Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  “I had no choice. Still, by the looks of you, there’s no harm done. I did try to find out what had happened. When the cops arrived and carted off a bloke who was out for the count I thought it wise to make a strategic withdrawal. Rubbed you up the wrong way, did he?”

  “I never touched him.”

  “Who did then?”

  “A friend of Quirk’s.”

  “Who? I didn’t know he had any.”

  Johnny hesitated. Knowledge was power. He’d tell him half the story and see what happened. “Rick Hollom.”

  The colour in Culver’s eyes deepened from silver to platinum. He had heard the name before.

  “You want to be careful of him.”

  The woman was old enough to be his mother. Smartly dressed, an expensive hair-do sheathed in a jazzy headscarf, the matron regarded him with a mixture of amusement and pity.

  “Leading you on, is she? Playing hard to get? Well, this here’s no garden path. Your waitress friend asked me to give you this.”

  She handed Alex a slip of paper that looked as if it had been torn off an order-pad. It bore a scribbled address.

  “You’ll find her there.”

  As they walked down Cleveland Street on the way to dinner they passed the end of Howland Street. Becky, still elated by the opening – and its free-flowing wine and beer – insisted on making a detour. There was nothing to see. The gaping hole in the terrace was only a dormant building site. A glimpse of things to come.

  The Rendezvous was a typical French restaurant: candles stuck in bottles, strings of garlic, lithographs of lavender fields in sun-soaked Provence.

  Shivering in the sudden warmth, they both ordered the set-price special: onion soup, coq au vin and apple pie. Plus a bottle of Côtes du Rhône.

  “What’s that?”

  She nodded at the brown-paper package that he’d retrieved from his pocket when the maître d’ took their coats.

  “It looks like a book. Is it for me?”

  “No, it’s for the waiter.”

  She laughed and, like a little girl on Christmas morning, slowly undid the string. When she saw the title she laughed even more.

  “Rebecca. How perfectly splendid!”

  “It’s had rave reviews. I cut out this one from the TLS. Thought you might like to see it.”

  He bought the periodical every week. The pile of back issues in his bedroom almost touched the ceiling. Du Maurier’s novel had been published in August. At eight shillings and sixpence it wasn’t cheap. He was hoping that she’d lend it him after she’d read it.

  Like many women who picked up a magazine, Becky started at the back – or in this case the bottom. Her administrative skills made her cut to the chase. She quoted from the final paragraph of the review.

  “Rebecca is extraordinarily bold and confident, eloquent and accomplished to a degree that merits genuine respect.”

  “They could be talking about you.”

  “Flatterer! I’ll have to read it now.”

  “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  The soup arrived.

  “Where’s the wine? I’m thirsty.”

  “Sorry, madam. I’ll fetch it forthwith.”

  The waiter, shooting a meaningful glance at Johnny, hurried to the bar.

  “Sure you haven’t had enough?”

  “Quite sure.” She put down her spoon. “Just going to powder my nose.”

  While she was gone he took the opportunity to read the whole review again. One sentence struck a particular chord:

  It is to the girl herself, whose portrait stands out in fresh and attractive pastel tints from the heavy gilt frame of the narrative, that the reader turns in sympathy.

  From what he could gather, the novel was the story of an unhappy marriage, a ghost story in which those in the present were unable to escape the past. Why, though, was the girl in the frame never named?

  Becky was pleased to see a full glass awaiting her. They spent the meal discussing their work – she explaining how the livery company supported good causes; he how he strove to expose wrongdoing wherever it occurred. She was shocked and enthralled by the events of his day. He didn’t tell her everything. For her sake, some things had to be left unsaid.

  Her maroon – almost chestnut – eyes glowed in the candlelight. As the Grenache took effect he longed to kiss her pillowy lips. She tapped the hardback that lay face up on the table.

  “Why this particular book? It wasn’t only the title, was it?”

  “No.”

  He took a sip of wine to give him time to think.

  “As the Times Literary Supplement says: it’s an ingenious, exciting and engagingly romantic tale. What more could you want?”

  “A straight answer.”

  Johnny squirmed. “It’s also about the love between two women.”

  “And you thought I’d be interested in that?”

  “Aren’t you? You seemed very interested in the love between Verlaine and Rimbaud.”

  She leaned across the table. “And you’re not?”

  It was more of an accusation than a question. Once upon a time Johnny would have denied it.

  “I find friendship of all kinds fascinating. It’s more complex than sex.”

  “You can also sleep with friends.” She spoke as if addressing a child. “Besides, the Frenchmen were lovers. There’s a thin line between sex and friendship. When you meet someone new, you never know how things will develop.”

  “That’s what’s so exciting. Yet once you cross that line there’s no going back. I’ve come to understand that it doesn’t matter who the friends or sexual partners are: it’s the fact that love exists between them that counts.”

  “I agree,” said Becky. “True love is rare. Why restrict your chances of finding it?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled ruefully. “I thought you were more interested in women than men. Was I wrong?”

  “Just as interested would be more accurate.”

  Johnny nodded to show he wasn’t shocked. “Most men would have counted their lucky stars when they found out. Why didn’t Walter? Was he a prig?”

  “No. He was a bigot. He didn’t stop seeing me because I like women.” She stared into her empty glass. “It was because I’m Jewish.”

  Johnny was stunned. Had he got it the wrong way round? If the murdered men hadn’t been Jewish, perhaps the killer was …

  Becky was waiting for him to speak. Her cheeks coloured as she misinterpreted his silence as disgust. “Does it make a difference?”

  “No! Not at all! Of course it doesn’t. You should know me better than that.” He took both her hands in his. “I was thinking about the murder victims, not your faith. As far as I’m concerned, it’s irrelevant – but it could well be relevant to the case.”

  “I didn’t tell you earlier because Walter’s reaction was so extreme. I was shaken by it. You read about anti-Semitism in the papers, but it’s completely different when it’s literally in your face. He spat at me. Yaxley was equally vile.”

  “Walter probably hated himself for loving you.”

  “It wasn’t love. It was lust. On both sides …”

  They didn’t talk much for the rest of the meal. Ravenous when the main course finally arrived, they concentrated on the food and merely made appreciative noises. Johnny, moreover, was busy digesting what he’d learned.

  Before he cleared away their empty plates, the waiter poured the last of the wine.

  “Another bottle, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee?”

  Johnny looked at Becky, who shook her head.

  “Nothing else.” He patted his stomach. “That was elegant sufficiency.”

  Becky watched the waiter’s retreating back. She took a deep breath.

  “And you?” She lowered her voice. “Are you interested in men?”

  He’d half-expected the question. He was glad she felt able to ask it.

  “Just the one. I only realized it a couple of year
s ago. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

  “And does he feel the same way?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t set me off. I love his wife too – and she loves me.”

  “There will come a time when you have to choose between them.”

  “God, I hope not. I’d rather die than hurt either of them.”

  He thought of Hugh Walpole, a novelist who’d run off with a married policeman, lying low in the Lake District. He’d never be so lucky. A lump formed in his throat. It had been a long day.

  Becky picked up the book.

  “I believe you.” She signalled to the waiter. “That’s why this is my treat. You can pay for the taxi back to your place.”

  Alex got off the bus at Holborn Circus. Prince Albert, still in the saddle and flanked by figures of Commerce and Peace, raised his Field Marshal’s hat to the City. Bartlett’s Buildings was a dark cul-de-sac to the south.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. She actually wanted to see him! He reproached himself for his cowardice. He should have asked her out. He had so much to tell her. His heart brimmed with emotion.

  A row of shabby townhouses faced the side of a bank. Rectangular white tiles covered the first two storeys. Thereafter bare bricks took over. Pedestrians were not expected to look up. An arrow at the mouth of an alley pointed to Fetter Lane.

  Most of the houses had been converted into flats. The door to number 7 was ajar.

  “Hello?”

  He entered a dimly lit lobby that smelled of Pelaw’s floor polish – and vanilla.

  A radio fizzed behind the nearest door. Instead of knocking on it, he tiptoed to the foot of the stairs. He cleared his throat. His mouth was dry.

  “Hello?”

  He gripped his hat. It occurred to him – too late – that he could have been lured here as part of a sick prank. He got ready to run.

  “What do you want?”

  The voice came from above. He peered up the gloomy stairwell. A single star burned through the skylight. It was her! Locks of her beautiful hair cascaded round her shoulders as she peered over the balustrade.

  “I’d like to talk to you if I may.”

  “Talk? I can do that.”

  “I’m Alex Vanneck. We met in Lockhart’s.”

  “I know who you are. Come on up.”

  He didn’t need asking twice.

  Becky pooh-poohed his suggestion of a cup of tea. They went straight to bed.

  “Where’s the zinc oxide?” she asked.

  He passed her the tin.

  “Lie down.”

  He did as she commanded. The bedroom was an icebox but her hands soon warmed up his naked skin.

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “That would be telling.”

  He hid his smile in the pillow. He couldn’t have imagined a better end to the day.

  “Tell me this then. Why is female friendship so different to that between men?”

  “Is it?”

  “Women are nastier to each other. Always finding fault, gossiping about their so-called sisters. Men accept each other for who and what they are.”

  “You think so? Some of the most spiteful people I know are men. Keep still.”

  Her hands moved gently down from his shoulders to the small of his back and, after an agonizing moment, set to work on his buttocks.

  “I always thought it was because women see each other as rivals.”

  “Of course. A woman must have a man to be complete.”

  His blood was flowing. It was becoming hard to concentrate.

  “Don’t you want to get married?”

  “No,” said Becky. “I don’t. Single girls have more fun. Turn over.”

  He did so. There was nowhere to hide. He smiled as nonchalantly as he could. The cold air had made her nipples erect.

  “Gracious!” She licked her lips. “See what I mean?”

  She held the door open for Alex.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Let me take your things.”

  He handed her his crumpled hat and struggled out of his coat.

  “Thank you.”

  She pointed to a lone armchair beside the feeble coal fire. Instead of sitting down he went over to the desk beside the sink. Dozens of bottles of different sizes lined the shelves above it. It was more of a lab than a love-nest.

  “What are these?”

  “Chemicals. Essential oils. I make perfumes in my spare time.”

  “Including the one you’re wearing?”

  “Yes. D’you like it? It’s based on vetiver.”

  “Not sure.” He smiled in embarrassment. “If it’s not made by Coty I can’t recognize pongs.” He sniffed as if to emphasize the point. “I like you though.”

  “Glad to hear it. Drink? I’ve only got beer.”

  “Spot on.”

  While she was busy at the kitchenette Alex studied the room. There was no bed. It must be behind the other door.

  “I wouldn’t care if I never saw one of these again,” said Alex. He pressed the spacebar on the typewriter. “Bloody instruments of torture, that’s what they are.”

  She came over to him, a glass in each hand.

  “Cheers!” Suddenly in need of Dutch courage, he took a great swig.

  “Your very good health.” Her smile made his balls tingle. He looked away.

  “Hey! That’s queer. Why’s there a Z where the Y should be?” He pointed to the top row of keys.

  “It was made in Germany. Come on. Don’t you want me to sit on your lap?”

  After five minutes they broke off for a breather.

  “Why didn’t you ask me out?”

  “I thought you were too good for me.” He stroked the hair off her face. “Did you know I was shadowing you?”

  “Of course. A girl can’t be too careful nowadays.”

  “You might have let on. I felt such a cad.”

  “What d’you take me for? I don’t pick up men in the street.” She poked his chest playfully.

  “I still can’t believe my luck. Why did you give that woman your address?”

  “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just …”

  “You remind me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “Besides, it’s too late now.” She traced the outline of his lips with her forefinger then kissed them again. Her nails were blood-red. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Alex yawned and yawned again. He couldn’t help it. Talk about sending the wrong signals! They held hands as they walked into the other room.

  She was standing at the foot of the bed, fully clothed.

  “Why’ve you got dressed?”

  He tried to sit up but realized his wrists were still tied to the frame of the bed. Not only that – his ankles were too. What had she got in mind now? His cock began to stir.

  “I’ve got to pop out for a bit. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  She buttoned up her coat.

  “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Alex laughed nervously, aroused and alarmed.

  “How can I? What kind of game is this?”

  “You’ll find out. I promise.”

  She picked up a circular metal object that resembled a giant retractable measuring tape.

  “What’s that gilhickie?”

  “It’s called a Spiderline.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Never you mind. Now be a good boy. Lie still and think about what I’m going to do to you when I get back.”

  She bent over to give him a farewell kiss. It was only then that he began to panic. He didn’t even know her name!

  He cried out when he felt the prick.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wednesday, 9 November, 6 a.m.

  He didn’t know where he was when he opened his eyes. The room was unfamiliar. It felt and smelled differently. There was a faint whiff of cigars. Li
zzie’s father chain-smoked them.

  It had been after midnight when he’d knocked on the door. He’d got nowhere in Bishopsgate. His questions had been met with feigned incomprehension and genuine truculence. They had better things to do than investigate a break-in during which nothing was taken. They didn’t know anything about a missing membership list. Besides, fascists didn’t deserve special treatment. Hext was a small-time crook unworthy of further attention. His colleagues at Snow Hill were right when they said he’d be wasting his time.

  Her parents had been in bed for an hour. As usual they were not pleased to see him. They were of the opinion that their daughter had married beneath her. One of the first things they’d taught him was the meaning of morganatic. What was he doing here? Lizzie had returned to Bexleyheath earlier that evening. Her father, unabashed at having his lies exposed, suggested Matt speak to his wife. Both their loyalties lay with her.

  Irritation at been given the runaround was mixed with relief that Lizzie was well – and that it was far too late to make the arduous journey across South London to see her. He wasn’t sure what he’d say. Anyway, he was dead on his feet.

  He yawned and turned over. Perhaps he could snatch another ten minutes. His back ached though. The mattress was too soft. He was alone.

  The thought of being reunited with Lizzie, curling up with her in their own bed, stirred his loins. No. It was going to be a hard day.

  He dragged himself out of bed and forced himself to do his daily press-ups. All thirty of them.

  Johnny, waking up, was disappointed to discover that Becky had already left. He smiled as the events of the previous night came back to him. No wonder he’d slept so well. There was a note on the pillow beside him:

  Gone to Manderley! X

  His smile widened. It might be Becky – or more likely the ointment – but this morning he felt remarkably comfortable in his own skin.

  He bought the News before he caught the bus at Islington Green. His exclusive had dropped down the front page. The lead story concerned the setting up of a round-table conference on the future of Palestine. Arab groups were objecting to the number of Jews arriving in the region. He was pleased to see that the passengers on the number 4 appeared to be far more interested in his article.

  Adler was not pleased to see him. He brandished a rolled-up copy of the News in his face.

  “So you’re the story now? An attack on a Daily News reporter is more newsworthy than a campaign of hatred against the next Lord Mayor?”