Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

done to you?”

      “Nothing, yet, but if they get their way we’ll all be in the shit come Christmas. I’ve just got out of uniform. Don’t want to put on another.”

      “Ever worn a black shirt?”

      “Maybe. What’s it to you? No harm in standing up for your own folk.”

      “I thought you only believed in money. If you believe in Mosley too, perhaps you should try growing a moustache.”

      “Not likely. Don’t want a skidmark on my lip.”

      “Still in touch with any Biff Boys?”

      “Might be.”

      “Ask around. It’ll be worth your while.”

      Quirk drained his whisky glass and held it out. Johnny ignored it. “Anything on the grapevine about Chittleborough and Bromet?”

      “Who?” He waggled the glass. “Oil my cogs – and I’ll have another egg while you’re at it.”

      Johnny, after his first drink of the day, was feeling benevolent. As he suspected, Quirk claimed to know nothing about the two murders but the squealer promised to keep his ear to the ground.

      They left the pub together and, to avoid the endless stream of peckish secretaries, clerks and messengers, turned into the covered passageway that dog-legged between Billiter Square and Billiter Avenue.

      The man at the bar followed.

      Hughes, emerging from the mortuary at the rear of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, spun on his heels and walked quickly in the opposite direction.

      “Hey! Percy! Don’t be like that.” Johnny ran down the corridor. The green linoleum, rain-slick, was like an ice-rink. He had to grab Hughes to keep his balance.

      “Gerroff me! I ain’t done nuffink.”

      “Did I say you had? Where you off to in such a hurry?”

      “Canteen.”

      “Good idea. Fear not, I’ll pay.”

      They crossed the courtyard, piled high with sandbags, and entered the mess-room for non-medical staff. Janitors, porters and cleaners, all in brown dustcoats, sat elbow to elbow on benches either side of long trestle tables. No wonder the floors had not been mopped. A miasma of steam and cigarette smoke hung over the plates of mutton stew and sausages and mash.

      Hughes, all arms and elbows, wolfed down his meal.

      “How you can have an appetite after what you’ve been doing is beyond me.”

      Hughes shrugged. “A man can get used to anyfink.”

      The pathologist’s unglamorous assistant refused to say another word until his belly was full.

      Outside, the shower had passed so they paused by the central fountain. Its water music was the last sound Johnny’s mother had heard.

      “The lads weren’t brung ’ere. Got taken straight to Bishopsgate – but Farrant did the PMs.”

      “And what did your boss say?”

      “Never seen anyfink like ’em. Todgers sliced clean off.” He winced. “No funny bottom business though.”

      “That’s good to know.” Johnny wasn’t sure that would have been the case had Hughes been left alone with them. “And …?”

      The gannet held out a callused hand. Johnny produced a ten-shilling note but ensured it was out of reach.

      “Speak!”

      “The lads had something else in common. Stomach contents. Their last meal was boiled pork and pease pudding.”

      The “Hello Girls” had been busy in his absence. Several people had telephoned and left messages. Matt: Call me. Lizzie: I need to see you. Henry Simkins: I’ve booked a table for 1 p.m. at the London Tavern tomorrow. Be there!

      Matt was not at Snow Hill police station. Lizzie was not at home in Bexleyheath. Simkins, his long-time rival at the Daily Chronicle, was, of course, out to lunch. He liked nothing more than sweet-talking waiters at his club.

      Johnny turned his attention to the second post. Press releases, book launches, exhibition openings and an invitation to a premature Guy Fawkes party hosted by the Grocers’ Company at the Artillery Ground on Friday evening. There was a handwritten message on the back:

       Do come! Rebecca.

      How could he refuse?

       SEVEN

      Alexander Vanneck didn’t like Mondays. After a blessed day off, the drudgery of the London branch of the Guaranty Trust Co. of New York seemed even more depressing. Modern Times didn’t show the half of it. Today, though, he’d reached rock bottom.

      As a male typist it was his job to keep his manager happy – but Jock Wilderspin was not a happy man and made it his business to share his misery with as many of his subordinates as he could. He stood on ceremony even when seated on his throne-like chair. Woe betide a minion caught using the Partners’ Entrance. As for sneaking into their marble lavatory, you could forget it. It wasn’t enough that the nobs had their own dining room: Fullers in Gracechurch Street was off-limits too. Staff wishing to pop out for a sandwich were expected to restrict themselves to the nearby ABC or a Lyons tea-shop but – fuck it! – Wilderspin had seen him leaving Fullers at lunchtime.

      The bastard took his revenge at four o’clock when he presented Alex with three pages of foolscap and told him to type it up immediately. He did so and – trying to please – corrected a few spelling mistakes. Twenty minutes after he’d taken the letter up to be signed the buzzer went. Wilderspin was in a right tizzy: he objected to being corrected and demanded the letter be typed exactly as it had been written. Alex had nearly bitten his tongue in half trying not to answer back.

      His good intentions had led to him leaving the office thirty minutes late. Oh for a tommy-gun! He imagined the gutters of Lombard Street flowing with blood. Pinstriped bodies lying everywhere. Top hats rolling down the pavement …

      His stomach rumbled angrily. He’d half a mind to return to Fullers – but he couldn’t afford it twice in one week. He’d go to Lockharts in Fenchurch Street instead.

      Johnny, unable to contact Matt all afternoon, took the liberty of using the police box in Eastcheap to have one last go.

      “Working late?”

      “Could say the same for you,” sighed Matt. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

      “Anything to report?”

      “No. Spent most of the shift being passed from pillar to post by the army. It was suggested there might be some sort of a military connection between Bromet and Chittleborough – they were both fighting fit – but getting information from the War Office is a thankless task.”

      “The top brass have other things on their minds. What did you make of the post-mortem reports?”

      “Not much.”

      “At least we know they weren’t Jewish – unless they were force-fed.”

      “There’s no evidence of that. What’s religion got to do with it anyway?”

      “No idea. Might be completely irrelevant. Our new Lord Mayor, on the other hand, was clearly attacked because he is Jewish. Any arrests so far?”

      “Not for blood sports.”

      “Why did you want me to call then?”

      Matt sighed again. “It’s Lizzie. She thinks I’m seeing another woman.”

      Johnny was