“What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.
“Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”
“Suburban neurosis.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“Very good. I’ll use that.” He chewed his lip. “Lord knows why they always land me with these stories. Anyone stuck inside the same four walls day after day would go out of their minds.”
“Prisoners don’t.”
“Sure about that?”
“No – but many of them are mad before they go in.”
“It’s a sign of the times,” said Blenkinsopp. “Freed from the necessity of foraging for food or seeking shelter, the pampered middle-classes have nothing to occupy their tiny minds. That’s why they lose their marbles. Mark my words, it’ll vanish once war breaks out.”
The London Tavern on the corner of Fenchurch Street and Mark Lane was a temple devoted to pleasure. Within its walls there were snack bars, cocktail bars, oyster bars, grill rooms and restaurants. The original tavern in Bishopsgate – where, in Nicholas Nickleby, a public meeting is held “to take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company” – had been demolished half a century ago but the owners were determined to keep its spirit of service with a bow and scrape alive. Consequently, it was a popular venue for City banquets.
Simkins had reserved a table in the fish restaurant. A bottle, tilted at the angle of a Nazi salute, was chilling in an ice-bucket beside it.
“Johnny dearest!” Simkins leapt to his feet and kissed him on both cheeks.
A murmur of disapproval rippled round the dining room. Bloody Continentals!
Johnny, accustomed to his rival’s flamboyant antics, merely smiled. Once upon a time he would have blushed.
“Hello, Henry. What do you want?”
“Don’t be like that.” Simkins, gratified by the stir he had caused, finally sat down. “It’s All Souls Day. Don’t you want to enter the kingdom of Heaven?”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“Doesn’t stop you being in purgatory though.”
Simkins twiddled the stem of his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Have a drink.” He pulled the wine bottle out of the bucket. It was already half-empty.
“No, thank you. Just Perrier for me.”
“Water? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I overdid it last night, that’s all. What d’you want?”
“Let’s order first. The turbot’s supposed to be divine.”
Johnny, in his days as a cub, had written too many stories about fatal fish bones for his liking so he restricted himself to Morecambe Bay shrimps and scallops from Whitstable. Simkins, chitchatting away, filleted his food with admirable dexterity but Johnny could tell he was nervous. His trademark insouciance seemed put on.
“Come on then, Simkins. Spit it out.”
“In the circumstances, not the best choice of words.” Simkins winked at the waiter, who was ceremoniously pouring coffee from a silver pot.
“Henry, I won’t ask again.”
“Our old friend is back in town.”
“Who?”
“Cecilia Zick.”
There were times when Johnny wished he’d never saved Henry’s life – and this was one of them.
“Don’t hit me.” Simkins tossed his chestnut curls – the envy of many a girl.
“I’ll say this for you,” said Johnny. “You’ve got balls.”
“Not remotely funny. Not funny at all. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Steadman.”
“Where is he?”
Johnny balked at referring to the transvestite as a woman.
“I don’t know, I swear. He hardly trusts me any more than you.”
“What brings him back here? Surely he knows he’s playing with fire?”
“Blame Hitler. Berlin isn’t what it used to be. Lots of rats are deserting the blinking ship.”
“Better the devil you know? Well, he’s very much mistaken.”
“That’s where I’m supposed to come in. Zick’s all too aware that your bosom friend, Detective Constable Turner, has it in for him. He wants me to persuade you to persuade him to let bygones be bygones.”
“Not a chance. No.” The anger came from nowhere. “You must be fucking joking.”
“I wish I were. I’m sorry, Johnny. I truly am – but I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. What makes you think you haven’t?”
“You’re not the only one he’s got pictures of.”
Johnny’s heart sank. Each time he thought he’d recovered at last, finally come to terms with what had happened, something or someone brought it flooding back. Perhaps this was why he’d woken up with such a sense of foreboding.
“I need a drink.”
Simkins nodded in sympathy. “Me too. Brandy?”
They moved on to the cigar bar. Leather armchairs, mahogany panelling, obsequious staff.
“You assured me everything had gone up in flames, like the bookshop. If Matt finds out those photographs—”
“He won’t find out – unless you tell him. It seems Timney retained copies in case Zick returned to London. Call it leverage. He’s no happier to see him again than I am.”
Johnny still felt in some way responsible for the death of Timney’s son two years earlier, even though he hadn’t been the one who’d set the fire.
“So the photographs are of me?”
“And your friend.”
Johnny, suddenly exhausted, sighed deeply. He’d been undercover, desperate to identify a killer. Instead, he and Matt had found themselves in the frame.
He glanced at Simkins’s lap.
“Is life simpler without them?”
“By no means. The attraction remains, but my ability has gone.”
“There must be other ways of achieving satisfaction.”
“Yes, but the underlying frustration never goes away.”
“Purgatory.”
“Indeed. This is hell, nor am I out of it.” Simkins stared into his glass.
The fact his rival hadn’t broached the subject of the murders during the meal made Johnny suspicious.
“Why would anyone sexually mutilate a man?” he asked.
“Because they’re mad. Why else? Think my injury gives me extra insight? It doesn’t. The real interest lies in what has made them lose their mind. For example, desperately wanting something, and knowing that you’ll never get it, is enough to drive anyone to distraction.”
“So, assuming the killer’s an invert, he takes the one thing he desires above all else …”
“Except that doesn’t explain why he only takes the tallywhackers,” said Simkins. “And, if the motive is sexual, why is there no evidence of hanky-panky?”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Johnny shook his head. “Crime stems from desire: for love, revenge or money. It must be one of them.”
“Or all three,” said Simkins.
Their eyes met.
“How’s your love life?” asked Simkins.
“Non-existent – except in my head.”
“See – we’re more alike than you think.”
“No we’re not. We’ve different backgrounds and different futures.”
“Futures? This isn’t the Stock Exchange,” said Simkins. “It’s never been more vital to live for today. Carpe diem!”
“Perhaps,” said Johnny. “But tomorrow certainly won’t come if we don’t deal with Zick once and for all. What can we do to change his mind?”
“There isn’t anything.”
“Everyone has their price.”
“Not him. What about you and Turner though? What would encourage you two to turn a blind eye?”
“Nothing. Compromise is a dirty word.”
Simkins lea
ned over and grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Johnny. You’re in no position to be high-minded. Morals are a luxury you can’t afford. Do you want to see your reputation destroyed for the sake of a mucky picture? Don’t underestimate Zick. If blackmail fails, he’ll only try something much, much worse.”
NINE
The brandy made him feel both better and worse. He crossed Fenchurch Street and went down the alley alongside Clothworkers’ Hall. The Crown and Thistle was about to close for the afternoon. Quirk, as expected, was slouched in a corner of the snug. He perked up when he saw Johnny.
“Not here!”
Johnny followed him outside. The informant didn’t stop or look back till they reached Lime Street Square. It was a blustery day. Dust devils sent refuse spinning.
“I were coming to see you. Should’ve saved your shoe leather.”
“I was passing anyway. How d’you get that?”
Quirk’s left eye – purple, yellow and black – was almost shut.
“How d’you bloody think? Some bastard punched me.” He raised his prognathous chin. “It’s nothing.”
“What have you got for me?”
“A name.”
He held out his hand. Johnny took out his wallet. Quirk licked his lips.
“This didn’t come from me.”
“Of course not,” said Johnny. “Have I ever got you into trouble?”
“S’pose not.”
Quirk checked that no one was pretending not to watch them.
“It ain’t right, Mr Steadman. I’m no saint but I know true evil when I hear it. Rick Hollom. Works at Otarelli’s in Saffron Hill. Drinks in the Mitre most days.”
Johnny extracted a note but, before Quirk could take it, snatched the reward away.
“Is he expecting me?”
“No.”
Quirk grabbed the money and ran.
Leo Adler luxuriated in the opulent surroundings of the Mansion House. Yes, he would be more than comfortable here – and once Harry, who was showing him round, had moved out, he would feel much less of a sightseer.
“And this,” said Sir Harold Twyford, “is the one millionth telephone made in Britain. It’s solid gold.”
“Does it work?”
“Why don’t you try it?”
The outgoing mayor – whose own substantial corporation seemed to symbolize the City he still represented – chuckled at Adler’s surprise.
“Whatever you do, Leo, don’t lose the Midas touch!”
They processed through to the equally plush domestic quarters where a maid was setting out afternoon tea.
“By the way,” said Twyford, “that arrived today. Bit premature, don’t you think?”
He pointed at a parcel on a piecrust table.
“Why would it be sent here?” said Adler. “It’s no secret where I work.”
“Search me. Open it and find out.”
Adler, checking the handwritten label, pulled off the string and undid the brown paper. He sniffed the small box suspiciously.
Twyford, who’d joined him, huffed with impatience. “Go on, man. It’s not a bomb.”
Slowly, Adler lifted the lid.
Eager to follow up the lead Quirk had given him, Johnny dialled the number for Otarelli & Sanna, long-established makers of scientific instruments based in Charles Street. The telephonist informed him that Mr Hollom was unavailable. Johnny thought it prudent not to leave a message.
When he looked up, Tanfield was hovering by his desk. As instructed, he had spoken to Matt when he called the newsroom in Johnny’s absence.
“Broster was separated from his wife. No love lost there, apparently. DC Turner said she’s a real dragon.” The junior reporter shuddered. “Glad I’m not married.”
“How old was he?”
“Forty-two.”
“He seemed older.”
“That’s what booze does to you.”
“Meaning?” He was aware he still had a brandy bloom.
“Nothing, Johnny.”
It was clear Tanfield couldn’t work out whether he was being serious. Which was exactly how Johnny liked it.
“What did the neighbours say to the police?” he asked.
“Nothing worth reporting. Should I go and talk to them?”
“There’s no point. Everyone else will have heard what they’ve got to say by now.”
“I’m not everyone else.” The cub was becoming a fox. “Bert’s gone to a hold-up in Farringdon. He’ll be back soon.”
“OK. Take the mugshots with you. See if anyone recognizes Chittleborough or Bromet.”
The telephone rang. It was the commissionaire.
“There’s a Mrs Turner to see you, sir.”
Johnny’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you. Tell her I’ll be straight down.”
He couldn’t put it off any longer.
The ear lay on a piece of crumpled tissue paper. It was approximately three inches long, reddish-brown – with purplish veins – and covered in down.
“Wood Ear,” said Twyford. “Splendid example.”
“What?” Adler regarded the Lord Mayor with distaste. “It looks like calves’ liver.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s a fungus. Not poisonous. A staple of eastern cuisine. You should try hot-and-sour soup. Yum-yum!”
“You seem very well informed on the subject.”
“Fret not, my good man. Mycology is one of my pet pursuits. I visit the Natural History Museum whenever I can. Fungi are fascinating organisms. Feeding on detritus, they create the most astonishing of forms.”
“Are they parasitic?”
“Ah, well, some species are. This one isn’t.”
“I suppose that’s something. Why send it to me?”
“Must be the name.” Seeing the blank expression on his guest’s face, Twyford cleared his throat and continued: “It grows mainly on the elder – the tree from which Judas hanged himself. Hence the name, Judas Ear. Auricularia auricula-judae. However, others call it something else.”
Adler braced himself. “Do tell.”
His imminent predecessor winced.
“Hairy Jew’s Ear.”
She was gorgeous. He was lucky to know her. Johnny walked taller as he crossed the lobby, aware that both male and female passers-by were appraising his visitor. They shook hands.
“If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain …”
“Sorry, you know how it is.”
“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m here.”
“Fancy a cuppa?” Lizzie hesitated then nodded. They headed for the doors. “Where’s my darling god-daughter?”
“At her grandmother’s.”
The ABC Cafeteria was practically within earshot. The Lincrusta walls were covered with large spotted mirrors, which enabled single diners to watch each other surreptitiously. Johnny usually avoided the haunt of lowly clerks, office boys and secretaries. Aside from the lack of privacy, the screeching hot-water urns, clashing stainless-steel tea-pots and general gossip bouncing off the marble table-tops made it impossible to think, let alone read. Sweaty waitresses yelled their orders: “Two poached eggs and a Cornish pasty”, “Two egg-and-veg and a Melton Mowbray, luv!” Women, though, tended to feel comfortable in the chain of cafés and it seemed more appropriate than taking Lizzie to a pub.
Fortunately, the place quietened down in the afternoon. They found a table in a corner and ordered tea for two.
“Aren’t you going to take off your headscarf?”
It was decorated with battleships, marching soldiers, gas masks and bombs. The legend printed round the edge declared: Peace in Our Time, 1938.
Lizzie had beautiful hair. She’d grown out the bob in favour of a more up-to-date style, all curls and waves.
“No. I can’t stay long. Matt bought it for me. Must have been feeling guilty. It’s rayon, not silk.”
Her bourgeois upbringing had made her prize quality over quantity. Her father, a doctor, had been appalled when, instead
of accepting a position at Selfridges in Oxford Street, she’d chosen to join Gamages in Holborn Circus.
“It’s good to see you,” said Johnny.
She smiled tightly. The face powder didn’t quite hide the dark semicircles under her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything! Nothing! It’s the not knowing that’s worst.”
“What can I tell you to make you feel better?”
“The truth!”
Johnny wasn’t sure about that. “The truth about what?”
“Is Matt seeing someone else?”
“Behind your back, you mean?”
“Well, he wouldn’t do it under my nose! He wouldn’t dare!”
“He hasn’t said anything. Why would he? He adores you.”
“He used to, that’s for sure.”
“What’s changed then?”
“We’re parents now. A little tyrant rules the house.”
“Jealous of the competition?”
“Maybe I am.”
She fell silent as the waitress appeared. Having plonked the tea things on the table, the woman leaned in conspiratorially. “How about a Chelsea bun? They’ve been half-price since a minute ago.”
The tang of her perspiration did nothing for the taste buds.
“Not hungry, thanks,” said Johnny.
They watched her waddle back to the counter.
“Before we got married,” said Lizzie, “I had a job that I enjoyed and, if I wished, I could go out every night. Now my life’s shrunk to a semi in Bexleyheath. It’s stultifying.”
Johnny thought this wasn’t the time to mention suburban neurosis. Instead he ventured, “Lila must be some sort of company.”
“You can say that again.” She laughed ironically. “The word you’re looking for is limited. I’ve been trying to wean her for weeks, but she’s not interested in a bottle.”
“Who can blame her?”
For a moment he thought she was going to slap his face, but suddenly she relaxed.
“You’ll have to make do with the bottle.”
“Story of my life.”
She put her hand over his. He put his other hand over hers.
Robin Hood Yard Page 6
