Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  He’d take a leaf out of Dickens’s book and walk through the City at night. Rebekkah Maslow had been arrested in Thavies Inn – mentioned in Bleak House – and it was on the way back to Islington. Besides, he wanted to see where she had lived and Vanneck had died.

  Fetter Lane provided the most direct and safest route. Hollom was obviously still furious with him. He had tried several times to contact him on various numbers without success. He didn’t fancy taking a chance and negotiating the maze of dark alleys behind Fleet Street. He was fed up with being a punch-bag.

  He turned right into High Holborn. The corner of a poster for Frank Capra’s latest film, You Can’t Take It with You, starring Jimmy Stewart and Jean Arthur, fluttered in the river-breeze. Perhaps Becky would like to see it.

  Bartlett’s Buildings was, as expected, dirty, gloomy and ghastly. There was a dispensary at the end of the cul-de-sac that might have supplied Maslow with her narcotic additives. A boarded-up window was the only evidence that something untoward had happened that day. Tomorrow, thanks in no small part to the News, it would become a short-lived tourist attraction.

  It was only when he saw the offices of Cobden-Sanderson that he remembered he’d been to Thavies Inn before. He’d attended a book launch there – the title of the book in question escaped him – but he’d wanted to see where the Criterion had first been published. He still felt guilty about filching a copy of the quarterly magazine. There’d been so much hoo-ha about The Wasteland he’d wanted to study it. He hadn’t understood a lot of the poem but some lines had stuck in his memory as soon as he’d read them: I had not thought death had undone so many.

  Gamages, across Holborn Circus, made him think of Lizzie. She must have come to her senses – or at least made up her mind. It was the right choice – for all of them.

  Was Maslow right when she’d said affection was a weakness? Love gave you the strength to do many things. The prospect of enduring a time of war unattached was terrifying – but wouldn’t worrying constantly about the safety of a lover be equally hellish? There was only one way to find out. Becky was lovely but she’d said she wasn’t the marrying kind. He was. Nevertheless, they must make the most of however much time the two of them had left.

  He didn’t make a conscious decision to enter Hatton Garden. Again, it was the most direct and best-lit route. The shuttered shops gave no hint of the treasures that lay securely within. Tesoro. What had Maslow said? Hollom didn’t sleep at Otarelli’s. What was he doing there then? As an undercover cop he couldn’t give the EFF his real address but his given place of work must have some significance.

  The shop sold scientific instruments. Was the firm working on some secret project for the government?

  He turned left into Charles Street. The front of the building was in total darkness. He might as well check round the back.

  He continued along the empty street. Leather Lane was at the end but before he reached it he came to a covered passage on the left called Robin Hood Yard.

  He’d once enjoyed the adventures of the outlaw who seemed to change character more often than he changed his clothes. He was never seen in anything other than his ridiculous outfit of Lincoln green. Hood was portrayed as an aristocratic friend of the poor, a political agitator, a critic of the church and, on one notorious occasion, even a gelder of monks. Simkins had suffered a similar fate to that of the sybaritic brothers but, after today’s news, Johnny wished he’d suffered greater torment. He wouldn’t be the last person to escape justice by means of a bullet.

  The passage, the width of a single vehicle, opened out into a large dead-end that gave access to the rear of a terrace on Hatton Garden as well as a few buildings on Charles Street – including Otarelli’s, where a bare bulb burned in an attic room.

  Johnny strained his eyes to see how things fitted together. The shop was actually connected to the premises of one of the largest and most successful businesses in Hatton Garden. Over the centuries it had gradually absorbed more and more properties in the terrace that Johnny was now behind.

  The furnaces of Purchon & Moy never went out. The company specialized in refining precious metals, melting down everything from unloved or out-of-date jewellery to the most microscopic of filings and sweepings that were zealously collected by local craftsmen at the end of each working day. When it came to gold and silver, nothing was allowed to go to waste.

  The foundry cast a baleful glow on the surrounding jumble of outhouses and sheds. Vapours curlicued in the cold. Acrid fumes from vats of chemicals, by-products of the smelting process, percolated the night air. Johnny stifled a sneeze.

  It was just as well he did. Somewhere – in a flash of yellow light – a door opened and two male voices broke the silence.

  He recognized both of them. They belonged to men who were avoiding him. Furthermore, he had been told to stay away from each of them. He crept closer to the sounds of conversation.

  “The bomb has been traced to the EFF.”

  “How so soon?”

  “Leask coughed. Once he realized he wasn’t going to die, he decided to make life easier for himself. I believe you’ve met.”

  “He’s lying. What reason could I possibly have for meeting someone like him?”

  “The same reason you agreed to meet me when our paths crossed today. When I stopped you being savaged by your pet hack.”

  “And what reason would that be? As I told you, I had nothing to do with Hext’s death.”

  “You knew Hext though, didn’t you? Shared his love of money. Or should I say gold?”

  Johnny peered round the corner of a coal bunker in time to see Hollom fling a large leather purse at Adler.

  “That’s the latest haul. Came through yesterday’s diplomatic bag from Berlin. Go on, take a look.”

  The Lord Mayor loosened the drawstring.

  “Excellent.”

  “The watches and jewels have already been sent elsewhere. This lot’s for the melting pot.”

  “I still don’t see why we had to meet tonight.”

  “Last night would have been infinitely preferable, but the balloon hadn’t gone up then – the bomb hadn’t gone off. Someone like you should never have become Lord Mayor.”

  Adler took a step forward.

  “Someone like me? You mean a Jew?”

  “That’s right, keep playing the part till the end. If you’re so proud of your Jewishness, why are you hand-in-glove with the Germans? Why help them dispose of your people’s belongings when they get sent to the work camps?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not only a member of the EFF. I’m a member of the Secret Intelligence Services too. We know you’ve been bankrolling the EFF in return for their orchestrating the campaign of fake anti-Semitic attacks.”

  “I thought it was rather clever. Who would suspect a Jew? We’re no more virtuous or sinful than anyone else. Perhaps we’re better at exploiting each other, but isn’t that a definition of business? People are commodities too. Believe me, those in the camps won’t be coming back. I’m simply cleaning up.”

  Hollom shook his head in disgust.

  “You’re not as clever as you think. There had to be some other reason why you were being targeted apart from becoming Lord Mayor. Most Britons don’t parade their prejudices in public, they prefer to hide them. It didn’t ring true. You didn’t divert attention away from your financial skullduggery, you alerted us to it.”

  “Montagu Norman was responsible for the theft of the Czech gold, not me. Ask him.”

  “We have. He’s already signed an affidavit saying you blackmailed him into the mayoralty. He can’t help you. The government may have decided to turn a blind eye to the despicable deal but there’s no way it can ignore this. You’re on your own. Norman accepted your outrageous terms to safeguard the good name of the City. However, there’s only one way to bury this repugnant scandal now.”

  Adler scoffed at the implication.

  “You can’t
kill me. There’d be an international outcry. How would my death protect the reputation of the City?”

  “As you know, dead men tell no tales. You were quite prepared to kill to save your skin.”

  “I haven’t killed anyone. Hext killed Quirk. I only found out last night. Prison walls have ears. The little shit agreed to keep silent in return for an early release, but he soon broke his word.”

  “I believe he spoke out of conscience rather than greed. Imagine that! A fascist with a sense of guilt … By the way, thanks to Leask, we’ve found your secret lab. Fond of petrol, aren’t you?”

  “It’s cheap, quick and painful.”

  “I wish this could hurt more. You deserve worse.”

  Adler was dead before he knew it. In one seamless move Hollom produced a revolver and fired a single bullet into his forehead. The back of his skull disintegrated as the explosion echoed round the yard.

  Johnny gasped. He’d witnessed a summary execution by an agent of His Majesty’s Government. If he couldn’t write about the gold – from Czechoslovakia or Britain – he would expose how Nazi tactics were now being used on this side of the North Sea.

  His heart leapt as a large hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Fancy seeing you here. Lurking in the shadows again. You never learn.”

  Commander Inskip didn’t let go. He’d lied when he said Hollom had nothing to do with him. He dragged him into the light. Adler’s sightless eyes gazed up at the stars.

  Hollom didn’t seem surprised to see Johnny. He was cleaning the gun. He didn’t say a word. His work was nearly done.

  No one knew where he was. He was an innocent bystander, but that wouldn’t save him.

  Johnny knew the game was up.

  AFTERWORD

  The entire newsroom was silent. Everyone – apart from Patsel, who had quit – stood with heads bowed. The telephones, thanks to the Hello Girls on the ground floor, also remained still. No one, not even Tanfield, about to jump ship to the Chronicle – but not as a replacement for Simkins – remained untouched. Death, especially on this day, was in all their minds.

  Johnny’s chair was empty. His desk was just as he’d left it. The battered typewriter, unemptied ashtray and untidy piles of papers were testament to a life lived at full speed if not complete fulfilment.

  Acres of white crosses, each marked A British Soldier; blasted trees in no-man’s-land; snaking lines of wounded men trudging through the mud: everybody had their own image of the Great War, the war to end all wars.

  Even though his father was one of the hundreds of thousands of men who had not come home, Johnny did not approve of Armistice Day. The dead should be remembered every day, not once a year. The tank brought back from the Western Front twenty years ago still stood guard outside the British Museum. The way things were going it would soon see service again.

  He was glad to be in Stone’s office instead of the newsroom. Men were not supposed to cry – even though, in private, many did.

  The radio crackled. King George VI; Prince George, Duke of Kent; and Neville “Umbrella” Chamberlain – watched by fur-clad members of the royal family – had laid their wreaths at the Cenotaph in Whitehall. The Empire was paying its respects to those who had done their duty.

  A cannon shot signalled the end of the two-minute silence.

  Stone sank down into his chair. All four telephones started trilling. He ignored them.

  “So you won’t change your mind?”

  “What’s the point, if I can’t tell the truth?”

  Hollom had given him a stark choice. Do his patriotic duty or die. In other words, say nothing. It would be simple enough to frame him for the murder of the Lord Mayor. He was bluffing, though. Johnny could see that such an atrocious crime by a prominent figure would never be acknowledged officially. Why go through the rigmarole of a trial? He’d simply disappear like his alleged victim.

  Inskip, only too aware of what Turner would do should any harm befall Steadman, had urged him to make the right decision for all their sakes. So, in a sense, Matt had saved him once again.

  Adler was at the bottom of a tank of nitric acid, his bones being cleansed by the same liquid that had purified the stolen gold. Dissolved shins rather than absolved sins. Johnny assumed that Stone had known what was going to happen to him – which was why he’d warned him off – but was too embarrassed to discuss the scandal afterwards. His attempt to contact his brother-in-law on Wednesday afternoon proved Adler had kept him in the dark.

  Stone stared at the telephones with malice.

  “At least think about it. Compromise is an uncomfortable but essential part of any successful career. And, no matter what you think, you’ve had a great couple of weeks. The EFF has been disbanded and you came face to face with a multiple murderess.”

  It had been announced that Rebekkah Maslow had hanged herself in her cell. In spite of what she’d done, Johnny felt genuinely upset. Few people could ever recover from such an ordeal. It was no mean achievement to make someone care about your death.

  Fascists were obsessed with foreigners, afraid of being invaded, but the blind fools had let their minds become infiltrated, infected, by ugliness and hate. The real danger lay within. Perhaps every human was his or her own worst enemy.

  Stone had indulged him long enough.

  “Lord Vivis is delighted with your efforts – even if we couldn’t publish all your findings. Neither he, nor I, wish to lose you. I’d offer you more money if I didn’t think you’d start screaming about bribery. Haven’t you always wanted to be Chief Reporter? Anyway, the offer remains on the table. Discuss it with your friends and give me your answer on Monday.”

  Dimeo was perched on the corner of Johnny’s desk when he got back. Blenkinsopp pretended to be far too busy to watch.

  “There you are!”

  Dimeo pointed to a column on the lower half of a page devoted to country pursuits and pastimes that appeared each Friday. Reporters despised it, although it was popular with readers. It was headed: Can Quail Poison? No.

  Johnny was puzzled. He didn’t eat game, let alone go shooting.

  “You owe me a quid,” said Dimeo. He held out his hand.

  “Don’t you see?” Tanfield couldn’t help looking smug. “It’s an anagram of colposinquanonia!”

  Ironic laughter rippled round the office. Steadman had come unstuck – again.

  “So it is. Close but no cigar. The letters are all there, I grant you, but not in the right order. Half wrong is still wrong. Tell you what, I’ll give you ten shillings.”

  “Done!” said Dimeo. They shook hands.

  There were times when it seemed the whole world was on the take.

  He’d already talked it over with Matt. They’d met the night before in the Coach & Horses.

  “Why refuse your heart’s desire? The only person who will suffer if you don’t take the promotion is you. What good are principles if they do you harm? Nice chaps finish last.”

  “Maybe – but someone has to speak up for the man in the street. The voice of ignorance is always loudest.”

  “That’s why we have to soldier on. We can’t let the sods get away with it.”

  “Can’t we? Zick seems to have done pretty well out of this. In more ways than one he’s made a killing.”

  “His day of reckoning will come,” said Matt.

  Johnny attributed his newfound optimism to his rapprochement with Lizzie. And who could blame him?

  Matt, groaning, got to his feet. “One for the road?”

  Johnny watched him leaning on the bar, chatting to the landlord.

  He was right. Adler was already yesterday’s man. Rumours of a nervous breakdown, suicide and even German spies were galvanizing the City. Sir Frank Bowater, not Adler, would be presiding over the Lord Mayor’s Banquet at the Mansion House on Monday. If the wheels of commerce continued to turn, why shouldn’t he go on? What else could he do? Besides, he’d seen the perfect Crombie for him in Gamages: green and gold herringbone.
/>
  It wasn’t Matt’s parting words – “you’re a good man” – that Johnny remembered from that evening. It was something he’d said earlier, when he’d been rabbiting on about Tanfield’s obsession with train stations and his hopes for him and Tooting Becky.

  Matt, once more looking like his old self, had, for no apparent reason, fallen silent.

  “Johnny?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t ever change.”

  If you enjoyed Robin Hood Yard, try the first book in the series:

  “Friday, 18 December, 1936. I went to my funeral this morning…”

  So begins the diary of John Steadman, an ambitious young journalist in London. When he gets a tip-off about a murdered policeman, he thinks he’s found his scoop. Trouble is, no one else seems to know anything about it – or they’re not telling.

  To get to the heart of this dark story, Johnny must go undercover. Six feet undercover, to be precise.

  Click here to order Snow Hill

  If you enjoyed Robin Hood Yard, try the second book in the series:

  London, 1937.

  News reporter John Steadman is summoning up the courage to propose to his girlfriend in St Paul’s Cathedral. But then a man falls to his death, killing a priest in the process. The question is, did he jump or was he pushed?

  Two days later, grim packages start arriving at the Daily News – body parts and cryptic clues that seem to point to the identity of the next victim: Johnny himself.

  Click here to order The Whispering Gallery

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  The following three books proved invaluable:

  The City of London: Volume III – Illusions of Gold 1914–1945 by David Kynaston (Chatto & Windus, 1999)

  Diamond Street: The Hidden World of Hatton Garden by Rachel Lichtenstein (Hamish Hamilton, 2012)

  Bombardiers: A Novel by Po Bronson (Secker & Warburg, 1995)

  About the Author

  Mark Sanderson is a journalist. He wrote the Literary Life column in the Sunday Telegraph for 12 years and currently reviews crime fiction for the Evening Standard. His memoir, Wrong Rooms, a moving account of his relationship with his partner who died from skin cancer, was published in 2002 to widespread critical acclaim. Melvyn Bragg described it as “an incredibly moving book”. This is his third novel featuring reporter John Steadman and policeman Matt Turner.