Snow Hill. Mark Sanderson

towards the high, intricately patterned ceiling. Its once white mouldings were now stained the yellow of bad teeth.

      “Here we are.” Matt suddenly reappeared with two glasses, took a slurp from one and smacked his lips. “I needed that.” He flashed a grin that was half-grimace. “It’s good to see you.”

      “Likewise.” Impatient as ever, Johnny cut to the chase: “So, what have you got to tell me?”

      “Nothing about a cop dying, if that’s what you mean. I checked the Occurrence Book.”

      “Oh.” Johnny could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.

      “I told you yesterday, I haven’t heard anything.”

      It wasn’t like Matt to clam up this way. One of the things he loved about police work was the range of characters it brought him into contact with—the suspected burglar who turned out to be a doctor on his way to deliver a child at three in the morning; the incontinent woman who wandered the streets in a coat made from the pelts of her pet cats; the boy who thought he was a Number 15 bus. Usually he couldn’t wait to describe his latest odd encounter to Johnny—but not tonight. Clearly there was something else that he needed to say, something he could not say to anyone else.

      Whenever Matt needed advice, Johnny was invariably his first port of call. He’d always been clever, and since he’d gone into journalism he’d begun to build up an impressive network of informants and experts and people who owed him favours. His contacts book, scrupulously maintained and augmented throughout his career, was one of his most prized possessions.

      Resisting the urge to fire questions at his friend, Johnny took a pull on his drink and waited. But it seemed Matt still wasn’t ready to get to the point:

      “On the other hand, there’s been quite a bit of talk about your friend Mr Simkins,” he stalled.

      “Go on,” coaxed Johnny.

      “Mrs Shaw—the murderer’s wife—killed herself last night. They found her this morning. It looks as though she drank a bottle of bleach.”

      Johnny put down his glass. He couldn’t imagine a more agonising death; her vital organs dissolving bit by bit in the chlorine. As if she had not been in enough pain already, what with her husband confessing to the murder of Margaret Murray. Murder rarely involved just one victim.

      “I feel sick,” he said.

      “Me too,” said Matt. “Back in a tick.”

      He certainly looked queasy as he picked his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the gents. Matt was not squeamish—in his job he could not afford to be—and could hold his liquor better than most.

      A few moments later, Matt returned, negotiating the packed bar with uncharacteristic caution. His slightly exaggerated air of being in control could not disguise the fact that he was well on the way to being blotto.

      “Come on, Matt—tell me what’s up.”

      Turner shook his head in confusion. Advice was one thing, but he’d never found it easy to ask for help: to him, it was an admission of weakness. Johnny was the one person he trusted enough to turn to. When they lost the baby, Matt had been desperate not to add to Lizzie’s pain by burdening her with his grief; he’d tried drowning his sorrows and venting his fury on a punch-bag or some over-confident sucker at the gym. It was only when all else had failed that he turned to Johnny. It helped that his friend had experienced loss himself and knew that words, however well meant, changed nothing.

      “I’m having these nightmares…” He lifted his gaze as if challenging Johnny to laugh, then continued: “I’ve tried to ignore them but, rather than going away, they’re just getting worse. It’s got to the stage where I’m almost afraid to go to sleep.”

      “Can you remember much about them?”

      “They’re always the same. It’s pitch black…very hot. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Just when I think I’m going to suffocate, there’s this incredible pain—pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Then there’s this blinding white light and I wake up.” Matt wiped away the perspiration on his upper lip. He was so blond he only needed to shave every other day.

      “Have you been to see the doctor?”

      “Of course not! There’s nothing wrong with me physically. And can you imagine what they’d say at the station if I went to see a head-doctor? I’d never hear the end of it. I’d lose my job.”

      “What about Lizzie’s father? He could give you something to help you sleep.”

      “And have him think his son-in-law is a lunatic as well as a prole?”

      “You’re not mad. Besides, you needn’t tell him why you can’t sleep.”

      “True.” He did not seem convinced.

      “When did the nightmares start?”

      “About three weeks ago. It wasn’t too bad at first. They weren’t that frequent. Now, though, I’m having the same dream every night. It’s like I’m dying.”

      “Well, you’re not.” Johnny patted his forearm. “You’re only supposed to worry when you dream that you don’t wake up.”

      “That’s a big help. Thanks a bunch!” Matt slid a finger round the inside of his collar and glowered. His rage had come from nowhere. Johnny, for the first time, felt afraid in his friend’s company.

      “Matt…what is it you want me to do? I could speak to a psychiatrist…I can get you some pills. Just let me know what it is you want. No one will ever know.”

      “Just forget it. Sorry to bother you.” Matt drained his glass and made as if preparing to leave.

      “Don’t be like that,” said Johnny, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “Give me a chance. There’s got to be a reason why you’re having these nightmares. Did anything significant happen three weeks ago?”

      “No. I’ve thought and thought about it. There’s nothing. It was the usual routine: work, bed, work, bed.”

      “Anything out of the ordinary at work?”

      “Nothing. I was on point duty, freezing my balls off on Blackfriars Bridge. The sooner I stop being a straight bogey and pass my sergeant’s exams the better. We were short-staffed that week so I had to go out on the beat for a couple of nights as well. The extra money will come in handy—you know we want to start a family—but I didn’t make it home for three days.”

      “Well, houses in Bexley don’t come cheap.”

      Matt’s eyes bored in to him. Their blueness deepened. “So she’s told you, has she?”

      Johnny cursed himself. He would have to lie. In his current state of mind, Matt would kill him if he thought he had been seeing Lizzie behind his back. Besides, he would want to know why—and, at this stage, the knowledge that he was about to become a father would only increase the pressure on him.

      “Nobody’s told me anything—I’m just teasing. I know you prefer Stanmore. Why Lizzie wants to live south of the river is a mystery to me.”

      “Well, as it happens, you’re spot on. She’s got her own way—again. We signed up for a house in Bexley a couple of weeks ago.”

      “Congratulations.” Johnny raised his glass even though his heart was sinking.

      “My dad’s pleased, at any rate.”

      Turner’s father had been a detective inspector when he had retired five years ago. His son was very conscious of following in his footsteps. Although he made an exemplary constable—a friendly face to those in need and a daunting prospect to villains—Matt was determined to reach a higher rank than DI, and passing his sergeant’s exams would see him progress to the next step on the ladder. His athletic prowess had stood him in good stead so far, but he wasn’t a