Snow Hill (4 page)

Tuesday, 8th December, 6.45 p.m.

The last edition had gone to press. The familiar scramble was over—until tomorrow. Johnny grabbed his coat. Those starting on the night shift chatted to their daytime counterparts. The cracked leather of the seats they traded did not even have a chance to cool down. The search for stories, the proprietor’s pursuit of sales and money, never stopped.

“Coming for a livener?” said Bill, licking his lips. “I’m spitting feathers.”

“I’d like to…Thing is, I’ve got a date,” said Johnny. It was not a lie…exactly. He did have a date with Daisy for tonight—until he broke it off. He just needed some pretext to ensure that his mentor would not want to tag along.

“Just one, old boy, I promise.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes took on a pleading expression.

Johnny felt guilty. Bill had gone to the trouble of calling round his contacts, all of whom assured him everyone was present and accounted for at Snow Hill. He owed the guy a drink, at the very least. But he knew from experience that there was no such thing as “just one” drink where Bill was concerned; invariably their sessions would expand into full-blown binges and another evening would be lost before he knew it.

“Let’s make it Thursday instead, eh?”

“Right you are.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “Happy spooning.”

Wasting no time, Johnny legged it along Fleet Street before any other colleagues tried to waylay him. He headed up Shoe Lane, past the cacophonous printing works, and under Holborn Viaduct. As he ran across Farringdon Road, skirting the western end of Smithfield Market, he glanced up Snow Hill, wondering whether he’d see Matt leaving the police station. The steep, winding road was deserted. Back before the Viaduct was built, all traffic from the City to the West End had been forced to negotiate Snow Hill. Nowadays it was something of a backwater. The police station was one of the few places showing any sign of life: its reassuring blue light was a beacon in the dark.

Built just over a decade ago, the station was an odd, bow-fronted building in the middle of a curving terrace. Five-storeys tall, narrow and gabled, it was reminiscent of a uniformed constable standing to attention. The compact façade was deceptive: Snow Hill station-house extended all the way back to Cock Lane at the rear, so
there was plenty of room inside for the whole of B Division. A blue plaque informed passers-by that it stood on the site of the Saracen’s Head Inn. Matt, who often had to endure the protracted company of Philip Dwyer, a desk sergeant who fancied himself something of a local historian, would occasionally regurgitate the fascinating facts—especially concerning murders and executions—with which he had been forcibly fed. Johnny knew a few additional facts of his own: it was in the Saracen’s Head that Nicholas Nickleby had met the one-eyed Wackford Squeers.

Dickens, who’d started out as a newspaperman, was Johnny’s idol. He had been introduced to him at school by Mr Stanley, otherwise known as Moggy. The English teacher had returned from the Great War with an artificial leg which his pupils took to be mahogany. As Silas Wegg in
Our Mutual Friend
would have said, he was “a literary man—
with
a wooden leg.” Moggy’s lessons became the highlight of the week. Dickens’ stories were funny and scary and he was writing about the place where they lived. He had walked the same streets, passed the same buildings, seen the same things. He made Johnny want to be a journalist. Even today, a part of him still could not believe he was writing for the newspaper that Dickens had once edited.

His most treasured possession was a mildewed set of Dickens’ novels that he’d found one Saturday afternoon on a second-hand bookstall in Farringdon Road. He’d paid for it with the money he had made hanging around Collins’ Music Hall on Islington Green with Matt,
collecting discarded programmes and selling them on at bargain prices to the punters going in for the next show: the better the clothes, the lower the discount. He’d continued faithfully working his way through the set all the way through school and college.

Dickens’ work provided a living map of the capital. He did not care if it was out of date; the characters lived on in his mind and the echoes reverberated each time he visited a location which had featured in one of the novels. The Old Bailey, for example, had been built on the site of Newgate prison; in the confines of its stuffy courtrooms, whiling away the hours as lawyers argued and judges jawed, Johnny could not help but recall Dickens’ “horrible fascination” with the gaol which featured in
Barnaby Rudge
; in whose condemned hold Fagin awaited his end; and where, in
Great Expectations,
Pip viewed the Debtors’ Door through which doomed culprits were led to be hanged.

It was inconceivable to Johnny that anyone could be bored by Dickens; but Matt—lulled by Moggy’s droning and the hissing of the gas-lamps—would invariably drift off to sleep. The English master took a sadistic pleasure in twisting Matt’s ear as slowly as he could, seeing how far he could go without waking him, and then, having fully regained his attention, dragging him to his feet and rapping him on the knuckles with the edge of the ruler, all the while continuing to read. Moggy never lost his place; Matt never made a sound.

By now, Johnny was drawing near to the Rolling
Barrel—a favourite watering hole for many of Matt’s colleagues. The pub was said to have derived its name from a local legend: the site was apparently notorious for a gang of tearaways who used to snatch unsuspecting little old ladies off the street, stuff them in a barrel and roll them down the hill.

Finally he reached St Sepulchre’s churchyard and the Viaduct Tavern came into view, just across the road on the corner of Giltspur Street and Newgate Street.

A Victorian gin palace glittering with cut glass, painted mirrors and plush seats, its regulars were mostly off-duty postmen from the General Post Office in King Edward Street. The ornate clock behind the bar told Johnny he was five minutes early.

It was only when he had been served and wriggled his way through the crowd—without spilling more than a few drops of Ind Coope Burton—that he saw Matt sitting alone at one of the small, round tables at the back. His friend was staring morosely into the empty glass in front of him.

“Penny for them.”

Matt looked up. His handsome face, white with exhaustion, did not bother to smile. The liver-coloured welts under his eyes seemed to have deepened.

“Evening. One of those for me?”

“Who else?”

Johnny handed him a pint. He downed half of it in three gulps.

“That’s better.”

“Bitter, actually.”

“Jack the Quipper strikes again.” Matt drained his glass. “Refill?”

“Hold your horses—what’s the rush?”

“D’you want another or not?”

“Go on then.”

Johnny watched, concerned, as his friend lurched off towards the bar, the mass of bodies miraculously parting before him like the Red Sea. Matt was too big to argue with. It looked as though he’d downed a few while he was waiting.

With Lizzie’s words of the previous evening running through his mind, Johnny lit a cigarette and leaned back on the banquette, watching the smoke spiral towards the high, intricately patterned ceiling. Its once white mouldings were now stained the yellow of bad teeth.

“Here we are.” Matt suddenly reappeared with two glasses, took a slurp from one and smacked his lips. “I needed that.” He flashed a grin that was half-grimace. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Impatient as ever, Johnny cut to the chase: “So, what have you got to tell me?”

“Nothing about a cop dying, if that’s what you mean. I checked the Occurrence Book.”

“Oh.” Johnny could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I told you yesterday, I haven’t heard anything.”

It wasn’t like Matt to clam up this way. One of the things he loved about police work was the range of characters it brought him into contact with—the suspected burglar who turned out to be a doctor on his
way to deliver a child at three in the morning; the incontinent woman who wandered the streets in a coat made from the pelts of her pet cats; the boy who thought he was a Number 15 bus. Usually he couldn’t wait to describe his latest odd encounter to Johnny—but not tonight. Clearly there was something else that he needed to say, something he could not say to anyone else.

Whenever Matt needed advice, Johnny was invariably his first port of call. He’d always been clever, and since he’d gone into journalism he’d begun to build up an impressive network of informants and experts and people who owed him favours. His contacts book, scrupulously maintained and augmented throughout his career, was one of his most prized possessions.

Resisting the urge to fire questions at his friend, Johnny took a pull on his drink and waited. But it seemed Matt still wasn’t ready to get to the point:

“On the other hand, there’s been quite a bit of talk about your friend Mr Simkins,” he stalled.

“Go on,” coaxed Johnny.

“Mrs Shaw—the murderer’s wife—killed herself last night. They found her this morning. It looks as though she drank a bottle of bleach.”

Johnny put down his glass. He couldn’t imagine a more agonising death; her vital organs dissolving bit by bit in the chlorine. As if she had not been in enough pain already, what with her husband confessing to the murder of Margaret Murray. Murder rarely involved just one victim.

“I feel sick,” he said.

“Me too,” said Matt. “Back in a tick.”

He certainly looked queasy as he picked his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the gents. Matt was not squeamish—in his job he could not afford to be—and could hold his liquor better than most.

A few moments later, Matt returned, negotiating the packed bar with uncharacteristic caution. His slightly exaggerated air of being in control could not disguise the fact that he was well on the way to being blotto.

“Come on, Matt—tell me what’s up.”

Turner shook his head in confusion. Advice was one thing, but he’d never found it easy to ask for help: to him, it was an admission of weakness. Johnny was the one person he trusted enough to turn to. When they lost the baby, Matt had been desperate not to add to Lizzie’s pain by burdening her with his grief; he’d tried drowning his sorrows and venting his fury on a punch-bag or some over-confident sucker at the gym. It was only when all else had failed that he turned to Johnny. It helped that his friend had experienced loss himself and knew that words, however well meant, changed nothing.

“I’m having these nightmares…” He lifted his gaze as if challenging Johnny to laugh, then continued: “I’ve tried to ignore them but, rather than going away, they’re just getting worse. It’s got to the stage where I’m almost afraid to go to sleep.”

“Can you remember much about them?”

“They’re always the same. It’s pitch black…very hot. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Just when I think I’m
going to suffocate, there’s this incredible pain—pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Then there’s this blinding white light and I wake up.” Matt wiped away the perspiration on his upper lip. He was so blond he only needed to shave every other day.

“Have you been to see the doctor?”

“Of course not! There’s nothing wrong with me physically. And can you imagine what they’d say at the station if I went to see a head-doctor? I’d never hear the end of it. I’d lose my job.”

“What about Lizzie’s father? He could give you something to help you sleep.”

“And have him think his son-in-law is a lunatic as well as a prole?”

“You’re not mad. Besides, you needn’t tell him
why
you can’t sleep.”

“True.” He did not seem convinced.

“When did the nightmares start?”

“About three weeks ago. It wasn’t too bad at first. They weren’t that frequent. Now, though, I’m having the same dream every night. It’s like I’m dying.”

“Well, you’re not.” Johnny patted his forearm. “You’re only supposed to worry when you dream that you don’t wake up.”

“That’s a big help. Thanks a bunch!” Matt slid a finger round the inside of his collar and glowered. His rage had come from nowhere. Johnny, for the first time, felt afraid in his friend’s company.

“Matt…what is it you want me to do? I could speak to a psychiatrist…I can get you some pills. Just
let me know what it is you want. No one will ever know.”

“Just forget it. Sorry to bother you.” Matt drained his glass and made as if preparing to leave.

“Don’t be like that,” said Johnny, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “Give me a chance. There’s got to be a reason why you’re having these nightmares. Did anything significant happen three weeks ago?”

“No. I’ve thought and thought about it. There’s nothing. It was the usual routine: work, bed, work, bed.”

“Anything out of the ordinary at work?”

“Nothing. I was on point duty, freezing my balls off on Blackfriars Bridge. The sooner I stop being a straight bogey and pass my sergeant’s exams the better. We were short-staffed that week so I had to go out on the beat for a couple of nights as well. The extra money will come in handy—you know we want to start a family—but I didn’t make it home for three days.”

“Well, houses in Bexley don’t come cheap.”

Matt’s eyes bored in to him. Their blueness deepened. “So she’s told you, has she?”

Johnny cursed himself. He would have to lie. In his current state of mind, Matt would kill him if he thought he had been seeing Lizzie behind his back. Besides, he would want to know why—and, at this stage, the knowledge that he was about to become a father would only increase the pressure on him.

“Nobody’s told me anything—I’m just teasing. I know you prefer Stanmore. Why Lizzie wants to live south of the river is a mystery to me.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re spot on. She’s got her own way—again. We signed up for a house in Bexley a couple of weeks ago.”

“Congratulations.” Johnny raised his glass even though his heart was sinking.

“My dad’s pleased, at any rate.”

Turner’s father had been a detective inspector when he had retired five years ago. His son was very conscious of following in his footsteps. Although he made an exemplary constable—a friendly face to those in need and a daunting prospect to villains—Matt was determined to reach a higher rank than DI, and passing his sergeant’s exams would see him progress to the next step on the ladder. His athletic prowess had stood him in good stead so far, but he wasn’t a natural when it came to matters academic; knowing he daren’t leave anything to chance, he’d been spending all his spare time cramming for the upcoming exams. He’d need to attain first-class certificates in English Composition, Arithmetic, General Knowledge and Intelligence, Geography and Preparation of Police Returns to get through. But even if he passed with flying colours, any whisper of mental instability would undo all his good work and instantly scupper his chances.