Snow Hill (16 page)

The priest, hardly masking his boredom and eagerness to get back into the warmth, intoned a prayer as the five mourners each threw a handful of earth on to the cheap pine box. Johnny could not complain: Stone had promised to meet all his expenses thus far.

They had hardly turned away before a couple of gravediggers took up their shovels and started to fill in the hole. The snow soon covered their bending backs. To Johnny, staying put as the blizzard descended, they looked like a pair of statues coming to life.

Ten minutes later the job was finished. The two men lit fresh cigarettes with the dog-ends dangling from the corners of their mouths and ambled off to their hut. Johnny was so stiff he could hardly move. It was wonderful to feel the hot blood seeping back into his limbs.

Despite the killer’s best efforts he was alive. He would not rest till the man responsible was sent to the gallows.

To Johnny, the mound of fresh earth, topped with two wreaths—he would give Matt and Lizzie the money for theirs—represented a new beginning.

The truth was not going to remain buried for long.

Saturday, 19th December, 3 p.m.

Johnny took the Central Line from Holland Park to St Paul’s. He’d had to force himself to get on as the doors opened, passengers and cigarette smoke flowing out on to the platform. Every single compartment of the train was packed with Christmas shoppers.

It was not a shopping expedition that Johnny was about to embark on—although he did plan to buy presents for Lizzie, Matt and Stella along the way. He was on the hunt for a psychopath.

Yuletide was, after all, the traditional time for ghost stories, and here he was: a ghost seeking vengeance on his killer.

Christmas had always been a double-edged occasion for Johnny. It had come as no great surprise to him that there was no such person as Father Christmas: he would have settled for a father for the rest of the year.
His excitement as a child had gradually been blunted by a growing awareness that his mother found the festive season an ordeal. It was then she missed her husband most.

Though she had stopped going to church when she was widowed, his mother had done her best to make the twenty-fifth a special day for her son. There would always be a small tree bought from the stall in Essex Road, presents wrapped in brown paper beneath it, a turkey with all the trimmings, crackers, sweets and carols, followed by comedies on the wireless. Even so, it would always come as a relief as the world woke up with a hangover on Boxing Day and resumed its daily routine. This was especially true now that Johnny usually spent the day alone. Once Matt and Lizzie had become engaged they’d started to spend Christmas with one or other set of in-laws.

A giant decorated Christmas tree stood incongruously and proudly in the courtyard of Bart’s. It must have been especially awful to be in hospital at this time of year. Death and disease made no allowances for the holiday: many patients would not see in 1937.

His footsteps echoed in the deserted stairwells. There was no sign of the Grey Lady said to haunt the place. He didn’t expect to run into the pathologist either; no doubt he would be heading towards the nineteenth hole about now. The inherent unfairness of life struck Johnny once again: the man who would slice open the bodies of those fighting for life in the wards around the quadrangle on Monday was at this moment blithely driving
across the greens of Buckhurst Hill Golf Club. It was all balls.

Johnny pushed open the rubber doors of the mortuary. As he’d anticipated, Percy was alone.

“Can I help you?”

He was gratified to discover that Hughes did not recognise him.

“I hope so, Percy. Remember me?” Johnny took off his hat, hid his false nose, and winked. The boy stared.

“What you done that for? You look a right twerp.”

“I’m working undercover. James H. Danton is the name.”

The anagram of John Steadman had not taken long to work out. His time on the crossword pages had come in useful after all.

“What d’yer want this time?”

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Johnny, his pride wounded. “I’m supposed to be dead. I was buried on Friday.”

“Don’t read the papers,” said Percy with a sniff.

“You keep your ears open though, don’t you? Aren’t you curious why I’m dead?”

“Wrote something someone didn’t like? Stuck your silly nose where it weren’t wanted?”

“You’re getting warmer. Like to guess whodunit? Like to tell me who torched the Urania Bookshop after killing Harry Gogg’s bum-chum and then left me to be burned to a crisp?”

“No, no, no!” Percy turned pale. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about Harry. I don’t want to end up like him.”

“Well, tough luck. How d’you think you’ll end up if I go to the cops and tell them everything I know about the death of a young cop called George Aitken—and how I came to know it?”

Percy moaned. Before he could say anything more, heavy footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor.

“Quick! Lie down on here.” The lackey indicated an empty trolley. “For fuck’s sake, move yer arse!”

There was no time to inspect the trolley for body fluids. Johnny lay down, crushing his new hat to his chest. Percy draped a sheet over him and wheeled him as far from the door as possible.

“Keep still and don’t make a sound—or we’ll both be for the high jump,” whispered Percy.

The doors opened and closed with a sharp slap.

“Hello, Hughes. How’s business?” It was Matt.

“PC Turner,” stammered Percy. He was going to give the game away. “What can I do for you?”

“A friend of mine was killed last week. You may have heard about it. He was a reporter called John Steadman. I believe you knew him.”

“I wouldn’t say that I knew him,” said Hughes. “Our paths crossed from time to time.”

“And he didn’t slip a shilling or two into your greasy palm now and again?” Matt sounded irritated.

It suddenly dawned on Johnny that Matt was trying to find his killer. He recalled their last conversation, when he had tried to tell Matt about the body that Vinson and Harry had delivered. He had seemed so
unconcerned, as if he didn’t want to hear about it. Perhaps that was all a cover; he had been trying to protect him all the time.

Johnny’s heart swelled with gratitude. He resisted the temptation to reveal himself. If he did, he would only place his friend in jeopardy.

“Oh, he told yer about that, did he?” Percy’s voice hardened. “Yeah, okay, once in a while I’d tip him off about a wrong ’un.”

“Very commendable, I’m sure,” said Matt. “That means we’re on the same side. You can see that can’t you?”

Matt’s voice got louder. Was he coming towards the trolley? Suddenly it began moving. Johnny resisted the urge to cry out. One of its wheels squeaked. A door opened and, before he could do anything about it, Johnny found himself being slid into one of the refrigerators. The door slammed shut. He was in total darkness. Not again!

The irony of a dead man being put on ice was not lost on him. However, the fact that he could not hear or see anything re-awoke the claustrophobia that always lurked within him. He had been slid straight off the trolley at waist height, which meant that, as each fridge had three drawers like a filing cabinet, he was the filling in a corpse sandwich. Percy, angered by the fact that his anonymity had apparently not been preserved—and the further threat to implicate him—was trying to teach him a lesson.

Johnny shivered. Matt would not—could not be
allowed to—save him this time. If he did, all the subterfuge would have been for nothing. He would have to wait until the interview ended. Surely it would only be a few more minutes?

Keeping his eyes closed tight, Johnny tried to curl into a ball to preserve his body heat but there was insufficient room. He had no choice but to lie there as the warmth seeped out of him. He was glad that he was wearing an overcoat. And thank God there was no smell—except that of a heavy frost. He would just have to lie still and think of nice things: a cup of tea, a front-page exclusive, Lizzie, Stella…

He might have been all right, might have kept the suffocating silence and inky blackness at bay, had not the cadaver above him slowly started to drip on to his face.

What was it? Formaldehyde? Blood? Shit?

Johnny panicked.

The door opened. Percy slid him out of the fridge. Johnny immediately sat up, the sheet falling off him, and wiped his mouth vigorously. Blast! His fingers were smeared with make-up.

“It’s only water,” said Hughes, trying not to laugh. “Opening the door always causes a bit of a thaw.”

“But what was thawing? That’s the question. You bastard.” It had always felt chilly in the mortuary but now it had the warmth of an open fire. “What did you tell PC Turner?”

“He wanted to know what I’d told
you
. I just said that Harry Gogg and PC Vinson brought in a body early Sunday morning and that it was sent on to the medical school.”

Perhaps Matt would believe him now.

“That’s good,” said Johnny. “You did the right thing.”

“He also asked me when I’d last seen yer. That’s
when I wheeled yer over to the freezer. I was afraid he’d see I was telling porkies. I was trying to do what was best.”

“You did,” Johnny said, handing him a half-crown that was immediately pocketed.

Percy swallowed hard. His long, pale face watched him.

“Please don’t mention my name to anyone else. We’d an agreement, Mr Steadman. I know I owe yer and all that, but still, yer oughter keep to it.” He looked hurt and fearful.

“You don’t need to worry about PC Turner. He’s my best mate. You can trust him—he won’t get you into trouble.”

“Yer said I could trust you!”

What was he so afraid of? He must know more than he was letting on. Suddenly Johnny’s heart sank. Call it intuition, a hunch or a bloody brainwave but he already knew that something had gone wrong.

“Are you sure you’ve told me everything that you told PC Turner? You didn’t, for example, tell him that the body they brought in was that of a cop?”

Percy hesitated then nodded. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“I told you not to tell anyone else. What did he say?”

“Nuffink. He turned and left without a word. Didn’t even say thanks. ’Ave I done summat wrong?”

“Yes—which means we’re quits now. I won’t mention your name again—and you won’t mention Aitken’s body again.”

“Deal. I never wanted to talk about it in the first place.”

There was no point in blaming Hughes: Johnny had been telling Matt the same thing for ages. However, Matt would now be bound to tackle Vinson about that night—and, assuming Vinson was innocent, this could alert the killer.

There was not a second to lose. He produced the powder compact that Mrs Stone had insisted he carry and, using the mirror—which needed resilvering—above the double sink, repaired the damage incurred while in the freezer. Percy looked on in disbelief but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I am going to get Harry’s killer—and the man who killed the cop—even if it’s the last thing I do. If you know who it is, Percy, this is your last chance to tell me. I’ll pay double.”

The attendant shook his head vigorously.

“I like my todger where it is, thanks very much.”

“Have you always known?”

“I don’t know, honest. I’ve told you as much as I can. As God is my witness, I hope you find the bugger.”

Johnny was deep in thought as he made his way out of the hospital and hurried past Smithfield. Why did people walk so slowly? It was freezing.

Outside Partington & Sons, a tripe-dressing business, he saw a familiar face coming towards him. It would only arouse suspicion if he turned on his heels and went back the same way. There was nothing for it but to carry on.

Sweat began to trickle from his armpits as Stella’s mother, her stringy hair hidden by an old blue hat, waddled towards him.

She looked him right in the face—and passed by without a flicker of recognition.

Saturday, 19th December, 5.15 p.m.

Although the encounter with Stella’s mother had boosted his confidence, Johnny decided not to risk putting his disguise to the test with any other old acquaintances and took a roundabout way back to Honey Lane. His mind teemed with possibilities. Walking might help him to work things out.

He went over what Percy had said—and what he had not. As he cut through Cox’s Court it occurred to him that Percy might have been telling the truth. What if he genuinely didn’t know who the killer was? What if the killer wasn’t a cop after all? Vinson may have helped take the body to Bart’s, but he was unlikely to have been the man who dumped the knife in Passing Alley. Policemen did not kiss other men.

It came to him in a flash: Simkins. He had to be involved somehow. It would explain so much: how he
had been first with news of the fire, how he had found Jo’s fake suicide note so quickly, and how he had known that his rival was in the bookshop…

No, it was ridiculous. A crime reporter turning to crime? The job provided an ideal front for a killer: he would have every reason to follow closely the investigations of his own evil handiwork. But a sane man would hardly resort to arson and murder just for the sake of good copy. Then again, whoever was responsible for the mutilation of Harry Gogg could hardly be said to be compos mentis.

Was Simkins capable of going to such lengths? If he were responsible, he must know that it was only a matter of time before he’d be caught. Johnny thought back over their lunch together, discussing the case. It seemed to him now that Simkins had been playing with him, knowing all along that he was the person they were talking about.

Murder holds it’s own fascination, doesn’t it? Some might say the death of a male prostitute is of little consequence. In some ways, I have to say, I agree. However,
who
killed him and
why
is tremendously important, don’t you think?

Simkins would have had no trouble mimicking George Aitken. And he was always hanging about cop-shops; it would have been easy enough to persuade someone to let him use a telephone.

What was his connection to Aitken, though? Perhaps there was none. Perhaps the cop’s death was not connected to those of Harry and Jo.

A gang of urchins were loitering by the drinking fountain in Love Lane; Johnny quickened his pace, ignoring their outstretched hands and cries of, “Any spare change, guv?”

Why would Simkins kill? It always came back to motive. Johnny had little to go on, though he cast his mind back over every last scrap of gossip he’d ever come across on the subject of his rival’s private life. Deep in thought, he barely registered his surroundings as Aldermanbury crossed Gresham Street, yet by the time he reached Milk Street all he’d managed to come up with was the possibility that Simkins had acted out of spite against his father. The scandal of his son and heir’s arrest, trial and execution would certainly destroy Aubrey Simkins’ political career. Was it possible Henry hated the old man that much? Johnny imagined trying to argue the case with Stone and immediately dismissed it as too far-fetched.

Honey Lane was now on his left. Simkins had been outside the brothel that day when he was thrown out. At the time, Johnny hadn’t thought to ask him what he was doing there. He wondered whether Cecilia Zick might know. But assuming she did, how could he enlist her help? Blackmail? An appeal to her baser nature?

There was only one way to find out.

Saturday was evidently a busy day for the bum-boys. A pair of gentlemen were coming down the steps, their hats tipped forward, as Johnny reached the spot where he had been thrown to the ground. The gorilla
on the door, about to shut out the cold, swung it open again.

“Afternoon, sir. Who should I tell Miss Zick is here?”

“Mr Danton.” Everybody else probably used a false name too.

He was shown into the opulent parlour where a couple of other punters on either side of a roaring fire hid behind copies of
The Times
. Johnny doffed his hat and coat.

“Let me take those for you.” Cecilia Zick appeared at his elbow in a miasma of perfume. The lap-dog, thank God, was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No. It’s my first time.”

“May I enquire how you heard about us?”

“Personal recommendation from a gentleman who lives in Chelsea.”

“There’s a lot of gentlemen what live in Chelsea.”

“Indeed. And quite a few of them sing your praises.”

“You’re too kind.” She waited for the name.

“Henry Simkins.” She tried to hide the flash of recognition, but Johnny glimpsed it beneath her batting eyelids. They were painted magenta.

“I can’t say he springs readily to mind. Did he recommend anyone in particular?”

“In fact he did.” Johnny lowered his voice. “Stanley.”

“Ah,” said Zick with a half-smile. “He’s currently occupied but should be free shortly. Would you care for a drink?”

Johnny had never needed one more. “Scotch with a splash of soda, please.”

“Coming right up. Do take a seat.”

Johnny perched on the edge of the chesterfield. Eyes peeped over the top of the newspapers. One of them winked. Johnny looked away.

“There we are.” Zick held out a silver salver. “How long will you be with us?”

“I can only spare half an hour.”

“That’s long enough, as your missus would say.” Zick tittered. The two guineas quickly disappeared about her person. It was obviously more expensive at the weekend. “You just sit back and relax. He’ll be here as soon as he’s cleaned up.”

The thought of Stan washing another man’s semen off his body ruined the taste of the whisky.

A muscular lad dressed in a soldier’s uniform entered the room. One of the men immediately flung down
The Times
and followed him out with a low growl, trying to grab his backside. The other man lowered his paper and studied Johnny.

“Don’t be nervous. You’re safe here.” He smiled. He was about ten years older than Johnny and, judging from his clothes, much better off. His dark good looks—full red lips topped with a virile moustache—must have attracted any number of women and yet here he was, waiting his turn to abuse a young man. His wedding ring glistened in the firelight.

“I say, would you care to have dinner some time?”

Fortunately, before Johnny could answer, Stan came into the room and gave Johnny the once-over. The messenger boy made a mocking bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. This way.”

Johnny expected to be led up to the attic but, having reached the first floor, he was shown into a much larger, warmer room. Its walls were hung with Chinese wallpaper decorated with a bamboo motif and the floor covered in soft, intricately patterned Persian rugs. There were two large mirrors and—Johnny could not help smiling—another on the ceiling above the king-size bed.

“You’re in luck,” said Stan. “All the other rooms are taken.”

Perhaps this explained the higher price. The boy stripped off in seconds and hopped on to the bed. Johnny sat beside him. The sheets were still warm. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping up. There was a faint smell of male sweat—and other body fluids—in the room. He must not make the same mistake as last time. He would arouse suspicion if he immediately started asking questions. He had to appear keen: he did not want Zick interrupting again.

“Don’t be shy.” Stan started undoing Johnny’s collar and slipped off his tie. His hand slid inside Johnny’s shirt and tweaked his right nipple through his vest. Before he knew it the boy’s lips were on his and his tongue, as strong and limber as an eel, was forcing itself into his mouth. The instinct to recoil was almost too much to resist. Johnny told himself:
Think about Stella. Pretend you’re with Stella
. Christ, he better get a good story out of this.

Stan, he grudgingly had to admit, was a good kisser. Trying not to think about the assault in Passing Alley, Johnny was struck by the novelty of the act: it both was and was not like kissing a woman.

He opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Stan’s. There were flecks of gold among the brown. The boy’s hand dropped to Johnny’s groin.

“Hello, hello. What do we have here?”

Johnny reddened. He could not help it. The kissing had turned him on. Was he queer after all?

He stood up, holding his hands in front of the bulge in his trousers.

“What’s wrong?” Stan was evidently miffed.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “It’s…it’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before.” He could still taste the boy on his lips. “You were recommended to me by a friend,” said Johnny. “Henry Simkins. D’you know him?”

Stan’s erection started to droop.

“I see a lot of men.” A hint of pride crept into his voice. “You can’t expect me to remember all of them. Is he a regular?”

“I’ve no idea. He’s tall, willowy with long, wavy brown hair. Posh, throws his money about.”

“Now, that I would remember.”

“He’s a journalist. I believe he’s investigating the death of a cop from Snow Hill.”

Before Stan, eyes wide with alarm, could answer, the door burst open.

“Mr fucking Steadman!” the irate madam stood in the doorway, Alf looming behind her. She was quivering with rage. “Think yourself cleverer than me, do you? Well, it takes more than a bit of slap to fool Cecilia Zick.”

Stan grabbed his clothes and fled, the doorman taking the opportunity to smack his bare bottom as he did so.

Johnny put his head down and tried to follow but the fat woman grabbed his hair and pulled him towards her. He cried out as something sharp pricked his neck.

Within seconds his vision blurred, he lost the use of his limbs and, although he fought against it, darkness overwhelmed him.

An agonising pain brought him round. It was as if he were being split in two. He tried to move but his wrists and ankles were handcuffed to the brass bedstead. He was back in the attic. A blinding white light made him bury his face in the pillow. A camera shutter clicked.

Johnny was living Matt’s nightmare. No wonder he had refused to explain it.

“He’s coming round,” said Zick.

“All the better,” said a voice that Johnny knew he’d heard somewhere before. “The more resistance, the greater the pleasure.”

His assailant jerked his hips again and Johnny cried out as the man’s cock was driven where no cock had gone before. It was impossible not to resist. The sense of overwhelming fullness and the prodding of his stomach were unbearable. He wanted to vomit. The blood acted as a lubricant.

The click-click-click of the shutter told him that the unseen cameraman was recording every moment of his violation.

The rapist increased his pace, panting as he called
out every insult under the sun. Sweat, stinking of onions, dripped on to Johnny’s back. He had not known such pain existed. How could men do this for pleasure?

There was one last vicious lunge, and Johnny felt the man’s hot seed squirting into his bowels. Death was preferable to this.

He pulled out roughly, making Johnny yelp. Then a hand reached down between his outspread legs and grabbed his cock.

“Ha! It never fails. Rock-hard.” He slapped one of Johnny’s upturned buttocks and the springs creaked as he got off the bed. More flash-bulbs popped.

Johnny turned to look up. In the white glare of the camera’s flash he saw Rotherforth’s face sneering down at him.

“Think of me when your neck snaps,” he spat.

He did not see the fist coming. The blow knocked out a tooth but put Johnny out of his misery.

Rotherforth did up his trousers and turned to the man who had been watching intently by the door. “You know what to do. The car’s in Russia Row. Well, don’t just stand there!” He raised his fist again. The young man flinched.

“Yes, sir. But can’t I just have ten minutes first?”

“Very well, but only after you’ve helped Jim take his equipment back to the van.” He picked up his jacket, brushed a speck of dust off the sleeve and began to button it up. “You never know, the bloody hack might have come round by the time you get back.”

The inspector, back in uniform, stared down at Johnny’s outstretched, soiled, bruised body.

“I’ll say this for him: he was a stubborn little fucker.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Zick—a word, if you please.”

He strode out of the room with the madam scurrying after him. The photographer and Rotherforth’s accomplice silently picked up the various cases and bits of camera equipment then trooped downstairs.

Johnny remained out cold on the bed, naked and defenceless.

The little fucker! Talk about a bad penny. I thought I’d sorted him at the bookshop—that second corpse must have been some bum-chum of Jo’s, hiding out in the flat. God knows how Steadman got out of there. And the sheer nerve—holding a fake funeral! He must have been so pleased with himself. I can just see the clever sod: revelling in his deceit, cock-a-hoop because he thought he’d got the better of me.

Well, he’s not laughing now. He’ll be in need of a real funeral before the night is out—except he won’t get one.

There’s a kind of poetic justice in him sharing Aitken’s abuse. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed making someone suffer so much. They don’t realise that tensing up, fighting back, just makes it worse for them—and better for me.

He can’t have been working alone though. Someone
must have helped him. Someone aside from PC Matt Turner. We’ll have to see what Fox has got to say for himself. Why didn’t the old queen tell me what was going on? Does he have a death wish?

And as for young Turner—if he thinks he’s going to see me swing he’s made a big mistake.

Now that Steadman’s sorted it’s going to be his turn to face the music.