Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

– not here anyway. Are you sure you haven’t a clue as to who’s responsible?”

      “If I had, they’d be under arrest already.”

      Johnny believed him. After “The Silent Ceremony” at the Guildhall on 9 November – during which the outgoing mayor would hand over the sword, sceptre, seal and list of Corporations to him – Adler would be the Chief Magistrate of the City.

      “Such publicity is bad for business,” he continued. “The sooner it stops, the better.”

      “Why talk to me then?”

      “Your opposition to the bowler-hat-and-brolly brigade is well known. If you say it’s nothing but a stunt, people will believe you. Outside the City I don’t have much clout.”

      Johnny was flattered but not convinced.

      “Adler. That’s a German name, isn’t it?”

      “Yes. My grandparents were German, but both my parents were British. It means eagle.”

      “Perfect for a high-flier.”

      Adler’s laughter echoed round the Exchange.

      “I need a drink. Care to join me? It’s almost midday.” He got to his feet and, this time, stayed upright. “Are we done now, Sergeant?”

      “Yes, sir, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Bart’s.”

      “Quite sure. I’ve had worse bumps. Got a thick skull. Let me know when you catch the blighter.”

      It was all right for some. Lesser mortals would have been obliged to make a statement at Snow Hill police station.

      Adler, having dismissed his entourage with reassuring noises, led them out of an exit at the rear of the building and thus avoided the scrum waiting at the front. Johnny was delighted. Monroe went off to develop his prints while he and Adler crossed the road and entered the maze of alleys that zigzagged between Lombard Street and Cornhill. Thirty yards down Birchin Lane they turned left into Castle Court.

      The George and Vulture was one of Mr Pickwick’s favourite haunts.

      “He dined here with Sam Weller,” said Johnny.

      “I don’t have time to read for pleasure.”

      “But you do read the papers.”

      “Lord Beaverbrook, Viscount Rothermere and their cronies are powerful men. It’s not called the press for nothing. If they want something, they can exert great pressure.”

      “Even they can’t stop a world war though. They’re more concerned about their livelihoods – the supply of newsprint – than the lives of their readers.”

      “Agreed,” said Adler. He sipped the fine claret. “There’ll be no shortage of news though.”

      “There will. Dora will see to it.” The Defence of the Realm Act was introduced in 1914. “The government is bound to tighten its grip on the flow of information.”

      “The Nazis are fond of censorship as well,” said Adler. “The problems facing Jews in Germany are far worse than leaks suggest. They’re now being rounded up and expelled to Poland. Not only men of working age but women and children too.”

      Johnny had long campaigned for the Daily News to highlight Hitler’s atrocious treatment of the Jews. However, he was a crime reporter. Foreign news was not his concern. Patsel dismissed such reports as gross exaggeration, propaganda spread by embittered refugees.

      Fleet Street preferred to reflect public opinion rather than change it. Britannia ruled the waves but her citizens were insular in outlook. There was enough suffering at home without worrying about Johnny Foreigner. Only last week the Daily Telegraph had run an advertisement for typists with the proviso that “no Jewesses” need apply.

      “Why d’you think Hitler hates Jews so much?”

      “Fear. Paranoia. Perhaps he’s secretly afraid there’s a tincture of Jewish blood running in his veins. Self-hatred is even more corrosive.” He sighed. “It’s easier to blame other people for your own weaknesses, shift the responsibility away from yourself. Conspiracies are convenient ways of explaining the inexplicable. Otherness – difference – produces a primitive, instinctive reaction in the brain, but most people choose to override it.”

      “A tribal survival mechanism.”

      “Exactly. If there weren’t any Jews, new scapegoats would soon be found. Negroes, Catholics, Armenians, homosexuals …”

      “And yet Jews invented the concept.”

      “That’s right.” Adler raised his glass to him. “Which university did you attend?”

      “I didn’t. Couldn’t afford it.”

      “Ah, well it stems from the Hebrew word Azazel. You can find it in Leviticus: And Aaron shall place lots upon the two he-goats: one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for Azazel.”

      “So why would someone select you as a scapegoat?”

      “I don’t know. Perhaps the attack has nothing to do with my being Jewish.”

      “It must have. It’s Saturday – the Jewish Sabbath. The blood must be a reference to historic blood libels.”

      “But I haven’t crucified any Christian kids or drunk their blood. I haven’t poisoned any wells.”

      Suddenly the expensive Bordeaux didn’t taste as good.

      “No, but you’re about to become the figurehead of the financial centre of the world. Many people see bankers as bloodsuckers. In their blinkered eyes, the fact you’re Jewish simply makes matters worse.”

      “I’m not a practising Jew though. As you see, I don’t observe the Sabbath. I don’t have ringlets. I don’t dress entirely in black. I don’t work for a Jewish bank. You could say I’m totally unorthodox.”

      “Why did you want to be Lord Mayor?”

      “What financier wouldn’t? It’s an honour. Proof I’ve assimilated myself into a secretly hostile environment. Chairmanships and presidencies are all very well, but the mayoralty is a unique position. It’s a chance to do an immense amount of good – for both the companies and charities I’m involved with. And, of course, I’ll be able to help my friends …”

      He topped up Johnny’s glass.

      “What d’you want me to do?”

      “Find out who’s behind this campaign. I don’t have much faith in the police. Ironic, isn’t it, that the top brass are based in Old Jewry? Did you know the Great Synagogue there was burned down before Edward I expelled the Jews …”

      When Johnny, somewhat squiffy, re-emerged into daylight, the working week was over. The army of bank messengers, dispatch cases chained to their wrists, had marched off home, leaving the streets to the City’s “submerged tenth”: watchmen, sandwich-men, hawkers, beggars and bible-bangers. The lamps slung on wires above them swung in the strengthening wind. Plane trees shed their last few leaves.

      Johnny hadn’t finished work though. He decided to walk back to the office to clear his head.

      He preferred being on foot – relying on his own resources – to being driven by someone else. London was a never-ending variety show, every pedestrian a character in an impromptu promenade performance. It was impossible not to cheer.

      Even so, as he strode down Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s standing proud behind him, his spirits sank. He’d two meaty stories to pursue, but what was the point if the country was waltzing towards war? His flat feet would keep him out of the army yet he was determined to make himself useful. Perhaps Adler could recommend him to the Ministry of Information when it was finally re-established.

      He’d read too much to harbour any illusions about the reality