmed eyes were shining. However, the expected barrage of insults did not come. Daisy looked scared rather than angry. Of course: she thought that he and the cop were waiting for her! After all, she had stolen something from him.

  “Waiting for you. What else?” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. Fortunately, she did not shove him away. If she had screamed Get off me you pervert, or words to that effect, he would have been in real trouble.

  “Do you know this man?” The PC stepped towards them.

  Johnny, seizing his chance, put his arm round Daisy’s waist as if to reassure her. When she glanced at him in alarm he winked. He was beginning to enjoy the situation.

  “Yes, yes, I do,” said Daisy, trying unsuccessfully to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Johnny Steadman.”

  “He says you’re his girlfriend. Is that true?”

  She looked at Johnny, confusion and fear flitting across her face. He smiled encouragingly.

  “Yes, officer. I am.”

  “Very well then. I’ll leave you two alone.” He handed back the press card to Johnny. “Careful how you go.” He held Johnny’s gaze for a moment too long—as if to say you don’t fool me—and resumed his beat. They watched him in silence until he turned into the High Street.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” She shoved off his arm.

  “I need it back.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me. Or are you saying you stole more than one item?”

  She sneered at him.

  “Couldn’t face me by yourself? Needed a big man to hold your hand? I told you to stay away from me.”

  “I could have had you arrested.”

  “Oh, yeah? What for?” She had thought it through now. “If your friend in blue had found anything, you’d have been arrested for possessing indecent material. I’d have said it was yours—which it is. You could have left it in my room to frame me.”

  “Except men aren’t allowed in this flop-house, are they?” He was beginning to lose his temper. The explosive combination of alcohol and tiredness was taking its toll. “Don’t try to out-think me. You’re just a pretty face. Give me the photograph and I’ll be gone.”

  “What’s going on?” The landlady, wrapped in a thick woollen dressing gown, stood on the top step, light—but not heat—streaming out behind her. Her head, covered in curlers, looked like a frightened hedgehog.

  “Nothing, Mrs Osgood. I won’t be long,” said Daisy.

  “I should hope not. Two minutes and this door will be bolted.” She went back inside.

  Daisy made as if to follow. Johnny grabbed her arm.

  “Let go of me, you little queer. I haven’t got your precious photograph.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I burned it. I was afraid she’d find it.” Daisy nodded towards the doorway, which, instead of causing her spirits to sink as usual, now held out the promise of safety.

  “You had no right! It didn’t belong to me. I was looking after it for someone.”

  “Who? Your boyfriend?”

  Church bells began to chime the end of the day. If the front door of number six had not opened again he would have slapped her. Daisy ran up the steps. Mrs Osgood, choosing not to say good night, merely sniffed in his direction and shut the door. He heard the key turn in the lock and the bolts slide into their brackets. There was nothing more he could do. He had a long walk ahead of him.

  As Johnny trudged back to Islington, Daisy sat on her single unmade bed with its stained and sagging mattress.

  She had not burned the photograph.

  The naked man in the foreground was a real dreamboat. She had recognised him straightaway. She had danced with him once, while Johnny was mooning over his wife.

  It had taken a while for her to remember the woman’s name, but she knew where she lived, if not the number of the house: Devonia Street, round the corner from Johnny’s place. She was sure the GPO would have little difficulty in ascertaining the full address.

  It was about time Lizzie Turner got to know Matt and Johnny’s dirty secret.

  His fury had worn off by the time he closed the front door of his cold, dark house.

  He was not queer. He did not care what Daisy thought—he would never see the hard-nosed floozie again if he could help it—but the idea that anybody could think he was unsettled him.

  It was at times like this that he missed his mother most—not that he could have discussed such a subject with her. Having lost a father he had hardly known, it was inevitable that he had become closer, perhaps too close, to his remaining parent. Stella did not realise how fortunate she was to be the centre of a loving family.

  Worse than losing the one piece of evidence that Matt was being blackmailed was the knowledge that he had accidentally betrayed his friend’s trust. And there was no one he could talk to: Matt was the only one he could share such secrets with.

  It seemed his head had barely hit the pillow when he was awoken by the sound of someone hammering on the door.

  Whoever it was kept on hammering until Johnny had pulled on his dressing gown, hurried down the stairs—who the hell could it be at this unsocial hour?—and opened it.

  “Matt!”

  He did not wait to be invited in.

  “You idle so-and-so. Glad to see you’re taking things easy while on special assignment. It’s good to know that someone’s sleeping well.”

  “I had a late night,” said Johnny, judging from the thunderous look on Matt’s face that now was not the moment to tell him about Stella. “Still having nightmares?” Matt nodded. “Let me find my slippers and I’ll make us some tea. As it happens, I was going to come and see you today. I’ve loads to tell you.”

  “Save your breath,” said Matt. “I’ve just received another picture—posted to Devonia Street.”

  Once he had filled the kettle and left the lit oven open to warm the kitchen, Johnny sat down at the table opposite his seething friend.

  “Let’s see it then.”

  “No,” said Matt. “There was a message on the back: Tell your friend to stop sticking his nose where it’s not wanted—or Lizzie gets the next one.”

  “It’s just as well she’s not the sort of wife who opens her husband’s letters,” said Johnny.

  “Well, I wouldn’t open anything addressed to her,” said Matt. “Besides, she’d get in a right tizzy if I did.”

  “True.” Johnny stifled a yaw
n. “You realise this proves I must be getting somewhere.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Matt thumped the table. “Will you pay attention: you’ve got to stop digging around.”

  For a moment Johnny thought he was going to thump him as well. He forced his sleepy brain into action. He had to tell Matt what he’d learned, but there was no need yet to say who from. He was sure the terrified Percy was holding something back, and he knew he’d never get it out of him if the police started asking questions.

  “Matt, I’m convinced a cop has been killed. You haven’t seen George Aitken—only spoken to someone impersonating him. And guess who took the body to Bart’s with Gogg: your mate Vinson.”

  A look of confusion crossed Matt’s face—there was no doubt Johnny had managed to surprise him—but he refused to be distracted.

  “That’s as maybe,” said Matt. “Nevertheless, you have got to stop snooping round the station.”

  “Why send Lilian Voss to see me then?”

  “Ah. She’s already been to see you, has she?”

  “Yesterday evening. She’s at her wit’s end. No one at Snow Hill will tell her where George Aitken is, and it can’t be a coincidence that the original tip-off came from there.”

  “How d’you know?”

  Matt, scrubbed and in uniform, studied him. Johnny, hair tousled and with sleep still in his eyes, felt self-consciously grubby.

  “I spoke to the messenger boy who collected it from the desk sergeant last Monday. He just happens to be a part-time whore who works at Zick’s place—as did Harry Gogg.”

  Matt seemed uninterested in these revelations. Had he known all this already? Johnny got up to fill the teapot.

  “I hadn’t received this new picture when I saw Miss Voss. It changes everything. Perhaps it was sent because I spoke to her.” He scratched the side of his head—a sure sign that he was agitated. “Promise me you’ll kill the story. It’s not just my career on the line.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “We have a prime suspect for Gogg’s murder. He was seen leaving the cold-store in Green Hill’s Rents on the night in question. And the same person was seen in and around Smithfield asking after Gogg the previous day. He left his hat behind. We have the murder weapon—a butcher’s knife…”