face.” Noticing that Matt’s face was marred by dark smudges, the colour of raw liver, under his deep-blue eyes, Johnny asked: “Everything okay? Is Lizzie all right?”
“She’s fine,” said Matt. “And so am I.”
His tone of defiance could not disguise the fact that he was lying. Matt did not lie very often, especially to him. In their own way, both men had an ingrained respect for the truth. Johnny wondered how he could help.
“Got time for lunch?”
“No,” said Matt. “They’ve done cross-examining me so I’ll have to go back on duty till two.”
“That’s a shame,” said Johnny. “I wanted to ask if you’d heard anything about a cop dying over the weekend.”
“Which station was he based at?”
“Snow Hill,” said Johnny.
“That can’t be right,” said Matt. “We’d know if one of ours had bought it. Besides, if a cop from any station had been killed, there’d have been a huge to-do by now.”
“I didn’t say the cop had been killed,” said Johnny. “He could’ve been run over by a bus.”
“Still, if he worked at Snow Hill, we’d have been told,” said Matt. “Bad news travels fast, and losing one of our own—whatever the cause—always affects morale. I’ll ask around, but don’t hold your breath. I reckon someone’s having you on.”
“Rotherforth said much the same thing.” Johnny half turned, then swore under his breath. “Don’t look now.”
It was too late.
“What’s this? Hobnobbing with the boys in blue, Steadman? You know full well officers of the law are forbidden to talk shop with gentlemen of the press.”
“You’re no gentleman,” said Johnny.
“Oh, but I am—and that’s what really gets your goat, isn’t it?” Henry Simkins smirked as Johnny, despite his best efforts, flushed. It was not just the fop’s sandalwood scent that got up his nose.
For some reason, instead of squandering the Simkins family fortune in the time-honoured fashion—drink, drugs and debutantes—Henry preferred to use his wealth, public-school education and social connections to further a career which his father, a Member of Parliament, considered no better than venereal medicine. Then again, perhaps Simkins senior wasn’t so far off the mark. Like doctors, journalists got to see mankind at its most naked.
As always, Johnny felt scruffy standing beside Simkins in his Savile Row suit and a shirt from Jermyn Street. What rankled even more was the fact that the slim and slimy Henry was a blood with brains—and an excellent crime reporter.
Grudgingly, Johnny introduced his arch rival to Matt. As Simkins launched into his usual self-congratulatory spiel, Johnny let his eyes and attention wander around the foyer. Multicoloured marble seemed an odd choice of building material for an arena in which everything was cast in black and white. Barristers might argue for hours about the minute variegations of the law, but when it came down to it the defendant was either guilty or not guilty, freed or for the drop. The smooth stone and polished wood of the Sessions House appeared impervious to the torrent of human misery that swept through its portals.
His thoughts were interrupted by Simkins braying:
“You may congratulate me, Steadman.” Grinning at the scowl which had instinctively appeared on Johnny’s face, Simkins turned to Matt. “Look at that! He’s piqued by my latest exclusive. Did you see it in the Daily Chronicle?”
“I read the News myself,” said Matt. Johnny was touched by his loyalty. He knew his friend usually just made do with whatever was lying around the canteen.
“Never mind. Two million other people saw it.” Simkins gave a sigh of satisfaction.
Johnny’s reply was lost as around them the crowd swelled as yet another court emptied of spectators; the prospect of some hapless fool losing their liberty or life was always enough to add an edge to even the most jaded of appetites.
“Well, gentlemen, must dash,” said Simkins. “I’ve got a table at Rules. Coming, Steadman? Fancy a nosh-up on my expenses? Success should always be celebrated.” He looked Johnny up and down slowly, then tossed his flowing, chestnut locks. “Perhaps another time then. I think you’d like the restaurant.”
Johnny resented the assumption that he had yet to darken the doors of the fashionable restaurant. What made it worse, Simkins was right. Johnny was more of a greasy-spoon gourmet.
He wondered what lay behind the invitation. Had Simkins received the same tip-off? Was it a fishing expedition, hoping for corroboration, or was he just seizing an opportunity to rub Johnny’s nose in his expense account?
With a final nod in Matt’s direction and a smarmy, “PC Turner, it’s been a pleasure,” the tiresome toff shot off, oozing self-assurance, seemingly oblivious to the female heads turning in his wake.
“The world is his lobster,” murmured Johnny.
“You’ve used that one before,” said Matt, watching Simkins sweep through the doors, arm already raised to hail a taxi. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
“I can be,” said Johnny without hesitation, hoping that Daisy, his latest cutie, would understand. A chorus girl who, of course, harboured acting ambitions, she had asked him to get tickets for Mazo de la Roche’s Whiteoaks, which had been running at the Little Theatre in John Adam Street since April. Daisy, who had a fiery temper and big breasts, would inevitably make a fuss at missing out on a promised treat, but he would enjoy making it up to her later.
“How about the Viaduct at seven?”
“Great. I’ll see you there.” Matt gave him the ghost of a smile and hurried towards the daylight.
Intrigued, Johnny watched his friend’s broad back negotiate the milling crowd.
Clearly Matt had heard something after all.
Johnny crossed Old Bailey and hurried down Fleet Lane. Weaving through the crowds of office workers on Ludgate Hill would take too long, and he was spurred on by the thought that, even now, Simkins was probably trying to find out what he had been talking to Matt about. Wondering how much his rival had heard of the conversation, he took a short cut through Seacoal Lane—a dark, narrow passage which burrowed under the railway from Holborn Viaduct Station—and emerged into Farringdon Street just before it gave way to Ludgate Circus. He was in the foyer of the Daily News before it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten, so, spinning on his heel, he went straight back out again to the café next door. Three minutes later he was dropping crumbs over the piece of paper that had been preoccupying him all morning.
The newsroom was unusually quiet. Most of the reporters were out chasing stories or sinking a lunchtime pint in one of the dozen or so pubs that fuelled Fleet Street. A faint cloud of cigarette smoke lingered. Telephones went unanswered. Typewriters remained silent. Johnny preferred the place when,
