Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

slightest of nods. Reporters, no matter how useful they often proved, were generally looked down on.

      Low voices could be heard in the basement but Matt ignored them and climbed the uncarpeted staircase to the top of the building. Johnny, somewhat out of breath, grasped the peeling balustrade. Its sea-green paint matched the greasy walls. A filthy gas-cooker took up most of the tiny landing.

      “Too many gaspers,” said Matt. The champion boxer never bought cigarettes but was not above cadging them from others.

      It was brighter up here. Through the open window of the living room Johnny could see the site of the Navy Office in Seething Lane where Samuel Pepys had worked and, in the distance, the tower of St Olave’s where he had worshipped. Johnny was a dedicated diarist too.

      However, Dickens was his greatest literary influence. He instantly recalled the passage in The Uncommercial Traveller in which the author had dubbed the church St Ghastly Grim. Its gateway, which bristled with iron spikes, was decorated with skulls and crossbones.

      Once again the body was in the bedroom. Johnny braced himself. The naked victim lay spreadeagled on the bed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the iron frame. The mattress was black with blood.

      A flashbulb popped. Its sizzle brought back unwelcome memories. Johnny, trying to block them, nodded to the photographer.

      “As you can see, his cock is missing.” Matt might as well have been talking about a tooth. “The amount of blood suggests it was amputated while he was still alive. In other words, he bled to death.”

      “Who is he?” Johnny opened his notebook.

      “Walter Chittleborough. A clerk at the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in Gracechurch Street.”

      “He’s pretty beefy for a pencil-pusher.”

      “Didn’t do him any good though, did it?”

      “The killer must have had great strength to overpower him.”

      “Perhaps. But can you see any signs of a struggle?”

      There weren’t any. A shaving brush, cut-throat razor and toothbrush were lined up on the glass shelf above the sink. A pair of striped pyjamas was neatly folded on a chair. One suit, three collarless shirts and a Crombie hung from wooden hangers on hooks. Johnny eyed the luxurious overcoat with envy. Winter was not far away.

      “Have you got an age for him?”

      “Twenty-four – but that’s to be confirmed.”

      “Any family?”

      “A sister in Bristol. We’re trying to contact her.”

      “Who found him?”

      “We did. The bloke in the basement called us. He had a key but the door was bolted from the inside.”

      “Fingerprints?”

      “Dabs are on their way.”

      Johnny walked over to the window. “Was this open when you found him?” Matt nodded. Johnny stuck his neck out. It was a long way down. The area railings grinned up at him. “Is there an attic?”

      “Indeed. The access hatch is on the landing.” Matt, trying to suppress a smile, waited for the inevitable question.

      “So how did the killer get away?”

      “Who knows? Why not give Freeman Wills Croft a tinkle?” Matt was not a great reader – he relied on Johnny for literary knowledge. The real world was more interesting.

      “We don’t need him. It’s obvious. They went up the chimney.”

      Ironic applause broke out behind him. Detective Sergeant Penterell filled the door frame.

      “Very good, Steadman. You ought to be on the stage.”

      They had met before. In Johnny’s eyes the ambitious fool had done nothing to deserve promotion.

      “You should know by now that murder is not a laughing matter.” Johnny glanced at the gagged and mutilated corpse again. Its young, firm flesh was already mottling. He hoped it had experienced pleasure as well as pain.

      “Indeed,” said Penterell. “That’s why you shouldn’t be in here.” He sniffed the cold air as if searching for clues. “Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

      “That won’t be necessary.” Johnny winked at Matt. “I’m sure you need his help more than I do.” That wasn’t necessarily true. “Besides, you can’t stop me talking to the other residents.”

      “They’ve gone to work,” said Penterell. “Now fuck off.”

      The two cops waited until they could hear his rapid footsteps on the stairs then went straight over to the fireplace.

      Instead of leaving via the front door, and giving the bouncer in blue a second chance to look down his nose at him, Johnny walked through the narrow hall and down another flight of stairs to the basement.

      A fat man sat smoking at the kitchen table.

      “The door was open.”

      “I’ve made enough bleeding cups of tea. If you want one you’ll have to get it yourself.”

      His head, encircled by receding hair, resembled a partly peeled boiled egg.

      “Make a fresh pot, should I?”

      “Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Who are you anyway?”

      “John Steadman. Daily News. I take it you’re the landlord?”

      “Nah, I’m ‘The Wacky Warbler’. Cwooorrr!”

      Johnny was not a fan of Joan Turner. Impressionists left him cold. Professional parasites, they fed off other people – just like journalists. When it came down to it they were all in the same business: entertaining the masses.

      Johnny refilled the kettle and set it on the range where a vat of soapy water burbled away. He leaned closer. What was that?

      “It’s the only way to ensure they’re clean. Can’t live without my long johns.”

      Johnny stepped back in disgust. Ensure? Johnny suspected that, behind the scruffy appearance, there lurked an educated man.

      The fatty stubbed out his cigarette and punched his chest in a vain attempt to silence an evil cough.

      “I wondered when you lot would get here. How much for an exclusive?”

      “Tell me what you told the police and I’ll let you know, Mr …?”

      “Yaxley. William Yaxley.”

      “How long has Walter Chittleborough been your tenant?”

      “I’ve been through all this already. I’m not a bleeding parrot.”

      “So I hear. Your mimicry would be a lot better. Start squawking. If one of my rivals turns up you can kiss goodbye to any chance of remuneration.” Johnny offered him one of his own Woodbines.

      “Ta muchly. Wally moved in about a year ago. Before that he’d been in digs in Whitechapel.”

      “Hardly worth the effort.” The Ripper’s hunting grounds were only a few streets away. “Previous address?”

      “If I did know I’ve forgotten.”

      “Did he have a girl?”

      “I’m sure he did – but rarely more than once. He wasn’t courting, if that’s what you mean.”

      “What sort of chap was he?”

      “An ordinary chap. He worked hard, liked a pint and was mad about football. Never missed a Hammers match. Spent more time at Upton Park than here.”

      Soccer bored Johnny. One-on-one contests – battles of body