Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

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