Robin Hood Yard

Johnny watched Patsel resume his throne in the centre of the newsroom and pick up a phone.

“What’s so important?”

“Goya and El Greco are following in the footsteps of Rembrandt and Rubens,” said Quarles.

The central rooms of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square had been closed for more than a month. Rumour had it the priceless paintings were being stored somewhere in Wales.

“They and their curators clearly don’t have much faith in old Neville,” said Johnny. “I wish Pencil would pack up and leave.”

“He’d rather be interned than return to the Fatherland – and who can blame him? Pressmen are even less popular over there. At least we try to tell the truth.”

“Are we interested in birching? There’s another demonstration planned for this afternoon. It might be lively.”

“No. Given the whole country is in danger of losing their skins, you’d think they’d have something better to do. Concentrate on the murders. See if you can find anything that connects the two men.”

Peter Quarles was the main reason why Johnny was still at the Daily News: without his frequent, good-natured interventions, Patsel and his star reporter would have come to blows. The editor was not blessed with a sense of humour. He found Johnny’s wit and disregard for authority difficult to take. Quarles, though, had learned to handle – and respect – Johnny’s wayward talent.

Johnny, keen to hear more, rang Matt but was told D. C. Turner was still out of the office. The press bureau at Old Jewry, headquarters of the City of London police, promised to relay any developments in the double murder case. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

Apart from the manner of their deaths, there appeared to be nothing to link the cases. Bromet had lived on the first floor; Chittleborough on the third. Had the two bachelors known each other? Bromet had no criminal convictions. Did Chittleborough have a clean record too?

Matt would have no difficulty in answering the second question. He was invariably quick to acknowledge the part Johnny had played in his promotion. Although unofficial, their collaboration in several headline-hitting cases had boosted both their careers. The lifelong friends made a good team. That didn’t mean they always saw eye to eye.

Lizzie jerked awake. The glowing coals shifted in the grate. Lila Mae, Johnny’s god-daughter, slumbered on in her arms. It was natural for the child to fall asleep after being fed, but not for her. Still, in more ways than one, breast-feeding took it out of her.

She’d been dreaming again. The same silly dream. Walking down the aisle, carrying her bouquet of lilies of the valley – she could smell them now – and coming to a stop beside the man who, instead of being blond like her husband-to-be, had copper-coloured hair. Both Matt and Johnny had been in love with her – Lizzie knew, at least she hoped, they still were – but she was beginning to wonder if she had chosen the wrong man.

She’d seen less and less of Matt since he’d joined the Detective Squad. There was no doubt he was a devoted father – he adored Lila Mae, even if he was hopeless at changing nappies. However, after the birth, Matt had seemed to lose interest in her. A distance crept between them and, unless she was mistaken, it was, like Lila, growing by the day. It was almost as if she’d served her purpose by producing a baby. When Matt did pay her any attention – usually on a Saturday night, after a bout of boxing and boozing – it felt as though he was acting out of duty rather than desire.

Could you suffer from postpartum depression fifteen months after the event? It was unlikely. She had been down in the dumps for a couple weeks in September last year – when the prospect of caring for such a helpless, relentless bundle of need had become overwhelming – but the feeling had passed. Resentment at being trapped, being a prisoner of her all-consuming love for Lila, had given way to resignation and, eventually, a newfound resilience.

She was proud of the fact that she’d regained her slim figure – well, almost – but why had she bothered? No one else saw her. Men rarely gave more than a glance to women pushing prams. She missed the admiration she’d attracted while working in Gamages. Her parents had been right when they’d said such a position was beneath her. Their darling daughter was not meant to be a salesgirl, yet they’d been perfectly happy when she’d left the department store to be a housewife and mother. They seemed to have forgotten she had brains as well as beauty.

She didn’t feel clever today though. She felt grubby, distracted and disappointed. She kissed Lila on a chubby pink cheek; sniffed her silky fair hair. Her whole world had shrunk to this infant. She owed it to herself not to drown in domestic drudgery. She couldn’t go on like this.

She got out of the armchair and lay Lila down in her cradle. The baby whimpered and waved her arms but did not wake. Lizzie, watching over her, sighed deeply. It wasn’t only nappies that she had to change.

He didn’t light the paraffin heater even though the cold gave him goose pimples. Perhaps it wasn’t the pervasive underground chill. Perhaps it was nervous anticipation.

The vat squatted on the workbench. He wouldn’t peep inside it again. The contents made him gag. The thought of touching the thick, foul liquid made his stomach lurch. Sweat beaded his broad forehead.

The bottles were lined up waiting. He put on a pair of cotton gloves, picked up the first one and turned the spigot.

Nothing happened. Then, just as he was about to turn off the tap, a black trickle quickly became a torrent. He grinned with relief. He’d soon be done.

The expected knock on the cellar door came at the exact appointed time. That was encouraging. He paid the pair of toughs and pointed to the crate.

“Remember, gentlemen, if you do it right, I’ll give you the same again.”

“Piece of cake,” said the older one, licking his lips. His accomplice hoisted the crate on to his shoulder with ease.

“We’re going to enjoy this.”

THREE (#ulink_9e149183-4528-5394-a00f-179702b283b3)

He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

“I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

“What was he called?”

“Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

Close enough.

“Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You won’t. You have my word.”

“Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

“Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

“Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

“I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

“Keep your hair on! I know you.”

He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

“You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

“I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”