Snow Hill (15 page)

As he turned to flee he heard someone—it sounded like a man—coughing. It came from what was presumably a bedroom next door to the living room, which was now—fed by the inrush of cold air—a multicoloured inferno.

He almost made it. However, as he got his hand on the door-knob, a flashover blew him off his feet and, with a roar, sent him hurtling back along the landing. There was a scream as the ceiling came down and the floor where he had been standing collapsed.

The stairs leading to the ground floor were now blocked with fallen masonry and burning wood. Instead of going down, he would have to go up.

The air was slightly clearer in the attic—which seemed to have been converted into a makeshift cinema. A magic lantern faced a small, portable screen which stood in front of the bare-brick chimney breast. An aisle bisected four rows of six bentwood chairs. There was no skylight. He would have to smash his way through the roof. Smoke came snaking up through the floorboards.

Johnny coughed so much he threw up, the stench of his vomit on the hot floor making him retch. The screen was his only weapon. It rolled up into a metal canister which he could use as a battering ram. He aimed it at the unplastered slope and, with all his strength, slammed it into the tiles. They hardly cracked. He tried again and again, his energy draining away, only adrenalin keeping him going. At any moment he expected the whole house to explode.

Finally, the impromptu torpedo broke through, producing a hole about six inches in diameter. The smoke poured out through it.

Widening the hole was comparatively easy, although there was so much smoke he could hardly see what he was doing. He switched to using his hands to pull the slates apart, wincing as his healing skin was ripped apart once more.

One minute later, as he was wriggling through the hole, the floor of the attic dropped away, the projector and chairs plummeting past the charring corpse of Joseph, and landing in the shop below.

The nude statues remained aloof, maintaining their poses, their sightless eyes unaffected by the smoke.

A great night’s work: two for the price of one.

Moss sealed his own fate when he spoke to Steadman again. I think he was beginning to suspect I’d killed his fellow sodomite anyway. Soon as he heard about Gogg delivering a dead cop to Bart’s it must have confirmed all his suspicions. He was quite a bright boy, Jo; knew how to make himself useful. Shame he had to die, really.

Perhaps he and Gogg will now be running across the burning sands together in the seventh circle of hell.

Steadman will never know who killed him. He had enough warnings, but the silly bugger just couldn’t take a hint. Persistent as he was, he’d have got to the bottom of things in the end.

The others won’t be too happy when they learn about the bookshop. I’ll soon put them right, explain what’s at stake. It won’t take long to find new premises.

In the meantime, there’s still the bordello. It brings
in far more money anyway. The real thing is so much more exciting than pictures.

That just leaves Turner to keep an eye on now. The second picture seems to have done the trick.

Let’s just hope Steadman didn’t confide in anyone else—for their sake.

The roof was treacherous, the earlier rain having frozen. Johnny, wheezing from the smoke, scrambled up the slippery slope till he could sit astride the apex. Flames were already flickering out of the hole he had made. The frost was melting rapidly. He worked his way along the ridge then, holding on to the chimney stack, moved round on to the neighbouring property.

When he reached Warwick Lane the roof-line changed. Each roof was now V-shaped with a gutter running down the middle, so he had to scrabble up one side and slide down the other. It was not until he came to Warwick Square that he discovered a flat roof with an iron ladder leading down to a fire escape.

The dome of the Old Bailey came into view. The distant bells of a fire engine grew louder.

He gave a prayer of thanks as his feet touched the ground. His legs were shaking, but Johnny forced himself
to continue. There was only one way out of the square. He crossed Warwick Lane as the engine sped past and hurried down White Hart Street into Paternoster Square. He took the southern exit by the library into Paternoster Row and went into the Bookbinders’ Arms on the corner of Paul’s Alley. When the publican saw his soot-smeared face he refused the proffered shilling and let him use the telephone for nothing. The drinkers lowered their glasses and voices, keen not to miss any potential excitement.

There was only one person he could call: his editor.

Johnny had enough wit left not to mention his name. He virtually whispered into the receiver. His throat was painfully parched from the toxic fumes he had inhaled.

“This could be a blessing in disguise,” said Stone. “If you’re supposed to be dead then we must somehow convince the world that really is the case. Don’t go home. Come to my humble abode.”

He gave Johnny the address and told him to hail a cab. Johnny was intrigued by the idea of playing dead.

After all, he was accustomed to being under six feet.

Victor Stone lived in Bedford Gardens off Kensington Church Street. There was nothing humble about it. The five-storey stuccoed terrace gleamed white in the crescent moonlight. His wife Honoria tended to Johnny’s wounds—
We have been in the wars, haven’t we?
—while her husband interrogated him.

“So we now have four dead bodies: Harry Gogg;
Joseph Moss, the boy who lived with him; George Aitken, the young copper; and the unknown person in the shop.”

“And it could so easily have been five,” said Johnny. “I’m sure I was meant to die as well. Whoever it was probably locked me in the freezer the night Harry died as well.”

“And your evidence?”

“I haven’t got any.” Johnny coughed out of embarrassment then necessity. “All I do know is that the man who took Aitken’s body to Bart’s with Harry is a policeman called Tom Vinson. He works at Snow Hill. However, the morgue attendant who identified him would be very reluctant to confirm this officially. I also found out that Harry was a male prostitute and police informer who worked at the same brothel in Honey Lane as the boy who collected the first tip-off from Snow Hill and delivered it to me.”

“Nobody’s likely to spill the beans while the killer—or killers—are still on the loose. It’s all hearsay,” said Stone. He sounded unimpressed. “You can’t accuse Vinson of anything without proof.” He paced up and down, thinking out loud: “The unknown man in the shop is intriguing and could prove to be a godsend. Moss’s killer may have been unaware of his presence, just as you were. If you’re right about his intention to kill you, he’ll be expecting two bodies to be found in the wreckage. That could work to our advantage—and it would be much easier to maintain the illusion of your death.”

When Johnny eventually came down to breakfast the next morning—his boss had left for the office hours before—he found an article in the
Daily Chronicle
ringed in red on the table:

Two people are suspected to have died in a fire that completely gutted a bookshop in Amen Corner last night. The City of London police named the first victim as Joseph Moss, who worked in the shop, and the second as John Steadman, a journalist thought to be investigating the recent murder of Harold Gogg, a friend of Moss who worked at Smithfield market. The cause of the fire has yet to be established. The blaze was so fierce that fire officers are still searching for remains of the bodies.

The byline read Henry Simkins. Once again he was unwittingly doing Johnny a favour. But how had he got hold of the story so quickly? And how did the police know that he was in the shop last night?

Simkins must have been following him. He’d been lying in wait outside Zick’s, so perhaps he’d been in Amen Corner too. Perhaps he had raised the alarm. If Simkins had been tailing him, then he must have seen the killer leave the shop.

Johnny, much to his sudden frustration, realised that a dead man could hardly demand answers from Simkins. It was going to be harder than he had originally thought.

Stone had told him to keep a low profile, which meant that he was in effect under house arrest. The events of
the past few days had taken their toll—the inside of his lungs felt as if they had been sandpapered—so Johnny was content to lie around on a sofa and avail himself of Stone’s extensive library.

The palatial residence was more like a luxury hotel. Its staff had been told that a nephew had come to stay. However, Johnny found it hard to concentrate on anything other than the killings. Three men—four, if Aitken were included—had been murdered. The injustice of it made his blood boil and—much to his surprise—the fact that Harry and Jo had been lovers made it feel all the more tragic.

Honoria took great delight in dyeing his hair and eyebrows black. This was only the first stage in a transformation that called on all the expertise she had gained in amateur theatricals. A false Roman nose—made out of thin rubber and stuck on with gum Arabic—totally changed the shape of his face. Lifts in his shoes gave him a couple more inches in height.

“There!” said Honoria, pleased with her efforts. “The next time you set foot outside, that’s who you’ll be.”

It was a bizarre feeling, looking at his new self in the mirror. The stranger staring back was and, at the same time was not, him. It highlighted how much his ginger hair formed part of his identity. Darker hair made him seem older and more serious—or maybe it was just the events of the past week. Whatever the cause, no one was likely to recognise him.

However, wearing the pancake used to disguise the prosthesis made him doubly uncomfortable: it was
hot under the extra layer and, more importantly, only women (and pantomime dames) wore make-up. Honoria assured him that it was virtually invisible then produced a bottle of surgical spirit to remove the glue.

His new look added to his sense of dislocation: as far as he was concerned he might as well have been abroad. West London was a different world to Islington and the City. The air was clearer and the wide streets were cleaner. It was where the other half lived. Watching life going on as usual through the huge sash windows, Johnny relished the fact that it was a scene that he had not been meant to see.

Stone returned home with the final editions of all the newspapers and a copy of the premature obituary that would appear in the next day’s
News
. Johnny was delighted to see that it painted a flattering portrait of a dedicated journalist whose promising career had been cut tragically short.

“Thank you, sir. I hope I can live up to such a death notice!”

“So do I,” said Stone. “Consider yourself honoured: I wrote the piece myself.”

The fatal fire filled many column inches. Simkins had followed up his earlier report with an exclusive which claimed that a suicide note had been found on the grave of Harry Gogg along with a red rose. Johnny read it in disbelief:

I am sorry. I loved Harry more than anything in the world but I could not stand his unfaithfulness any more. When he said that he was leaving me I snapped: if I could not have him then no one could. I killed him—and I killed John Steadman when he accused me of doing so. I realised then that sooner or later I would be arrested. It is better this way. I deserve to drown in hell-fire. Forgive me.

Joseph Moss

The police declared the case of Harry Gogg’s murder closed and confirmed that they were not looking for anyone else in connection with Mr Steadman’s death.

Simkins, in an apparently affectionate tribute to his fellow reporter and “friend”, still managed to sling a little dirt by implying that it was not the first time that Johnny had visited the pornographic bookshop. How could he have known that if he hadn’t been following him?

“This is all nonsense,” said Johnny. “The killer must have written the note, but the scenario it suggests is incredible.”

“I agree,” said Stone. “Moss is hardly likely to have killed you, written the note, then visited his lover’s grave one last time before returning home to set fire to himself and the shop.”

“And how did Simkins find the note? He must have been tipped off by the killer—or the police. He must be in cahoots with one or the other. Unless, unless…they are one and the same.”

Stone looked at him with amusement.

“That is the conclusion I’ve come to—which is why I’ve told Bill Fox to continue investigating the circumstances surrounding your death. He’s not at all convinced that Moss was responsible for the blaze. He’s most distressed by it.”

“I bet he is,” said Johnny wryly. Where would he obtain his one-handed reading now?

“What’s that?” His superior’s eyes bore into him. “Is there something I should know?”

“Not at all, sir. I…” He shut up. Whatever he said would only complicate matters.

Bill, despite appearances, might be entirely innocent.

“You better not be keeping anything back, Steadman. I’ve gone out on a limb for you. It’s a very serious business deliberately misleading our readers—their trust, once broken, can never be regained.” His voice softened: “Fox thinks the world of you. It would have looked suspicious—and heartless—to refuse his request. Our competitors are showing an unhealthy interest in the case, so it’s only right that we should continue to report on any developments. It would look odd if we were seen to be doing nothing. The fact that you are still alive gives us the edge, though.” He fixed Johnny with his penetrating eyes. “I know you’re not happy about sharing your story but just think of Fox as, ahem, a smoke-screen. He doesn’t know that someone else died in your place. You need to concentrate on finding out who it was, as well as the identity of the killer.”

Johnny was ashamed that he had failed to save the
man’s life. It must have been terrifying: crushed by falling debris, waiting for the flames to consume him. He would have been a vital witness. But what was he doing in the flat above the bookshop? And why had no one reported him missing? It was yet another mystery.

The next day, Thursday, 17th December, in a rare—if not downright suspicious—example of bureaucratic efficiency, the City of London coroner was informed that the remains of two men had been retrieved from Amen Corner.

The pathologist’s report stated that asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation was the likeliest cause of death but, due to the lack of evidence—namely a couple of charred incomplete skeletons—this could only be an educated guess. As the police had only the note purported to have been written by Joseph Moss to go on, an open verdict rather than one of murder/suicide was duly recorded. The next of kin were informed.

Stone quickly made the necessary arrangements.

His funeral took place on Friday, 18th December. It was too dangerous for him to attend the service in St Bride’s, the journalists’ church in Fleet Street, so instead he had to make do with taking the Tube to East Finchley for his funeral.

As he walked up the hill to St Pancras & Islington Cemetery, marble headstones, moss-covered memorials and tilting obelisks stretched as far as the eye could see. So many people lay mouldering underground—including
his mother. If he had really been dead then he would have been interred with her, but Johnny had been adamant that her grave not be disturbed. Stone had understood and arranged for his reporter to be buried in a new plot near Coldfall Wood.

Johnny had wanted to place some flowers on his mother’s grave but was afraid that the gesture would give the game away. He was the only person who ever did so.

He wandered round the vast necropolis, the lifts in his shoes promising blisters. On the other side of the bone-yard another body was being laid to rest in Strawberry Vale. This funeral was a swanky affair. The glass-sided hearse, now empty, rolled forward as the horses that pulled it, each with its own plume of black ostrich feathers, shifted in the cold. The crowd of mourners, mumbling to each other, slowly got back into the waiting cortège of motor cars.

As midday approached Johnny took up his position behind a huge angel, its muscular arms extended in prayer. It began to snow as his hearse, a mere black van, and a couple of taxicabs trundled down the hillside. His heart, as if to remind him that he was still alive, started to thump.

Victor Stone, Bill Fox and Henry Simkins emerged from the first cab; a priest and Lizzie and Matt from the second. Johnny was disappointed at the turnout. He had been hoping that Stella might come. Then again, they had only been on one date. Daisy, even if she were aware of his demise, would certainly not trouble herself
—unless she was in a mood to dance on his grave. As for Simkins, he was surely here out of curiosity rather than grief: not weeping but snooping.

The snow fell more heavily, an icy wind sending it in flurries round the headstones. His coffin—containing all that remained of the unknown man—was lowered into the hole. Johnny shivered: whether he liked it or not, this was a glimpse of his future. He felt a stab of guilt as Lizzie began to cry. However, it was mixed with gratification. She did care for him after all.

Matt, haggard yet handsome, put his arm round her and held her close. Johnny hoped he was not blaming himself for the death. Probably not: he had told Johnny to stop poking around. In his eyes he had probably dug his own grave.