“Same as the others?”
“Afraid so.”
“Any tattoos?”
“None that I could see. You’re not suggesting this is connected to Adler’s fan club?”
“Just a thought. Which reminds me. Speaking of plain bogeys, Watkiss asked me to put in a word for him. Here’s one: nitwit.”
“He’s all right when you get to know him.”
“How can you say that? I know you were at Peel House together, but he’s hardly covered himself in glory since.”
“True, but you and he got off on the wrong foot.”
“He was jealous.”
Matt scratched the side of his head. “No, he wasn’t. Anyway, we haven’t spoken in ages.”
“Which is presumably why he sent me as an emissary.”
“Perhaps. Most likely he wants to raise his profile – and his salary. Probably wants to start a family.”
“Bad timing.”
“Why? He doesn’t have to fear conscription.”
“A bomber – like blind justice – does not discriminate.”
“Don’t talk to me about justice,” said Matt. “Inskip is bound to want more men on this case now we’ve got another victim. I’ll tell Watkiss to volunteer, if he hasn’t done so already.”
“And what am I to tell Simkins? I’d rather not get beaten up by Zick’s henchmen again.”
“Tell him whatever you want. We might as well play their game for now – even if we’re only playing for time. Give him my word that I won’t seek revenge. Necks aren’t the only things that can be broken.”
“Don’t forget the photographs.”
Matt stared into his eyes.
“How could I?” He finished the beer and wiped his mouth. “I’ve got to get back. Give me a two-minute start.”
“OK. Thanks, Matt.”
“If you see Penterell when you get there, ask him about the two tumblers we found in the flat. One of them has lipstick on it.”
Before Johnny could ask any further questions, Matt was back on the street.
The bells of St Swithin’s struck noon. Deep in thought, Johnny didn’t notice the man at the end of the crowded bar. If he had, he’d have recognized him.
SIXTEEN
Fog everywhere. Fog up Cannon Street, where it mixed with exhaust fumes and smoke from coal fires; fog down Cannon Street, where it merged with the black steam of trains and the belches of tug-boats. The sun was a pale disc seen through grey gauze. Johnny’s eyes stung as he stood on the pavement and, befuddled, tried to get his bearings. Grim-faced workers jostled him, adding their foul fag-breath to the general fug.
On the corner of Abchurch Lane a brazier cast a rosy glow on the chestnut-seller’s face. The looming copper, instead of moving him on, accepted a paper cone. The temperature was dropping, yet Johnny felt as though he were burning up. He had to get his own nuts out of the fire.
He crossed the road and entered Candlewick Ward. The location of Price’s Patent Candle Company was not a coincidence. Halfway down Ducksfoot Lane, where it opened out into an unexpected crescent, there was a pillar box.
“Nasty cough, you’ve got there. Should get it seen to.”
“What’re you doing here?”
Simkins, swathed in cashmere, teal silk scarf round his neck, snorted at the stupid question.
“Same as you, of course.”
“Not posting a letter then?”
“Only a lit match.” He stepped closer. A cloud of sandalwood enveloped Johnny. “Come on, there’s nothing to see.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. I won’t be long.”
“As you please. You know where to find me.” He stalked off into the murk.
Head down so he wouldn’t be recognized, Johnny merged with the huddle of ghouls loitering outside the showroom. Its electric candles – for display purposes only – tinged the scene with sepia. The covered corpse was being loaded into a van. A horrified murmur greeted the glimpse of a bare arm as it fell off the stretcher. It had been worth the wait.
You couldn’t get a quote from a corpse though. Johnny lifted his gaze. It was a four-storey building with a single entrance leading to the accommodation above the shop. The place was a fire-trap. If the killer hadn’t used the front door he must have got in through the window. How though? It didn’t seem possible.
The bedroom window was still open. Johnny could see a figure standing beside it: Penterell? He’d be only to pleased to keep his trap shut.
A black Wolseley, headlights raking the gloom, pulled up at the kerb. The driver nipped out smartly and opened the right-hand passenger door. Commander Inskip stepped out and, smoothing down his braided uniform, studied the crowd.
“Four dead men and a gang of Jew-haters on the rampage, isn’t it about time you considered your position, Commander?” Johnny emerged from the shadows. “What d’you think the Home Secretary will say?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Inskip flashed his crocodile grin and, nodding to the PC on the door, entered the house.
The spectators, disappointed by the lack of confrontation, drifted off. Johnny, however, was satisfied. A refusal to talk, a reluctance to share information, were signs of weakness. Suddenly his appetite was back.
Lila Mae suckled greedily. Her blue eyes – her father’s eyes – gazed up at her mother. Lizzie winced as an erupting tooth caught her nipple.
“Ouch! Stop that! You can’t eat Mummy. Little girls shouldn’t bite.”
The baby’s sole response was a slow blink. It was almost as if she’d done it on purpose. Lizzie scolded herself. Where had that evil thought come from? Lila might be the cause of her exhaustion and depression, but she was still an innocent.
She buttoned up her blouse and, resting Lila’s head on her shoulder, gently patted her on the back. She was soon rewarded with a shockingly deep burp. Round the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs: they wandered through the house that was as quiet as the grave.
Mist, the colour of cobwebs, drifted down Izane Road and mingled with the smoke from heaps of damp, smouldering leaves. All the new homes were occupied now. The windows were curtained; the gardens laid out and tended. Apart from delivery vans, few vehicles sped over the recently metalled surface, but – wait a minute – there was one approaching.
She lay Lila down in the cot and stroked her hair. Tummy full, she was already blissfully asleep. If only it could always be like this. Lizzie watched her daughter in rapture, once again ambushed by love.
She was brought back to earth by a knock on the door.
The Walbrook Club, in the street of the same name, was a home-from-home for former public school boys whose alma mater still loomed large in their privileged lives. Consequently the menu rarely changed and was designed to remind the diners of the meals they should have left behind. Stagnant soups, pies of dubious content, dry roasts and overcooked vegetables. The lumpy gravy covered a multitude of skins. But then that was what the City was all about: gravy, gravy, gravy!
Simkins had his nose in a glass of claret. He rolled his eyes in pleasure.
“Just what the doctor ordered. Nothing better on a day like this. You can taste the warm south.”
“If you say so.” Johnny, bunged up, had lost his sense of smell, but the alcohol would help him get through the day. He was running on empty.
“I took the liberty of ordering for us both. Asparagus soup – although it won’t be fresh – steak and dumplings and apricot crumble. We both have rather a lot on our plates. Ha!”
“Thank you. The stodge will stand me in good stead.” He took a sip of wine. “Why the ultimatum?”
“Zick wants an answer this afternoon. Is your pet policeman going to behave? Or is the world going to see you in a whole new light?”
There was no point in prolonging the inevitable.
“OK. You win.” The painful confession made his head ache all the more. “Turner will turn a blind eye – unless another body turns up.”
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“I’m so pleased. That is good news! Now we can all be friends.”
“Fuck off!”
“Shhh!”
Simkins glanced round the dining room. There was – praise be! – no sign of his father, the honourable member for Grafton. As someone who made it his business to épater la bourgeoisie, Simkins could be surprisingly prudish. None of the bankers raised their heads from the trough.
“What’s Zick got on you?”
“You’re the last person I’d tell.”
“I was very nearly the last person you ever saw.”
“I know. I know. How could I forget? I wouldn’t have put you in such an invidious position were it not for the fact I’m in a similar one myself. Zick’s made a fortune out of giving people what they want – but he’s good at getting what he wants too.”
“Call it leverage,” said Johnny. “Applying force, exerting influence. In other words, blackmail.”
Simkins winced. “Sotto voce, per favore.”
The first course arrived on a trolley. Condensation had already formed on the silver tureen. The Italian waiter lifted the lid with a flourish. Johnny half-expected a frog to leap out.
“One must speculate to accumulate,” said Simkins. There was irony in his soul. “As far as business or affairs of the heart are concerned, there is no reward without risk.” He sniffed the green liquid tentatively. “Hmmm. Scrummy!”
The soup was reassuringly hot and wet. Simkins made a show of cleaning his bowl with a hunk of bread – the only time he demonstrated his solidarity with the common man.
“Why has Zick survived so long?”
“You know why,” said Simkins. “Friends in high places. You’ve met at least one of them.”
“Inskip.” Johnny sneered then – involuntarily – coughed. “He’s a useless ass.”
“Not to Zick he’s not. He considers every penny Inskip pockets to be money well spent. All of us need a protector.”
The claret was having the prescribed effect. Simkins began to sing “Someone to Watch over Me”. The Gershwin brothers would not have approved. The fortunate arrival of the main course ended the performance.
Johnny was happy to let Henry rattle on as he concentrated on filling his belly.
“What you have to remember about Inskip is that he’s a mere figurehead, a puppet. If he resigned or was sacked, he’d simply be replaced with someone else equally compliant. Have you ever wondered why the City has its own police force, quite separate from the Met? It sees itself as a mini-state and as such capable of passing its own laws, even if most of them don’t reach the statute book. If they can’t always change the laws of the land they can certainly influence the way they are enforced within the Square Mile. It’s no coincidence that the Lord Mayor is the Chief Magistrate. Throughout history the privileged few have done their utmost to preserve their special status. The main role of the City force is to maintain the status quo. Anything that is bad for business – unwanted publicity, unwelcome attention – must be quashed—”
“Or, in the case of the little man, squashed.” Johnny wiped his mouth with a napkin. His upper lip was beaded with sweat.
“Indeed,” said Simkins, stabbing the air with his knife. “And in this case, that means you. Johnny, I’m trying to protect you. Believe me, you can’t win this battle.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, we will. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The pudding was an unpleasant mix of cement and slime. Johnny ate it regardless. He refused an offer of a glass of brandy – he was feeling dehydrated – but accepted a cup of coffee.
“Why are you so jumpy, Henry? I’ve given you what you want.”
“I’m expecting a telephone call.”
“From Zick?”
“How did you guess?” He ordered another brandy. “We’re due to meet this afternoon – hence our lovely lunch.”
“Where?”
“That’s what I’m waiting to find out.”
“Well, good luck.” Did he mean that? No. “I wish I could keep you company, but I must get back to the office.”
“I understand.” Simkins winked. “One of my underlings will have filed a report on Mr Felshie’s murder by now.”
“I expected nothing less. Thanks for lunch – and the advice. Next time I’ll bring a longer spoon.”
He took a cab to Fleet Street even though it would have been almost as quick to walk. The traffic could only creep through the fog. The driver had to wake Johnny when they finally arrived at Hereflete House.
The newsroom – which felt hotter, brighter and noisier than usual – seemed to be under naval attack. Sea scouts scurried up and down the aisles selling perfumed sachets that they had made themselves. Tanfield couldn’t stop sneezing.
“Bless you!” said Johnny. “Now you know how I feel.”
“I’m allergic to lavender.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Dimeo grinned at his own wit. Johnny ignored him.
The foreign bureau that now comprised six desks instead of the traditional four – a sure sign that events abroad were finally being taken as seriously as those at home – was buzzing with the news that a German diplomat had been shot in Paris. A Jewish youth, protesting at the Gestapo’s deportation of his family back to Poland, had gained access to the German embassy in the Rue de Lille and fired five bullets into the belly of one Ernst vom Rath.
Patsel, reeking of indignation, was jabbering in his native tongue into alternate telephones.
“Such a harsh language,” said PDQ. “Harsh sounds for a harsh people. Still, in the circumstances, it’s useful to have our own fuhrer. What’s the latest?”
“The police found traces of lipstick on a glass in Felshie’s flat. It’s the first time they’ve found evidence of anyone other than the victim. It might be significant. It might not …”
“Do they know how the killer got in?”
“Don’t think so. I’m about to call for an update.”
“Let’s hope they still haven’t a clue. Give me a thousand words on the series of locked rooms. Hate laughs at locksmiths etc.… Play up the deepening mystery – and the misery the boys must have endured.”
“What if they turn out to be Jewish? We’ll look damned silly – not to say hypocritical – if the killer’s carrying out his own pogrom.”
“We’ll worry about that if and when it turns out to be true. I’d say it was unlikely though. Why remove evidence of circumcision if you’re intent on killing Jewish men? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Removing the foreskin is an act of faith. Removing the whole todger removes the badge of that faith, thus making the man not only un-Jewish but unlike any male on earth. The fact the victim is alive when it happens makes the insult more grievous. Even if, by some miracle, they were to be saved, they’d have to live without a vital part of their identity.”
“Why d’you think the Jews were forced to wear red hats in Venice?” Tanfield, never shy to show off, stuck his oar in. “It was an offensive symbol of what the mohel had removed.”
“They made little purses out of the offcuts,” said Dimeo. “If you rubbed them, they turned into sacks.”
“I’ll sack the lot of you if don’t get back to work!”
Patsel shooed the idlers away and patted his forehead with a freshly ironed handkerchief. He turned to PDQ.
“It seems the shooting in Paris was nothing more than a sordid homosexual tiff – nothing to do with politics.”
“I find that hard to believe.” PDQ twirled the pencil that could usually be found behind his right ear. “A jilted lover – even if he’s an invert – doesn’t go to all the trouble of getting inside an embassy unless he has a point to prove. It smacks of calculation, not desperation. Still, it makes a change for German territory to be invaded, doesn’t it?”
Johnny’s laughter provoked another fit of coughing.
“Haven’t you got enough to do?” Patsel, as usual, failed to see the funny side. �
�Do you want that I should send you to Wapping? A woman threw herself off Tower Bridge but landed on a coal-barge. Broke her neck instead of drowning.”
“That sounds like a job for Blenkinsopp.”
The general reporter, who had been observing the stand-up conference from the comfort of his swivel-chair, gave Johnny the finger.
“The poor woman can’t be arrested, so it’s not really a crime story. Only someone with Soppy’s peculiar skills will be able to bring her back to life.”
Patsel couldn’t tell if Johnny was joking. “Have you found out any more about the arsonists?”
“I have,” said Tanfield, springing to his feet. “Mr Steadman asked me to do some digging.”
“I was at the fourth murder scene,” explained Johnny, before turning to Tanfield. “So what did you discover?”
“Ensom and Leask were at school together in Camden. And all three arsonists worked in Brick Lane.” Tanfield was a human sunflower: his head lifted as he basked in the attention. “Ensom was a cabinet-maker at Swinchatt’s, and Leask and Ormesher were machinists at Roitman’s.”
“So their employers were Jewish,” said Patsel. “Probably underpaid them. Maybe this is also not political but personal.”
“Then why not burn down their workplaces?” Johnny was not convinced.
“Too obvious,” said Tanfield. “The synagogue made a better target for their hatred – and preserved their jobs.”
“Excellent, Timmy. Keep up the good work.” Having bestowed his approval, Patsel headed back to the foreign desk.
“Well done, Timmy.” Johnny nodded his head in the direction of the departing news editor. “Perhaps he’ll take you with him when he goes.”
“Would you like that?”
“No. I like working with you – most of the time. You keep me on my toes. But it would be wrong of me to stand in your way as you climb the monkey puzzle tree.”
“The Chilean pine. Latin name, Araucaria.”
“Button it.”
“In a minute. What was the dead man’s name?”
“Felshie. Even you can’t be right all the time.”
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