Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “The City’s beginning to panic,” said Culver. “In times of crisis the price of gold soars. Bonds are all very well, but folk like to have something solid to hold on to. Gold symbolizes stability; paper fluidity. If need be, in times of chaos, governments can print as much money as they want. Look what happened in the Weimar Republic: hyperinflation soon made the mark not worth the paper it was written on. Gold is the only global currency.” He checked that no one was lurking behind them. “And Adler is an expert in foreign exchange.”

  “He revels in the fact that everyone wants a piece of him,” said Johnny. “I thought the definition of a banker was a man who wanted a piece of everyone else.”

  “A piece of every pie, certainly. And what’s the biggest pie of all?”

  “The Bank of England.”

  “Spot on. And there’s a lot more than six million in its vaults. Imagine if it were to fall into the wrong hands. German hands …”

  “The government must be taking precautions.”

  “Of course – but they don’t want the public to know about them. It would seem as if they were preparing for defeat. Very bad for public morale.”

  “Well, we’ve all got gas masks now.”

  “The decision to distribute them might have suggested war is inevitable, but it’s a sign of defiance. They’re supposed to indicate we’re determined to resist the Hun and prevent any invasion. Whereas shipping off our gold reserves to Canada could be seen as a tacit – and premature – admission of defeat.”

  “That’s what they’re doing?”

  “Planning to. Can you imagine the risks? If a U-boat torpedoes a single ship, we’ll all pay for it.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  Culver leaned over and put his mouth to his ear.

  “Five hundred million pounds.”

  Lockharts was packed. The miasma of steam, sweat, cigarettes and cooked meat threatened to overpower him. He’d waited ages, even letting people go ahead, to ensure he got a table in her zone.

  “Here again?”

  Alex risked a look into her eyes. Black with flecks of gold. They regarded him with amusement.

  “What’s it today then? The usual?”

  She held her pad immediately below her bosom. The thought of what lay behind the starched pinafore made him hard. He seemed to spend his whole life in perpetual hunger – for food, for sex and … for what exactly? Something else.

  A lock of her lovely hair had escaped from her white cap. She pushed it back and grimaced as a careless customer jostled her. For a waitress she was quite impatient.

  He smiled in sympathy. “I fancy … I fancy …” No, he couldn’t say it. “A change. Pork and pease pudding, please.”

  Matt had waited up for as long as he could. He’d woken, cold and stiff, in an armchair shortly before two and then, to his dismay, crawled into the empty bed and slept like a baby.

  On the way to Snow Hill he’d reasoned with himself that there’d been nothing else he could do. There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of burglary. No message on the kitchen table.

  If Lizzie was trying to punish him, it was working.

  He was only too pleased to let Penterell accompany Adler to the mortuary. No doubt the ambitious clown would take every opportunity to butter up the bigwig.

  He wanted to stay by the telephone.

  He’d called Lizzie’s parents as soon as he arrived at the station but her father, in his usual tone of gentle reproach, said they hadn’t seen her. He’d never approved of his daughter’s choice of husband. Matt, not wishing to give him further ammunition – could he not control his wife? – had cut short the conversation. Where else could Lizzie be?

  Inskip had decided to bring in a new DI to “oversee” the murder investigations. What he meant was “overhaul”. Moxham clearly hadn’t been up to it. That’s what happened when you promoted a man too soon. Tyser was different though – even if he was popular at the lodge.

  Matt had been pleasantly surprised when Tyser congratulated him on his initiative: Finding out how the murders are committed will bring us one step closer to finding out why they are committed. He owed Johnny a drink.

  The morning dragged on. For once the telephone, as if to mock him, remained silent.

  He continued searching for similar break-ins. The only interruption came in the form of Watkiss.

  “Hello, Herbie. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. How are things?”

  “Mustn’t grumble – but I will. I’m tired of being a bogey, dealing with tosspots and tramps, nabbing petty thieves, helping confused old biddies. I need a chance to prove I can do more than that.”

  “Steadman said as much.”

  “He did?” That took the wind out of his sails. “He said he would, only I reckoned …”

  “I know what you reckoned. Stop right there. We’ve got a new man in charge – Dennis Tyser. Tell him I said you may be of use.”

  “Thanks, Matt. You’re a brick. I didn’t mean anything about Steadman. Do give him my regards.”

  Ten minutes later Matt found it. A second-floor office had been broken into a month ago. Although it had been ransacked, the manager claimed nothing had been stolen. The culprit was judged to have somehow got in through the open window.

  He grinned when he read the address. The office was in Rose Alley, right behind Bishopsgate police station. If the break-in turned into a breakthrough, C Division would never live it down.

  At last the telephone rang. It wasn’t a female on the line though. It was Tanfield.

  A corpulent man, unsexed by his sagging breasts and belly, calves bulging with varicose veins, waddled past and sploshed into the pool.

  “You can use Canada to expose the Czech deal,” muttered Culver, angrily wiping off the spray. “Adler’s a pragmatist. There’s no way he could survive the suggestion that he leaked government secrets, so he’ll most likely settle for your exposure of German greed and his role in the appropriation of the gold. There’ll still be one hell of a kerfuffle though, regardless of the fact that no crime has been committed. The transfer wasn’t technically illegal, but it was most certainly immoral.”

  “Blackmail’s both. Why are you telling me this? What’s in it for you?” Johnny, astonished at the scale of the scoop, suspected a trap.

  “Let’s just say I’m no fan of Adler.”

  “Do you stand to make a profit if the story is published?”

  “I damn well hope so. The Nazi appropriations have left me out of pocket. I want payback.” He stood up, forcing Johnny to do the same. He didn’t want another eyeful of Culver’s crown jewels.

  “I’ve booked a massage,” said Culver. They had passed the row of marble slabs on the way in to the Frigidarium. “I’ll meet you in the changing room in thirty minutes. A rubdown always gives me an appetite.” He hesitated. “Why not try the steam room? It’ll do you a power of good. Careful where you sit, mind. Some buggers don’t care where they splash.” He wasn’t referring to water.

  Laughing at Johnny’s disgust, he sauntered off.

  Surely it was too busy for that sort of thing, thought Johnny. Unless the exhibitionist had a death wish.

  Three men emerged in a cloud of steam and headed for the showers. He ventured into the murk.

  It was difficult to see further than his outstretched hand. The single bulb only deepened the darkness. Assuming – correctly – that the layout of the room would be the same as the others, he groped his way towards the back and, with only one slight mishap – “I do beg your pardon” – made it to the bench.

  The enveloping warmth, the dimness and dampness, were soothingly womblike. Every so often the silence gave way to clanking and gurgling as more steam poured from the vent. An occasional cough told him he was not alone.

  When he was sure there was no one near him he lay down on the bench and covered h
imself with his hands. There was no point in asking for trouble. He closed his eyes and imagined the germs flooding from his pores.

  He was in a boat with Lizzie and Lila Mae. The sun was shining. Cherry blossom drifted down on to the surface of the water. Lila, making nonsense sounds, waggled her hands at the ducks.

  He was rowing, smiling at Lizzie – and she was smiling back. Then he saw Matt on the riverbank.

  He opened his eyes. He must have dozed off. The atmosphere in the steam room had changed. A naked man, with impressive abdominals, loomed over him.

  There was a swastika on his chest.

  NINETEEN

  The Bishopsgate lot were proud of their spanking new station house. Matt didn’t think much of the Art Deco building. Travellers leaving Liverpool Street station across the road stopped to admire the gleaming limestone façade that was already streaked with soot. Its streamlined windows squinted back.

  The massive grey entrance recalled that of a medieval gatehouse. Instead of a portcullis, letters spelling POLICE hung overhead. The City’s banner – the same as the flag of St George except for the sword of St Paul in the upper-left quadrant – snapped in the stiff breeze. Its halyard twanged against the metal pole.

  Matt turned his back on the twin blue lamps that were burning brightly and headed for New Street. He wanted to see what lay behind this bastion of dubious respectability.

  The cul-de-sac ran along the south side of the block before dog-legging behind it. The Catherine Wheel, C Division’s local, stood on the corner. Matt kept going. Warehouses, not content with their cargoes of furs and exotic textiles, also did their best to hoard the precious sunlight.

  Rose Alley was now on his left. However, before he explored it, Matt walked through the filthy passageway that provided the only exit. It twisted between high, shuttered buildings to emerge beside a branch of Birkbeck Bank. Across Middlesex Street a line of broken men stood outside a Salvation Army shelter. Hunger made you swallow anything – even religion.

  From the air Rose Alley, with its odd nooks and crannies, would have resembled a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The police station lay at the end, its drainpipes and fire escapes forming an image worthy of Escher.

  A row of garages faced a terrace of Victorian houses that had been converted into dingy offices and workshops. Most of them appeared to be occupied by drapers, clothiers and dressmakers, but the second floor of number 4, which had been broken into, was in darkness.

  The windows were out of reach of conventional ladders. And how many burglars lugged ladders round with them anyway? They didn’t clean windows, they broke them. There was no rear entrance: the terrace backed directly on to the buildings in New Street. The front door, according to the report, had been untouched. The intruder must have come over the roof.

  He was still digesting what Tanfield had told him. The snide hound had seen Johnny and Lizzie kissing in public. He wasn’t sure if he even believed him. If you couldn’t trust what was in the papers, why trust those who wrote for them? It was Tanfield’s job to cause mischief, make mountains out of molehills. Everything nowadays was calculated to produce a reaction.

  Johnny was different though. He’d always trusted him. Had he been wrong to do so? A surge of anger coursed through him. The idea that he may have been betrayed by his best mate – his best man! – made him clench his fists. He was nobody’s fool. He would find out the truth.

  And where was Lizzie? He’d left strict instructions that any message from her was to be relayed directly. It wasn’t like her to play games.

  He couldn’t reach either of them at present. A sudden feeling of loneliness, of vulnerability, swept over him.

  He shook his head and, glancing up at the dirty windows of number 4, climbed the sloping steps. If there was no one in he’d talk to the neighbours instead.

  There were four bells beside the door. He pressed the one marked EFF.

  Lizzie was alone. She inspected the room.

  A dressing-table set of pink glass sat on embroidered linen doilies. Matching candlesticks stood on either side of the mirror. The woman staring back at her had dark circles round her eyes. It wasn’t make-up.

  A pair of pottery rabbits on the mantelpiece, one dark purple, the other light brown – huge ears erect – listened to the silence. The grate was empty.

  The scent of lavender leaked from the large satinwood wardrobe. Generic scenes of country life, genteel representations of grinding poverty – cowherds and shepherds, harvesters and ploughmen, all head down – clashed with the wallpaper on which rambling roses embraced and intertwined.

  Lizzie folded back the creaking shutters and peered down into a large, well-tended garden. There was no shortage of odd-job men in London. The cityscape beyond was visible through bare branches like crooked fingers clutching at the sky.

  She sat on the edge of the single bed and sighed. She had been angry with Matt for a long time but the prospect of losing him for good filled her with terror.

  She should have told Johnny. Now it was too late.

  Lost in thought, deep within herself, she was brought back to reality by a noise.

  Footsteps were coming up the stairs. She began to cry.

  The muscular youth, before he could react, grabbed him round the throat with one hand.

  “On your feet, Steadman. I need a word in your shell-like.”

  He hauled Johnny upright. He tried to yell out but could do little more than croak.

  “I’m not Steadman.”

  The grip tightened. He wanted to cough but couldn’t. Black spots danced before his eyes. He flailed his arms. Another hand grabbed his balls. Hard.

  “Don’t lie to me again.”

  Before either of them could say another word the door to the steam room opened. His assailant flung him down on the bench and sat beside him. Two men, discussing a colleague, came in and perched opposite. Sensing tension in the air, their conversation dried up. Johnny, rubbing his neck, prayed the fraught silence would not be misinterpreted.

  One of the newcomers cleared his throat.

  “I say, chaps. Not interrupting anything, are we? Can’t see a damn thing in here. Thank God.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said the tattooed thug. “We’re just leaving.”

  “Not that we’re running away,” said Johnny. “Pity we can’t stay longer.” An elbow in his ribs shut him up.

  One of the meaty paws seized his upper arm and escorted him out of the steam bath – but not to freedom.

  “Don’t say a word,” muttered his captor. “I wasn’t stupid enough to come here by myself.”

  At the end of the corridor was another room. The mosaic above the door read: RADIATUS. It was unoccupied – and no wonder.

  As soon as they entered the blast furnace Johnny had to get out. The sweat that slicked their bodies immediately evaporated. The floor, too hot to stand on, forced him to hop from one foot to the other.

  “Let me out of here. Please.” The brute, who remained by the door, only laughed. He was wearing mules.

  It was like being back in the fire at Amen Corner. This heat felt even drier though. It seared the inside of his lungs. It was already difficult to blink.

  The man, who could still have been in his late teens, watched him with malign amusement. Johnny had a vision of him frying insects with a magnifying glass in the playground.

  “You’re only supposed to stay in here for a minute at a time. Any longer and your lips split and your skin cracks. Stay too long and you’ll start sweating blood.”

  “What d’you want?”

  Johnny’s vision began to blur. It was hard to keep your balance when it was impossible to stand still.

  “You’ve been bothering my friends. They want you to stop.”

  “Who?”

  The brute traced the cross on his chest with a forefinger. There was something lascivious about the gesture.

  “You know who.”

  “Ensom and Ormesher are dead. Fucking arsonists. Serves them right.�
��

  “Who’s burning now?” He took a step towards him.

  “I haven’t spoken to Leask.” His heart was bounding like a rabbit in a bag.

  “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”

  With the same forefinger he jabbed Johnny in the chest. That’s all it took. His legs collapsed and before he knew it he was sprawling on the scalding floor. He cried out in pain. St Lawrence on the griddle popped into his brain.

  The pale skin on his back and buttocks was thinner than that on the soles of his feet. He had to get up. If he stayed down here he would die.

  Before he could do so a hairy foot stamped on his stomach, forcing him against the scorching tiles. Johnny screamed.

  Everything went black.

  TWENTY

  Matt had visited the offices of English & Scottish Co-operative Wholesale Societies, William Alma & Co. (Russian tongue importers) and Suggars & Sturrock (packing case makers). He had spoken to secretaries, clerks and counter-jumpers. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious on the night of the break-in. The only information he’d gleaned was that EFF stood for England For Fascists.

  He’d heard of the British Union of Fascists, Mosley’s mob – it was impossible to avoid them – but not the EFF. The splinter group was, of course, relevant to the investigation into the anti-Semitic attacks, but did it pertain in any way to the murders? Hardly. The victims – Bromet, Broster, Chittleborough and Felshie – weren’t Jewish.

  Tanfield’s dulcet tones echoed in his ear: All four murders have taken place in the vicinity of a station. Aldgate, Essex Road, Fenchurch Street, Cannon Street. Liverpool Street was round the corner – but no one, as far as he knew, had been killed here. The fact that Bishopsgate fire station was also round the corner – literally – was surely of greater significance. One of its crews – or rather watches – had attended the blaze at Bevis Marks.

  He needed to interview the effing geezer who represented the group. He hadn’t given anything away the first time. By rights, he should have been hauled in straight after the fire. The swastika tattoos pointed to EFF’s involvement. Intolerance was the badge of all their tribe.