Unable to prove his suspicions, Simkins was afraid to ask more questions. The inspector was too good a source to alienate. The promise of photographs that would compromise his father’s beloved Tory party was enough to force even him to have the patience of a saint. However, that did not mean he would stop sniffing around.
Could Steadman’s death have been connected to the photographs? Had he found out about them? Had Rotherforth killed him to stop them falling into his hands? If that were the case, why kill Joseph Moss as well?
Rotherforth, sounding uncharacteristically flustered, had banned him from Zick’s bordello: If you ever show your face there again, I can guarantee you’ll see never your precious pictures.
What Simkins needed now was a stooge, someone who would do his dirty work for him and take the rap if discovered—but who? It would come to him.
He held his nose and sank under the expensively perfumed water, his long hair spreading out like the tendrils of an exotic plant.
Bill Fox had followed his usual Sunday routine: a walk along the canal to Kensal Green Cemetery to place flowers on his wife’s grave—the gasometers sinking as a million roasts cooked slowly in the oven—then back home to a cheese and piccalilli sandwich and the afternoon spent reading all the newspapers.
Rotherforth had told him—no, ordered him—to stop nosing around. The bookshop fire had been investigated thoroughly. Johnny’s death was a tragic accident, nothing more.
He had no choice but to believe him. He was going to miss the extra cash when he retired. Besides, he had no wish to spend what time he had left in prison.
The bottle of Scotch was almost empty. The open book of naked youths slipped off his lap.
Tom Vinson had his own copy of the photograph that lay hidden under a bridal bouquet in Devonia Road. He did not need to look at it: every detail was etched into his brain.
Matt had a beautiful body. He was the embodiment of perfection. Just the memory of those miraculous minutes when they were alone together—moments he had longed for and never dreamed would come true—still made him hard.
He didn’t care that Matt thought people like him were sick, a disgrace to humanity. Matt was his ideal man; he really did worship the ground he walked on.
In this respect he was by no means alone. Although he flushed with anger at the memory of his idol’s defilement, he knew that if it hadn’t been for Rotherforth, his abiding fantasy of making love to Matt would never have become a reality.
Still he hated Rotherforth more than any man alive. The humiliation he had felt when his abuser, sensing his enjoyment, had immediately withdrawn, never to touch him again, still stung.
His efforts to do the right thing had ended disastrously. Images of the dead flashed through his mind: Aitken, looking over his shoulder in the showers, soap suds snaking down his spine into the cleft of his buttocks; Harry, his arm round Jo’s shoulders, happiness radiating off them; Charlie, rejected by the father he loved, putting a brave face on his pain. All of them killed by Rotherforth.
And now Matt was in mortal danger. Rotherforth’s attempt at blackmail had already failed, and though he might think he could buy anyone, where Matt was concerned bribery would never work.
Matt had only one hope. And he wasn’t about to let him down.
Whatever it took, he was going to protect him.
TWENTY-SIX
Monday, 21st December, 2.25 p.m.
Lizzie’s feet were aching. It was strange: they seemed less resilient after a day of rest. Gamage’s, with just three days to go before Christmas, was heaving. The aisles were so crowded she had retreated behind the counter. Besides, she had no time to spray passers-by with scent. She was too busy helping clueless husbands, excited children and bored ladies who lunched.
A whiff of sandalwood made her look up: the gentleman was in the wrong department if he was looking to buy cologne.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Turner.”
“Good afternoon, sir. Have we met?”
“Very briefly. At the funeral on Friday—Henry Simkins.” The reporter held out his hand. Lizzie shook it.
“Of course. Forgive me.”
“Did Johnny ever talk about his work?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
She studied him. Yes, he had been at the cemetery.
A customer tapped a coin on the glass-topped counter. “Excuse me…”
Simkins sniffed the various perfumes on display while Lizzie attended to the old woman who wanted something nice for her niece.
“Sorry about that.” Lizzie smiled thinly. “I really haven’t got the time to stand and reminisce.” She remembered how Johnny had raged against his amoral rival.
“I can see that,” said Simkins, oozing what she presumed he thought was charm. “However, I’m sure you’d like to see his killer brought to justice.”
Lizzie frowned. “What are you talking about? His killer died in the fire.”
“It seems not.” Simkins nodded gravely. “Another man was seen leaving the bookshop shortly before the fire began.”
“How do you know? Have you told the authorities? My husband is a policeman and he hasn’t said anything about another suspect.”
“The police are aware of the situation. Has your husband told you what kind of shop it was?” Simkins raised his immaculate eyebrows. He could see that his guess had been correct: she was in the dark.
“It was a bookshop.”
“Indeed. However, it sold books of a specific kind. Books with pictures of naked men in them. And as for what was sold under the counter…”
A blush spread across her cheeks. It made her even more attractive.
“Johnny wasn’t interested in that kind of thing.” He was really beginning to annoy her now.
“I’m not suggesting he was.” Simkins looked straight into Lizzie’s eyes. “Which begs the question: what was he doing there?”
“I’ve no idea. Investigating a story, as likely as not.”
“Snap!” Simkins sounded like a teacher who had just made a particularly dim pupil see the light. “My thoughts entirely. Wouldn’t you like that story—the story Johnny gave his life for—to be published?”
“And for you to take all the credit?”
“Of course not. That would be impossible now that Johnny is part of the story.”
Lizzie excused herself once more while she saw to another customer. Why had this snake come hissing round her?
“Why me?”
“I’m sorry?” Simkins pretended to be puzzled.
“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Lizzie. “It isn’t going to bring Johnny back and, truth be told, the idea that his killer might still be at large is unsettling.”
“I thought you might ask your husband why the police seem to be doing nothing to find this other man. At the very least they should interview him. Your husband might have heard something while he’s been out and about. After all, he and Johnny were bosom buddies, weren’t they? I’m sure he must be making investigations of his own…”
So that was it: he had got nowhere through official channels and was consequently trying a different approach.
“Yes, they were—ever since they were toddlers.” She fought back tears. She was relieved that she finally knew what the reporter wanted—but the thought that someone had so far got away with murder was shocking. “Very well, I’ll ask my husband this evening.” She would be interested to hear what Matt said, but she had no intention of passing on any information to this muck-raker.
“I’d be most obliged.” Simkins produced his business card with an unnecessary flourish. Lizzie slipped it into a pocket of her uniform. “One more thing: last Monday I saw Johnny coming out of an establishment in Honey Lane. I believe it was number six. An establishment for gentlemen who have special tastes—tastes shared by the bookshop’s clientele. I believe both establishments are—or rather, were—owned by the same people.” He smiled at her confusion. “I’ll bid you good-day.” He touched the brim of his hat
and sashayed out of the store.
Lizzie watched him in astonishment. In one minute he had turned her world upside down.
Johnny’s killer was still at liberty. Why had Matt not told her? Surely he knew? This would explain why he had become so withdrawn. Perhaps he was trying to solve the case himself, against the orders of his superiors and without their knowledge.
But why had the odious Simkins not approached Matt himself? Reporters were supposed to ask awkward questions.
And then it hit her: the photograph must have come from the bookshop or at the very least have some connection with it.
Well, she could not go there now—but she could visit the place in Honey Lane. Those sort of men would hardly pose a threat to her.
The call finally came at a quarter to four.
“It’s me,” said Vinson when Johnny, summoned by the butler, ran to the kiosk under the stairs and, having made sure the door was closed, picked up the receiver.
“Who else would it be? You’re the only person who knows James Danton is here.” Johnny was not good at waiting. He had started writing the story of the four murders but found it impossible to concentrate. Not knowing, not being able to do anything, was exhausting.
“Don’t get shirty with me, sunshine.”
“I’m not your sunshine,” said Johnny.
“What a difference a day makes,” said Vinson drily. “So much for gratitude.”
Johnny sighed. He would never be allowed to forget the events of Saturday evening. Though he had tried to put them out of his head, he was reminded of them each time he sat down.
“Just get to the point.”
“Meet me outside the Globe tonight at quarter to twelve.”
“On the corner of Hosier Lane, yes?”
“Correct.”
“And…?”
“That’s it. I’ll give you the details when I see you.”
“Oh, come on!” Johnny snorted with impatience. “You can tell me more than that. What has Rotherforth arranged? What has Matt done? How is he? Hello…? Hello…?”
The line was dead.
Matt finished putting on his uniform and, glancing at the photo of Lizzie stuck on the back of the door, closed his locker.
“God knows what she saw in you!” Watkiss, passing by, slapped him on the back.
One by one his colleagues left, taking their banter with them, until the room itself seemed to issue a sigh of relief. The air was humid from the showers in the adjoining bathroom and smelled slightly of sweat.
He sat down on the bench, glad to take the weight off his feet, bracing himself for the conversation—and probable confrontation—that he had been putting off for days.
Matt was nearing the point of exhaustion. His original nightmare of agonised paralysis and blinding light had been joined by another in which he could only stand and watch as Johnny was consumed by the flames.
He blamed himself for Johnny’s death. When there was no one else he could turn to, he had gone to Johnny for help. The fact that Johnny had been pleased to be asked—had been glad of the chance to pay him back for all the times Matt had helped him—was no consolation. Johnny could never see that, in their own ways, they were as strong as each other. He wished he could swap some of his brawn for a few of Johnny’s little grey cells. The sergeant’s exams were only a month away.
And how had he repaid his friend’s help? By threatening to frame him for murder. All because that second photograph had arrived, with a threat that the next one would go to Lizzie.
Matt knew the pictures were connected to his nightmares. He had to accept that, one way or another, he had been molested. It was in everybody’s interest—especially his own—that the truth about them never come out. He loved his job and he was not going to let a couple of perverts—there had to be more than one, because someone had to have taken the photo—ruin his chances of promotion. All his life he had wanted to be a cop; it wasn’t just a question of following in his father’s footsteps—it was who he was, it was everything he cared about. Apart from Lizzie.
Lizzie. Sweet Lizzie. He had almost let the cat out of the bag yesterday. The temptation to come clean had been almost overwhelming. But there was the baby to think of now. The idea of being a father made his heart swell. For some reason he was convinced that it would be a girl. Whatever happened, his duty now was to look after his pregnant wife; he couldn’t risk jeopardising her well-being—they had already lost one baby. And they’d come close to losing this one; when he had to break the news of Johnny’s death to Lizzie, he’d been convinced that history was about to repeat itself.
Johnny’s murder had hit them both hard. But in Matt’s case it was not just the loss he had to deal with but a sense of having betrayed his friend. He had refused to listen to Johnny’s theory about a dead cop because dead cops did not make phone calls. It wasn’t until Harry Gogg’s deranged lover had murdered Johnny that Matt finally took the trouble to question the morgue attendant. Only then did he discover that his friend had been right all along: George Aitken was already dead when he took the phone call from someone claiming to be George. That call could only have been made by the person responsible for Aitken’s death: which meant that the killer—who had reached him on an internal line—had to be on the inside.
Footsteps interrupted his train of thought. Here he came, whistling that bloody tune again. It was time to wipe the smirk off his face.
Vinson entered the changing room and went to over to his locker. Matt, standing round the corner, pressed himself against the cracked, white tiles and watched as he took off his uniform and put on his own clothes. A birthmark on his lower back made Matt flush with rage but he did not move.
Instead of just checking that his hair was okay, Vinson stood in front of the mirror and combed the jet black strands over and over again. He should have suspected him long ago. Such behaviour was not normal in a man.
Matt stepped into view. Vinson jumped.
“Oh, hello. I thought was alone.”
“Obviously,” said Matt. “Got a date?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Vinson met his eyes in the mirror. “Why d’you ask?”
Matt ignored the question. “Would it be in Honey Lane by any chance?”
Vinson turned to face him.
“Certainly not. Why would I be going there?”
“I heard you were a friend of Zick.”
Vinson laughed, a little too loudly. “Whoever told you that?”
“Never you mind.”
Vinson went over to a bench and sat down. “What’s up, Matt? Why the interrogation? I thought we were friends.”
“So did I.” Matt could tell that Vinson had expected him to join him but he stayed where he was. The discrepancy in height only made Vinson more nervous. He stood up again.
“I’ve always been on your side.”
“Then what were you doing in a male brothel on Saturday night?”
“That’s an odd question,” said Vinson. “What makes you think I was there? Were you there—and if so, what’s your excuse?”
“I was trying to find the killers of Harry Gogg and George Aitken. You?”
“Saving someone’s life.”
“Whose?” Matt’s contemptuous tone made it quite plain that he did not believe his colleague.
“It’s none of your business. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. We all have to rely on the discretion of others occasionally, don’t we?”
“Is that a threat?” Matt stepped towards him.
“Not at all.” Vinson swallowed. “Matt, believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Then tell me what you were doing in Honey Lane!”
“I can’t. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow but not now. Look, I have to go.”
Matt sat down, alone once more. There was no doubt: he had seen Vinson’s birthmark, which resembled an ink blot, before: on the kneeling man who was greedily fellating him in the second picture. Yet he had not even been able to broach th
e subject.
Zick had recognised him from somewhere—Perhaps I’ve seen you in a photograph…—but refused to elaborate until he had wrapped his fingers round her neck. Her henchman had been useless: one blow to his fat belly had seen him collapse like a burst balloon.
The thought of Vinson’s wet lips around his cock made Matt feel sick. Vinson was involved in blackmail and at least one sexual assault. He was unfit to be a cop. The problem was how to expose this without using the pictures as evidence. He did not want the world to know that he had been taken advantage of. Furthermore, Vinson had to be in league with someone else. Alas, Zick had proved much tougher than expected. The madam had clammed up and refused to name anyone apart from his erstwhile friend. Stupid bravery or sheer terror? Matt could not decide. Whatever the reason, he had been unable to extract any more information before the repulsive creature blacked out.
What should he do next? Inspector Rotherforth would know.
The afternoon dragged on as she wrapped the overpriced little boxes that would be ripped open in four days’ time. As soon as the hands of the clock stood to attention at 6 p.m. she scurried to the staff quarters, slipped on her coat and stamped her card. Once outside she zigzagged through the foot-traffic to the kerb and hailed a yellow taxi-cab. This was no time to watch the pennies. She explained her intentions to the flat-capped driver and sat back to enjoy the ride. Matt regarded taxis as an unnecessary extravagance but, before they had got married, she had taken them all the time.
She retrieved the photograph from its hiding place in Devonia Road—fortunately Matt was on duty till midnight—and placed the envelope in her handbag. The waiting cab then set off for Honey Lane. Butterflies started fluttering in her stomach. What was she going to do when she got there? Something would come to her. A bunch of fairies did not frighten her.
The cab picked up speed once it had negotiated the Angel which, as usual, was clogged with trams, buses, vans and carts—and their vociferous, gesticulating drivers. It rattled down St John Street, went round the Central Markets of Smithfield, past Bart’s and paused at the end of Giltspur Street. Her husband was probably patrolling his beat but he might equally well be just yards away round the corner. The thought of what he had been through brought tears to her eyes. She admonished herself for being silly—he was a big, brave man—and rested her hands on the new life growing inside her.
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