Matt’s rumbling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours. With a bit of luck there’d be a friendly face in the canteen – someone with whom he could chew the cud.
He headed for the grim back yard where those arrested – demonstrators, deviants, down-and-outs – were brought in by van for questioning. A uniformed PC guarded the tall black gates that were open like outstretched arms. What was he waiting for?
The answer was immediately forthcoming. A black Wolseley cruised past. He recognized the chauffeur opening the passenger door. Inskip got out.
When he spotted Matt approaching, the Commander smiled.
“Ah, Turner. This is a happy coincidence. What are you doing round here? It’s not your patch.”
He held up his gloved hand to forestall any reply.
“I need a word – but first I have a luncheon appointment in this splendid building. Wait for me.”
Simkins refilled his fellow diner’s glass.
“Thank you. I’ve only had the 1924 vintage once before. It’s top-notch.”
“I’m so glad you like it.” Henry studied the face smiling at him. It really was quite handsome. Then youth had attractions all of its own. “It gives me pleasure to see others having pleasure.”
“Selfishness and selflessness. The two rarely become one.” The wineglass sang as the finger travelled round its rim. “What is it that you want exactly?”
Henry pursed his lips. “If only I knew.”
The Colonial Restaurant, deep in the labyrinth between Fenchurch Street and Mincing Lane, was an ideal location for clandestine dining. Its tables were unusually wide apart. Patterned glass shielded diners from prying eyes. Deals of all kinds were conducted within its crooked walls. There were not many occasions when Simkins, a determined exhibitionist, did not wish to be seen, but this was one of them.
Tanfield took another swig of claret.
“You said that you had some information.”
“Indeed. The devil of it is that I can’t use it. Or rather, I can’t be seen to be using it. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m not a puppet. If I do agree to help I’ll use the dope in whatever way I think best.”
“Bravo! Independence of mind is an admirable quality. However, when I spill the beans I think we’ll see things the same way.”
A charming blush warmed his guest’s cheeks. “That’s as maybe – but I’m not like you. Not at all.”
“If you say so.” Henry produced a tight little smile. “You might not like what you see now, but once upon a time I was ambitious too. Success often depends on doing things you’d rather not – and I’m not talking about sitting through endless speeches or standing in the rain for hours.”
“I know what you mean.” His proxy finished the wine and held out the glass. “This better be good.”
Henry waved the waitress away. He picked up the bottle of Saint-Émilion.
“It is.”
An agonizing screech went up as a dozen men pushed back their chairs and stood to attention as Inskip entered the canteen. He ignored them.
“There you are, Turner. Follow me.”
Matt thanked his two messmates for their time and – feeling like the naughty schoolboy he had once been, all eyes upon him – trailed after the Commander.
They didn’t speak until they reached the yard.
“May I offer you a lift?”
“No thank you, sir. I’m chasing a lead on the murders.”
“So I heard. Good lunch?”
“Not especially.”
“Pity. Mine was excellent.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The chauffeur, some distance away, quickly snuffed out his roll-up.
“I trust you’ll make the right decision, Turner. I’m counting on you. You’re a good lad, just like your father.”
Matt hoped not. His father was still wearing a sergeant’s uniform when he retired.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s important to remember which side you’re on. Who your real friends are. Check your locker when you get back to Snow Hill. You’ll find something to help you pick the right team.”
Inskip strolled over to the car. When the driver had closed the passenger door he wound down the window.
“Everything OK at home?”
“Yes, sir. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“No reason.”
Matt, with a growing sense of unease, watched the black car sweep out of the yard.
The light was dazzling. He heard a shout of surprise, a series of punches and a groan. It hadn’t come from him.
Johnny groped blindly for the wall. He scrabbled around, trying to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t work. He hadn’t known such pain existed. He was a rapidly melting human candle. He didn’t know whether he was going to be sick or soil himself.
Before he could do either he was picked up and slung over someone’s shoulder. He was in a fireman’s lift.
If the corridor felt shockingly cold, the plunge pool stopped his heart. Hydrocution. Blackout – again.
The person who had thrown Johnny in the water jumped in after him and, to a round of ironic applause, fished him out. He laid him on the floor and slapped his face. Twice.
Johnny’s eyelids fluttered. A fit of coughing and spluttering ensued. His rescuer rolled him over and patted him roughly on the back.
“That fucking hurts. Stop it!”
He turned to see who had saved his life.
PART THREE
Robin Hood Yard
TWENTY-ONE
A freak hailstorm had struck Tunbridge Wells. Witnesses claimed the town looked as if it had been covered in rice pudding. Matt shuddered and flicked through the pages of the Evening News for a third time. His fingers were smudged with ink. It wasn’t his prints he was after.
He was in a pie and mash shop in Finsbury Market where Steven Hext was said to run a fruit-and-veg stall. The lunchtime rush was over; trade was slackening off.
None of the stallholders matched the description provided by the Bishopsgate boys. The Prince of Wales, on the corner of Vandy Street, had closed for the afternoon so he’d had to seek shelter elsewhere.
He wiped the condensation off the window in time to see a stocky young man take a pinstriped apron from the greengrocer. He was still tying its strings round his waist when Matt appeared in front of him.
“What can I do you for, guv? Sprouts is on sale.”
“Cut the Cockney act, Mr Hext. You’re from Burnley.”
“How d’you know that?” His eyes, too small for his moonface, narrowed. There was alcohol on his breath.
“Where’ve you been?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m a detective.”
“Pardon me if I don’t kiss your ring. What d’you want?”
“Information. That’s all. I believe you’re Secretary of an organization called England For Fascists.”
“So what? It ain’t banned.”
“Not yet. You had a break-in last month. Is that correct?”
“A fuss about nothing. They didn’t get away with anything.”
“They?”
“Rats are rarely alone.”
“You think the damage was done by some of your members?”
“Dunno. Mebbe.”
“Why? They wouldn’t need to break into the office, would they? They could stroll straight in – unless they wanted something they weren’t supposed to have.” He leaned across the crates of produce. “What was it?”
Before the barrowboy could think of a reply, an old woman, grey hair still in curlers beneath her headscarf, butted in.
“How much are them bananas? Ain’t got me specs.”
“’Ello, darlin’. For you, threepence each or five for a shilling.”
“Give us five.” She rummaged in her purse. “Fuck it – I’m a penny short.”
Matt expected the street trader to wave her away with an air of munificence but he snatched up th
e brown paper bag and proceeded to snap a finger off the hand.
“You can have four, not five. You’re still saving a penny.”
“Don’t be like that. The nippers are coming to see me after school. All five of them. What are you? A bleeding Yiddisher?”
Hext flushed. “You cow. You want a bunch of five, I’ll give you one!”
“That won’t be necessary.” Matt fished out the change in his pocket and handed over a penny. “Give the lady her fruit.”
“Thank you. Thanks ever so much.” The granny, baring gappy teeth in gratitude, patted his arm and, with a scowl at Hext, dropped the bag in her reticule and toddled off.
“You mug,” said the wide boy. “She tries it on every time.”
“Learned it from you, did she? Look, if you won’t come clean about the break-in I’ll have no choice but to take you in for questioning. Have we got your prints on file? I’m after a killer. I’m not interested in sad little men like you.”
“Which station? Upper Street?”
“What’s it matter? Snow Hill.”
“This ain’t the City. You can’t arrest me. We’re in Islington.”
Matt had had enough. Lizzie was missing – something that his best friend might be able to cast light on – and, to cap it all, he was being told to turn a blind eye to corruption. He hated what he’d become: complacent, suspicious, craven. Someone had to pay.
He grabbed the fascist round the throat. He could feel the man’s Adam’s apple in the palm of his hand.
“I can do whatever I want.” If only that were true. He didn’t care who was watching. “Tell me what was taken or it won’t be only your fruit that gets bruised.”
Hot tears leaked from the stallholder’s eyes. He closed them slowly to signal his agreement. Matt relinquished his grip.
“No need for that.” Hext spat viciously, as though the pavement were the copper’s face. “Bishopsgate told me to keep it dark. I don’t know you. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Well, you do now. Tell me.”
The fascist, biting his cheek, checked no one was within earshot.
“They took our list of members.”
Rick Hollom waited for him to stop coughing.
“You put me in mind of a king-size prawn – in ginger sauce.” He threw a towel at him. “Cover yourself up.”
“And you,” said Johnny. Stretched out as if he were a fish on a slab, he was at enough of a disadvantage. The Italian was hung like a donkey. “Where’s Culver?”
“Your friend? Let’s say he had to leave. Here.”
Johnny took the proffered hand and was pulled to his feet with embarrassing ease.
“Thank you – and thanks for intervening. I presume your being here is not a coincidence.”
“Correct. Sit yourself down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He was only too glad to do so. His body was shivering outside and quivering inside. He lowered himself into one of the canvas chairs. The attendant brought him two more towels and made him drink a whole jug of water. His skin was singing the “Hallelujah Chorus”, tingling as though he’d been struck by lightning. It must be the shock.
The next thing he knew, Hollom was shaking his shoulder. For a moment he hadn’t a clue where he was. The smell of chlorine acted like a madeleine, but it instantly transported him back to the present instead of the past.
Hollom had got dressed.
“You’ve no idea how much trouble you’re in,” he said.
The ground shook as trains thundered in and out of Broad Street station overhead. Matt was angry. He’d been given the runaround at Bishopsgate – and he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one being kept in the dark. He was on his way back there now.
He re-emerged into daylight on Pindar Street and immediately turned right down Sun Street Passage that squeezed between Broad Street and Liverpool Street stations. The cut-through was so long and narrow the air seemed to thicken as the brick precipices threatened to meet far above him. The sky had shrunk to little more than a silver thread.
He was breathing heavily when he reached the police box on the corner of New Broad Street.
The operator connected him to Snow Hill. Tyser was conducting an interview and only to be disturbed in the event of an emergency. However, there was a message for him. There had been an incident at the wash-house in Ironmonger Row. A man from the Daily News had been attacked.
So that’s where Johnny was hiding.
The Turkish Baths would soon be closing. Only women were admitted between 3 and 6 p.m. on Tuesday.
“Get your clothes on,” said Hollom. “You’re coming with me.”
“No I’m not,” said Johnny. He had no intention of jumping out of the fire into a frying pan. “Where’s the gorilla who attacked me?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s with me.”
“Ah …”
He should have guessed. He’d not been thinking straight. The Good Samaritan was actually a bad penny.
“So what are you going to do with me? Why intervene if he was doing your dirty work for you?”
“He was supposed to scare you, not scald you.”
“What’s stopping me making a scene? Demanding that I be let out of here?”
“Go ahead. See how far you get. What d’you think would happen to a semi-naked man running and screaming down the street? You’d be arrested within minutes.”
Hollom had a point. He was trapped.
Matt got off the tram outside Moorfields Hospital. In Lever Street he spotted Johnny getting into the passenger seat of a black Austin Seven. He didn’t recognize the other man.
He opened his mouth to call out Johnny’s name but quickly thought better of it. He didn’t seem to be injured or under duress. Where were the cops? He kept walking.
The car drove off towards Clerkenwell – but not before he’d noted down the registration number.
TWENTY-TWO
Hollom turned left into Goswell Road and headed south.
“Where are you taking me?” said Johnny.
“That depends on you.”
He put his foot down to beat the new traffic lights at the junction with Old Street. A chance to leap out of the car vanished.
“It’s very good of you to give me a lift,” said Johnny. “Anywhere in Fleet Street will be fine.”
“That’s the problem. I need to know what you’re going to write – if you get there.”
“Wait and see.”
“No time,” said Hollom. “No need. Refuse to cooperate and I’ll arrest you.”
“You’re a cop? Why didn’t you say so?”
Hollom checked the rear-view mirror.
“The fewer people who know, the better. I tried to put you off the scent but you’re a persistent blighter. I’m undercover. It’s taken weeks for me to infiltrate the organization, to gain the trust of its leaders, now you come along and threaten to sink the whole operation. I can’t – I won’t – let that happen. There’s a lot more at stake than the death of a snitch.”
“So, one way or another, you’re going to shut me up.”
“You can count on it. My superiors need to know if they can count on you.”
“Care to name names?”
The Italian, although half English, still believed in some form of omertà.
“No. Though you’d certainly recognize them if I did.”
Johnny stared out of the window, not at the fleeting slide show that London always provided but into the uncertain future. He was on to something big here, a story of national importance, every instinct told him so. Whenever the powers-that-be told him to keep silent, he felt an urge to shout from the rooftops. On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore his instinct for survival. What could he do if he were banged up? Nothing. He had been locked up before and he didn’t like it. The mere thought of being immured in a police cell was enough to trigger his latent claustrophobia, which seemed to be getting worse as he got older.
The Austin swept round West Sm
ithfield. Hollom parked outside Bart’s.
“Decided which side you’re on?” He pulled out a pack of Three Nuns and offered Johnny one.
“Thanks.”
The nicotine worked its magic. Johnny felt calmer; his mind clearer.
“You can’t win,” said Hollom. “Either I drop you here so you can get something for your skin – you do want to save your hide, don’t you? – or I take you round the corner to Snow Hill. And DC Turner won’t be able to help you.”
Johnny failed to mask his surprise.
“Yes, we know about your friendship. We know everything there is to know about you and him.”
Johnny doubted that very much.
“He’s showing real promise, apparently,” said Hollom, following the progress of two nurses. They had to hold on to their caps in the wind. “You wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize his chances, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“So if you don’t care about yourself, consider what might happen to him.”
“Can’t you give me a clue what’s at stake? Quirk was murdered. We all know that. Doesn’t his death mean anything?”
“That’s not the point. Even if I were to tell you who was responsible, you couldn’t do or say anything about it. Silence really is the best option.”
Johnny said nothing.
As soon as he got back to the station house Matt climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor. There was no one in the Detective Squad’s locker-room.
His door had not been jemmied. He got out the key.
There was a white envelope on the top shelf. Someone evidently had a skeleton key. There was a lot of cash. Twenty crisp pound notes. Hush money. A typed note read:
Think of your wife and kid.
His first thought was to tear up the note and flush it down the lavatory – but it was evidence of something.
He slipped the note into his jacket’s inside pocket, stuffed the bribe into one of the boxing gloves that dangled from a peg, and relocked the door. It was unbearably hot in the locker-room. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to get out.
He went up to the roof where a small terrace afforded panoramic views of the City. Bart’s, St Paul’s, the Old Bailey – where, so many times, he had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Robin Hood Yard Page 14