Not pleased to see me? Stay where you are.” Johnny pointed at his beer glass. “Another?”
“You said you’d put in a word with the judge.”
Bits of yolk flew through the air. Johnny narrowly avoided getting egg on his face.
“I tried, but your record spoke for itself. Stop sulking. D’you want a drink or not?”
Quirk sniffed. “Bell’s. A double.”
Johnny, hiding a smile, went to the bar. What the hell? He’d have the same.
“So why the early release?”
“You know me. Made myself useful.”
“If you were that useful I’m surprised they didn’t keep you.”
There was no shortage of snitches inside. It was a dangerous business: eyes and ears could be gouged out or lopped off with ease. Then, given Quirk’s previous profession – cutting out shapes of leather for a shoemaker – he was a dab hand with a knife. He’d only got into trouble when he realized how quickly a blade could open a sash window.
Quirk sipped the Scotch and licked his lips.
“I see you’ve done all right for yourself. Read the News in Pentonville – before I wiped my arse with it. How d’you hear I was out?”
“You of all people should know how rumour spreads. What have you been up to since?”
“Not much. Sitting here. Enjoying the company – till now.”
Quirk hailed from Seven Sisters but, having worked in nearby East India Street, the Crown had once been his local. It was strange how humans were such creatures of habit. Perhaps, surrounded by warehouses full of textiles, furs, dried fruit and furniture, he found comfort in the ceaseless commerce. Traders were not the only ones who thrived on word of mouth.
“Anything to tell me?”
“About what?”
“Pig’s blood, for starters.”
Quirk grimaced. “There’s no blood on my hands.”
“Any idea who’s behind the attacks?”
“Take your pick. Bloody Jews. Cause grief wherever they are.”
“What have they done to you?”
“Nothing, yet, but if they get their way we’ll all be in the shit come Christmas. I’ve just got out of uniform. Don’t want to put on another.”
“Ever worn a black shirt?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you? No harm in standing up for your own folk.”
“I thought you only believed in money. If you believe in Mosley too, perhaps you should try growing a moustache.”
“Not likely. Don’t want a skidmark on my lip.”
“Still in touch with any Biff Boys?”
“Might be.”
“Ask around. It’ll be worth your while.”
Quirk drained his whisky glass and held it out. Johnny ignored it. “Anything on the grapevine about Chittleborough and Bromet?”
“Who?” He waggled the glass. “Oil my cogs – and I’ll have another egg while you’re at it.”
Johnny, after his first drink of the day, was feeling benevolent. As he suspected, Quirk claimed to know nothing about the two murders but the squealer promised to keep his ear to the ground.
They left the pub together and, to avoid the endless stream of peckish secretaries, clerks and messengers, turned into the covered passageway that dog-legged between Billiter Square and Billiter Avenue.
The man at the bar followed.
Hughes, emerging from the mortuary at the rear of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, spun on his heels and walked quickly in the opposite direction.
“Hey! Percy! Don’t be like that.” Johnny ran down the corridor. The green linoleum, rain-slick, was like an ice-rink. He had to grab Hughes to keep his balance.
“Gerroff me! I ain’t done nuffink.”
“Did I say you had? Where you off to in such a hurry?”
“Canteen.”
“Good idea. Fear not, I’ll pay.”
They crossed the courtyard, piled high with sandbags, and entered the mess-room for non-medical staff. Janitors, porters and cleaners, all in brown dustcoats, sat elbow to elbow on benches either side of long trestle tables. No wonder the floors had not been mopped. A miasma of steam and cigarette smoke hung over the plates of mutton stew and sausages and mash.
Hughes, all arms and elbows, wolfed down his meal.
“How you can have an appetite after what you’ve been doing is beyond me.”
Hughes shrugged. “A man can get used to anyfink.”
The pathologist’s unglamorous assistant refused to say another word until his belly was full.
Outside, the shower had passed so they paused by the central fountain. Its water music was the last sound Johnny’s mother had heard.
“The lads weren’t brung ’ere. Got taken straight to Bishopsgate – but Farrant did the PMs.”
“And what did your boss say?”
“Never seen anyfink like ’em. Todgers sliced clean off.” He winced. “No funny bottom business though.”
“That’s good to know.” Johnny wasn’t sure that would have been the case had Hughes been left alone with them. “And …?”
The gannet held out a callused hand. Johnny produced a ten-shilling note but ensured it was out of reach.
“Speak!”
“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:
