let me.”
Johnny couldn’t imagine Matt crying. In all the years they’d known each other he had never seen him shed a tear. Matt had been the calm, even-tempered one—unlike Johnny, whose quick tongue often landed him in trouble with bigger lads who didn’t like being made fools of by a short-arse. Back in their schooldays, Johnny had shed many a tear, but invariably they were tears of fury and frustration at his opponents’ refusal to stay down when he finally succeeded in landing a punch. All too often they’d just pick themselves up and knock him down. It was only when Matt intervened that they’d give up the fight. He was a year older than Johnny and had three elder brothers who’d taught him how to look after himself. A talented southpaw, he’d amassed quite a collection of silverware over the years, first at schoolboy level and then representing his station in the amateur league. He seemed to soak up the punishment, showing no sign of emotion even when a vicious warhorse, anxious to prove he was not quite past it, almost beat his brains out; somehow Matt just hung in there, patiently waiting for the opening that would allow him to land the knockout blow.
To Matt, Johnny was the kid brother he’d always longed for—he hated being the baby of the family. He’d been only too happy to pass on the lessons he’d learned from his brothers: teaching Johnny how to turn and throw his weight from the hip, not the shoulder. As his confidence grew, Johnny learned an even more effective form of defence: making people laugh. Where once his big mouth had landed him in trouble, he began to rely on his wits, an engaging smile and a clever way with words to get him out of sticky situations. And when Matt began turning to him for advice he realised that he was no longer the junior partner in their friendship but an equal, their different talents complementing each other and making them a winning combination. It had been a highlight of both their careers when Matt arrested the crooked pharmacist exposed by Johnny’s investigation.
“Is everything else all right?” said Johnny. He was flattered that Lizzie had chosen to confide in him, but uneasy about being asked to keep a secret from Matt. They told each other everything. Lizzie looked up sharply.
“Perfectly, thank you.”
“I was only asking. Look, I’m seeing Matt tomorrow night so I’ll try and find out then what’s troubling him. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the baby—but you should tell him soon. He’ll be over the moon.”
He wished it were his.
The kettle started to rattle on the stove and he busied himself pouring water into the teapot, conscious of Lizzie watching his back. It was so hard to keep up the pretence, constantly trying to hide the way he felt towards her. In those dark days following his mother’s death, she more than anyone had pulled him through. She was the one who’d got him out of the house, made him forget his troubles, taught him to laugh again. It was ironic that one of the things that united them was their love for Matt. He was the one who needed help now.
“Don’t bother.” The bentwood chair scraped on the bare floor as she got to her feet. “I’d better be heading off—Matt finishes at ten.”
“I thought he was on six till two.”
“He’s doing a double shift. They’re short-handed because of the ’flu. Everyone seems to have it. Mrs Kennedy popped her clogs this morning.”
“The old dear who lived at the end of Rheidol Terrace? Always sucking a humbug? She looked after me a few times when I was a kid. Here, it won’t be too long before you’ll be needing a babysitter.”
“I’m sure Bexley’s full of them.”
Johnny’s heart sank. It was as if she couldn’t wait to increase the distance between them.
“So you’re definitely moving then?”
“The house is supposed to be ready by March. It’s a lovely semi—exactly what we were after.”
“Just like the ones in the posters on the Tube.” He could see them now: chessboards with model homes instead of pieces. “How does their slogan go? ‘Your next Move and your best is on to the Underground. Houses to suit all classes.’”
“There’s no call to be sarcastic. Islington’s no place to bring up children. The air’s much better in Bexley.”
“It didn’t do me and Matt any harm.”
“That’s what you think!” She put her gloves on. “I’ll see myself out. Do let me know how you get on tomorrow night.” She was already halfway down the hall.
“Hey! Don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”
Of course not. He never got what he wanted.
The door slammed shut. And it was then the full force of her two bombshells finally hit him.
Tuesday, 8th December, 6.45 p.m.
The last edition had gone to press. The familiar scramble was over—until tomorrow. Johnny grabbed his coat. Those starting on the night shift chatted to their daytime counterparts. The cracked leather of the seats they traded did not even have a chance to cool down. The search for stories, the proprietor’s pursuit of sales and money, never stopped.
“Coming for a livener?” said Bill, licking his lips. “I’m spitting feathers.”
“I’d like to…Thing is, I’ve got a date,” said Johnny. It was not a lie…exactly. He did have a date with Daisy for tonight—until he broke it off. He just needed some pretext to ensure that his mentor would not want to tag along.
“Just one, old boy, I promise.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes took on a pleading expression.
Johnny felt guilty. Bill had gone to the trouble of calling round his contacts, all of whom assured him everyone was present and accounted for at Snow Hill. He owed the guy a drink, at the very least. But he knew from experience that there was no such thing as “just one” drink where Bill was concerned; invariably their sessions would expand into full-blown binges and another evening would be lost before he knew it.
“Let’s make it Thursday instead, eh?”
“Right you are.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “Happy spooning.”
Wasting no time, Johnny legged it along Fleet Street before any other colleagues tried to waylay him. He headed up Shoe Lane, past the cacophonous printing works, and under Holborn Viaduct. As he ran across Farringdon Road, skirting the western end of Smithfield Market, he glanced up Snow Hill, wondering whether he’d see Matt leaving the police station. The steep, winding road was deserted. Back before the Viaduct was built, all traffic from the City to the West End had been forced to negotiate Snow Hill. Nowadays it was something of a backwater. The police station was one of the few places showing any sign of life: its reassuring blue light was a beacon in the dark.
Built just over a decade ago, the station was an odd, bow-fronted building in the middle of a curving terrace. Five-storeys tall, narrow and gabled, it was reminiscent of a uniformed constable standing to attention. The compact façade was deceptive: Snow Hill station-house extended all the way back to Cock Lane at the rear, so there was plenty of room inside for the whole of B Division. A blue plaque informed passers-by that it stood on the site of the Saracen’s
