Snow Hill (6 page)

Thursday, 10th December, 5.50 a.m.

Johnny got off the tram in St John Street. It had been clear at the Angel but down here the capital was gripped by a choking, freezing smog. Smithfield appeared as a yellow shimmer straight ahead of him.

Even though daybreak was a couple of hours away, it was busier than Piccadilly Circus. Trucks, wagons, vans and carts jostled for position like pigs round a trough. As soon as one lorry had loaded its cargo of meat, the next was sounding its horn, determined to take its place. Others, on an equally tight schedule, were just as desperate to load up and deliver their new stock to butchers’ shops across London. As he approached, he heard raised voices then shouts and the sound of pallets being overturned as a scuffle between drivers broke into a fist-fight. Most of the market workers barely gave the combatants a glance; flare-ups like this were an everyday occurrence at Smithfield.

Still excited by the lead Hughes had given him the night before, Johnny made his way through the mêlée like a man on a mission. The vast iron-and-glass building was a cathedral of corpses, complete with nave, transepts, and aisles. The interior had been decorated with an almost fetishistic attention to detail: every arch, spandrel and lunette was filled with a swirling mass of ferric foliage painted not green but blue. The nave was lined with stalls that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of skinned and gutted animals, their carcasses shining dully in the electric glare, swung on rails bristling with giant steel hooks. It was a forest of flesh through which strolled potential buyers, some from the kitchens of the very best hotels, inspecting meat and comparing prices.

There was, however, nothing spiritual about Smithfield; under its roof the “inner man” meant the stomach, not the soul. It was devoted to carnality, its services designed to assuage man’s hunger for beef, pork, lamb and poultry. Money was the religion here.

The Central Markets even had their own men of the cloth: porters, known as bummarees, who acted as intermediaries between buyers and sellers. Their white coats and strange hats—a cross between a havelock and a wimple—made them stand out from the mass of black and grey. They were freelances who got paid for what they did, which was why most of them worked on the run, lugging carcasses on their shoulders or dragging wooden carts behind them. As time was money, they brooked no interruption.

Trying not to get in their way, Johnny hurried to keep up as he asked one after another where he might find Harry Gogg. Those that did not ignore him simply professed ignorance. The market workers were a bolshy lot, only too happy to go on strike. The last one, in February, had cut off the meat supply to the whole capital.

Finally Johnny gave up and wandered through the halls. Although the floor was scattered with sawdust, the dripping blood, melting ice and trudging feet had turned it into a gruel-like sludge. If Smithfield was no longer the filthy abattoir described by Bill Sykes in
Oliver Twist
, it remained a steaming, swarming hive that reeked of death.

As a reporter, Johnny was used to being unwelcome. Most people looked down on journalists. He’d hear them on trams and in cafés and pubs, tut-tutting whenever the tricks of the inky trade got so bad they ended up making the headlines. But it didn’t stop them devouring their newspaper each morning. Looking around him, it occurred to Johnny that it was much the same with the contents of their breakfast: if people were to see the process that led to the bacon and sausages ending up on their plate, many of them would lose their appetite. The consumer was not interested in the means of production, what counted was the finished product.

Anyone of the cowled creatures roaming the aisles of Smithfield could have been Harry Gogg. Cursing himself for not getting a description from Percy, Johnny decided there was nothing more to be gained from hanging
around the market. Besides, he needed to take refuge from the cold.

A board outside the Cock Tavern announced that it was permitted to open at 4 a.m. “for the accommodation of persons following their lawful trade and calling as salesmen, buyers, butchers, assistants, carmen and porters and attending a public market at Smithfield”. Taking a seat at the bar, Johnny ordered a “wazzer”, the speciality of the house. It tasted like a cup of tea laced with whisky. Whatever it was, it did the trick. Soon even his toes were warm.

Those around him were tucking into plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, sausages, liver, kidneys and black pudding. With the salty, prickly smell of raw meat still in his nostrils, Johnny made do with a cigarette.

By half past seven most of the day’s business had been concluded so far as the market workers were concerned. A group of bummarees came in and sat in a corner.

The landlady went over to take their orders. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman with a mop of long, lank curls that looked as though someone had tipped a bowl of cold spaghetti over her. She did not seem to mind that their white coats were smeared with gore and had no problem countering their ribald banter with some of her own. Johnny watched in the mirror behind the bar as she served the five men their wazzers then went off to the kitchen.

Fortified by the alcohol, he slipped off his stool and made his way to their table.

“Sorry, mate. Never ’eard of ’im,” said the oldest, a grizzled bear of a man. His colleagues looked at each other.

“He’s one of your lot. Look, he’s not in any trouble—I was told he may be able to help me, that’s all.”

One of the younger ones muttered something. They all laughed.

“There’d be a few bob in it for him,” said Johnny.

“As I told yer, never ’eard of ’im.” The bummaree raised his voice so the whole pub could hear. “Anyone ’ere know of an ’Arry Gogg?”

Silence fell. Everyone in the room was staring at Johnny. He returned their stares until they turned away. Slowly the conversation resumed.

“Well, that is odd,” said Johnny sarcastically. He was riled. He hated being treated like an idiot. “Harry Gogg works in Smithfield. There can’t be that many of you—someone must know him.”

The brute who’d spoken before lumbered to his feet. He could easily have carried half an ox on each shoulder.

“You calling me a liar, son?”

There was nothing Johnny could do. If he didn’t back down he’d be going head-first through the swing-doors before he knew what hit him.

“No, no, not at all. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He retreated to the bar.

“You’re pushing your luck,” said the landlady, introducing herself as Dolly. A pink wart nestled in the cleft between her nose and right cheek. “They’re a close-knit bunch and don’t like strangers. They’ve probably got
you down as working for the taxman.” She set another wazzer in front of him and, when he insisted on paying, promised to tip him the wink if Gogg came in.

He did not have long to wait. Harry was a winsome lad, fair-haired and fresh-faced. He scanned the room as if looking for someone then came and stood by Johnny at the bar. Although roughly the same height, he was twice as broad. He also seemed nervous. Instead of joining the other bummarees, he went and sat by himself. The only thing he ate was his thumbnail. It would be pointless talking to him now.

Ten minutes later, Gogg drained his mug and left. Johnny, making sure he avoided eye contact with the porters, followed. His senses quickened: he was on the trail again.

Legwork was an essential part of the job. The best stories usually involved pounding the streets: chasing leads, witnesses and suspects—sometimes literally. Johnny knew what Matt was talking about when he complained of being footsore.

The smog was beginning to thin now. Dawn was glimmering in the east. Johnny finally caught up with Gogg as he crossed the recreation ground. The statue of
Peace
, erected to allay the spirits of William Wallace and others who’d been executed on this very spot, ignored them.

“Harry Gogg?”

The bummaree looked over his shoulder and regarded him with suspicion. He kept on walking.

Johnny followed.

Without looking back, Gogg asked, “Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Johnny Steadman. I’m a reporter on the
News
. I was told you might have some information for me. I’m willing to pay.”

The boy stopped to use the drinking fountain. It was frozen.

As Johnny caught up with him, he hissed, “Don’t look at me.”

Leaning against the fountain, Johnny stared off into the distance, trying to look casual, as if it were normal to be loitering in the freezing cold.

A moment later he heard the boy whisper: “Information about what?”

“The death of a young man on Saturday night.”

“Jesus Christ!” The lad looked round the park in panic. Shapes seemed to shift at its edges. “We can’t talk here. Follow me…Wait! Don’t make it obvious. Keep your distance.”

They left West Smithfield and entered Cloth Fair. Johnny hoped they were not going far: he was supposed to be at the office by now. Well, if questioned, he could honestly say he had started work hours ago.

Around him the medieval houses leaned out over the street as though whispering gossip to each other. Through the gloom he could just make out Gogg’s chunky frame on the left. He assumed the boy was heading for the pub on the corner of Rising Sun Court. However, when he reached it he suddenly veered across the lane and disappeared into an alley which ran alongside
St Bartholomew-the-Great. Hesitating to check that he had been seen, he then went into the church.

A few moments later, as the bells in the brick tower chimed eight o’clock, Johnny raised the latch and pushed open the heavy oak door.

Although he had often heard the evening peal of London’s oldest parish church on his way to meet Matt, he had never been inside its flint-flecked walls before. He walked down the long nave. The black tiled floor was dangerously uneven. Gogg was waiting for him beside the choir screen, which showed monks going about their daily business. It looked brand new.

“We should be safe here. Let’s see the colour of your money.”

The ten-shilling note brought the pink back to Gogg’s cheeks. It was the equivalent of a day’s earnings. His melting brown eyes darted here and there, seeking eavesdroppers. His cowlick flickered in a draught. Satisfied that the church was empty, he nodded in the direction of the choir-stalls and they took a seat.

“Why did your colleagues say they didn’t know you in the pub?”

“Sheer bloody-mindedness. I’m not exactly popular round here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story—and it’s not why you’re here.”

“True.” Johnny would have liked to hear the story nonetheless. Nosiness was another prerequisite of the job. “Okay, first I’d like to assure you that whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”

“I’ve heard that before. Who put you on to me?”

“A friend. No names—I don’t betray confidences, remember? What can you tell me about a dead cop?”

The porter froze.

“He was a cop? A bloody cop? That fucking bastard—he didn’t tell me that. I knew something was off—he was too generous.”

He put his head in his hands. Was he crying? Johnny was filled with concern. There was something innately attractive about the boy.

“Harry, what’s going on? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Suddenly Gogg leapt to his feet. Someone had lifted the giant latch.

“Green Hill’s Rents,” he whispered. “Three thirty tomorrow morning. I start work at four, so don’t be late. I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. The bastard’s gone too far this time. He’s got it coming.”

Johnny realised the boy had been thinking, not crying. His frustration must have shown in his face, for Gogg flashed a grin and said, “Trust me.” Then he scurried off.

For a while, Johnny remained seated, listening intently. He could not hear a thing: no receding footsteps, Harry leaving, the hum of traffic, birdsong…The silence was unnerving.

Knowing that if he sat any longer he would fall asleep—or freeze to death—Johnny got to his feet. To kill time while he waited for whoever had disturbed their encounter to show themselves, he decided he might as well take a look round the church.

He wandered through the ambulatory, investigating the numerous nooks and crannies, trying—and failing—to identify the period and style of the various additions and renovations. The piecemeal quality of the church’s construction actually served to enhance its austere charm. Of all the memorials that embossed the walls, that to Margaret and John Whiting, who both died in 1681, made the greatest impression:

Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd To live without her, likd it not and dyd.

Johnny knelt down in a pew and said a prayer for his parents. He no longer believed in an all-merciful God. He was not sure what he believed in any more. Truth? Justice? Love? Did any of them endure?

As he got to his feet he noticed an oriel window above him, beautiful if incongruous. The central panel of its stone base was decorated with a cloverleaf. It contained a rebus, a visual puzzle, in which a crossbow arrow pierced a cask. A bolt and a tun.

Something moved: there was a figure in the window, dressed in black. Johnny tried not to appear startled. He pulled himself together and exited the pew. In the distance a door slammed.

“Have you worked it out yet?” A young man, his palms pressed together, approached.

“Who was Bolton?” Johnny, having compiled crosswords, considered the rebus insultingly simple.

“Ah, very good, very good. The Prior was a fascinating
man but completely loopy. He built the window so he could observe Mass without having to enter the church.”

“Rather voyeuristic of him, wasn’t it? Religion as a spectator sport.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, it’s all theatre, isn’t it? But, like most pursuits, it’s more fun taking part.” He smiled conspiratorially. There was a blob of food on his dog collar. “Prior Bolton also built Canonbury Tower in Islington. Have you seen it?” Johnny nodded. “He was convinced that an apocalyptic tidal wave was going to wash away the City in 1524. Something to do with a conjunction of water signs, apparently. That’s why he built the tower—and he didn’t stop there. He went on to have a house built on the highest spot in Harrow-on-the-Hill. It seems he thought the flood wouldn’t reach him there.”