“How long have you been feeling like this?”
“Six months or so. I don’t think it’s the baby blues. It started when Matt became a detective. At first I was delighted for the both of us, but nowadays he’s away from home more than ever. He’s a doting father, but he might as well have a wet-nurse or a nanny instead of a wife. In fact, he’d probably prefer it. Some young slip of a thing with big bosoms.”
“Don’t say that. I know he loves you more than anyone else on the planet.”
“You’d never guess that if you saw us. Try living with him!”
Although the final deadline of the day was looming, Johnny decided to escort Lizzie to Blackfriars Station. He didn’t spot Tanfield on the other side of Fleet Street.
The sun had set but it was not yet dark. It was the violet hour. The office blocks resembled gigantic Advent calendars, their occupants dreaming of home or escape. Publicans and restaurateurs polished glasses and smoothed down tablecloths. Kitchen devils peeled the spuds. Musicians pressed their penguin suits. Performers, gazing in Hollywood mirrors, applied their slap. It was time to face the music and dance.
Arm-in-arm, Johnny and Lizzie shouldered their way through the crush. They didn’t talk. There was no need – each thought they knew what the other was thinking. They were both mistaken.
At the bottom of Water Street, behind Unilever House where Bridewell Palace once stood, Lizzie stopped to face him.
“You’d tell me if anything was going on, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would, silly! I’ve always wanted both of you to be happy. If you’re not, I’m not.”
He was going to peck her on the cheek – a farewell kiss – but at the last moment she turned so that their lips met.
Her cool skin intensified the heat of her mouth. He should have pulled away, broken the embrace, but he did neither. He’d often dreamed of such a kiss, imagined what Matt nightly enjoyed, but the real thing was better. He didn’t care they were in public – albeit in a quiet, unlit corner of the City. He cared about Lizzie. Pent-up frustration poured out of them both.
Someone was coming. They separated but, at the same time, joined hands. Johnny thought he could see joy in her eyes. Wrong again. It was regret.
“That will never – ever – happen again.” She sounded breathless.
“It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.”
“I believe I was involved too.”
“I was trying to make things better, but I’ve just gone and made them worse.”
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy it. I did – a lot. If it weren’t for Matt, I’d do it again.” Lizzie shivered. “Don’t tell him.”
“Why would I? He’d kill me.”
“Yes, most likely he would.” She patted his arm. “Look after him. If he lets anything slip, do let me know.”
“I won’t spy on him.”
“Remember what you once said to me? I’ll do anything for you.”
Johnny glanced up and down the street. Without meaning to, he raised his voice.
“You’re placing me in an impossible position. You’re forcing me to choose. I won’t do it.”
“Would you prefer I made your mind up for you?”
“Lizzie, Matt is not seeing anyone else. I promise.”
“Why didn’t you say so before then? I might be going round the bend but I can still tell you’re hiding something.”
“I can’t win, can I?” He was already regretting their brief encounter.
Lizzie shrugged. Her eyes, flashing in the twilight, suggested she felt the same way.
“You want the truth? No.”
TEN
Friday, 4 November, 10 a.m.
“It’s not a bad view, is it?” The moderne chair creaked as Adler sat back in satisfaction.
They were on the top floor of the Albany Credit Trust on King William Street. On the left, the twin turrets of St Mary Woolnoth were dwarfed by the Bank of England’s monolith. On the right, the golden pineapple atop the Monument sparkled in the sun. Pigeons practised dive-bombing above the glass canopies of Leadenhall Market. Each street ended in a blue mist.
“I thought the Bank of International Settlements was your main concern,” said Johnny.
“At the moment it is,” said Adler. “I’m a director of several companies though. I started here in 1920. Worked my way up from the bottom. I wasn’t a daddy’s boy who simply swanned into the City after three or four years of partying in Oxbridge.”
“Wish you had been?”
“If you’d asked me when I was starting out, a carbuncular youth, I’d have said yes. Now I’m grateful for the experience. If you don’t have family connections you soon learn to stand on someone’s neck to get a bit higher.”
Johnny nodded in agreement. For some reason Tanfield sprang to mind. His family had money; he’d been to university. Johnny was self-taught and yet he was the one who’d helped Tanfield learn the ropes, just as the late Bill Fox had helped him. Tim certainly had a lean and hungry look.
He picked up the box. “Doesn’t smell much, does it? I presume it was meant to cause offence.”
“Hairy Jew’s Ear? It can hardly have been sent with kindly intent.”
“The question is: why was it sent at all?”
“It’s obviously a message – same as the bottles of blood.”
“So someone doesn’t like you. Why not?”
“I’m Jewish. I’m a banker. I’m about to become Lord Mayor. Take your pick.”
“Whoever it is might be wrong in the head.”
“Maybe. There’s no shortage of meshugas round here.”
Johnny walked over to the other window. It was business as usual in the hives of Abchurch Lane. Managers sat at lonely desks, secretaries carried papers, typists fluffed their hair. In one room two lads traded insults then blows.
“What exactly does the Bank of International Settlements do?”
“It was set up seven years ago to implement the reparations imposed on Germany by the Treaty of Versailles.”
“So the Germans resent it.”
“No doubt – but they’re still members of it.”
“Who are the other members?”
“Britain, America, France, Belgium, Italy, Switzerland and Japan.”
“Are its headquarters in London?”
“No. Basel. The Swiss pride themselves on their neutrality.”
“Not taking sides is the same as taking everyone’s side – or at least taking everyone’s money.”
“Economics and ethics are like oil and water. They don’t mix.”
The boys had finished fighting. One offered the other a cigarette. It was easy to feel superior when you were this far off the ground. No wonder bankers felt they were above the law.
Johnny turned back to Adler, who was watching him with amusement.
“The fungus must have something to do with your work. If it’s a message, it must symbolize something.”
“Such as?”
“Fungus thrives on dead things.” It was time to wipe the smile off his face. “What do you know about six million pounds’ worth of Czechoslovakian gold?”
“I might ask you the same question. Who told you about it?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“Yes. So you’ll appreciate that I can’t answer your question either.” Adler stood up. “I’m afraid the Old Lady calls.”
“Threadneedle Street is seconds away. Look, the fungus is a warning. Whoever sent it wants to stop something happening. You could be in danger. It might be your ear next.”
“I had thought of that, but I’ve every confidence in you. Rest assured, Czechoslovakia has nothing to do with this. The answer lies much closer to home.”
The newsroom was buzzing. A Jersey Airways de Havilland had crashed soon after taking off for Southampton. Fourteen people – a dozen passengers, the pilot and a farmhand – had died. Johnny was shocked at the number of fatalities – it was the deadliest air acci
dent in British history – but he felt the greatest sympathy for the bloke on the ground. Poor sod! There he was, innocently tilling the soil, when death fell from the sky.
“Your friend called with the post-mortem results on Broster …” Tanfield consulted his notebook. “There were traces of Amanita Aureola in his blood …” He paused dramatically. “It’s a fungus – Gold Cap. It produces a mycotoxin which, in solution, has much the same effect as chloroform.”
“In other words, he was drugged.”
“It explains how the killer managed to tie him up without much resistance.”
“Could have been deviant sex.” Johnny was being mischievous. He didn’t think so for a minute.
“Hardly,” said Tanfield. “The neighbours would surely have mentioned it. Those places have thin walls.”
“Those places? Not everyone can live in a Wimbledon villa.”
His junior laughed. “I didn’t mean anything by it. What’s making you so chippy?”
“None of your business. Have any of the neighbours come back to you?”
“No.”
“So you were wasting your time on Tuesday.” Johnny was glad. The murders were his story, not Tim’s.
“Not entirely.”
Johnny didn’t wait for an explanation. “Did DC Turner say anything about the stomach contents?”
“No.”
Did that mean Broster had eaten pork or not? At least Matt hadn’t spilled all the beans.
“If there’s nothing else …”
Tanfield hesitated then took the plunge. “I’ve been thinking …”
“Oh, yes?” Johnny leaned back in the chair he’d inherited from Bill. So far it had only tipped over backwards once.
“You know how you say there’s no such thing as a coincidence …?”
“… Only the moment when preparation meets opportunity.”
“Yes. Well. Perhaps the fact Broster lived so close to you is not pure happenstance.”
“Twelve letters!”
“I’m serious, Johnny. There has to be some method in this madness. Consider the approximate locations: Fenchurch Street, Aldgate and Essex Road. All of them have stations.”
“So we’re looking for a potty porter?”
The tip of Tanfield’s nose went white. It was as if a fuse had been lit.
“Sorry, Tim. I’m annoyed with myself, not you. Go on – but remember Bromet died first.”
“Indeed. Bromet, Chittleborough, Broster. Notice anything about the names?”
“BCB? It’s not a telephone exchange, is it?”
“No.”
“Pity. Let’s hope the next victim – if there is one – is an Adams, then we’d have our own ABC murders.”
“Mrs Christie would be proud of you. My point is, all three are right at the beginning of the alphabet.”
“So the killer, like Koko, has a little list.”
Tanfield, instead of throwing the notebook at him, forced a smile. It was almost convincing.
Johnny spent the afternoon on the telephone, chasing leads, but only succeeded in chasing his own tail. Those who’d worked with the three victims, if willing to speak at all, revealed nothing of interest. Family members were either tongue-tied with grief or mouthed platitudes. He needed someone to speak ill of the dead.
The mood in the newsroom darkened as the sun disappeared. Hitler was on manoeuvres again. Thanks to his so-called arbitration, it had been “agreed” that Hungary would annex southern parts of Slovakia and Ruthenia.
Cups of stewed tea went cold; ashtrays brimmed with dog-ends. Johnny slammed down the phone. He was wasting his time, asking but not receiving, while surrounded by people who were asking too much of him. Tanfield, Adler, Simkins, Zick, even Lizzie: all of them were encroaching on his territory. He still didn’t know how to proceed …
Yes, he did. He’d go for a drink.
Mischief night. The expected knock on the cellar door came at the exact appointed time. He handed over the money.
“There’s a lot more where that came from. Keep up the good work. You know what to do. I’ll be back on Monday.”
The two toughs laughed when they saw the crate. This time the bottles were full of petrol, not blood.
He didn’t recognize her. At first glance he thought she was a man. It was only when she smiled – no lipstick this time – and waved that he realized the person in the trouser-suit and fedora was Rebecca. And yet, as he studied her, she didn’t really look like a man at all. The way the tailored suit hugged the hips meant that it could only be a woman.
“Hello again.” They shook hands. “What can I get you?”
She glanced around the Three Bucks; there were no other female customers. She shook her head and turned back to him. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss anything.”
They took a taxi to Chiswell Street. A huge bonfire, at least thirty feet high, had been constructed in the centre of the Artillery Ground. It was unnerving, being in such a vast, open space after the close confines of the City. A Guy Fawkes, complete with wide-brimmed hat, was roped to a stake on top of the woodpile.
Rebecca slipped her arm into his and shivered.
“It won’t be lit until after the fireworks display. Let’s get something to warm us up.”
“Here.” He draped his old mackintosh over her shoulders. It wasn’t as gallant a gesture as it appeared. Alcohol was already oozing out of his pores.
There were at least two hundred people milling around the hog-roasts and the beer tent. Overexcited children in masks ran through the crowd with sparklers, trying to write their names in the air. Johnny spotted Commander Inskip deep in conversation with a couple of aldermen decked out in their traditional finery. It was good to know that three dead men and a deranged killer – still at large – were not interfering with his social life.
“How’s Mr Yaxley coping?” he asked.
Chittleborough’s landlord refused to speak to him again until his invoice was paid. He’d have a long wait: Johnny had tossed it in the bin.
“Don’t know, don’t care. I moved out on Wednesday. He and Wally were two of a kind.”
“What d’you mean by that?”
“I’ll tell you later. Come on, the fireworks are starting.”
Since Crystal Palace had burned down two years earlier, such public displays had become less common. This one must have cost a fortune. Tourbillions and Catherine wheels whirled whitely. Girandoles – red and green – spun. Roman candles spurted gold. Fizgigs fizzled and jumping jacks cracked. Maroons exploded, rockets shrieked and magnesium chrysanthemums bloomed overhead.
So much money up in smoke! Before the drifting fumes cleared, before the oohs and ahs of the crowd died down, two men with torches lit the bonfire. Tongues of flame raced round the base. They must be using an accelerant.
The makeshift ziggurat glowed from within as the fire roared up through its core. Smoke snaked out from between the old planks and tea chests. Moments later the whole pyre was ablaze.
Johnny thought nothing of it when the woman screamed. However, others soon followed suit. They were pointing towards the top of the heap. He squinted through the shimmering heat-haze. Guy Fawkes was moving.
PART TWO
Ironmonger Row
ELEVEN
Members of the Auxiliary Fire Service were on standby – they needed all the practice they could get – but there was little they could do. The hand-pumps produced such a feeble stream they might as well have been pissing on the inferno.
The flames continued to reach for the sky. Guy Fawkes didn’t make a sound. The silence made his writhing all the more appalling. It only stopped when, wreathed in smoke, the flickering fire started to lick his feet.
Rebecca buried her face in Johnny’s shoulder. At least she hadn’t fainted like some spectators – female and male. He held her tightly and waited to see who would take charge of the incident.
A captain of the Honourable Artillery Company, barking orders, soon had his men passin
g buckets of water along a hastily formed line. A battered army ambulance came bouncing over the grass. Commander Inskip, surveying the scene, supped his beer but stayed put.
“I thought you liked getting your hands dirty.”
The policeman didn’t rise to the bait.
“Good evening, Mr Steadman. As you can see, my military colleagues have everything under control.”
A huge cloud of sparks went up as the bonfire began to collapse. The crowd murmured in horror as the slumped figure, still at the stake, lurched then fell into the heart of the blaze.
“Now that’s what I call a fall-guy,” said Inskip.
“How can you be so heartless?” Rebecca’s reddish-brown eyes glowed in the firelight.
The Commander stared at her. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Steadman?”
“Alan Inskip, Rebecca Taylor.”
Inskip extended his hand, clasping her hand a second too long.
“I thought perhaps you’d already met,” said Johnny. “Rebecca knew Walter Chittleborough.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure – till now.” Inskip smiled. “Two murder scenes in one week, Miss Taylor. You’re quite the femme fatale.”
“Have you found Wally’s killer yet?”
“No – but we’re working round the clock.”
“So I see.” She turned to Johnny. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Inskip watched her walk over to one of the aldermen, who immediately put his arm round her.
“Has she told you anything useful?”
“Not so far.” It was too good an opportunity to miss. “Anything more to say about the anti-Semitic attacks?”
“We continue to make inquiries. I hear you and Adler have become quite pally. When did you plan to hand over the new evidence?” He glared at Johnny. “Don’t look at me like that. I know about the fungus.”
“We needed a photograph of the Gold Cap to accompany the story. It’s much like any other clump of mould. You’re welcome to it.”
“I’ll send someone round tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
The fire was at long last dying down. Acrid steam rose from the blackened debris.
“Hang on! What are you going to do about the reappearance of Cecil Zick? I’m told he’s up to his old tricks.”
Robin Hood Yard Page 7
