Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  Twenty pounds? Was that all his soul was worth? He was sure the pay-offs would keep on coming as long as Zick was allowed to remain in business, but the first kickback was the one that counted. Once he accepted it, there would be no turning back.

  It was against everything he stood for: he was supposed to fight corruption, not share in it. He would be damned if he did take it – but he would also be damned if he didn’t.

  Was it coincidence that he had received the note a day after Lizzie and Lila’s disappearance or was history repeating itself? Had Zick (with Inskip’s blessing) abducted his wife again? He’d rather she’d fled into Johnny’s arms!

  Zick was ruthless, not witless. Lizzie and Lila might be hostages but harming them would produce the exact opposite of what he wanted – Matt’s silence. The detective gripped the rusty railing with both hands and tried to calm down. He needed to talk to Johnny.

  There was a driving range on top of an office block in Giltspur Street. A lone golfer, practising his swing, sent ball after ball into the nets. It was all a game. Targets and goals were either hit or missed. When it came down to it, life was all about getting into and out of holes.

  The fire-exit door banged shut.

  “Don’t jump! Don’t jump!” Tyser joined him. He took a moment to admire the view. “I jest. At least, I think I do. What’re you doing up here?”

  “Considering my options. How did you know I was here?”

  “Not much gets past me. You know what this place is like.”

  “Gossip Central.”

  “Indeed. But where would we be without it?” Twin streams of cigarette smoke shot from his nose. “What did you find at Bishopsgate?”

  “A cover-up.”

  “Excellent! We must be getting somewhere.”

  “The break-in was at the office of the EFF. Their membership list was stolen. Someone in C Division told the Secretary, one Steven Hext, to keep quite about the theft.”

  “We need to find out if Bromet, Broster, Chittleborough and Felshie were on it. Leask is refusing to talk – and there’s not much we can do about that while he’s still in Bart’s – but it’s as sure as eggs are eggs that he and his tattooed dead comrades are on it.”

  “So someone is going round fixing fascists. Why should we give a toss?”

  “We don’t yet know if that is the motive,” said Tyser. “But if we find whoever took the list, we’ll be able to ask them.”

  “Why doesn’t C Division want us to do that?”

  “Good question. It’s no secret that some cops, craving order, lean too far to the right. Such sympathies may be clouding their judgment.”

  “What are we going to do then?”

  “Ask them, of course.” He flicked his fag end towards St Sepulchre’s. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s make some calls.”

  Matt hesitated. The golfer was still teeing off. The glove money could stay where it was.

  It was after three when Johnny, covered in zinc oxide, arrived back at his desk. The doctor had assured him there would be no permanent damage. He’d assured the doctor that the Daily News would cover the bill.

  Tanfield, receiver to his ear, was scribbling on a yellow notepad. “That’s smashing. Thank you. Tinkerty-tonk.”

  He watched Johnny sit down gingerly.

  “Good lunch?”

  “I haven’t eaten.” He hadn’t realized till that moment. “Been too busy. Got a lead on your ABC murders.”

  “Bravo!” Tanfield’s expression suggested disappointment rather than delight. “Do tell.”

  “All in good time, Timmy. I need a word with PDQ or Patsel. They’d be put out if I discussed tactics with you first. Understandably.”

  “Fourteen letters,” said Tanfield.

  He was on his way back from the canteen when PDQ intercepted him.

  “What have you done now? Captain Vic wants to see you.”

  They took the lift to the seventh floor. The red light was on, but the door to Stone’s office was open. Patsel, gesticulating wildly, was arguing with the editor.

  “He’s refusing to accept that Vom Rath may have been Grynszpan’s lover,” whispered PDQ.

  “Naturlich,” said Johnny. “Everyone knows there are no homosexual Germans.”

  Patsel swivelled on his heels. His eyes glittered behind their twin portholes.

  “Steadman! Whitehall is furious. You pose a threat to national security. You!”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  PDQ placed a warning hand on Johnny’s forearm. “That’s why we’re here, Gustav.”

  Stone, behind his desk and behind the news editor’s back, rolled his eyes. “Enough already! Let’s thrash this out in a civilized manner.” He pointed to the pair of chesterfields either side of the hearth.

  The three subordinates sat on the sofas. Stone stood with his back to the fire.

  “You’ll get a headache,” said Johnny. “My mother always said—”

  “We don’t care what your mother—”

  “Shut up, Patsel.” Stone looked at Johnny. “I’ve already got a headache.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I gather you got into hot water.”

  “Cold, actually. I was meeting a source at the Turkish Baths in Ironmonger Row. A member of the EFF attacked me. He was supposed to warn me off but went too far – I could have died if Hollom hadn’t intervened.”

  “Great stuff!” said PDQ.

  “Indeed,” said Stone. “Pity our intrepid reporter agreed to keep schtum – just as the government wishes.”

  “You yellow dog,” said Patsel.

  “I’m not the one hiding from a fight,” said Johnny. “It was made abundantly clear that I could either cooperate or be arrested.”

  “So? Mr Tanfield would have been only too happy to make the most of your incarceration.”

  “Too right,” said Johnny. “Except I wouldn’t be able to follow up my story if I were in gaol – and believe me I still have a great story to tell.”

  “Go on,” said Stone. “We’re all ears.”

  Johnny picked up the plate he had taken from the canteen.

  “May I? It’s my first food of the day.”

  “If you must,” said Stone, trying not to smile as Patsel turned puce.

  Johnny took a bite of the sandwich and gave every impression of chewing over what he had to say. In fact he’d already prepared his script.

  “Spit it out!” PDQ had an admirable poker face.

  “Hollom’s name was given to me by Quirk, who was subsequently murdered. He must have known something that the EFF did not want made public. Three of its members were probably responsible for the arson attack on Bevis Marks. Hollom is a government agent working undercover. Why would the government wish to protect a bunch of ragtag fascists? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it does not,” said Patsel.

  “It would make sense if they were after a multiple murderer, though, wouldn’t it? Someone is killing Englishmen in their beds. If that someone were German, imagine the upsurge in anti-Nazi sentiment. The hackles of the Great British bulldog would rise. The prospects for peace are dwindling fast, but they would disappear altogether if news of the killer leaked out.”

  “We don’t know that the victims were Jewish,” said Stone. “The killer’s made sure of that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Johnny. “The fact is, they’re dead. They could have been converts to Judaism and thus, in the eyes of some, traitors. They could have been converts to Christianity and thus, in the eyes of others, traitors.”

  “Or they might simply have been fascists,” said PDQ. “Or members of the EFF who quit when they saw the direction the organization was taking.”

  “Yes and yes again,” said Johnny. “The point is if we link my attack to my investigation into their murders – making no mention of the EFF or Hollom – we’ve still got a story.”

  “So the government will have nothing to complain about,” said PDQ. />
  “And if they do, they can always arrest me and Tanfield can pursue the story.”

  Stone listened to his newsmen discussing the pros and cons of the ploy. He rocked back and forth on his heels – a sure sign the cogs were whirring. Was he convinced?

  Johnny wolfed down the remainder of his sandwich.

  The editor came to a conclusion.

  “It’s risky but it might work, Steadman. It would certainly buy you time to investigate further. And I’ve no doubt it would make gripping reading. Another exclusive. First, though, I need to make a couple of calls. Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll let you know forthwith.”

  Johnny and PDQ, mindful of the liftboy, continued the conversation. Patsel maintained a prickly silence.

  Johnny, now burning inside as well as out, this time with excitement, returned to his desk with a spring in his step. At least the ordeal had killed his cold.

  Tanfield, twirling a pencil in his fingers, seemed to share his excitement.

  “DC Turner is here to see you,” he announced.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Hext stopped and made a show of gazing in the window of a bookshop in Abchurch Lane. Recollections from My Business Life by S. Japhet, Issuing House Yearbook and Financial A.B.C, The Drama of Money Making by Hubert A. Meredith: none of the titles on display appealed to him. His interests lay elsewhere.

  He studied the view reflected in the plate glass. It wasn’t easy in the twilight – especially when passers-by kept jostling him on the narrow pavement. He didn’t like being touched.

  He wasn’t being followed. He was sure of it. The Snow Hill cop had rattled him though. Where’d he got his information from? Hollom? It wouldn’t surprise him. That damned wop was forever asking questions.

  A maid had lit the fire an hour ago. Lizzie watched shadow-flames flicker on the ceiling.

  She was standing by the window. A single star glittered in the darkening blueness. The wind had dropped. It would be a frosty night.

  A dozy winter fly blundered into a web that filled one of the small square panes. A spider, half the size of the insect, shot out from a corner, bit it, and – legs splayed like a pianist’s fingers – proceeded to enshroud its victim in gossamer. Then, to her amazed disgust, the spider hauled its prey up, across the web, and out of sight. Such strength seemed impossible in one so miniscule. Hunger, though, was a powerful emotion.

  Lila began to cry. It was time for another feed. Lizzie braced herself.

  She wanted to go home. See that Matt was all right. She replaced the photograph in the brown envelope. It had been intended to persuade her to do as they asked. Prove to her that he was at their mercy. They didn’t know she had seen it before.

  Captain Vic, page proofs spread out before him, was thinking of something else entirely.

  All the phones on his desk were trilling: a mad dusk chorus. Someone rapped on the door.

  “What now? I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  A tremulous secretary – not his usual one who had bronchitis – ventured into the lion’s den. “Lord Vivis wishes to speak with you, sir.”

  “Ah. Thank you, er …”

  “Gracie, sir. My—”

  “Thank you, Gracie. That will be all.”

  She closed the door behind her – not as quietly as she might have done. What was the bloody point in having four phones if you didn’t answer any of them?

  Stone braced himself. He hadn’t expected the call to come so soon.

  “Charles. How are you? I thought you were off hunting in the wilds of Canada. Not that there’s much else there.”

  As proprietors went, LV was one of the more humane. He rarely concerned himself with the day-to-day running of individual papers, no matter which country they were published in. He preferred firing guns to staff. As long as the Daily News purveyed his views, and continued to print money, he was generally happy – which meant the call was serious.

  “I was – I am – but you know I can’t brook much beaver.”

  “Indeed.” Max Aitken’s appetite for appeasement made Charles Stogdale’s blood boil. The barons were arch-rivals – something that Stone was hoping to play on.

  “I’m told one of our reporters has blundered into a major undercover operation.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake. He’s investigating a series of murders. Possibly anti-Semitic murders.”

  “Excellent. Why does the government want him stopped then?”

  “The EFF is involved.”

  “Really? Well, the fascists do have friends in Downing Street …”

  The line crackled. Stone calculated it was about 11 a.m. in Winnipeg.

  “How can we get round this blatant act of censorship? I can’t have the News shut down.”

  “Steadman – remember him? – has come up with a ploy to expose the culprits without jeopardizing the operation. If he’s arrested – which may well happen – it would still make great copy. We can portray his efforts as a patriotic attempt to preserve British decency in the face of lily-livered vested interests. Fascists don’t like British blood being shed to protect the lives of foreigners.”

  The line crackled again. Was LV still there?

  “It could put Beaverbrook, and Mosley’s Biff Boys, on the back foot.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do I need to know the details?”

  “I see no reason why you should be troubled with them at this stage, sir.”

  “Good man. What’s the latest advice? Keep acting like a clam and carry on. I’ll do that.”

  The connection was broken. The editor grabbed one of the other phones.

  “Mr Stone’s office.”

  “Gracie. Mine is the only voice you’ll hear on this line.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Inform the news desk that Steadman may light the touchpaper.”

  He knew immediately that something was up. Matt stood in the foyer: a still, silent pillar in a swirling sea of small fry. He seemed oblivious to the glances of envy and admiration.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Not here.” Then, noting Johnny’s hesitation, he added: “Don’t worry. This won’t take long. You won’t miss your deadline.”

  He headed for the swing doors. Johnny had no choice but to follow.

  Matt ignored the warm glow emanating from the Tipperary, where most newsmen drank and fought.

  “Are we going to the King and Keys?”

  “Wait and see.”

  Johnny stopped. Had Matt sensed his guilty conscience? “Matt, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I hope.” He turned to face Johnny. Commuters, anxious to get home, eddied round them. “Come on. I need a word, that’s all.”

  Seconds later Matt disappeared down Hind Court, one of several alleyways leading to Gough Square. At the darkest point he stopped.

  “There’s every chance I’m being followed.”

  “Why?”

  “Inskip doesn’t trust me – although he now thinks I’m one of the gang.”

  He wasn’t going to let on about the bribe. “Someone broke into the office of the EFF last month and stole the membership roll.”

  “I know who did it. Rick Hollom.”

  “The guy whose car you got into this afternoon?”

  “How the hell d’you know that?”

  “I was in Ironmonger Row.”

  “You were following me?”

  “No. Don’t blow a gasket. I heard you’d been attacked.”

  Johnny should have known better. Matt was always there for him when it counted.

  “How?”

  “An anonymous call.”

  Culver? Johnny had several questions for him.

  “You traced Hollom’s number plate?” Matt nodded. “So you know he’s one of yours.”

  “Indeed. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  “He warned me off. Told me there’s a lot more at stake than finding Quirk’s killer. He threatened to arrest me if I didn’t keep quiet.”

&n
bsp; “And are you going to keep quiet?”

  “What d’you think?”

  They laughed. Whatever tension there had been between them vanished.

  Matt scratched the side of his head. “Someone at C Division wanted the break-in kept quiet too.”

  “Where’s the office?”

  “Rose Alley.”

  “In Bishopsgate? That’s behind the police station.”

  Matt smiled. He’d known it wouldn’t take long for Johnny to make the connection. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “It’s only a coincidence when you’ve missed something.”

  “So what have we missed?”

  “I don’t know. Hollom must have staged the break-in to prevent suspicion falling on him. It would have been easy enough for him to get hold of a key.”

  “It was the locked-room aspect of the theft that drew my attention in the first place. Why didn’t he get someone in C Division to confiscate the list?”

  “He’s undercover. They don’t know about him.”

  “So why are they keen to keep the break-in quiet?”

  Someone entered the alley. They waited in silence for the man to pass. As he brushed by he gave them an odd look. Their eyes met. His footsteps faded into the general hum of the City.

  “Perhaps he thought we were canoodling.”

  “Hardly.”

  Matt stepped even closer. There was beer on his breath. Johnny’s lips began to tingle as much as his singed skin.

  It was the perfect moment for Matt to bestow a Glasgow kiss on his unfaithful friend. But had he been unfaithful? And even if he had, Johnny reassured himself there was no way Matt could know.

  “What were you doing with Lizzie last Tuesday?”

  Johnny couldn’t have been more shocked if Matt had hit him. He stood back instinctively. A wordless admission of guilt.

  “She told you, then?”

  “No. Tanfield saw you.”

  “Saw what? Nothing happened.”

  “He saw you walking down Fleet Street arm-in-arm.”

  Relief flooded through him though he tried not to show it.

  “There’s nothing unusual in that. We do that in your company sometimes.”

  “Then why’d you look like a naughty schoolboy when I asked you?”