Mark Sanderson - Robin Hood Yard

“The lads had something else in common. Stomach contents. Their last meal was boiled pork and pease pudding.”

The “Hello Girls” had been busy in his absence. Several people had telephoned and left messages. Matt: Call me . Lizzie: I need to see you . Henry Simkins: I’ve booked a table for 1 p.m. at the London Tavern tomorrow. Be there!

Matt was not at Snow Hill police station. Lizzie was not at home in Bexleyheath. Simkins, his long-time rival at the Daily Chronicle , was, of course, out to lunch. He liked nothing more than sweet-talking waiters at his club.

Johnny turned his attention to the second post. Press releases, book launches, exhibition openings and an invitation to a premature Guy Fawkes party hosted by the Grocers’ Company at the Artillery Ground on Friday evening. There was a handwritten message on the back:

Do come! Rebecca.

How could he refuse?

Alexander Vanneck didn’t like Mondays. After a blessed day off, the drudgery of the London branch of the Guaranty Trust Co. of New York seemed even more depressing. Modern Times didn’t show the half of it. Today, though, he’d reached rock bottom.

As a male typist it was his job to keep his manager happy – but Jock Wilderspin was not a happy man and made it his business to share his misery with as many of his subordinates as he could. He stood on ceremony even when seated on his throne-like chair. Woe betide a minion caught using the Partners’ Entrance. As for sneaking into their marble lavatory, you could forget it. It wasn’t enough that the nobs had their own dining room: Fullers in Gracechurch Street was off-limits too. Staff wishing to pop out for a sandwich were expected to restrict themselves to the nearby ABC or a Lyons tea-shop but – fuck it! – Wilderspin had seen him leaving Fullers at lunchtime.

The bastard took his revenge at four o’clock when he presented Alex with three pages of foolscap and told him to type it up immediately. He did so and – trying to please – corrected a few spelling mistakes. Twenty minutes after he’d taken the letter up to be signed the buzzer went. Wilderspin was in a right tizzy: he objected to being corrected and demanded the letter be typed exactly as it had been written. Alex had nearly bitten his tongue in half trying not to answer back.

His good intentions had led to him leaving the office thirty minutes late. Oh for a tommy-gun! He imagined the gutters of Lombard Street flowing with blood. Pinstriped bodies lying everywhere. Top hats rolling down the pavement …

His stomach rumbled angrily. He’d half a mind to return to Fullers – but he couldn’t afford it twice in one week. He’d go to Lockharts in Fenchurch Street instead.

Johnny, unable to contact Matt all afternoon, took the liberty of using the police box in Eastcheap to have one last go.

“Working late?”

“Could say the same for you,” sighed Matt. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

“Anything to report?”

“No. Spent most of the shift being passed from pillar to post by the army. It was suggested there might be some sort of a military connection between Bromet and Chittleborough – they were both fighting fit – but getting information from the War Office is a thankless task.”

“The top brass have other things on their minds. What did you make of the post-mortem reports?”

“Not much.”

“At least we know they weren’t Jewish – unless they were force-fed.”

“There’s no evidence of that. What’s religion got to do with it anyway?”

“No idea. Might be completely irrelevant. Our new Lord Mayor, on the other hand, was clearly attacked because he is Jewish. Any arrests so far?”

“Not for blood sports.”

“Why did you want me to call then?”

Matt sighed again. “It’s Lizzie. She thinks I’m seeing another woman.”

Johnny was early. He couldn’t help it: age had not diminished his eagerness, his keenness to follow a story wherever it led. He stamped his feet and blew into his cupped hands.

They had arranged to meet outside the Post Office on the corner of Eastcheap and Philpot Lane (named after a former Lord Mayor). On the opposite corner, high up on the front of the building, two mice nibbled a piece of cheese. The small sculpture commemorated a fight that had broken out on the roof of the building when one workman accused a colleague of eating one of his sandwiches. During the exchange of blows that followed, one of the men fell to his death. Only then was it discovered that the actual culprits were mice.

Talk about hard cheese. Johnny lit a cigarette. He should have made more of an effort to contact Lizzie. He could have put her mind at ease.

The bell of St Margaret Pattens in Rood Lane chimed seven times.

“Steadman! How the devil are you?” Culver shook his hand with enthusiasm. After the day he’d had it made a pleasant change to be greeted warmly.

“All the better for seeing you.”

Johnny followed him through the doors of the General Wolfe Tavern. A blast of heat, noise and smoke engulfed them.

In his line of work Johnny was no stranger to the company of thieves but he’d yet to encounter a more plausible rogue. David Culver was the black sheep of a good Yorkshire family, privately educated, morally bankrupt. He made his money in one of the 180 or so bucket shops that tarnished the jealously protected image of the City. Their brokers, not bound by the rules of the Stock Exchange, were free to pursue share-plugging projects that were little better than systematic attempts to defraud the public. Nevertheless, Johnny – aware of the paradox – considered them more honest than their regulated, apparently respectable, rivals.

“Champagne?” Culver grinned, revealing surprisingly small, sharp teeth. Then again, he was known as the Shark. “It’s been a good day.”

“Don’t tell me. I’m all out of righteous indignation. It’s the sins of others that interest me today.”

In fact Culver was the nearest thing the City had to a saint. He gave away a lot of his ill-gotten gains merely to prove a point. If people could afford to play the stock market, they could afford to lose. Or rather, they should be compelled to share their fortunes with those less fortunate.

“Your very good health!” Culver lifted his silver tankard. The landlord kept it behind the bar for him; Culver claimed the precious metal was the only thing that did not taint the Laurent-Perrier.

Johnny raised his glass.

“Typical socialist!” Culver sneered. “Always willing to share his thirst with your champagne.”

The bottled sunshine tasted exquisite.

“I take it you’ve heard about the murders?”

“Who hasn’t? I also heard the poor buggers lost more than their lives.”

“Where’d you get that from? So far I’ve only written mutilated . The police haven’t released any specific details.”

“Officially.”

As usual Culver was extraordinarily well informed. “Chittleborough worked round the corner. The rumour mills, naturally, have been spinning yarns.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He was small fry. Can’t think why anyone would want to kill him. As you know, I only go after big fish. When I make a killing, it’s strictly metaphorical.”

“Why bother though? You could do anything you want.”

“I’m doing precisely that.” He waved his arm expansively. “It’s all a game. I enjoy it. There are a lot of clever, rich people in the City. I want to prove I’m cleverer – and want to be richer – than all of them.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Culver swigged from his tankard. “Don’t play the innocent. You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking. Knowledge is power.”