swigged from his tankard. “Don’t play the innocent. You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking. Knowledge is power.”
“Indeed – but information is not a bar of Cadbury’s. If you eat the chocolate, the bar is gone.”
“And if you give it to a friend, he’ll eat it, not you.”
“So that’s where shares, selective leaks, come in.”
“Yes – but open secrets are worthless. The more people who know, the less powerful the knowledge, the less profit you’ll make. And, of course, word travels fast. I knew about Chamberlain’s little piece of paper before the ink on it was dry.”
“Pease in our time.”
“Peace in our time.”
“Indeed – but the dead men had both eaten pork and pease pudding shortly before they died.”
“Ha! Jack the Quipper strikes again.”
Culver poured the last few drops into Johnny’s glass. Some believed that meant he’d never have a child. So far the superstition had not been disproved.
“Let’s have another. One is never enough.”
The Shark disappeared into the sea of swaying backs and soon returned with a second bottle plus a plate of oysters. The landlord clearly knew where his best interests lay.
“So will there be another war?” Johnny helped himself to one of the creatures that, until recently, had – like him – survived by picking up tidbits.
“Indubitably. The City doesn’t want military action – it interrupts revenue streams – but it will, of course, make the best of it. Arms manufacturers, textile makers and anyone else who lands a government contract will earn millions. Then there are the deals that will never see the light of day.”
“Such as?”
Culver leaned closer. “Cheques can bounce but Hitler’s proved Czechs can be double-crossed too.”
Johnny’s antennae quivered. Culver was a master bam-boozler, a king of bluff, but he sensed that on this occasion he was on the verge of telling the truth.
“Montagu Norman is forever on the phone to Berlin.”
The governor of the Bank of England – accurately nicknamed Mountebank – was anxious for business with the Third Reich to continue.
“Deutsche Bank, Kleinworts, Schröders – there are plenty of German banks in London and there are still plenty of people willing to arrange credit for the Fatherland.”
“The City’s bankrolling the Nazis?” Culver feigned astonishment.
“You might say that. I certainly didn’t.”
“Does Leo Adler know about this? He’s Jewish!”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Don’t you worry, I will. Thank you, David.”
A surge of adrenalin swept through him. This was the break he’d been searching for. His spirits soared.
“What can I do for you in return?”
“Nothing, Steadman.” He watched a bead of condensation trickle down the side of his tankard. “Nothing yet. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. A big chocolate bar.”
“Thanks for sharing it with me – whatever your motives.”
“Remember to keep my name out of it. As a glorified salesman, my mouth is all I’ve got.”
“Of course. Of course.”
Johnny, somewhat unsteadily, got to his feet and shook Culver’s hand. The moneyman didn’t let go straightaway.
“While you’re at it, you might ask about the gold deposited in the Bank of England by the Czechoslovak National Bank. It’s worth at least six million …”
Tuesday, 1 November, 6.20 a.m.
Someone was hammering on the front door. The vibrations, travelling through the floorboards and up the frame, triggered the recurrent nightmare in which an unknown figure loomed over his bed, where he lay paralyzed with fear. However, before the incubus could crush his chest, reality intervened.
The room was pitch-black and freezing. He dragged himself out of bed, fragments of bad dreams – half-remembered lovers, pain and guilt – clogging his head. A hangover from Halloween? More like all the alcohol still in his blood. He must cut down. The hammering continued. Repercussions.
Johnny, clad only in pyjamas, stumbled down the narrow staircase and flung open the door. Had he forgotten to lock it? A young constable from the Met, fist still raised, stood on the step. Startled, he didn’t bother to say good morning. He was chilled to the bone, dog-tired and at the end of a very long shift. He’d also been knocking for more than three minutes.
“Detective Turner sent me, sir. He’s just around the corner in Packington Street.”
“Why?”
“A man’s been murdered.”
A discarded pumpkin lantern lay in the gutter. One kick wiped the grin off its face. The flames of the gas-lamps flickered palely in the frigid air. Dawn was a pale smudge behind the spire of St James’s. A milk-cart came rattling down the hill from Essex Road. Johnny tried to flag it down but the driver looked the other way.
There was no mistaking which house it was in the shabby Victorian terrace. Two police cars – one from the City and one from the Met – and an anonymous black van were parked in the empty street. Even at this hour a flock of early birds had gathered by the area railings. They stared enviously as Johnny was allowed to climb the six, awkwardly steep, steps and enter the lobby of the raised ground floor. Matt came clumping down the stairs.
“You could have brought me breakfast.”
“I tried.” Johnny yawned.
“Bad night?”
“Yes – and no.”
“This way.”
The stale air smelled of damp clothing, fried food and nappies. On the first floor Matt rapped then opened a door to reveal a harassed young couple being interviewed by DS Penterell, who scowled at Johnny but said nothing. A baby in the woman’s arms started wailing. Matt pointed to the ceiling, where there was a heart-shaped stain. A drop of blood plinked into a metal bucket.
The room above was like thousands of others in the capital: little more than a box for living in. Cheap furniture: table, two chairs and a bed. Threadbare rug and thin curtains. A few books on a shelf, a few clothes on pegs. A cracked sink. Cobwebs.
The
