Читать книгу Robin Hood Yard - Mark Sanderson - Страница 16

Tuesday, 1 November, 6.20 a.m.

Someone was hammering on the front door. The vibrations, travelling through the floorboards and up the frame, triggered the recurrent nightmare in which an unknown figure loomed over his bed, where he lay paralyzed with fear. However, before the incubus could crush his chest, reality intervened.

The room was pitch-black and freezing. He dragged himself out of bed, fragments of bad dreams – half-remembered lovers, pain and guilt – clogging his head. A hangover from Halloween? More like all the alcohol still in his blood. He must cut down. The hammering continued. Repercussions.

Johnny, clad only in pyjamas, stumbled down the narrow staircase and flung open the door. Had he forgotten to lock it? A young constable from the Met, fist still raised, stood on the step. Startled, he didn’t bother to say good morning. He was chilled to the bone, dog-tired and at the end of a very long shift. He’d also been knocking for more than three minutes.

“Detective Turner sent me, sir. He’s just around the corner in Packington Street.”

“Why?”

“A man’s been murdered.”

A discarded pumpkin lantern lay in the gutter. One kick wiped the grin off its face. The flames of the gas-lamps flickered palely in the frigid air. Dawn was a pale smudge behind the spire of St James’s. A milk-cart came rattling down the hill from Essex Road. Johnny tried to flag it down but the driver looked the other way.

There was no mistaking which house it was in the shabby Victorian terrace. Two police cars – one from the City and one from the Met – and an anonymous black van were parked in the empty street. Even at this hour a flock of early birds had gathered by the area railings. They stared enviously as Johnny was allowed to climb the six, awkwardly steep, steps and enter the lobby of the raised ground floor. Matt came clumping down the stairs.

“You could have brought me breakfast.”

“I tried.” Johnny yawned.

“Bad night?”

“Yes – and no.”

“This way.”

The stale air smelled of damp clothing, fried food and nappies. On the first floor Matt rapped then opened a door to reveal a harassed young couple being interviewed by DS Penterell, who scowled at Johnny but said nothing. A baby in the woman’s arms started wailing. Matt pointed to the ceiling, where there was a heart-shaped stain. A drop of blood plinked into a metal bucket.

The room above was like thousands of others in the capital: little more than a box for living in. Cheap furniture: table, two chairs and a bed. Threadbare rug and thin curtains. A few books on a shelf, a few clothes on pegs. A cracked sink. Cobwebs.

The bare bulb cast a yellowish pallor over the corpse tied to the bed. It was that of a fat, middle-aged man with more hair on his body than his head. Once again there was a shocking absence in the groin – and the inevitable presence of far too much claret. Johnny pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose. Blood wasn’t the only thing that had leaked from the victim. He walked over to the open window.

“He who was living is now dead.”

“What?”

“Eliot. The Wasteland.”

“If you say so,” said Matt. “He’s Karl Broster. A tallyman.”

Someone else who milked the misery of the poor.

“Is he German?”

“If he was, he didn’t have an accent. Not very popular with the neighbours though. Too fond of beer.”

“You can see that.” Johnny pointed at the proud pot-belly.

Matt sniffed disparagingly. Smells never troubled him. “I think we can say that the motive wasn’t sexual.”

“Wrong! We can’t all have a body like Tarzan.” While Matt was no ringer for Johnny Weissmuller, his body attracted almost as many admirers. The only thing Johnny had in common with the actor was his Christian name. “Sex must have something to do with it. Mind you, he’s nothing like the other two.”

“Well, he’s dead – and died slowly. It takes a while to bleed to death.”

“Perhaps he was unconscious.”

“Look at the wrists and ankles. The restraints have sunk into the flesh. He was awake all right – and he must have fought for as long as he could.”

“Christ! Imagine having your cock chopped off.”

“I’d rather not,” said Matt drily.

“It must hurt like hell.”

“Pray you never find out. If it’s any consolation, it appears to have been a single slice. Quick and clean.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Commander Inskip blocked the doorway. They had been so engrossed in the horror of the scene they’d failed to hear the stealthy tread of the superior officer. Matt turned pale.

“Get out, Steadman, before I have you arrested.”

“Get out of the road then. I was just passing by on my way to work. As you’re no doubt aware, I happen to live around the corner.”

Inskip didn’t move. He was at least six feet four. His deep-set eyes glared at Matt.

“Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

The way he said it, you’d have thought friend was a dirty word. However, Inskip was the one rumoured to be dirty.

Johnny, once again, was glad of Matt’s company. Had he not been there it would have come as no surprise if the Commander had clipped him round the ears or even cuffed him and given him a kicking. Their paths – and swords – had crossed several times.

They paused in the hall before opening the front door.

“Sorry for getting you into hot water.”

“It’s hardly the first time,” said Matt. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Inskip.”

“More trade secrets? Care to tell?”

Penterell, oozing smugness, appeared on the landing.

“Not now,” said Matt. “Let’s just say, if I go, he goes.”

“So what else is new? One of these days his luck will run out.”

“It will if you have anything to do with it.”

The door swung open to admit two men with a stretcher. “Sorry, gents,” said Matt. “The photographer’s not here yet. You can leave that here, but you’ll have to wait in the van.”

The men rolled their eyes and – like Tweedledum and Tweedledumber – toddled off down the steps.

There was no sign of any other pressmen. Johnny needed to capitalize on his head start.

“Thanks for the wake-up call. Which reminds me – I must telephone Lizzie today. I’ll do my best to put her mind at rest.”

“Do that.” Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “Careful what you say though.”

The thousand words – more colour than content – were on PDQ’s desk before 9 a.m. Johnny scanned the other newspapers. His competitors were as much in the dark as he was. There was nothing new about Adler’s attackers or the double murders. The New York Stock Exchange had introduced a fifteen-point plan intended to beef up protection for public investors. The Great Depression refused to lift.

“Excellent stuff!” Quarles was still wearing his coat. “Not many facts though. I’m sure Patsel, wherever he is, will splash on this, but see what else you can find out.”

He went off in search of the tea-lady.

It was too early to contact Adler, and Matt would still be out making enquiries. To pass the time, Johnny picked up a copy of a new weekly magazine called Picture Post. The cover showed two women in polka-dot blouses leaping in the air.

“Colposinquanonia!”

Louis Dimeo, who wouldn’t let anyone forget that Italy had won the World Cup again in June, was breathing down his neck.

“Sixteen letters,” said Tanfield. “Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest.”

“How on earth d’you know a word like that?” said Johnny, looking at Dimeo in astonishment. “Anything over seven letters usually gives you a headache.”

“That would be telling.” The sports freak bestowed a dazzling smile upon his colleagues. “That said, breast-stroking is the national sport of La Bella Italia – after football, of course.”

“A quid says no one can get the word in the paper,” said Johnny.

“You’re on,” said Dimeo and, before nipping smartly back to his desk, took the risk of ruffling his red hair in a gesture of friendship. He was wasting his time; Johnny would never forgive him for sleeping with Stella, even though he knew how Johnny felt about her. Dimeo’s behaviour was rarely sporting.

Johnny had only loved one other woman more than Stella – and Lizzie was married to Matt. He’d made up his mind to ask Stella to marry him but instead of meeting him at St Paul’s so he could get down on one knee she had deliberately disappeared. It turned out that she’d been secretly seeing Dimeo as well. And that wasn’t the only way she’d betrayed him.

“What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.

“Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”

“Suburban neurosis.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“Very good. I’ll use that.” He chewed his lip. “Lord knows why they always land me with these stories. Anyone stuck inside the same four walls day after day would go out of their minds.”

“Prisoners don’t.”

“Sure about that?”

“No – but many of them are mad before they go in.”

“It’s a sign of the times,” said Blenkinsopp. “Freed from the necessity of foraging for food or seeking shelter, the pampered middle-classes have nothing to occupy their tiny minds. That’s why they lose their marbles. Mark my words, it’ll vanish once war breaks out.”

The London Tavern on the corner of Fenchurch Street and Mark Lane was a temple devoted to pleasure. Within its walls there were snack bars, cocktail bars, oyster bars, grill rooms and restaurants. The original tavern in Bishopsgate – where, in Nicholas Nickleby, a public meeting is held “to take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company” – had been demolished half a century ago but the owners were determined to keep its spirit of service with a bow and scrape alive. Consequently, it was a popular venue for City banquets.

Simkins had reserved a table in the fish restaurant. A bottle, tilted at the angle of a Nazi salute, was chilling in an ice-bucket beside it.

“Johnny dearest!” Simkins leapt to his feet and kissed him on both cheeks.

A murmur of disapproval rippled round the dining room. Bloody Continentals!

Johnny, accustomed to his rival’s flamboyant antics, merely smiled. Once upon a time he would have blushed.

“Hello, Henry. What do you want?”

“Don’t be like that.” Simkins, gratified by the stir he had caused, finally sat down. “It’s All Souls Day. Don’t you want to enter the kingdom of Heaven?”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“Doesn’t stop you being in purgatory though.”

Simkins twiddled the stem of his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Have a drink.” He pulled the wine bottle out of the bucket. It was already half-empty.

“No, thank you. Just Perrier for me.”

“Water? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I overdid it last night, that’s all. What d’you want?”

“Let’s order first. The turbot’s supposed to be divine.”

Johnny, in his days as a cub, had written too many stories about fatal fish bones for his liking so he restricted himself to Morecambe Bay shrimps and scallops from Whitstable. Simkins, chitchatting away, filleted his food with admirable dexterity but Johnny could tell he was nervous. His trademark insouciance seemed put on.

“Come on then, Simkins. Spit it out.”

“In the circumstances, not the best choice of words.” Simkins winked at the waiter, who was ceremoniously pouring coffee from a silver pot.

“Henry, I won’t ask again.”

“Our old friend is back in town.”

“Who?”

“Cecilia Zick.”

There were times when Johnny wished he’d never saved Henry’s life – and this was one of them.

“Don’t hit me.” Simkins tossed his chestnut curls – the envy of many a girl.

“I’ll say this for you,” said Johnny. “You’ve got balls.”

“Not remotely funny. Not funny at all. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Steadman.”

“Where is he?”

Johnny balked at referring to the transvestite as a woman.

“I don’t know, I swear. He hardly trusts me any more than you.”

“What brings him back here? Surely he knows he’s playing with fire?”