Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  “Well, at least we know what—or rather who—caused my nightmares,” he said, attempting a jocular tone in an effort to hide his embarrassment. “It makes sense now. I’d kind of suspected as much, but was hoping against hope there’d be another explanation.”

  “There’s none so blind as those who will not see,” said Johnny. Did that sound like an accusation? It was not meant to be. “He did the same thing to me, more or less. God, it hurt.”

  “He did? When?”

  Johnny was touched by Matt’s concern.

  “I went back to Zick’s on Saturday to have another go at questioning Stan the messenger boy, but she saw through my disguise.”

  “She?”

  “The madam. She’s Rotherforth’s business partner.”

  “You mean ‘he’. Surely you knew Zick was a man?” Matt stopped in amazement. “Didn’t you notice the size of those hands? He used to work down the docks. Sometimes, Johnny, you’re so naïve.”

  “I had my mind on other things,” Johnny said huffily. At least the darkness hid his red face. Everybody must have assumed he had known all along and was just being polite. He did not like cross-dressing and found pantomime a bore.

  “Well, I’m sorry that Rotherforth got to you as well,” said Matt. “Now you know how I felt. One thing’s for certain: I’ll never drink cocoa again.”

  They laughed, too loudly, the noise echoing off the sleeping buildings in Cheapside. It was like old times: the two of them against the world, safe in each other’s company.

  “You’re not going to write about it, are you?” Matt looked down at the virgin snow.

  “There’s no need,” said Johnny. “I’ve got enough evidence that Rotherforth was a killer and a pornographer on the side without going into everything that happened. Some truths are best left untold. What about Superintendent Inskip, though?”

  “Without proof, there’s nothing we can do. I don’t like the idea of anyone being untouchable. I’ll try and keep tabs on him. The odds are he’ll slip up sooner or later.”

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Johnny as they turned into Honey Lane.

  “It’s simple,” said Matt. “I’m going to beat the crap out of Zick—and then arrest him for living off immoral earnings.”

  Johnny suddenly halted.

  “What is it?”

  “Simkins,” said Johnny. “He was outside when I got turfed down the stairs on my first visit. He never did say what he was doing here.”

  “Same as you, probably,” said Matt. “He came to your funeral. He’s not a bad fellow—for a hack. He claims to have alerted the fire brigade when the bookshop went up.”

  “Perhaps he was following me,” said Johnny. “Or just following the same clues. I was at the cemetery.”

  “You were?” Matt shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, causing all that grief.”

  “I’m sorry. I will, of course, reimburse you for the wreath. The fire was too good an opportunity to miss. I heard Rotherforth kill Joseph Moss, but there was someone else there as well—the son of the man who took the photographs. He was the one whose body they found and buried in my name.”

  “Shame it wasn’t the photographer himself.”

  “He’s called James Timney.”

  “Well, we’ll see what he has to say for himself.” Matt took off his helmet and scratched the side of his head. “I presume Rotherforth killed Harry Gogg as well.”

  “Indeed. You wouldn’t have really framed me, would you?”

  “Of course not,” said Matt. “I was going out of my mind at the thought of Lizzie being dragged into it all. I thought if I could just get you to back off, I’d be able to sniff around and do a bit of investigating on the quiet myself. Knowing how persistent you can be when you’re on the trail, I had to come up with something pretty drastic to make sure you took me seriously. I was just trying to protect you really.”

  “I know,” said Johnny. “But you’d saved my life at the cold-store and I was determined to unmask your blackmailer.”

  “Well, we’re quits now. As for Simkins, I wouldn’t worry about him. You know something that he doesn’t: you’re alive!”

  “So I am,” said Johnny. “I suppose he would look rather stupid if he blames Zick or Rotherforth for my demise.”

  “Zick will be able to tell you what Simkins knows. Rotherforth’s death may loosen his tongue—and if it doesn’t, we’ll loosen it for him. Okay, here we are—are you ready?”

  The house was in total darkness. Not a chink of light showed through its shutters and blinds. It was the dead of night: most law-abiding citizens—and many who were not—would be fast asleep at this hour.

  Matt hammered on the door but no one came. Johnny stepped forward and tried the knocker himself.

  “What?” asked Matt.

  “The sound,” said Johnny. “It’s different.”

  He knelt down to peep through the letter-box.

  “It’s blocked up!”

  Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you hear that cry for help?”

  “No,” said Johnny.

  Matt rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I did,” he said, and rammed his massive shoulder against the door. It hardly moved. “I could do with a little help here.”

  It took a while but eventually the pair of them, breathing heavily, managed to break into the brothel.

  “Zick clearly didn’t like unexpected visitors,” said Matt, wiping his brow.

  “We’re too late,” said Johnny. He stamped on the bare boards. There was no trace of the Turkey rug that had covered them.

  The chesterfield, wing-back armchairs and aspidistras had vanished from the parlour. The brocaded drapes had been taken down. The bedrooms on the first, second and third floors—where so many illicit liaisons had been enjoyed and recorded—were without their enseaméd beds.

  Johnny stared through the two-way mirrors in amazement. A window in the floor of a walk-in cupboard looked down on the bed where he and Stan had kissed. He hoped there were no pictures to prove it.

  The boys, the bouncer and the little mutt had all vanished, along with their boss.

  “The turd has flown,” said Johnny. “What do we do now?”

  A crash in the cellar startled both of them. They rushed down the stairs. All the doors were open except one. It was locked.

  “Stand back,” said Matt. It took just two kicks with his regulation boots for the lock to give way. He switched on the light. For a moment he stood frozen in horror.

  Johnny pushed past him. Lizzie was spread-eagled on a cross that was now lying on the floor. When she saw him she gave a muffled scream.

  “It’s all right. I’m not a ghost.” He knelt down, removed her gag and undid the straps that held her wrists and ankles.

  Matt swept her up in his arms and buried his face in her neck. Even though she had been through a painful ordeal—as her bruised face testified—it was her husband who was in tears.

  “Put me down, Matt. I’ve wet myself. Apart from that, I’m all right, honest. You know I like to stand on my own two feet.”

  But her legs were still too wobbly to support her, so Matt took most of her weight as she hobbled towards the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Are you mad—and in your condition? You could have been killed!” Matt’s distress manifested itself in fury.

  “I was trying to help!”

  “How did you even know about this place?”

  She produced a business card from her pocket. “He came to see me today.”

  “Henry Simkins!” Matt turned to Johnny, anger distorting his features.

  “Don’t look at me. I had nothing to do with this.”

  “He gave it to me this afternoon,” said Lizzie. “He said that Johnny’s killer was still at large and that he may have been killed because he was investigating this place. I thought a woman would be safe in a queer brothel.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” said Matt, relief suddenly replacing his
rage. “Why didn’t you tell me what you planned to do?”

  “You were at work. And I knew you’d stop me from interfering. Can’t we just go home?”

  “Not yet,” said Matt. “What happened here? Why did everyone clear out?”

  “I don’t know—I was locked up down here so I couldn’t tell what was going on. Suddenly there was a lot of running about and banging of doors and heavy things being moved. Then everything went quiet. It didn’t take them long to clear out,” said Lizzie. “They must be used to doing a bunk. They forgot all about me.”

  “I hate to think what would have happened if we hadn’t found you when we did.”

  “I heard your footsteps and, in a panic, the only thing I could think of doing was tipping the damn contraption over.”

  “It was a stroke of genius,” said Johnny. “How’s the baby?”

  “Fine, I think.”

  “We’ll let the doctors decide that,” said Matt firmly. “We’re going to Bart’s before we go home.”

  “I need to go to the office to write this up,” said Johnny. “It’ll take me the rest of the night. You don’t need to speak to Simkins immediately, do you, Matt?”

  “No. Relax. You can have your moment of glory. Remember what we talked about though.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll ensure both our reputations are enhanced. Why don’t you go and find a cab? It won’t be easy on a night like this. I’ll stay with Lizzie.”

  As soon as she heard Matt tramping up the stairs Lizzie opened her handbag and gave Johnny an envelope.

  “I was trying to find an explanation for this.” He recognised what was inside immediately. “I assume you’ve already seen something like it.”

  “Unfortunately I have,” said Johnny. “Matt was drugged by Rotherforth. He had no idea what was happening to him. The pictures were being used to blackmail him—but you must never let on you know. It’s all over now. Rotherforth has just shot himself.”

  “Oh! I went to him for help. He told me to burn it.”

  Johnny studied the envelope. “Is this what it came in?”

  “Yes. You recognise the handwriting?”

  “I’m afraid so. Remember Daisy, the chorus girl who claimed to be an actress?’

  “We only met the once.”

  “She found the photograph at my place—Matt had given it to me so that I could try to find out what was going on. Daisy jumped to the wrong conclusion and stormed out with it. She told me later that she had burned it. It looks as though sending it to you was her way of getting back at me—and Matt.”

  “I did notice she was most put out when he wasn’t bowled over by her cheap charms.”

  “Unlike me, you mean?”

  “You aim too low, Johnny, always have.”

  “Then how come I’m in love with you?”

  “You’re not. Not really. Once, perhaps—but not now. You needed me, especially when your mother was ill, but you have to let go of the past. You’re a good-looking, kind young man. It’s time you stopped behaving like a randy schoolboy and found yourself someone who actually meant something to you. You’ll always have a special place in my heart though.”

  Matt came clomping down the stairs. “Thank God for this uniform. You can drop us off at the hospital on your way to Fleet Street, Johnny.”

  THIRTY

  Tuesday, 22nd December, 7.35 a.m.

  Johnny was roused from his slumber by a well-aimed kick. He had been out cold beneath his desk.

  “I thought you were dead! What on earth have you done to your hair? Trying to copy my good looks?” Louis Dimeo stood over him grinning, his scrubbed skin glowing with health. The football fanatic was fitter than many of the sportsmen he wrote about.

  Johnny groaned and stiffly clambered back into his chair.

  “The report of my death was an exaggeration—as Mark Twain once said.” Adding, as an afterthought: “He was an American writer.”

  Dimeo wagged his finger.

  “Don’t patronise me. ‘The Creator made Italy from designs by Michael Angelo…’”

  Johnny was impressed. “Where’s that from?”

  “No idea. Anyway, why the subterfuge?”

  “I was working undercover. A bent cop tried to kill me—three times. It’s the scoop of the year.”

  The young Italian must have been surprised. He handed him the mug of tea he was holding.

  “Here you are. I’ll get myself another one.”

  “Thanks.” He took a sip and winced.

  Dimeo must have put at least four sugars in it.

  The article was finished by 4.30 a.m. Johnny knew that he should go home, catnap, wash and change, but the effort had left him completely drained. Every ounce of energy had gone into the writing: it was as if the three thousand words had just flowed. The problem had not been what to include but what to exclude. As Twain told Rudyard Kipling: Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.

  He had portrayed the popular and widely respected Rotherforth as a corrupt pervert who had drugged a young constable under his command with the intention of raping him, only to accidentally kill him in the process. To cover up what he had done, he’d murdered Harry Gogg, a police informer who had spoken to the Daily News, and then tried to kill a News reporter by locking him in a Smithfield cold-store. Matt’s role in the story was restricted to his role in rescuing Johnny.

  The article had gone on to describe the inspector’s torching of the pornographic bookshop, and the murders of Joseph Moss and Charles Timney. Rotherforth’s association with Cecil Zick and his brothel was also outlined, without mentioning the names of any of the boys. It ended with an account of the heroic death of PC Tom Vinson, who had first tipped off the News, and the moment when Rotherforth, faced with exposure and disgrace, had shot himself.

  Johnny omitted to mention the fact that Gogg and Moss were lovers, knowing it would cause most readers to have less sympathy for them. Nor did he mention Vinson’s homosexuality.

  He decided to leave Percy Hughes’ name out of the piece because the mortuary attendant had been acting under duress—and his gratitude should ensure his future co-operation.

  And, because the peace of mind of the living—Matt, Lizzie and himself—was more important than the further denigration of the dead, he made no mention of the photographs.

  The lift-boy sniffed when he saw Johnny’s unshaven face and smelled his stale clothes.

  “Did you miss me?” asked Johnny.

  “If I say yes, will you give me a Christmas box?”

  The lad’s cockiness reminded him of his younger self.

  “Nice try. How about, if you don’t say yes, I’ll box your ears?”

  Victor Stone was already sitting behind his enormous desk when Johnny was admitted to the inner sanctum.

  While Johnny sat fidgeting on one of the sofas, his editor read the article not once but twice.

  “Well, this should set the cat among the pigeons! The police will no doubt want to speak to you, but the fact that Rotherforth and Vinson cannot contradict you means they can’t refute the accusations—although they’re bound to try. And if Cecil Zick has any sense he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

  “He’s probably in Paris by now,” said Johnny.

  “I dare say you’re right. Well done, Steadman. It’s too long—but the subs can take care of that. We’ll lead with it on tonight’s front page and continue it on page two. A sad tale’s best for winter.” He paused for a moment, seemingly ambushed by a painful memory. He cleared his throat. “It’s about time you became a fully-fledged crime reporter. I’ll speak to Patsel, see what we can do. In the meantime, I’m going to raise your pay by ten shillings a week.”

  “Thank you, sir. And thank you for your hospitality. Please give my regards to Mrs Stone.”

  Much as he’d been well looked after by the Stones, Johnny couldn’t wait to go home. He was accustomed to waking up to windows paisley-patterned with frost. Steam-heating made you soft.

/>   “You’re welcome. Honoria, for some inexplicable reason, took quite a shine to you. Now, I suggest you make your first priority a visit to the barber’s—there must be something they can do about the colour of your hair. You look like a tiger-cub. I assume you’ll want to look your best in the photo that will accompany your exclusive. You’re going to be famous—for a day or so.”

  Bill was banging away on the typewriter, cigarette dangling from his lip, when Johnny returned with his cheeks glowing and his bleached hair almost back to its natural orange.

  “Coppernob! What a surprise. I never thought I’d live to see the second coming. You’re the talk of the town. I’ve read the piece—it’s one of your finest. We must celebrate your miraculous survival.”

  “Indeed. It is most marvellous.” As usual, Patsel had crept up on them. He moved with uncanny stealth for a lumpen man. “You have done a great service, Steadman, in ridding the world of such a degenerate. Rotherforth’s suicide has a certain last-ditch nobility, but he would have done us all a favour had he shot himself sooner.”

  “He also shot a lot of Germans in the war,” said Johnny.

  “Mr Stone tells me that he’s promoted you to the position of crime reporter.” Patsel’s tone suggested he disagreed with his superior’s decision. “I shall have to find a replacement for you at the Old Bailey.”

  “I hear Louis Dimeo is very keen to broaden his horizons,” said Johnny.

  “Really?” Patsel’s eyebrows shot above the rims of his glasses. “Are you joking with me?”

  “No, sir,” said Johnny.

  Dimeo, seated a few desks away, behind Patsel, shook a fist at him.

  “I will consider the matter,” said Patsel. Then with a curt bow he turned away and moved on through his micro-Reich.

  Bill looked at the clock. “I’ll just finish this item about a serious assault in Cornhill last night and then we can go for an early lunch.”

  Johnny waited until they were sitting at their favourite table in the Tipperary—a quiet spot in the corner from where they could monitor the comings and goings of other drinkers without being overheard—two full pints and meat-and-potato pies in front of them, cigarettes lit, before going on the offensive: