Читать книгу Robin Hood Yard - Mark Sanderson - Страница 11

He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

“I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

“What was he called?”

“Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

Close enough.

“Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You won’t. You have my word.”

“Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

“Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

“Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

“I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

“Keep your hair on! I know you.”

He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

“You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

“I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”

“Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

“What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

“I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

“Why did you?”

“I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

“You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

“Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

“Me, for a start.”

“Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

“I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

“In what way?”

She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

“Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why did you reject him?”

“I didn’t! He rejected me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

“Pillow talk is dangerous.”

If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

“Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

“And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

“Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

“I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

“You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

“Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

“Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

“Hello stranger!”

It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.

“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

“Where exactly?”

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”

“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”

“It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”

A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.

“Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”

“Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”

“Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”

“So that’s what you’re after.”

“Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”

“What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”

“Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”

“Why not have a word with the Commander?”

“The less he knows the better.”

“At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”

“Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”

“He saved my life!”

“But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”

A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.

“Bien sûr, mon petit choux. I knew it would be a mistake to destroy them.”

“So you didn’t keep your word?”

“You saw me burn the negatives, didn’t you? I recall how pleased you were to be able to tell Steadman the good news. Didn’t get you anywhere with him though, did it?”

Simkins scowled. “Get on with whatever it is you want to say.”

“Be like that then. Our old friend Timney, hearing that I’d returned to the Smoke, crawled out from whichever stone he was hiding under and made himself available to me. I was delighted when he told me that – against my direct orders – he’d kept a copy of the negatives. That’s why I need you. Steadman is the simplest way to put pressure on Turner.”

“You mean blackmail him.”

“Such a nasty word.” He waved his hand as if to disperse a bad smell. The ruby on his finger flashed in the candlelight. “Still, it worked last time – if not quite in the way we’d hoped. I can’t approach Steadman, but you can. Tell him the truth – you need his help.”

“To do what? He’s not a fool.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“And if I don’t?”

Zick got to his dainty feet. “Remember what a sticky end is? You used to like nothing more.”

The champagne – still in its glass – smashed against the door. Wisely, he’d waited until his nemesis had gone.