Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

Bottles of blood had been flung against the walls of the noble institutions.

      The attacks couldn’t have happened at a better time. Johnny was making little headway with the double murders. Everything was too clean. Matt had wearily informed him that Chittleborough had no criminal record and the only fingerprints found in the flat had been his. No one had seen or heard anything strange on Thursday evening. The killer had shown a clean pair of heels.

      “Someone’s not happy,” said PDQ. “Perhaps they’re blaming the Jews for dragging us – kicking and screaming – towards war. They get blamed for all sorts of things.”

      “Perfect scapegoats,” said Johnny. “But Chamberlain’s flying to Munich this morning. Third time lucky.”

      “I hardly think so, Steadman,” said Patsel. “Such – how do you say it? – yo-yo diplomacy is bound to fail. It demonstrates weakness, not strength.” He appeared gratified at the prospect.

      “There’s been another one.” Tanfield, who had the desk opposite Johnny’s, brandished a telegram from Reuters. “The next Lord Mayor’s been hurt.”

      Mansion House Street was to the City what Piccadilly Circus was to Westminster. It was the very heart of things, where no less than eight arteries met, and as such was usually clogged with traffic. On the map it resembled the head of a splayed octopus with one limb shrivelled.

      Johnny stopped the taxi by the monumental headquarters of the Midland Bank. Lutyens had a lot to answer for. The naked boy wrestling a goose above him was a jocular nod towards the building’s location: Poultry. Ten years on, only the southwest corner, regularly lashed by rain, retained a hint of the Portland stone’s original whiteness.

      Outside the Bank of England a City cop in reflective white gauntlets waved him and Magnus Monroe, a staff photographer, across the road. The Royal Exchange lay in the fork between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill. The Duke of Wellington and Copenhagen – cast in bronze from captured French cannon – gazed down at him with sightless eyes. The City thrived on making the man in the street feel small.

      The Exchange had closed – or been closed – early. One of its constables – instantly recognizable in his blue-and-gold uniform – stood talking to a City cop beneath the portico. As soon as Johnny started climbing the steps, he raised his stick. Johnny kept going.

      “Thus far and no further.” The bumptious beadle attempted to block his path.

      “John Steadman, Daily News.”

      “Sorry, sir. The Exchange is closed.”

      “I can see that. Let me pass.”

      He was tempted to knock off the beadle’s cocked hat. The old man – who had the power to arrest and detain him within the Exchange – waved his stick at him. Pop! Magnus set to work. It was always good to illustrate the risks a fearless reporter faced as he went about his business. The old soldier turned his attention to the photographer. As soon as he took his eyes off him, Johnny headed for the doors.

      “Going somewhere?” The long arm of the law felt his collar. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last.

      “Yes.”

      “No.” The constable let go of his collar but only to pluck the hairs on the back of his neck.

      “Ouch! Fuck off, Watkiss.” They had met before. The Square Mile often felt as small as a bear pit or bullring. “Still a plain bogey, I see. You must miss Sergeant Turner.”

      “Not as much as you.”

      “He’ll be here in a minute.”

      “Really?”

      Johnny nodded. Several of his competitors were piling out of taxis. “Do me a favour – keep that lot out.”

      “What’s in it for me?”

      “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

      “Go on then – and mind that you do.”

      He pushed open the heavy swing doors and made a beeline for the man sitting on a bentwood chair in the middle of the empty courtyard. It was pleasantly warm beneath the glass canopy but a metallic tang hung in the air. The antique Turkish pavement was splotched with blood.

      “It’s not mine – at least, most of it isn’t.” Leo Adler tried to get up but his legs gave way. A concerned minion dabbed at the cut on his forehead. “Let me be!”

      “John Steadman, Daily News.”

      The cop interviewing one of the gathered witnesses turned round but said nothing.

      “How d’you do?” They didn’t shake hands. “Not fond of bankers, are you? I must say, I enjoyed your exposure of that wicked boy’s scam.”

      A post-room worker had been removing foreign stamps from envelopes and selling them. As the recent pepper scandal had demonstrated – an attempt to corner the world market in white pepper had floundered because the perpetrators failed to realize that black pepper could be turned into white – there was no shortage of crooks in the City. However, it was generally those at the bottom who were caught. Those higher up the ladder remained at large. In Johnny’s eyes, anyone in pinstripes belonged behind bars.

      “A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

      “Much like a French chef!”

      “What happened? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

      “It’s nothing. A rough-looking gentleman sprayed me with blood then threw the bottle at me and scarpered. Fortunately, it didn’t smash. I saw stars for a minute but I’m right as rain now.”

      “Red rain. Why blood?”

      “No idea. Perhaps he was a communist protestor hell-bent on keeping the red flag flying. We’ll probably never know.”

      “What did he look like?”

      “As I said, rough. Not the type generally seen round here.”

      The mayor-in-waiting gestured at the arcades that lined the court where commodities had been bought and sold for centuries. There were other exchanges nearby: the Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, the Baltic Shipping Exchange in St Mary Axe, the Metal Exchange in Whittington Avenue, the Wool Exchange in Coleman Street, the Rubber Exchange in Mincing Lane and, of course, the Stock Exchange in Threadneedle Street.

      The motto of the City of London was Domine Dirige Nos – “Lord, guide us” – but it might as well have been Quid pro quo – “something for something” – or “anything for money”: timber, minerals, coffee, sex, information or access.

      Magnus, the archetypal shutterbug, came beetling towards them. No doubt he’d slipped Watkiss a oncer to let him in. If Steadman’s profession was asking, Monroe’s was taking – usually without permission. Mouths opened in protest were more dramatic than thin-lipped smiles. Adler, though, was only too happy to oblige. No wonder he’d been elected Lord Mayor. His regular, tanned features represented the acceptable face of capitalism – even if he was Jewish.

      Johnny had read interviews with the second Jew destined to become Lord Mayor of London. The first, David Salomons, had been elected in 1855. City folk, pragmatists par excellence, were less vocal in their anti-Semitism than some of the population. The size of a man’s fortune was more important than the size of his nose.

      “You must have heard about the other attacks,” said Johnny. “They can hardly be a coincidence. This seems like the start of a hate campaign. It must be personal, anti-Semitic. You’re the only person to have been attacked.”

      “I’ve just come from Rothschild’s in New Court.” St Swithin’s Lane was less than a minute’s walk away. “It won’t take long to clean up the mess.”

      “Rothschild,” murmured Johnny. “Red shield.”

      “What’s that?”