Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

Three: Robin Hood Yard

      

       Chapter Twenty-One

      

       Chapter Twenty-Two

      

       Chapter Twenty-Three

      

       Chapter Twenty-Four

      

       Chapter Twenty-Five

      

       Chapter Twenty-Six

      

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

      

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

      

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

      

       Chapter Thirty

      

       Afterword

       Keep Reading...

      

       Bibliography

      

       About the Author

      

       By the Same Author

      

       About the Publisher

       FOREWORD

       The bomb was in place. For the umpteenth time he checked his pocket watch. Two more minutes …

       The Lord Mayor’s coach – a fantasia in red and gold – emerged from Prince’s Street by the Bank of England and turned, groaning on its leather straps, towards Poultry. The Lord Mayor, leaning out of the window, doffed his cocked hat to the dignitaries assembled under the portico of his new home, the Mansion House. The ostrich feathers on his hat rippled in the chilly breeze.

       The cheering crowds that packed the pavements did nothing to scare the horses. Pairs of mounted policemen protected the coach at the front and rear. The floats that followed were also mainly drawn by horses, whereas others relied on another form of horsepower. It was one of these that stalled. The actors portraying Sir Francis Drake and his fellow bowlers staggered as the truck coughed then lurched to a stop.

       The theme of this year’s show was physical health. Everywhere banners proclaimed FITNESS WINS! Dancers, boxers, golfers and rowers continued to demonstrate their moves.

       The plaster of Paris mountain being climbed by the alpinists started to emit smoke. Johnny watched in disbelief. No one climbed an active volcano.

       The army jeeps and wagons of the auxiliary fire brigade rolled on. They were on parade, not on duty.

       As soon as a gap appeared in the procession, Johnny pushed through the crowd lining the route and crossed Cheapside.

       He weaved his way through a maze of penny-farthings, unseating a couple of the riders. Their companions, cursing loudly, wobbled precariously but somehow remained upright and continued to pedal. Some of the spectators started to boo.

       A few members of a marching band, distracted, fell out of step. The loss of rhythm was accompanied by an unscored clash of cymbals. The catcalls got louder.

       One of the police outriders craned his neck to see the cause of the commotion. Calling to his colleagues, he turned his mount around and headed towards Johnny.

       The Lord Mayor, arm aching from waving to his devoted citizens, stuck his head out of the left side of the coach. Below him, on a painted panel, Mars, god of the City of London – and not, as many assumed, Mammon – pointed to a scroll held by Truth. What was going on?

       A ginger-haired man was being dragged to his feet by two policemen. He seemed to be unconscious.

       Beyond them, outside St Mary-le-Bow, a float was engulfed in flames …

PART ONE

       ONE

       Friday, 28 October 1938, 9.05 a.m.

      The call came as he flung down The Times in disgust. The Tories had won the Oxford by-election, albeit with a halved majority. Quintin Hogg, the triumphant candidate, claimed the result was a victory for Mr Chamberlain and a vindication of the Munich Agreement.

      The “Thunderer”, which had revealed itself to be a proud organ of appeasement, made much of the defeat of A. D. Lindsay, the Independent Progressive candidate and Hogg’s only opponent, even though the Master of Balliol College had been supported by such dissident Tories as Winston Churchill, Anthony Eden and Harold Macmillan. Most of the other newspapers, including Johnny’s own, the Daily News, chose to highlight the fury and disappointment of Edward Heath’s student Conservatives who had campaigned under the slogan, “A vote for Hogg is a vote for Hitler.”

      He grabbed the receiver. “Steadman.”

      “What’s wrong now? Lost a shilling and found a sixpence?” Matt could usually tell how he was feeling.

      “Bloody Tories.”

      “Never mind them. They don’t mind you.” Matt wasn’t interested in politics. Johnny, who took every opportunity to needle high-hatted right-wingers, opened his mouth to protest but got no further. “Get yourself over to Crutched Friars. We’ve got another body.”

      He took a taxi to Fenchurch Street. Crutched Friars ran below the station. Plumes of steam and the sounds of shunting filled the smoky air.

      Detective Constable Turner was standing on the corner of Savage Gardens. The sight of him always made Johnny smile. Although in plain clothes, Matt looked every inch the policeman. His recent promotion to the Detective Squad had nevertheless cost him the rank of sergeant. They shook hands.

      It wasn’t unusual for Turner to tip him off. They had known each other for a quarter of a century. The bonds forged in the playground of Essex Road School for Boys had only tightened as they’d jumped through the hoops of the adult world. They had been through a lot together, learning the hard way that it wasn’t what you knew but whom. Their careers had become almost as intertwined as their emotions. Two sets of eyes were better than one.

      Matt