Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

produced, like a rabbit, out of a hat. Before long, ignorant armies would once again clash by night. If Johnny couldn’t report on it he could at least help pick up the pieces: carry a stretcher or drive an ambulance. Matt, Lizzie and Lila Mae were the only family he had. It wouldn’t matter if he were blown to bits.

      What bollocks! He shook his head to dispel the gloom. Evil had to be confronted wherever it lurked. He nodded to the commissionaire and headed for the lifts, noticing in passing that the sunburst ceiling, dazzlingly lit, made the doorman’s shoes shine.

      A pall of silver cigarette smoke drifted over the stalls. Johnny, sprawled on the front row, smirked at the portrayal of hard-drinking, hard-talking newspapermen in I Cover the Waterfront. He could see why the American tale of people-trafficking had taken five years to reach these shores.

      The ABC in Islington High Street had been the Empire until a few months ago. Movies had replaced music-hall turns in 1932. When he was a child his mother had often treated him to a Saturday afternoon show. In those days the Victorian concert venue had been known as The Grand. The more things changed the more they remained the same.

      There was no food at home so he’d hopped off the tram at the Angel and bought a couple of stale rolls – at a discount – from the French & Vienna Bread Co. next door and smuggled them into the picture house.

      If he was with a girl he usually steered her to the back row where, inevitably, the film took second place to smooching. However, when alone, he liked to be as close to the screen as possible so that the characters were literally larger than life.

      Claudette Colbert, especially in the brothel sequence, was captivating – although he preferred her darting eyes in It Happened One Night – but Ernest Torrence’s evil sea-captain stole every scene. His best line came as one of the Chinamen he’d drowned was fished out of the Pacific: “Not more’n a day. Crabs ain’t got ’im yet.” The Scottish actor was dead now: gallstones.

      As he cut through the crowd of couples dawdling in the foyer, reluctant to return to the real world, he regretted not asking Rebecca for a date. Once outside, all thoughts of her disappeared as torrential icy rain threatened to drown him.

      His flat was not far away so he decided to make a run for it. Dead leaves made the pavements treacherous. Each time he skidded the gutters seemed to gurgle with laughter.

      Key in hand, he turned into Cruden Street. There was someone huddled in the doorway.

      “About fucking time,” said Matt.

       FIVE

       Monday, 31 October, 8.30 a.m.

      Despite reports to the contrary, the world was not coming to an end. Planet Earth had not been invaded by Martians. Johnny grinned at the gullibility of the public. The War of the Worlds was a radio play, not reality. Did no one read H. G. Wells across the Atlantic? All the same, he couldn’t wait to hear the programme.

      Orson Welles, the director, claimed the whole thing had been a prank to mark Halloween. If so, why had it been broadcast the day before? And why had it created so much hoo-ha?

      There was nothing new about using fake news bulletins for dramatic effect on the radio: Ronald Knox had used them in Broadcasting from the Barricades on the BBC, during which rioters were supposed to have taken over the streets of London. Johnny suspected the American press, like its British counterpart, was suspicious of the relatively new medium, afraid of its ability to report news so much quicker, and was seizing the opportunity to bash the competition. However, with Germany and Japan banging the drums of war, it had been cynical of Welles to capitalize on fears of global invasion.

      “The balloon won’t go up for another year or so, if Wells is to be believed,” said PDQ. “In The Shape of Things to Come he predicts that a new world war will begin in January 1940.”

      “Let’s hope he’s wrong.”

      “Let’s hope you haven’t done anything wrong. Stone wants to see you.”

      The red light above the door to the editor’s office went off and the green light came on. Johnny tapped on the polished wood and entered.

      “Ah, Steadman. What have you been up to now?” Victor Stone peered at him over the top of his half-moon glasses.

      “Sir?”

      “I’ve had a call from our new Lord Mayor. Anything to tell me?”

      “Wish I had.”

      Stone smiled. “Stand at ease. Must be getting old, Steadman – no one’s complained about you recently. Quite the opposite, in fact. Leo said what a personable chap you were. I gather you met on Saturday.”

      So Adler and his boss were on first-name terms …

      “He wants to know who attacked him. Doesn’t trust the police.”

      “Quite. Yet they’ve already ascertained the attackers used pig’s blood. Talk about adding insult to injury.”

      “Attackers? Adler said the man was alone.”

      “Indeed. But, according to the times established by the bluebottles, a single individual couldn’t have attacked all five banks as well as Adler.”

      Where was Stone getting his information from? Why hadn’t anyone told him this? It was supposed to be his story. Johnny knew better than to ask.

      “Is Adler clean?”

      “As far as I know. Go on …”

      Conscious of the black eyes boring into him, Johnny obliged. “Well, pigs aren’t kosher, are they? Jews consider them unclean. The blood could be a reference to some sort of dirty business. Insider dealing is even more common than people suspect.”

      “Adler has only got where he is today by being whiter than white. He is extremely conscious of his reputation.”

      “He that filches from me my good name …”

      Johnny, not for the first time, had opened his mouth without thinking. Iago was a villain and, at this moment, quoting from Othello immediately raised the spectre of Shylock.

      “Precisely. Reputation, reputation, reputation! Lose the immortal part of yourself and what remains is bestial. That’s why you must help him. It’s your number one priority.”

      “So the two murders are less important?”

      Stone stood up and came round the corner of his enormous desk. The fitness fanatic did callisthenics every morning in his office. “Beauty hurts!” was his catchphrase. He had a good body and, as a member of the Open-Air Tourist Society, was not afraid of showing it.

      “Anyone else been killed?”

      Johnny could smell the carrot juice on Stone’s breath. He stood his ground.

      “No.”

      “Anyone been arrested?”

      “No.”

      “Anything new to report at all?”

      “Not at this point.”

      “Well, get going then. Who’s to know what your snouts have unearthed? If they haven’t heard anything about Adler’s attackers they may have heard something about the dead men.”

      He strolled over to the window that – despite the janitor’s best efforts – was still flecked with blackout paint.

      “Adler isn’t going to speak to anyone but us. It’ll be an exclusive. One in the eye for the Financial Times. A successful outcome would benefit us all – especially you. Herr Patsel is an excellent news editor, but he can’t stay here, cling on to power, much longer. A reshuffle is on the cards.”

      “I’m