“He was found close to a station, though, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Yes, he was.”
Tanfield smiled in triumph. “Perhaps Mr D and Mr E have yet to be found.”
Johnny, having spoken to Matt once again, decided to make the most of the lipstick as he reported the latest death and rehashed the details of the previous three. Was there a femme fatale haunting the streets of London? A female Ripper, seducing men only to unsex them, a walking vagina dentata? Probably not. However, it made good copy. As every cub learned early on: sex sold, but sex and death sold more.
He handed the pages to the runner who would wait for PDQ or Patsel to read them before taking it to the subs. His head and chest felt ready to explode. For once he was looking forward to an early departure. He grabbed his hat and coat.
The telephone rang. Tanfield glanced up. “Want me to get it?”
Johnny almost said yes, but stopped himself.
“It’s OK. Concentrate on finishing your story.”
“I’ve only got two hundred words!”
“Johnny?” The Hello Girl sounded excited. “I’ve got the Lord Mayor’s office on the line.”
“Thank you. Put them through.”
“Steadman? Adler here. I’ve received another present.”
“What is it?”
“A book. Der Giftpilz.”
“So what’s that? The gift book?”
“Not at all. The Toadstool.”
SEVENTEEN
The fog, like his hopes of a hot bath and bed, had vanished. An icy wind rushed between the high buildings, trying – like a preacher in Hyde Park – to scour the filthy gutters of Fleet Street. Pedestrians, buffeted in the back, were forced to perform a quick-quick-slow as they made their way home.
The buses, nose to tail like a parade of circus elephants, were packed yet going nowhere. Johnny shivered. He pulled up his collar – it was high time he got himself a new coat – and set off walking.
Head down, he passed the entrance to Hanging Sword Alley and began to climb Ludgate Hill. The full moon, a new-minted shilling, created a crisp silhouette of St Paul’s.
Seconds later Simkins emerged, sated yet frustrated, from the alley. Zick had let him take his pick. The fellow certainly had a nerve. If the location was under their nose, the name of the establishment was in their face: Cockaigne Corner.
The experience, although intensely pleasurable, underlined once again that there was something lacking in his life. Not his balls – a lover. Work no longer kept the loneliness at bay. A culture of deadlines didn’t encourage you to take the long view. Should he, like many of Zick’s clients, take a wife and hide his true self?
He suspected that only a woman would accept him in his current physical state. He was, even if he said it himself, handsome and well heeled. He came from a “good” family, although his mother was a lush and his father a cunt who couldn’t keep his hands off other men’s money or wives. They would be delighted if he were to get hitched. He could give a woman everything – except a child. Too bad; he liked children.
Johnny and he would make a good team, but that was never going to happen. Since the incident, Johnny – although he would never admit it – had become his hero. It wasn’t merely gratitude for being rescued: he had come to appreciate that his rival was a force of nature. He might be socially inferior (and all too aware of it), and impulsive, but he was also intelligent, loyal and kind. And, even on the makeshift operating table, he couldn’t help noticing his slim yet muscular body. The milky whiteness of his skin made his copper-coloured hair and green eyes blaze all the more.
Johnny’s attraction – and attractiveness – to women presented Simkins with a challenge that he couldn’t ignore. He enjoyed flirting with Johnny: his anger and embarrassment only heightened the fun. Johnny was a man of the world, usually contemptuous of conventional morality, but the one time he’d lost his temper was when he’d teased him about Turner. Clearly, there was something beyond friendship between them – but what? The thought of them in bed together was arousing, but you only had to look at Turner to see how unlikely it was to happen in real life.
Zick’s cameras – hidden behind two-way mirrors – had enriched the brothel-keeper and his cronies for years. Silence was golden. Tomorrow their lenses would start to capture the action again. Different place, same practice. The suckers kept on coming. The photographs of Turner had protected Zick back in 1936 and 1937, and now those of Johnny appeared to be working their magic too.
“Appeared” because Johnny’s acquiescence, albeit reluctant, had come too quickly. How had he managed to persuade Turner to come to heel? Johnny was a stubborn and resourceful so-and-so, therefore it would be no surprise if, regardless of the risk, he tried to double-cross Zick. It was Simkins’s responsibility to ensure that didn’t happen – no matter how much he liked him. He had no wish to be disinherited.
Zick, although pleased with the good news, shared his reservations. After the guided tour, and the free sample of the product, Cecil had cracked open a bottle of champagne.
“Fear not, dear boy. It had crossed my mind. Trust a gentleman of the press? Me? Never.” He sipped The Drink That Is Never Wrong. “I’ve taken out extra insurance.”
The bell of St Mary Woolnoth tolled seven o’clock as Johnny, sweating heavily, turned into King William Street. A newsboy, desperate to flog his last few copies of the day, struggled to make himself heard. He had to hold on to his cap in the wind. It seemed the Polish gunman was only seventeen.
Adler was alone. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. The flames of a generous fire were reflected in the black glass of the windows and the beeswaxed wainscoting. He stopped checking on the Old Lady and turned to face Johnny.
“You need a stiffener. Brandy do the trick?”
“Please.”
“Take a look.” He pointed at the desk.
The book lay in a pool of light from a single anglepoise lamp. The soupy green cover showed a red-spotted toadstool with the face of a stereotypical Jewish man staring from the stalk. There was a red ruff round his neck and a Star of David on his chest. Four other men, with equally large noses, peeped out from behind him. The author was Julius Streicher.
Adler handed him a glass. The tawny spirit was liquid fire. Johnny closed his eyes as he felt its heat spread through him.
“I can’t read German.”
“Let me give you a taste of the poison – that’s what ‘gift’ means.”
They sat down in the wingback chairs that flanked the hearth.
“It’s a collection of short stories with titles such as ‘How to Recognize a Jew’, ‘How Jewish Traders Cheat’, ‘How Two Women Were Tricked by Jewish Lawyers’ and ‘How Jews Torment Animals’. What makes it so sickening is it’s meant for children. It’s on the shelves of many school libraries in Germany. Streicher’s the real poisoner – injecting young minds with such filth. He blames the Jews for everything: communism, unemployment, inflation and, of course, the killing of Christ.”
“How original. Streicher owns a newspaper, doesn’t he?”
“If you can call it that – Der Stürmer. The Attacker. It’s equally anti-Semitic: We will be slaves of the Jew. Therefore he must go.”
“The people who sent you this must want you to go.”
“Go where though?”
“Anywhere but the Mansion House.”
“Why don’t they shoot me then? Nazis aren’t squeamish.”
“It’s always easier to make someone walk to their execution, to dig their own grave.”
“That’s as maybe, but I’m going nowhere.”
“Have you told the cops about the new arrival?”
“What’s the point? One of their lot might have sent it.”
“I doubt many of them can read German. When did it arrive?”
“I’m not sure. It wasn’t delivered with the afternoon post, so it didn’t pass through the mailroom. My secretary opened it. She said it had been left in rec
eption.”
“Any description of who left it?”
“The old soldier didn’t see anyone. One minute the parcel wasn’t there, the next it was.”
“Now you see him, now you don’t.” Johnny consulted his notebook. “This morning you said you’d never heard of Ensom, Leask and Ormesher – they sound like a firm of solicitors – but have you been shown photographs of them?”
“Not yet. I’m due to visit Bart’s tomorrow. As you can imagine, I’m rather busy this week.”
“I’d have thought getting to the bottom of this would be a top priority. If these people aren’t caught, who knows what they might do on Wednesday. The cops might postpone the procession if they deem public safety to be at risk.”
“That won’t happen.” Adler stared into the flames. “It’s taken me years to get where I am today. A bunch of ragtag bigots isn’t going to stop me now. Cancelling the ceremony would be giving them what they want.”
His confidence was impressive. Johnny caught a glimpse of the determination and ruthlessness Adler must have had to rise so high in the City. Inner resources.
“You must have made enemies on your way up. I’m told business is war by other means. There must be casualties – those who have lost money, lost control of their companies, or simply lost face. Can’t you think of anyone who might resent your success?”
“Hundreds!” Adler laughed. He was actually rejoicing. “As Rochefoucauld or someone like him said: It is not enough that I succeed. Others must fail … However, the position of Lord Mayor is so powerful it’s in everyone’s interests to be on the same side as him. He can help his friends and frustrate his enemies. As long as the market keeps rising, nobody cares about the losers.”
Johnny, for once, said nothing. There was no point in arguing about the Russian Revolution, declaring his solidarity with the workers. He was exhausted. He wanted to go home. The latest development would keep. Besides, there was something suspect about Adler’s complacency.
Matt stared out of the window of the 8.20 p.m. from Blackfriars. The tenements and terraces of Southwark slid past, offering fleeting images of other people’s lives: a human zoetrope. What would they think if they could peep into his life?
A loving husband, a devoted father or a dedicated cop? He was all of these things – and more. Then why did he feel like a hollow man?
He no longer had a uniform to hide behind. Forced to compromise for the sake of his career, the heavy black cloth and brass buttons had become a disguise. Wearing his own clothes at work had made him take a good look at himself.
He liked what he saw, but not how he felt. He was angry with Lizzie. It was ridiculous – he knew it was – but he felt usurped by his daughter. Lizzie seemed to love her more than him and he was jealous. He was no longer the most important person in her life. He adored Lila Mae. He would do anything for her, but he adored Lizzie too. He would sacrifice his life to save either of them. He loved both of them equally. Why couldn’t his wife do the same?
He had spent the afternoon searching the files for unsolved robberies. The killer, who seemed able to break into any premises, might be acting out of greed as well as bloodlust. It had been Johnny’s suggestion. When he’d pointed out that the victims had hardly been well-to-do, Johnny had replied that not everything was about money. “Look at us: our friendship isn’t about money.”
The idea that it might therefore be, in some way, about sex made him squirm.
Why were they friends? Geography had a lot to do with it. There’d been plenty of other lads growing up in Islington though. There’d been a connection between them right from the start.
Physically they were poles apart – but opposites were supposed to attract. He’d felt sorry for the fatherless kid, but pity had no place in friendship. He’d admired Johnny’s refusal to be bullied, his bravery in standing up to those who picked on him for the colour of his hair. He’d taught him how to fight and had always been aware that Johnny looked up to him. It had taken Johnny a long time to believe that Matt looked up to him too. He admired his quick wit, his honesty and sensitivity – even if he did sometimes make him feel a bit of a clod.
His search had been interrupted by the news that Ormesher had died of his injuries. Burns were hellishly difficult to treat. However, it was thought that Leask would survive.
When he’d called Johnny to tell him, Tanfield, his pushy sidekick, had picked up the phone. Johnny had just left, apparently. He promised to pass on the details then took the opportunity to ask him if he thought there was any significance in the fact that all four murders had taken place in the vicinity of a station: “Terminal territory”.
His reply had not pleased the young pretender:
“Not much. The Square Mile is surrounded by stations.”
Matt exited Bexleyheath station. Cauliflower clouds of steam evaporated in the frosty air. Should he go via Robin Hood Lane? A swift pint would hit the mark. Better not …
He could see the siren lights of the Robin Hood as he turned into Izane Road. The sight of their new home still filled him with pride. The process of buying a house – even if the bloody bank owned it – had made him feel grown up. He remained a kid at heart though.
He closed the front door, gently. Why was it so cold?
The parlour was in darkness. Only a few embers glowed in the grate. The kitchen light was on though. The wireless was off. No appetizing aromas either. Surely Lizzie, perpetually worn out, hadn’t gone to bed already?
He tiptoed up the stairs and peered round the door of the nursery. Lila’s cot was unoccupied. So were the other beds – and the bathroom.
The house was empty.
EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, 8 November, 12.10 p.m.
Ironmonger Row, between City Road and Old Street, had opened as a public washhouse in 1931 but the Turkish baths in the basement had only been open for three weeks. Everything seemed refreshingly – and reassuringly – new.
Johnny pulled back the cubicle curtain – which matched his blue chequered loincloth – and padded barefoot through the cooling-off area, where a couple of beached whales were deep in conversation, to the Tepidarium. Christ, if this was tepid, he wouldn’t last long in the other rooms.
A bench wide enough to lie on ran round the gloomy, empty chamber. He sat down and immediately stood up again. The warmth, like that of a just-vacated lavatory seat, was shockingly intimate. He twisted the loincloth round so it covered his backside and sat down again.
The heat, which at first had made his skin shrink, soon began to soothe him. His hacking cough bounced off the tiled walls. They retained no impression of previous occupants. Was it their newness or non-absorbency? He usually got a sense of the history of a place, an inkling of what had happened there, an echo of the past. He had never told anyone that he believed humans left traces of themselves wherever they went, traces that the material world absorbed. As a writer he felt it was his duty to read these sermons in stones.
Some locations were more resonant than others. Smithfield screamed, St Paul’s whispered (too much marble) and Hatton Garden babbled. It was the same with people. Some, like him, felt things keenly, whereas the nerve endings of others seemed to be coated in acrylic. Sometimes, he envied them.
His reverie was broken by an inrush of cooler air.
“So there you are! What’re you doing in here? Nesh or something?”
Culver, stark-naked, filled the doorway.
“Follow me.”
Johnny, determined to be unabashed, left behind his loincloth.
They entered the Caldarium. As an inner circle of Hell it was well populated. Culver nodded to his fellow men and strolled over to a corner. When Johnny sat down his buttocks stung.
“Nudity encourages honesty, don’t you think?” Culver gazed round the room, openly sizing up the competition. “No hidden weapons. The naked truth.”
“What about bare-faced liars?”
“Precisely. No one talks about bare-arsed liars.”
/> The pipes groaned and hissed. Despite Culver’s bravado, the protocol appeared to be lowered eyes and lowered voices.
“Why meet here?” Johnny was missing his notebook.
“Why not mix business with pleasure? You’d be surprised how much gets done here. These walls don’t have ears.”
“People do, though.”
“Relax, Johnny. Concentrate on getting rid of your cold. I called you, remember. You won’t have to sweat it out of me. What did our Jewish friend have to say when you brought up the subject of Czechoslovakia?”
“He denied all knowledge.”
Culver gave an evil chuckle. “He won’t be able to deny this one.” He put a finger to his lips to forestall Johnny’s next question.
Thwarted, Johnny asked him a different one. “Are you Jewish?”
The Shark smiled. “Been examining my assets, have you? Never judge a book by its lack of cover. It’s tradition in my family, that’s all. Some doctors swear by it.”
“Only because they get paid for doing it.”
The heat was becoming unbearable. Salt stung Johnny’s eyes. His lungs seemed to have shrunk.
“It can be tough if you’re not used to it,” said Culver. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”
The lunchtime crush had arrived. Even here, class distinctions remained. Lawyers and bankers wandered round nonchalantly as though back at public school. The workers – clerks and cabbies – flaunted their nakedness as if it were an act of aggression. Only the middle class – managers and clergy – clung to their loincloths. The flimsy squares merely emphasized their vulnerability.
Several drinking fountains were available but Culver retreated to the Frigidarium where canvas chairs surrounded a cold plunge pool. An attendant, dressed in white, brought them beakers of soda water. Alcohol was not permitted. Even so, it tasted like champagne.
“All we need now are some of Tiberias’s minnows to nibble our toes.”
“They nibbled other bits as well.”
“Indeed,” said Culver. “Rather kids than piranhas.”
Johnny no longer feared he would faint.
Robin Hood Yard Page 12
