Snow Hill

by Mark Sanderson

  Johnny expected to be led up to the attic but, having reached the first floor, he was shown into a much larger, warmer room. Its walls were hung with Chinese wallpaper decorated with a bamboo motif and the floor covered in soft, intricately patterned Persian rugs. There were two large mirrors and—Johnny could not help smiling—another on the ceiling above the king-size bed.

  “You’re in luck,” said Stan. “All the other rooms are taken.”

  Perhaps this explained the higher price. The boy stripped off in seconds and hopped on to the bed. Johnny sat beside him. The sheets were still warm. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping up. There was a faint smell of male sweat—and other body fluids—in the room. He must not make the same mistake as last time. He would arouse suspicion if he immediately started asking questions. He had to appear keen: he did not want Zick interrupting again.

  “Don’t be shy.” Stan started undoing Johnny’s collar and slipped off his tie. His hand slid inside Johnny’s shirt and tweaked his right nipple through his vest. Before he knew it the boy’s lips were on his and his tongue, as strong and limber as an eel, was forcing itself into his mouth. The instinct to recoil was almost too much to resist. Johnny told himself: Think about Stella. Pretend you’re with Stella. Christ, he better get a good story out of this.

  Stan, he grudgingly had to admit, was a good kisser. Trying not to think about the assault in Passing Alley, Johnny was struck by the novelty of the act: it both was and was not like kissing a woman.

  He opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Stan’s. There were flecks of gold among the brown. The boy’s hand dropped to Johnny’s groin.

  “Hello, hello. What do we have here?”

  Johnny reddened. He could not help it. The kissing had turned him on. Was he queer after all?

  He stood up, holding his hands in front of the bulge in his trousers.

  “What’s wrong?” Stan was evidently miffed.

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “It’s…it’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before.” He could still taste the boy on his lips. “You were recommended to me by a friend,” said Johnny. “Henry Simkins. D’you know him?”

  Stan’s erection started to droop.

  “I see a lot of men.” A hint of pride crept into his voice. “You can’t expect me to remember all of them. Is he a regular?”

  “I’ve no idea. He’s tall, willowy with long, wavy brown hair. Posh, throws his money about.”

  “Now, that I would remember.”

  “He’s a journalist. I believe he’s investigating the death of a cop from Snow Hill.”

  Before Stan, eyes wide with alarm, could answer, the door burst open.

  “Mr fucking Steadman!” the irate madam stood in the doorway, Alf looming behind her. She was quivering with rage. “Think yourself cleverer than me, do you? Well, it takes more than a bit of slap to fool Cecilia Zick.”

  Stan grabbed his clothes and fled, the doorman taking the opportunity to smack his bare bottom as he did so.

  Johnny put his head down and tried to follow but the fat woman grabbed his hair and pulled him towards her. He cried out as something sharp pricked his neck.

  Within seconds his vision blurred, he lost the use of his limbs and, although he fought against it, darkness overwhelmed him.

  An agonising pain brought him round. It was as if he were being split in two. He tried to move but his wrists and ankles were handcuffed to the brass bedstead. He was back in the attic. A blinding white light made him bury his face in the pillow. A camera shutter clicked.

  Johnny was living Matt’s nightmare. No wonder he had refused to explain it.

  “He’s coming round,” said Zick.

  “All the better,” said a voice that Johnny knew he’d heard somewhere before. “The more resistance, the greater the pleasure.”

  His assailant jerked his hips again and Johnny cried out as the man’s cock was driven where no cock had gone before. It was impossible not to resist. The sense of overwhelming fullness and the prodding of his stomach were unbearable. He wanted to vomit. The blood acted as a lubricant.

  The click-click-click of the shutter told him that the unseen cameraman was recording every moment of his violation.

  The rapist increased his pace, panting as he called out every insult under the sun. Sweat, stinking of onions, dripped on to Johnny’s back. He had not known such pain existed. How could men do this for pleasure?

  There was one last vicious lunge, and Johnny felt the man’s hot seed squirting into his bowels. Death was preferable to this.

  He pulled out roughly, making Johnny yelp. Then a hand reached down between his outspread legs and grabbed his cock.

  “Ha! It never fails. Rock-hard.” He slapped one of Johnny’s upturned buttocks and the springs creaked as he got off the bed. More flash-bulbs popped.

  Johnny turned to look up. In the white glare of the camera’s flash he saw Rotherforth’s face sneering down at him.

  “Think of me when your neck snaps,” he spat.

  He did not see the fist coming. The blow knocked out a tooth but put Johnny out of his misery.

  Rotherforth did up his trousers and turned to the man who had been watching intently by the door. “You know what to do. The car’s in Russia Row. Well, don’t just stand there!” He raised his fist again. The young man flinched.

  “Yes, sir. But can’t I just have ten minutes first?”

  “Very well, but only after you’ve helped Jim take his equipment back to the van.” He picked up his jacket, brushed a speck of dust off the sleeve and began to button it up. “You never know, the bloody hack might have come round by the time you get back.”

  The inspector, back in uniform, stared down at Johnny’s outstretched, soiled, bruised body.

  “I’ll say this for him: he was a stubborn little fucker.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Zick—a word, if you please.”

  He strode out of the room with the madam scurrying after him. The photographer and Rotherforth’s accomplice silently picked up the various cases and bits of camera equipment then trooped downstairs.

  Johnny remained out cold on the bed, naked and defenceless.

  The little fucker! Talk about a bad penny. I thought I’d sorted him at the bookshop—that second corpse must have been some bum-chum of Jo’s, hiding out in the flat. God knows how Steadman got out of there. And the sheer nerve—holding a fake funeral! He must have been so pleased with himself. I can just see the clever sod: revelling in his deceit, cock-a-hoop because he thought he’d got the better of me.

  Well, he’s not laughing now. He’ll be in need of a real funeral before the night is out—except he won’t get one.

  There’s a kind of poetic justice in him sharing Aitken’s abuse. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed making someone suffer so much. They don’t realise that tensing up, fighting back, just makes it worse for them—and better for me.

  He can’t have been working alone though. Someone must have helped him. Someone aside from PC Matt Turner. We’ll have to see what Fox has got to say for himself. Why didn’t the old queen tell me what was going on? Does he have a death wish?

  And as for young Turner—if he thinks he’s going to see me swing he’s made a big mistake.

  Now that Steadman’s sorted it’s going to be his turn to face the music.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Johnny could hear whistling. It was the same haunting tune he’d heard back in Passing Alley: “Mad about the Boy”. The kiss was the key to this whole story. He should have been more open-minded. Harry was not the only man whose love dare not speak its shame.

  As he slowly regained consciousness he realised that someone was stroking his backside.

  “Hello, handsome. Remember me?” The caressing continued. “I sometimes think there is nothing more beautiful in the whole world than a man’s bottom. Two simple curves, thrusting out into space, defying gravity, arrogant yet at the same time so vulnerable. Only a god could design som
ething so perfect.”

  Johnny, still mortified to be in such a compromising position, turned his swollen face. It was PC Vinson.

  “You! You cunt.”

  “Now, that’s not very nice.” He spanked Johnny’s backside lightly. “We’re on the same side you know.”

  “I’m not queer,” said Johnny. The rape had decided him once and for all.

  “That’s not the ‘same side’ I had in mind. I meant we’re both against Rotherforth. Who do you think sent you the tip-offs? Who let you find the knife in the alley?”

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Felt like it, that’s all.” Vinson smiled. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I suppose you’re going to fuck me as well,” said Johnny, trying to sound braver than he felt.

  “Thanks but no thanks. I’m Martha rather than Arthur. Believe it or not, you soon get used to the pain.” Vinson laughed at his look of disbelief.

  “If you say so. Why are you here?”

  “To press your face into the pillow until you’re dead.” Vinson giggled. “Rotherforth was beside himself when he learned that you were still alive. I must say, I was rather surprised as well. He was absolutely livid…almost throttled Zick.”

  Johnny was traumatised but he was not going to beg. “Zick better hope I never set eyes on her again. What can I do to make you change your mind? I won’t give you away, I promise. It’s Rotherforth I’ve been after, not you. I can hardly believe what he’s just done.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Now you’re here, I’ve so much to tell you.”

  Johnny was shivering violently, his teeth chattering.

  “Don’t panic,” Vinson said gently. “I was only having you on. I’m sorry it turned out like this. Any friend of Matt’s is a friend of mine. I want you to nail Rotherforth. He’s the bane of my life—and that of many others. He’s a very sick man who needs stopping for good. From what Matt had said about you, I thought you were the man for the job.”

  “Well, look at me now.”

  “Your fake death hit Matt very hard. It certainly worked better than your false nose.” He pointed to it on the floor. “Matt’s very fond of you. I must confess I’m jealous.”

  “Shut up about Matt and get me out of these fucking things.”

  Vinson began to unlock the handcuffs. Even when they had been removed Johnny could not shift his arms. If he had been able to he would have knocked the bastard out.

  The man who had been ordered to kill him helped arrange his limbs into a more comfortable position. Such was his state of mind, Johnny did not even mind being naked. His arse felt as though it were gaping open—and it burned. His head throbbed from Zick’s drug and his jaw ached from Rotherforth’s blow. It hurt when he talked but that did not stop him.

  “How many more men has Rotherforth done this to?”

  “Search me,” said Vinson. “You’re at least the fourth. Before that there was Matt, George Aitken, and me.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the rubber-heelers?”

  “I had no proof and the word of a constable against that of an inspector would carry little weight. No one would believe me—I’d have just ended up the butt of endless jokes. It would have been impossible to stay in the force.”

  “You should have gone to Old Jewry. The top brass are terrified of scandal,” said Johnny.

  Though he could see Vinson casting glances at his cock, he was beyond caring. All that mattered was revenge.

  “Why did Rotherforth need to rape unconscious men when there’s plenty of willing boys available?”

  “He doesn’t tell me anything—except that he’s not a poofter. He absolutely loathes homosexuals. The bastard carries a pearl-topped hat-pin with him so he can stick it into them if he can’t be bothered to arrest them.” He shook his head in disgust. “Only time I’ve known him to show any kind of tenderness is when he talks about a friend of his named Archie. The pair of them grew up together, signed up together, went to war together. Only Archie didn’t come back. Rotherforth told me once he was trapped alone with Archie’s corpse in a shell crater for two whole days on the Western Front. Archie died in his arms, apparently. I think they were more than bosom buddies, if you know what I mean, but I doubt they did anything about it.” He shuddered. “I can’t imagine the horror of seeing the man you love die before your eyes. Such an experience is bound to change a man—and not for the better…”

  For a moment there was silence. Vinson sighed heavily. “Rotherforth refuses to accept that he might be queer. Perhaps that’s why he prefers his partners to be unconscious: if they don’t know anything, he doesn’t need to deny anything. A willing partner would force him to recognise himself.”

  “Why did he kill Harry Gogg? He didn’t have sex with him, did he?”

  “Christ, no! Rotherforth despised him. He’d only lay hands on him to hit him. Informants are supposed to be registered, but Harry wasn’t—there was nothing official to connect him to Snow Hill. Rotherforth is a law unto himself like that. When he found out someone had tipped you off, he was convinced it was Harry. Then he saw him talking to you and he was afraid Harry would spill the beans about him. All Harry and I did was take Aitken’s body to Bart’s.”

  “How did Aitken die?”

  “I’m not sure, but it happened in Snow Hill. Afterwards, Rotherforth tipped his corpse out of an upstairs window into Cock Lane, and we wheeled him round the corner on a barrow. I’d never seen Rotherforth look so frightened.”

  Johnny gradually began to rally. The murder of a cop in a cop-shop—by a cop—was a sensational story. With Vinson’s testimony it ought to be possible to expose the bent copper.

  “Does Rotherforth know you’re here now?”

  “Of course. I’m supposed to suffocate you and take your body to the mortuary at Bart’s. I saved your life by asking if I could have some fun with you.”

  “Thank you.” Johnny was going to shake his hand but in such a ridiculous position—nude, bleeding, tearstained and sickened—there was no appropriate gesture he could make. His tongue found the hole left by the absent molar. “I suppose I owe you a great deal.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Vinson. “I’m doing it for Matt more than you, though.”

  Johnny sat up.

  “Does he know I’m alive?”

  “Not likely,” said Vinson. “Rotherforth would kill me if Matt were to find out. He’s better off not knowing. Besides, he’s the one in danger now. Rotherforth won’t rest until he thinks everyone’s been silenced—one way or another.”

  “In that case, what about yourself?”

  “I’m too useful. He can’t operate by himself, and I’m the only one he remotely trusts.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to pull Johnny up. “Come on, let’s get you out of here while Zick’s still occupied.”

  Vinson handed him a heavily darned collarless shirt and a pair of trousers. They were not his own clothes—perhaps they belonged to one of the boys—but they would have to do till he could find a cab back to Holland Park. He was still shaky so Vinson helped him dress.

  “I presume you won’t tell anyone of my escape,” said Johnny.

  “Are you kidding? I like being alive.”

  Johnny stared into Vinson’s eyes. Could he trust him? The man had saved his life. On the other hand…

  “You misled me about Aitken. Said that he was still alive.”

  “I had to. I was hoping to keep myself out of the picture. I wanted to tell you when we met outside the Viaduct Tavern, but I didn’t know what Rotherforth was going to do then. He still scares the hell out of me. Did you know he was in the pub?”

  “No, I didn’t—but that doesn’t matter now.” The presence of the inspector that night would, however, explain why Matt had left so abruptly. “You knew that Aitken was dead. You knew Rotherforth had raped you—and Matt. Wasn’t that enough to make you do something?”

  “I did do something: I contacted you.”

  Footsteps came trudgi
ng up the wooden stairs. The two men looked at each other and dived under the bed. The footsteps passed the door. Another whore and his client.

  “We better use the back passage,” said Vinson.

  “Is that some kind of joke?” Johnny did not feel like laughing.

  “No, of course not. Sorry.” Vinson peeped out of the door to make sure the coast was clear. Johnny followed the policeman along a corridor and down the servants’ staircase into the basement. His legs felt as if they were going to give way at any moment. Only anger and adrenalin kept him going.

  The black Wolseley was unlocked.

  “I can’t take you home,” said Vinson. “Rotherforth will check the odometer.”

  “That’s all right,” said Johnny. “I should be able to get a cab in Holborn.” He stared through the narrow windscreen. Russia Row, apart from a pair of rats scuttling along the gutter, was deserted. He could still feel Rotherforth plunging away. He had never felt so unclean. “Got any fags?”

  Vinson produced a packet of Greys. He lit Johnny’s first, then his own.

  “Thanks.” He let the magic smoke trickle slowly out of his nostrils. “It’s a dead give-away, that.”

  “What is?”

  “When you struck the match, you held it away from yourself like a woman. Men strike towards themselves.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “I’m a person who notices such things.”

  Vinson turned the key in the ignition.

  “Hold your horses,” said Johnny. “I’ve got a few more questions. Why did Rotherforth—I’m presuming it was him—send Matt the photographs?”

  “When he saw him talking to you in the Viaduct, he feared the worst. He thought blackmail would be the best way to shut Matt up. Then you showed up at the Urania, flashing the photo and asking about Aitken and Gogg. Rotherforth and his associates were behind the bookshop as well as the brothel. You’ve no idea how many pies they’ve got their grubby little fingers in and how profitable they’ve been. When you went back to the shop, he panicked. Jo was already starting to ask questions about what happened to Harry, so he couldn’t be relied on. Rotherforth thought destroying the shop and everything in it—including you—would safeguard the operation. However, here you are, back from the dead.”