Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “It was a risk worth taking. If Matt had arrived sooner and seen Rotherforth entering the cold-store, he might have been able to save Harry as well as you.”

  “Okay.” It was a valid point. “When did you realise I was following you?”

  “In the alley. It was a strange moment. I was going to see that Matt found the knife, but then I recognised your scent.”

  “I don’t wear scent!”

  “I know you don’t, but everyone has a scent unique to them. Yours is a mixture of soap, sweat and something else. It reminded me of freshly baked bread. It’s nice. I decided to leave the knife with you.” He met Johnny’s gaze. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  Johnny remained silent.

  Vinson gave a sorrowful shake of his head. He produced a white envelope from his greatcoat and gave it to him. “Here you are.”

  Johnny moved into the moonlight. It was a photograph of a football team. Vinson pointed to the boy holding the ball. He was tall, narrow-shouldered but by no means weedy. His curly hair softened his chiselled features. A big grin lit up his face.

  “Charlie was the leading goal-scorer that season,” said Vinson. “He represented St Mary’s in Stoke Newington. The local rag ran a picture when they beat a team from Tottenham in a really rough derby. There wasn’t much turning of the other cheek.”

  “Thank you.” Johnny could still hear the boy’s scream as he fell to his fiery death. “Have you told his father?”

  “The bastard didn’t shed a single tear. He’s apparently very grateful to you for arranging the burial. You saved him a lot of money.”

  “And that’s all he said?”

  “Yes, apart from good riddance.”

  Johnny’s blood ran cold.

  “And Rotherforth?”

  “He just shrugged and said something like only another few thousand to go.”

  Johnny could not think of a suitable response.

  Vinson shivered. “Come on. Matt’s already there.”

  “And where is ‘there’?” asked Johnny as they tramped past the Watch House—once a defence against resurrection men—in Giltspur Street. The snow, blue in the moonlight, was a foot-deep in places.

  “Here,” said Vinson, stopping at the mouth of an alley which ran alongside the Bluecoat School where the poet Charles Lamb had once been a pupil. “Rotherforth sent a message to Matt telling him to be at the foot of St Sepulchre’s bell-tower at midnight.”

  Johnny stared down the passage into the darkness. It was a good place for an ambush. He hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” said Vinson. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  The church did not have much in the way of a graveyard. Its original one, south of Cowcross Street, had long since been built over. A barnlike structure, with no division between nave and chancel, it was nevertheless known to generations of children. The great bell in its tower was rung each time prisoners began their final journey from Newgate to Tyburn. The night before, a handbell, still on display in the church, was rung outside the condemned man’s cell. These were the “bells of Old Bailey” in the nursery rhyme.

  The priest, who entered the gaol via a tunnel which ran from the crypt, would recite the following verse as he rang the handbell:

  All you that in the condemned hole do lie,

  Prepare you for tomorrow you shall die,

  Watch all and pray; the hour is drawing near

  That you before the Almighty must appear.

  Examine well yourselves, in time repent,

  That you may not to eternal flames be sent,

  And when St Sepulchre’s bell in the morning tolls

  The Lord have mercy on your souls.

  The few square yards at the foot of the tower had been given the grand name of Snow Hill Court; a short passage connected it to Snow Hill itself. Two other alleys also led into it: one from Giltspur Street—down which Johnny and Vinson were making their way—and a longer, narrower snicket which wound past the rear of the Rolling Barrel. Anyone who turned down the latter soon found their progress blocked by a black door without a lock or handle. This door was a fire escape for those inside the police station.

  It slowly began to open.

  Matt, who had been standing anxiously in the shadows for five minutes, heard a noise from the alley leading to Giltspur Street. He tapped his night-stick against his leg. Nothing happened. Had he imagined it? Perhaps it was a cat—although most living things seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. He strained his ears —and thought he detected a sound coming from the other alley.

  Why had Rotherforth suggested they meet here rather than in the comfort of the station? He had promised to explain about Aitken’s death and Vinson’s role in it. He had also impressed upon him the need for absolute discretion. Matt supposed the inspector had his reasons. He was in no position—and had no authority—to question them.

  Johnny, forced to wait behind Vinson, was as impatient as ever, keen to see their mutual friend. He peered round the cop and into the courtyard which was sliced diagonally in half by the tower’s shadow. The contrast between the darkness and the moonlit snow was dazzling.

  Unable to stop shivering—nervous anticipation only made it worse—he stepped even closer to Vinson and tried to absorb some of his body-heat.

  Suddenly he heard Matt’s voice whisper, “Sir!”

  Rotherforth emerged into the yard and stood there for a moment in silence. What was he going to do?

  Vinson and Johnny, not daring to move, watched intently.

  Above them the great bell began to toll midnight. All over the city, church bells cut through the icy, crystalline air.

  The shortest day of the year—which in so many ways had been the longest—was ending.

  Rotherforth cleared his throat. “I’m not the man you think I am, Turner. However, I can assure you Aitken wasn’t murdered. His death was an accident. When Steadman found out about it I sent you those pretty pictures to make you stop him digging around. Alas, the plan backfired.”

  Matt, unable to comprehend his superior’s confession, simply stared at him.

  “But where did the photographs come from? How did I come to be in them?”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute—maybe. First you have a decision to make. Some people are prepared to pay a lot of money for such photographs—especially when they feature in them.”

  “You’re talking about blackmail.”

  “I prefer to call it punishing perverts. Whatever it is, it’s extremely lucrative. Couldn’t you and your wife, with a baby on the way, do with some extra cash? You’ll be paying a mortgage soon.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “No.”

  “Can you really afford to turn down hundreds of pounds? We’re branching out into moving pictures. One of my associates works at Gainsborough Studios. In the meantime, imagine the hoo-ha if your debut were to appear on the station notice-board.”

  “I’m a copper: I can’t just ignore blackmail and murder.”

  “And I can’t let you just walk away.” The two men stared at each other. “You’ll be sitting the sergeant’s exam next month. A good report from me will be essential.”

  “What makes you think you’ll still be in the job?

  “This—” Rotherforth pulled out a gun. It glinted in the moonlight.

  “If you’re planning to kill me too, you might as well tell me how you managed to photograph me in such a compromising position.”

  “Does it really matter?” The inspector’s voice took on an air of resignation. “Okay, I suppose I do owe you an explanation. Someone who had no choice took them for me. You were—what’s the word?—selected because you’re a fine figure of a man. I doped your cocoa one night when you were staying in the station.”

  “And Aitken?”

  “He wasn’t as strong as you. I overdid his dose. It was an accident. A stupid bloody accident.
Vinson and Gogg, acting under my orders, took the body to Bart’s.”

  Matt groaned, took a step forward but stopped dead when Rotherforth raised the gun.

  “That’s right. You just stay there and listen,” said the inspector. “I don’t expect you to understand. I never wanted it to come to this—believe me, I like you—but if you hadn’t rescued Steadman from the cold-store that would have been the end of the matter. Gogg should have known better than to blab. He deserved everything he got. As did Steadman—a persistent bugger, if ever there was one.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything,” said Matt, fighting back the rage, trying to keep his voice low and even. The temptation to shout abuse—if not cry for help—was almost irresistible.

  “Don’t tell lies, Turner. I saw you talking to him in the Viaduct.”

  “So what? I didn’t know about Aitken until Johnny came to me! Later on, I told him that Aitken had called me—which he obviously didn’t as he was already dead.”

  “I was surprised you didn’t recognise my voice.” Rotherforth smiled wolfishly.

  “Well,” said Matt, “there are a lot of Scots in London.”

  “Indeed. Though there’s one less now.” Rotherforth paused.

  It was a bit late to pretend he was sorry—but, thought Matt, the bastard was going to try anyway.

  “I really didn’t mean for Aitken to die, you know. It was an accident, I swear. I did my best to revive him. He was a lovely lad.” A catch crept into his voice. “I just couldn’t wake him up afterwards.”

  For a moment Matt thought Rotherforth was going to break down. He took another step. He so wanted to kill him.

  “Don’t move!” hissed the inspector. “Another inch and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Matt swallowed. “You said afterwards. After what?”

  “Christ, you can be a dumb ox,” said Rotherforth bitterly. “In a way, that’s what first attracted me to you. I couldn’t wait to have you.”

  The scales finally fell from Matt’s eyes. “You knocked me out so that you could sodomise me?”

  “What’s the problem?” said Rotherforth. “You survived, didn’t you? You’d never have known if you’d kept your mouth shut. I didn’t mean any harm.” If he could not persuade Turner then he would humiliate him. “All I did was enjoy your beefy arse. All the hours at the gym have certainly paid off. You should thank me. You were the best, Turner. Much better than Vinson. Mind you, he didn’t go round blabbing. He took it like a man.”

  “Like a man? What do you know about being a man?” Matt said with a sneer. “Real men don’t have sex with other men.”

  Rotherforth cocked his old service revolver. The click seemed incredibly loud.

  “You’re doing it again, Turner. Saying things you shouldn’t. I should never have given you a second chance. I should’ve killed you straight away.”

  “Why, though? You’re married. I don’t understand why you did it.”

  “Why not? I did it because I could. Because it felt right.”

  “You cunt.” Matt’s teeth—and fists—were clenched. “You won’t get away with this. I told PC Watkiss that I was meeting you. If anything happens to me, he’s got a letter for Superintendent Inskip.”

  A sad smile spread across Rotherforth’s face.

  “Bad choice, Turner. You might as well have written in invisible ink.”

  Matt had recovered from the initial shock. His racing mind was full of questions. “You’re bluffing—you’re not going to fool me again. That said, you can’t have done it all by yourself. Who helped you?”

  “PC Vinson, of course. He’s besotted with you. He was so grateful when I let him have his way with you. But then, you can see that just by looking at the pictures. I believe you’ve seen the one where he has his mouth full. There are dozens more like that. He’ll be most distressed when he sees your corpse.”

  “So you’re going to kill me after all?” Matt, ignoring the gun, stared straight at the murderer. All he had was his night-stick. His luck had finally run out.

  “’Fraid so,” said Rotherforth, and pulled the trigger.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The bullet hit Vinson in the chest, the force of it, at such close range, spinning him round. He crumpled like an empty paper bag.

  It took Matt a couple of seconds to realise that he was unscathed. He knelt down beside Vinson and raised him into a sitting position. The blood turned the snow black.

  The gunshot had been deafening in the close confines of the courtyard. Johnny’s ears were still ringing. It was so much louder than in the movies. He had been sure Matt was a goner. Vinson had come out of nowhere, moving with such speed that Johnny had not even had time to react—and neither had Rotherforth. He was still standing in the same spot, gun in hand.

  With a roar, Matt rushed the inspector. More out of annoyance than surprise, Rotherforth swatted him on the side of his head with the hot gun. Stunned, Matt collapsed beside Vinson on the ground.

  Vinson’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he coughed and blood gushed out of his mouth.

  “Don’t be silly,” muttered Matt. “You saved my life. Hang on. Someone’s bound to have heard the shot. Help will be here any minute.”

  “It’s too late,” said Vinson, grimacing. “Fuck, it hurts. I’ve nothing left to lose now…I love you, Matt. Always have, always will.”

  He did not say another word.

  “Very touching,” said Rotherforth. Wisps of smoke still curled from the gun. “On your feet, Turner. A gentleman doesn’t shoot a man when he’s down.”

  Matt, still dizzy, got up. His greatcoat was soaked with snow and Vinson’s blood.

  “Go on then, if you’re going to do it,” he said, flinging down his night-stick. “What are you waiting for? One more dead body isn’t going to make any difference. They can only hang you once.”

  “You’re the last one,” said Rotherforth grimly. “There’s no one else. If it’s any consolation, I meant it when I said you were the best.”

  “It isn’t,” said Matt and spat at him.

  The spittle landed bang in Rotherforth’s left eye. He did not even bother to wipe it away: he merely raised the Webley and aimed it at Matt’s head.

  Johnny felt as if his feet were rooted to the ground. Surely they’d have heard the shot from inside Snow Hill. Where was the sound of running footsteps and police whistles?

  But there was just a click as Rotherforth thumbed the hammer back on the gun.

  It was down to Johnny. He had to do something now.

  “Put the gun down, Rotherforth,” he shouted. “You’re surrounded. The whole world knows about your sexual depravity and the murders of George Aitken, Harry Gogg, Joseph Moss, Charles Timney and John Steadman. You’re a disgrace to that uniform. Your crimes will disgust all right-minded people.”

  Rotherforth, startled, turned and fired three shots into the darkness. Acrid smoke hung in the air.

  Matt dropped into a crouch and picked up his nightstick.

  Desperate to keep the gun from swinging back towards Matt, Johnny jeered,“Is that the best you can do?”

  Another shot whizzed past him. Johnny had ducked his head back round the corner just in time.

  “Give yourself up before anyone else is killed,” he shouted. “Aren’t you sick of death?”

  Raised voices could be heard in the distance. All three men turned to look in the direction of Snow Hill police station. They had woken up at last—and they were running this way.

  “Ah, fuck it,” said Rotherforth.

  And he pulled the trigger again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Blood and brain tissue spattered the wall of the church and stained the snow-covered ground. The sound of the shot ricocheted round the courtyard. For one astonishing moment he remained on his feet, then he toppled like a felled oak.

  The two on-lookers did not move. They had only seen people shot on the silver screen: real life was different. The inside of someone’s head was
a fascinatingly ugly sight.

  Matt, who had involuntarily shut his eyes when the gun went off, could not believe them now. Rotherforth had eaten his last bullet. The bullet he’d thought would end his life. He stared at the rapidly cooling corpse.

  The excited voices got louder as they came up the hill.

  “Matt! Come on!” Johnny stepped into the moonlight. Matt clutched his heart and stared at the black-haired double of his friend. Try as he might, he could not speak.

  “Snap out of it. I’m not a ghost!”

  Matt remained stock-still as Johnny embraced him joyfully.

  “See, it really is me!” Johnny said, tugging at his arm. “Come on, we have to get to Zick’s before word gets out Rotherforth is dead and the rest of the gang do a runner.”

  Matt, in a daze, followed Johnny down the alley to Giltspur Street. They broke into a run as policemen’s whistles began to shriek.

  The bodies had been found.

  The snow made it hard going but Johnny did not care as they skidded and slid alongside the massive walls of the Old Bailey. He was so glad to be reunited with Matt.

  He had felt like whooping when Rotherforth had topped himself—the bastard had had it coming for a long time—but now he was beginning to realise that the inspector had escaped justice once again. His death had been too quick and too painless.

  Johnny had been counting on Rotherforth being brought to trial. He’d wanted to see him in the dock, forced to explain why he had turned from enforcing the law to breaking it. Now they would probably never know.

  Though they didn’t know it, they were following the same route that Lizzie’s cab had taken hours earlier. There were few footprints on the pavements of Newgate Street. The snow, which had long since leaked into Johnny’s shoes, made his socks chafe.

  To begin with the two men said little; each was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Eventually Matt broke the silence: