Snow Hill (17 page)

Johnny could hear whistling. It was the same haunting tune he’d heard back in Passing Alley: “Mad about the Boy”. The kiss was the key to this whole story. He should have been more open-minded. Harry was not the only man whose love dare not speak its shame.

As he slowly regained consciousness he realised that someone was stroking his backside.

“Hello, handsome. Remember me?” The caressing continued. “I sometimes think there is nothing more beautiful in the whole world than a man’s bottom. Two simple curves, thrusting out into space, defying gravity, arrogant yet at the same time so vulnerable. Only a god could design something so perfect.”

Johnny, still mortified to be in such a compromising position, turned his swollen face. It was PC Vinson.

“You! You cunt.”

“Now, that’s not very nice.” He spanked Johnny’s backside lightly. “We’re on the same side you know.”

“I’m not queer,” said Johnny. The rape had decided him once and for all.

“That’s not the ‘same side’ I had in mind. I meant we’re both against Rotherforth. Who do you think sent you the tip-offs? Who let you find the knife in the alley?”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Felt like it, that’s all.” Vinson smiled. “What’s the big deal?”

“I suppose you’re going to fuck me as well,” said Johnny, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Thanks but no thanks. I’m Martha rather than Arthur. Believe it or not, you soon get used to the pain.” Vinson laughed at his look of disbelief.

“If you say so. Why are you here?”

“To press your face into the pillow until you’re dead.” Vinson giggled. “Rotherforth was beside himself when he learned that you were still alive. I must say, I was rather surprised as well. He was absolutely livid…almost throttled Zick.”

Johnny was traumatised but he was not going to beg. “Zick better hope I never set eyes on her again. What can I do to make you change your mind? I won’t give you away, I promise. It’s Rotherforth I’ve been after, not you. I can hardly believe what he’s just done.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Now you’re here, I’ve so much to tell you.”

Johnny was shivering violently, his teeth chattering.

“Don’t panic,” Vinson said gently. “I was only having you on. I’m sorry it turned out like this. Any friend of Matt’s is a friend of mine. I want you to nail Rotherforth. He’s the bane of my life—and that of many others. He’s a very sick man who needs stopping for good. From what Matt had said about you, I thought you were the man for the job.”

“Well, look at me now.”

“Your fake death hit Matt very hard. It certainly worked better than your false nose.” He pointed to it on the floor. “Matt’s very fond of you. I must confess I’m jealous.”

“Shut up about Matt and get me out of these fucking things.”

Vinson began to unlock the handcuffs. Even when they had been removed Johnny could not shift his arms. If he had been able to he would have knocked the bastard out.

The man who had been ordered to kill him helped arrange his limbs into a more comfortable position. Such was his state of mind, Johnny did not even mind being naked. His arse felt as though it were gaping open—and it burned. His head throbbed from Zick’s drug and his jaw ached from Rotherforth’s blow. It hurt when he talked but that did not stop him.

“How many more men has Rotherforth done this to?”

“Search me,” said Vinson. “You’re at least the fourth. Before that there was Matt, George Aitken, and me.”

“Why didn’t you go to the rubber-heelers?”

“I had no proof and the word of a constable against
that of an inspector would carry little weight. No one would believe me—I’d have just ended up the butt of endless jokes. It would have been impossible to stay in the force.”

“You should have gone to Old Jewry. The top brass are terrified of scandal,” said Johnny.

Though he could see Vinson casting glances at his cock, he was beyond caring. All that mattered was revenge.

“Why did Rotherforth need to rape unconscious men when there’s plenty of willing boys available?”

“He doesn’t tell me anything—except that he’s not a poofter. He absolutely loathes homosexuals. The bastard carries a pearl-topped hat-pin with him so he can stick it into them if he can’t be bothered to arrest them.” He shook his head in disgust. “Only time I’ve known him to show any kind of tenderness is when he talks about a friend of his named Archie. The pair of them grew up together, signed up together, went to war together. Only Archie didn’t come back. Rotherforth told me once he was trapped alone with Archie’s corpse in a shell crater for two whole days on the Western Front. Archie died in his arms, apparently. I think they were more than bosom buddies, if you know what I mean, but I doubt they did anything about it.” He shuddered. “I can’t imagine the horror of seeing the man you love die before your eyes. Such an experience is bound to change a man—and not for the better…”

For a moment there was silence. Vinson sighed heavily. “Rotherforth refuses to accept that he might be queer.
Perhaps that’s why he prefers his partners to be unconscious: if they don’t know anything, he doesn’t need to deny anything. A willing partner would force him to recognise himself.”

“Why did he kill Harry Gogg? He didn’t have sex with him, did he?”

“Christ, no! Rotherforth despised him. He’d only lay hands on him to hit him. Informants are supposed to be registered, but Harry wasn’t—there was nothing official to connect him to Snow Hill. Rotherforth is a law unto himself like that. When he found out someone had tipped you off, he was convinced it was Harry. Then he saw him talking to you and he was afraid Harry would spill the beans about him. All Harry and I did was take Aitken’s body to Bart’s.”

“How did Aitken die?”

“I’m not sure, but it happened in Snow Hill. Afterwards, Rotherforth tipped his corpse out of an upstairs window into Cock Lane, and we wheeled him round the corner on a barrow. I’d never seen Rotherforth look so frightened.”

Johnny gradually began to rally. The murder of a cop in a cop-shop—by a cop—was a sensational story. With Vinson’s testimony it ought to be possible to expose the bent copper.

“Does Rotherforth know you’re here now?”

“Of course. I’m supposed to suffocate you and take your body to the mortuary at Bart’s. I saved your life by asking if I could have some fun with you.”

“Thank you.” Johnny was going to shake his hand
but in such a ridiculous position—nude, bleeding, tearstained and sickened—there was no appropriate gesture he could make. His tongue found the hole left by the absent molar. “I suppose I owe you a great deal.”

“Yes, you do,” said Vinson. “I’m doing it for Matt more than you, though.”

Johnny sat up.

“Does he know I’m alive?”

“Not likely,” said Vinson. “Rotherforth would kill me if Matt were to find out. He’s better off not knowing. Besides, he’s the one in danger now. Rotherforth won’t rest until he thinks everyone’s been silenced—one way or another.”

“In that case, what about yourself?”

“I’m too useful. He can’t operate by himself, and I’m the only one he remotely trusts.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to pull Johnny up. “Come on, let’s get you out of here while Zick’s still occupied.”

Vinson handed him a heavily darned collarless shirt and a pair of trousers. They were not his own clothes—perhaps they belonged to one of the boys—but they would have to do till he could find a cab back to Holland Park. He was still shaky so Vinson helped him dress.

“I presume you won’t tell anyone of my escape,” said Johnny.

“Are you kidding? I like being alive.”

Johnny stared into Vinson’s eyes. Could he trust him? The man had saved his life. On the other hand…

“You misled me about Aitken. Said that he was still alive.”

“I had to. I was hoping to keep myself out of the picture. I wanted to tell you when we met outside the Viaduct Tavern, but I didn’t know what Rotherforth was going to do then. He still scares the hell out of me. Did you know he was in the pub?”

“No, I didn’t—but that doesn’t matter now.” The presence of the inspector that night would, however, explain why Matt had left so abruptly. “You knew that Aitken was dead. You knew Rotherforth had raped you—and Matt. Wasn’t that enough to make you do something?”

“I did do something: I contacted you.”

Footsteps came trudging up the wooden stairs. The two men looked at each other and dived under the bed. The footsteps passed the door. Another whore and his client.

“We better use the back passage,” said Vinson.

“Is that some kind of joke?” Johnny did not feel like laughing.

“No, of course not. Sorry.” Vinson peeped out of the door to make sure the coast was clear. Johnny followed the policeman along a corridor and down the servants’ staircase into the basement. His legs felt as if they were going to give way at any moment. Only anger and adrenalin kept him going.

The black Wolseley was unlocked.

“I can’t take you home,” said Vinson. “Rotherforth will check the odometer.”

“That’s all right,” said Johnny. “I should be able to
get a cab in Holborn.” He stared through the narrow windscreen. Russia Row, apart from a pair of rats scuttling along the gutter, was deserted. He could still feel Rotherforth plunging away. He had never felt so unclean. “Got any fags?”

Vinson produced a packet of Greys. He lit Johnny’s first, then his own.

“Thanks.” He let the magic smoke trickle slowly out of his nostrils. “It’s a dead give-away, that.”

“What is?”

“When you struck the match, you held it away from yourself like a woman. Men strike towards themselves.”

“How d’you know?”

“I’m a person who notices such things.”

Vinson turned the key in the ignition.

“Hold your horses,” said Johnny. “I’ve got a few more questions. Why did Rotherforth—I’m presuming it was him—send Matt the photographs?”

“When he saw him talking to you in the Viaduct, he feared the worst. He thought blackmail would be the best way to shut Matt up. Then you showed up at the Urania, flashing the photo and asking about Aitken and Gogg. Rotherforth and his associates were behind the bookshop as well as the brothel. You’ve no idea how many pies they’ve got their grubby little fingers in and how profitable they’ve been. When you went back to the shop, he panicked. Jo was already starting to ask questions about what happened to Harry, so he couldn’t be relied on. Rotherforth thought destroying the shop and everything in it—including
you—would safeguard the operation. However, here you are, back from the dead.”

“So who was the other person who died in the shop?”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” said Vinson. “It must have been Charles Timney. Poor kid. I was wondering where he’d got to. You’ve just met his father.”

“I have?”

“He’s Rotherforth’s pet photographer. Jim shares his hatred of homosexuals and takes great delight in catching them in compromising positions. Those mirrors in the bedroom downstairs are all two-way; Jim stations himself in the adjoining room and records the action at leisure. The victims will pay anything for the negatives—and they’ve no choice but to cough up again when Rotherforth produces a second set. It works every time—well, almost. One sad sack went home to Whitechapel and hanged himself instead.”

“So much for
The Preservation of Peace and Public Tranquillity
.” The mantra encapsulated the primary duty of a policeman. “Why was Charles in the bookshop?”

“He’d been thrown out by his father. I expect Jo, having lost Harry, needed some company and let the lad stay with him on the quiet.”

“What made his father throw him out?”

“Can’t you guess? He showed too much interest in the dirty photographs. He was Jim’s assistant—until he realised that he was like me and Harry. Jim went berserk, disowned him on the spot, threatened to kill him if he ever saw him again—which is why Charlie hid from
Rotherforth each time he visited the shop. Jo put it about that Charlie had joined the army.”

“Could you get me a photograph of him?”

“Why?”

“Why d’you think? It’s a tragic story. He’s another of Rotherforth’s victims. It’s a real shame. If Charlie hadn’t been exposed to all that filth, met the likes of you and Harry, he would have stayed normal.”

Vinson laughed.

“Come off it! Pictures don’t pervert your personality. He was born that way, just as I was. Most men like women, some men like men. As Harry used to say, ‘If God had meant men to fuck each other, he’d have given them holes in their arses.’”

“Charming.” Johnny shifted uncomfortably. “Poor Charlie. He was caught between the devil—Rotherforth—and the flames of a real hell-fire. I tried to save him, you know, but the floor gave way. I’m going to ensure he gets a proper headstone. Why does his father work for Rotherforth?”

“He’s got no choice. Rotherforth has enough dirt on Jim to get him sent down for years.”

“What kind of dirt?”

“Never you mind. Jim knows the true value of silence.”

“Well, it’s my business to break that silence.”

He turned to look at Vinson, who was still in his constable’s uniform.

“Why did you really send me the tip-off? You could have sent an anonymous letter to Aitken’s fiancée telling her to demand an investigation.”

“There was no body. The powers-that-be would have said there was nothing to investigate.”

“But policemen don’t just vanish into thin air! Surely they have a duty of care to the people who work for them.”

“Rotherforth informed the top brass that Aitken had run off back to Scotland. A family emergency.”

“He has no family.”

“Precisely. Rotherforth knew that—and he knew that news of a cop suddenly walking out of the job would reflect badly on the force. He counted on the determination of the top brass to keep the disappearance quiet.”

“Are you prepared to testify against him now?”

“Absolutely not. Besides, what proof have you got that Rotherforth is guilty of anything? Everything I’ve told you is hearsay. There’s no concrete evidence that he was in any way involved in Aitken’s death, the murders of Harry and Jo or the bookshop arson. Zick and Timney would deny everything.”