Snow Hill - Mark Sanderson

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and Intelligence, Geography and Preparation of Police Returns to get through. But even if he passed with flying colours, any whisper of mental instability would undo all his good work and instantly scupper his chances.

      “So Bexley it is. Lizzie must be delighted.”

      “Yeah, she is. Course, once we move, I’ll have to sleep most nights at Snow Hill until I get promoted, just like I do when I’ve got a double shift. Lizzie’s never liked the idea of Ferndale Court.”

      Constables were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station-house, and with affordable housing hard to come by in central London, the force provided its own accommodation. Ferndale Road, Stockwell, was the nearest base for married officers.

      “At least we’ll still see as much of each other as before.” Matt stared into the bottom of his pint glass.

      “I hope so,” said Johnny, and meant it.

      The level of conversation around them had risen to a roar. The drinkers had become more raucous as the alcohol transformed cold, dog-eat-dog reality into a warm fug of camaraderie and security.

      “Look, I’ve got to go.” Matt suddenly got to his feet. He seemed unsteady, holding on to the table for support. “If you can have a word with someone for me, I’d be grateful. And if I hear anything about a dead cop I’ll let you know. Bye.”

      He laid his hand on Johnny’s shoulder as he passed; Johnny covered it with his own.

      When Matt had moved away, Johnny turned, craning his neck to scan the crowded bar. Something had happened to make Matt leave so abruptly. He’d looked as if he had seen a ghost. All Johnny could see was a wall of backs.

      He fought his way to the bar. It was not yet seven thirty; he needn’t have cancelled his date with Daisy after all. True to form, when he broke the news last night she had wildly over-reacted then pretended not to give tuppence. This time she might not even let him make it up to her. Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it was all over between them.

      Why did he keep chasing after these good-time girls? He was the ultimate stage-door Johnny. He’d asked Daisy out because she reminded him of Carole Lombard in My Man Godfrey, but for all that her glossy, black hair, curly lashes and pouting lips made him hot under the collar, there was a hardness about her that repelled him. Like the other actresses and dancers he’d dated, the only thing she cared about was getting some publicity for her stuttering career. If he hadn’t been a reporter on a national daily, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance. And he had no real interest in her—so why did he persist?

      Because he was lonely.

      It was odd how, after their encounters, he felt even lonelier.

      Rather than head straight home, he decided to order one for the road.

      The man who would kill him watched him in a mirror.

       What the devil were those two talking about? That Steadman’s getting to be a real nuisance, always sticking his nose where it’s not wanted. Persistent little bugger. So determined to get a big scoop, make his name as a reporter—that ambition’s going to land him in trouble if he’s not careful.

       Still, there’s no way he knows what happened Saturday night. It’s impossible. I made damn sure there was no one else around. Christ, it felt good.

       Pity I needed help with the clearing up, but I picked the right lads for the job. They won’t breathe a word—they’ve got too much to lose. Not as much as me, mind. Won’t hurt to remind them that I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid discovery. Even if it means killing them too.

       FIVE

      The cold air slapped his face. It was like walking into a washing line on Monday morning. He was half-sober already.

      “Had a good time?” A policeman blocked his path, towering over him. Was he a marked man? He could not seem to turn round this week without bumping into a cop.

      “Yes, thank you, officer.”

      “Johnny Steadman, isn’t it?” His interrogator smiled pleasantly. All City cops were neat but this one somehow seemed neater. He had an open face and kind, slate-grey eyes.

      “I’m Tom Vinson. I believe we have a mutual friend. Matt Turner?”

      “You’ve just missed him.”

      “Actually, I haven’t. I saw him just now, heading back to collect something from the station-house. That’s how I knew it must be you.” He took off a black glove and held out his hand. Johnny shook it.

      “How d’you do.” Vinson’s grip was warm and firm.

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time,” said Vinson. “Matt often talks about you. He looks up to you.” Johnny was surprised—and embarrassed.

      “We’ve known each other since we were four years old.”

      “That’s some friendship. Matt’s a good man to have on your side.”

      “Indeed.” There didn’t seem much else to say, but Vinson was still blocking his way. “Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Johnny moved to the right. Vinson followed suit. He moved to the left. So did the policeman. “Was there something else?”

      Vinson hesitated and looked round to check no one was within earshot. “This did not come from me, right? I believe you want to know if a cop has gone missing from Snow Hill. There’s only one person who was at the station last week who isn’t there now—a wolly who’s transferred to the Met.”

      “That’s a bit odd. It’s usually the other way round.”

      The City of London Police—stationed at the hub of the British Empire and accustomed to rubbing shoulders with the bankers and brokers of the financial capital of the world—considered themselves a cut above the Metropolitan Police who patrolled the rest of London. Rozzers were not being complimentary when they referred to their City counterparts as “the posh lot”.

      “And how come a new recruit was given an instant transfer?” Johnny was fully alert now. “These things normally take weeks to arrange.”

      “I don’t know when he applied to be moved,” stated Vinson. “The notice doesn’t say. What it does say is that it was for personal reasons. Something to do with a family tragedy.”

      “What was his name?”

      “Ah, I can’t help you there. It’s forbidden to divulge operational information.”

      “Then can you at least tell me where he was transferred to?”

      “Sorry. Still, there’s no need to go wasting your time investigating that dodgy tip-off now.”

      “Thanks very much. It was good of you to tell me. I owe you.”

      “Don’t mention it—really!” With a cheery nod, Vinson continued on his beat.

      As Johnny continued down Giltspur Street his mind was so full of questions he barely registered his surroundings. Why was Vinson being so helpful? Had Matt told him about the tip-off? Was he trying to put him off the scent? It would be easy enough to find out the recruit’s name—Matt would tell him tomorrow—so why had Vinson withheld it? Was he afraid that Johnny would want to interview the lad? That didn’t make sense; policemen were forbidden to talk to the press—officially, anyway.

      If Vinson was being straight with him, it would explain the absence of an outcry: nobody had died and there was nothing to hide. But if that were all there was to it, why bother to tell a journalist anything at all? And why had Bill not come up with anything about the transfer?

      Johnny smelled a cover-up.

      Johnny

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