Mark Sanderson - Robin Hood Yard

“Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

“Hello stranger!”

It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle . It was not a fond reunion.

“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

“Where exactly?”

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”

“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”

“It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”

A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.

“Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”

“Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”

“Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”

“So that’s what you’re after.”

“Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”

“What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”

“Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”

“Why not have a word with the Commander?”

“The less he knows the better.”

“At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”

“Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”

“He saved my life!”

“But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”

A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.

“ Bien sûr, mon petit choux . I knew it would be a mistake to destroy them.”

“So you didn’t keep your word?”

“You saw me burn the negatives, didn’t you? I recall how pleased you were to be able to tell Steadman the good news. Didn’t get you anywhere with him though, did it?”

Simkins scowled. “Get on with whatever it is you want to say.”

“Be like that then. Our old friend Timney, hearing that I’d returned to the Smoke, crawled out from whichever stone he was hiding under and made himself available to me. I was delighted when he told me that – against my direct orders – he’d kept a copy of the negatives. That’s why I need you. Steadman is the simplest way to put pressure on Turner.”

“You mean blackmail him.”

“Such a nasty word.” He waved his hand as if to disperse a bad smell. The ruby on his finger flashed in the candlelight. “Still, it worked last time – if not quite in the way we’d hoped. I can’t approach Steadman, but you can. Tell him the truth – you need his help.”

“To do what? He’s not a fool.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“And if I don’t?”

Zick got to his dainty feet. “Remember what a sticky end is? You used to like nothing more.”

The champagne – still in its glass – smashed against the door. Wisely, he’d waited until his nemesis had gone.

Saturday, 29 October, 10.15 a.m.

The first report came in shortly after ten o’clock. Others soon followed. Five banking houses had been attacked: N. M. Rothschild & Sons, Samuel Montagu & Co., M. Samuel & Co., Seligman Brothers, and S. Japhet & Co. All of them were Jewish. Bottles of blood had been flung against the walls of the noble institutions.

The attacks couldn’t have happened at a better time. Johnny was making little headway with the double murders. Everything was too clean. Matt had wearily informed him that Chittleborough had no criminal record and the only fingerprints found in the flat had been his. No one had seen or heard anything strange on Thursday evening. The killer had shown a clean pair of heels.

“Someone’s not happy,” said PDQ. “Perhaps they’re blaming the Jews for dragging us – kicking and screaming – towards war. They get blamed for all sorts of things.”

“Perfect scapegoats,” said Johnny. “But Chamberlain’s flying to Munich this morning. Third time lucky.”

“I hardly think so, Steadman,” said Patsel. “Such – how do you say it? – yo-yo diplomacy is bound to fail. It demonstrates weakness, not strength.” He appeared gratified at the prospect.

“There’s been another one.” Tanfield, who had the desk opposite Johnny’s, brandished a telegram from Reuters. “The next Lord Mayor’s been hurt.”

Mansion House Street was to the City what Piccadilly Circus was to Westminster. It was the very heart of things, where no less than eight arteries met, and as such was usually clogged with traffic. On the map it resembled the head of a splayed octopus with one limb shrivelled.

Johnny stopped the taxi by the monumental headquarters of the Midland Bank. Lutyens had a lot to answer for. The naked boy wrestling a goose above him was a jocular nod towards the building’s location: Poultry. Ten years on, only the southwest corner, regularly lashed by rain, retained a hint of the Portland stone’s original whiteness.

Outside the Bank of England a City cop in reflective white gauntlets waved him and Magnus Monroe, a staff photographer, across the road. The Royal Exchange lay in the fork between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill. The Duke of Wellington and Copenhagen – cast in bronze from captured French cannon – gazed down at him with sightless eyes. The City thrived on making the man in the street feel small.

The Exchange had closed – or been closed – early. One of its constables – instantly recognizable in his blue-and-gold uniform – stood talking to a City cop beneath the portico. As soon as Johnny started climbing the steps, he raised his stick. Johnny kept going.