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“Too many gaspers,” said Matt. The champion boxer never bought cigarettes but was not above cadging them from others.
It was brighter up here. Through the open window of the living room Johnny could see the site of the Navy Office in Seething Lane where Samuel Pepys had worked and, in the distance, the tower of St Olave’s where he had worshipped. Johnny was a dedicated diarist too.
However, Dickens was his greatest literary influence. He instantly recalled the passage in The Uncommercial Traveller in which the author had dubbed the church St Ghastly Grim. Its gateway, which bristled with iron spikes, was decorated with skulls and crossbones.
Once again the body was in the bedroom. Johnny braced himself. The naked victim lay spreadeagled on the bed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the iron frame. The mattress was black with blood.
A flashbulb popped. Its sizzle brought back unwelcome memories. Johnny, trying to block them, nodded to the photographer.
“As you can see, his cock is missing.” Matt might as well have been talking about a tooth. “The amount of blood suggests it was amputated while he was still alive. In other words, he bled to death.”
“Who is he?” Johnny opened his notebook.
“Walter Chittleborough. A clerk at the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in Gracechurch Street.”
“He’s pretty beefy for a pencil-pusher.”
“Didn’t do him any good though, did it?”
“The killer must have had great strength to overpower him.”
“Perhaps. But can you see any signs of a struggle?”
There weren’t any. A shaving brush, cut-throat razor and toothbrush were lined up on the glass shelf above the sink. A pair of striped pyjamas was neatly folded on a chair. One suit, three collarless shirts and a Crombie hung from wooden hangers on hooks. Johnny eyed the luxurious overcoat with envy. Winter was not far away.
“Have you got an age for him?”
“Twenty-four – but that’s to be confirmed.”
“Any family?”
“A sister in Bristol. We’re trying to contact her.”
“Who found him?”
“We did. The bloke in the basement called us. He had a key but the door was bolted from the inside.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Dabs are on their way.”
Johnny walked over to the window. “Was this open when you found him?” Matt nodded. Johnny stuck his neck out. It was a long way down. The area railings grinned up at him. “Is there an attic?”
“Indeed. The access hatch is on the landing.” Matt, trying to suppress a smile, waited for the inevitable question.
“So how did the killer get away?”
“Who knows? Why not give Freeman Wills Croft a tinkle?” Matt was not a great reader – he relied on Johnny for literary knowledge. The real world was more interesting.
“We don’t need him. It’s obvious. They went up the chimney.”
Ironic applause broke out behind him. Detective Sergeant Penterell filled the door frame.
“Very good, Steadman. You ought to be on the stage.”
They had met before. In Johnny’s eyes the ambitious fool had done nothing to deserve promotion.
“You should know by now that murder is not a laughing matter.” Johnny glanced at the gagged and mutilated corpse again. Its young, firm flesh was already mottling. He hoped it had experienced pleasure as well as pain.
“Indeed,” said Penterell. “That’s why you shouldn’t be in here.” He sniffed the cold air as if searching for clues. “Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Johnny winked at Matt. “I’m sure you need his help more than I do.” That wasn’t necessarily true. “Besides, you can’t stop me talking to the other residents.”
“They’ve gone to work,” said Penterell. “Now fuck off.”
The two cops waited until they could hear his rapid footsteps on the stairs then went straight over to the fireplace.
Instead of leaving via the front door, and giving the bouncer in blue a second chance to look down his nose at him, Johnny walked through the narrow hall and down another flight of stairs to the basement.
A fat man sat smoking at the kitchen table.
“The door was open.”
“I’ve made enough bleeding cups of tea. If you want one you’ll have to get it yourself.”
His head, encircled by receding hair, resembled a partly peeled boiled egg.
“Make a fresh pot, should I?”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Who are you anyway?”
“John Steadman. Daily News. I take it you’re the landlord?”
“Nah, I’m ‘The Wacky Warbler’. Cwooorrr!”
Johnny was not a fan of Joan Turner. Impressionists left him cold. Professional parasites, they fed off other people – just like journalists. When it came down to it they were all in the same business: entertaining the masses.
Johnny refilled the kettle and set it on the range where a vat of soapy water burbled away. He leaned closer. What was that?
“It’s the only way to ensure they’re clean. Can’t live without my long johns.”
Johnny stepped back in disgust. Ensure? Johnny suspected that, behind the scruffy appearance, there lurked an educated man.
The fatty stubbed out his cigarette and punched his chest in a vain attempt to silence an evil cough.
“I wondered when you lot would get here. How much for an exclusive?”
“Tell me what you told the police and I’ll let you know, Mr …?”
“Yaxley. William Yaxley.”
“How long has Walter Chittleborough been your tenant?”
“I’ve been through all this already. I’m not a bleeding parrot.”
“So I hear. Your mimicry would be a lot better. Start squawking. If one of my rivals turns up you can kiss goodbye to any chance of remuneration.” Johnny offered him one of his own Woodbines.
“Ta muchly. Wally moved in about a year ago. Before that he’d been in digs in Whitechapel.”
“Hardly worth the effort.” The Ripper’s hunting grounds were only a few streets away. “Previous address?”
“If I did know I’ve forgotten.”
“Did he have a girl?”
“I’m sure he did – but rarely more than once. He wasn’t courting, if that’s what you mean.”
“What sort of chap was he?”
“An ordinary chap. He worked hard, liked a pint and was mad about football. Never missed a Hammers match. Spent more time at Upton Park than here.”
Soccer bored Johnny. One-on-one contests – battles of body and mind – were more exciting than team sports. The glory to be achieved was greater too.
“How would you describe his personality?”
“We weren’t close. We didn’t socialize.”
“Moved in different circles did he? Try.” So far Humpty Dumpty was not getting a penny.
“Unassuming, undemonstrative – unless he was stinko …”
“How d’you know if you didn’t socialize?”
“We bumped into each other on the doorstep a few times. You hear everything down here.” He glanced at the ceiling. “The more beer he’d had, the heavier his tread.”
“Very well. What was the other adjective you were going to use before I so rudely interrupted?”
His interviewee watched him waiting, pencil poised.
“Unintelligent.” He smirked. “A bathetic climax. Sorry.”
“So am I. Nice oxymoron though.” Humpty was playing with him, trying to distract him. What was he hiding?
The kettle lid rattled as the water reached boiling point. Johnny’s blood was not far behind.
“And the other tenants? Did Wally socialize with them?”
“Not so far as I know. The Sproats on the ground-floor have a six-month-old baby. The wailing never stops.”
“Seems pretty quiet now.”
“He works at the Royal Mint. She’s a cleaner. Leaves the brat with her mother in Shoreditch during the day.”
“Do the people above them complain about the noise as well?”
“Mr Tull is deaf as a post. Lucky old sod. You won’t get anything out of him.” He blew a stream of smoke towards the range. “The tea won’t make itself, you know.”
“So who completes this happy household?”
“Rebecca. Beautiful Becky Taylor.” He sighed. “She knows what Wally was like – inside and out, if you get my drift. She’s some sort of secretary at Grocers’ Hall. Talk to her.”
“I will.” Johnny slipped his notebook into a pocket. “Thanks for your time. Shouldn’t you be at work as well?”
“I am.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Looking after this place is an endless job. There’s no clocking off here.”
He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in four heaps of Lipton’s. It seemed there was no clocking on either.
“Who owns the house?”
“I do.”
Johnny, while Yaxley’s back was turned, slipped out of the kitchen. He was halfway up the stairs before the landlord noticed.
“Oi! Steadman! What about the money?”
“Send me an invoice.”
Even if the sluggard were to submit one he would see that it was never paid. Instinct told him Yaxley had concealed more than he’d revealed.
TWO (#ulink_c843c114-f6c5-53dd-aea0-6e557367460f)
The first body had been found on Monday in Gun Square, actually a gloomy triangle off Houndsditch. Jimmy Bromet, nineteen, was a waiter at the Three Nuns Hotel next door to Aldgate Station. He, too, had been tied to his bed and emasculated, but not castrated. No one in the lodging house had a heard a sound.
On his way back to the office Johnny made the cabbie take a detour. Although entirely surrounded by banks, Grocers’ Hall, off Prince’s Street, had its own courtyard. Two covered entrances allowed vehicles to drive in and out without the irksome task of reversing. A polite but obdurate doorkeeper informed him that Miss Taylor had arrived late for work. Consequently she would not be available until this evening. And livery companies were supposed to be charitable institutions.
“Undemonstrative? Fifteen letters.” Tanfield, a junior reporter, had a strange knack of determining the length of a word no matter how long.
“We’ll never know how long Chittleborough was though, will we?” said Dimeo. The deputy sports editor was obsessed with physical attributes. “What d’you think the killer does with the trophies?”
“I loathe to think,” said Johnny.
“Yet you must find out, Steadman, post haste. It is what you are paid to do.”
Gustav Patsel’s wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the milky midday sun. Tanfield and Dimeo returned to their desks. “Pencil”, as the news editor was ironically known, had never been popular but, since the invasion of Czechoslovakia, anti-German feeling was at an all-time high. The ever-hungry Hun’s waist had its own policy of expansionism.
“Perhaps they’re turned into sausages,” said Johnny. “You’d know more about that than me. Frankfurters, bratwurst, knackwurst …” Dimeo disguised a cackle with a cough.
“I want a thousand words on the two murders by four o’clock,” said Patsel. “They are obviously the work of the same degenerate.” He was about to say more when Quarles, his long-suffering deputy, handed him a sheet of yellow paper. The bulletin did not contain good news.
