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Authors: Mark Sanderson
Tags: Fiction
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silky cleric and headed back to the real world.
The market had gone to bed. It was so cold he could feel the shape of his lungs. The smog had all but vanished. The sun, a wan disc, was having as much difficulty rising as Johnny had experienced several hours earlier. Justice, the golden lady who presided over the Central Criminal Courts, her arms akimbo like a traffic cop, was already on duty. Now all he had to do was put in a full day’s work. Even so, his spirits lifted. At last he had a definite lead.
EIGHT
Friday, 11th December, 3.05 a.m.
An impromptu chain of Christmas lights gave Upper Street the faltering jauntiness of a seaside resort after the tide has gone out. He was the only visitor. Islington had become a ghost town: its bus, tram and Tube drivers still lay farting in their beds. A faint, freezing mist cast a grey pall over the slumbering terraces, tenements, shops and factories. Each lamp-post was graced with a halo: gold in the centre, surrounded by rings of cream, orange, violet and purple, then brown at the edges. Nothing, not even a yowling dog, broke the uncanny silence.
Johnny strode out, trying to strike sparks on the Tri-pedal road surface with his segs. The iron was supposed to give tyres and rubber-soled shoes a better grip but in such icy conditions it just made it easier to skid. He returned to the pavement.
The crossroads where Pentonville Road turned intoCity Road was clear of traffic in every direction. A lone policeman stood in the doorway of the Angel cinema. He nodded but did not bother to extinguish his cigarette. Johnny’s head ached. Lack of sleep or excess alcohol? Both, probably.
He knew it was a bad idea to go for a drink with Bill, but he hadn’t had the heart to put him off two evenings in one week. Even so, as they had sat in the Tipperary, which Bill still insisted on calling the Boar’s Head—printers returning from the Great War had given the pub its new name—it was all Johnny could do to stay awake. He could not tell him that he had been up since five, and that he would have to be up again in a few hours time, because that would only invite questions.
He did, however, have one question of his own.
“How come you didn’t tell me that a wolly had transferred from Snow Hill to the Met?”
“Sheer ignorance, dear boy.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes—like road maps of Great Britain—regarded him quizzically. “What’s the matter? You think I’m holding back on you?”
“Your calls turned nothing up?”
“Nothing relevant.” Bill leaned forward. “I promised not to run the story.”
“What story?” Johnny was struggling to mask his trepidation. Even if Bill had given his word that he would not write about the death of a cop, that didn’t mean he too was sworn to maintain his silence.
“Nobody’s been transferred. A constable has beensacked—and you know how the powers-that-be like to keep such matters hush-hush.”
“What did he do?” asked Johnny.
Bill chuckled. “It sounds like this feller was a chap after my own heart. You know how they’re introducing bicycles so that the boys in blue can patrol longer beats?”
“Yes.” Matt had told him: he preferred being footsore to being saddle-sore.
“Well, the blighter was winding a piece of string round the odometer and pulling it back and forth so that, when his sergeant checked, it looked as if he was covering the requisite distance instead of just sitting on his arse and smoking.”
“I have to admit, it demonstrates a certain ingenuity. What was the cop’s name?”
“Don’t know. Rotherforth wouldn’t tell me.”
“Rotherforth? He ’s your source? When I spoke to him he rubbished the tip-off.”
“Keep your hair on. He and I go way back. I got you the dope, didn’t I?”
“Yes, thanks a lot, Bill.”
There was no way he was going to mention the dead cop after that. He tried changing the subject, but Bill had known him long enough to sense when his protégé was withholding
The market had gone to bed. It was so cold he could feel the shape of his lungs. The smog had all but vanished. The sun, a wan disc, was having as much difficulty rising as Johnny had experienced several hours earlier. Justice, the golden lady who presided over the Central Criminal Courts, her arms akimbo like a traffic cop, was already on duty. Now all he had to do was put in a full day’s work. Even so, his spirits lifted. At last he had a definite lead.
EIGHT
Friday, 11th December, 3.05 a.m.
An impromptu chain of Christmas lights gave Upper Street the faltering jauntiness of a seaside resort after the tide has gone out. He was the only visitor. Islington had become a ghost town: its bus, tram and Tube drivers still lay farting in their beds. A faint, freezing mist cast a grey pall over the slumbering terraces, tenements, shops and factories. Each lamp-post was graced with a halo: gold in the centre, surrounded by rings of cream, orange, violet and purple, then brown at the edges. Nothing, not even a yowling dog, broke the uncanny silence.
Johnny strode out, trying to strike sparks on the Tri-pedal road surface with his segs. The iron was supposed to give tyres and rubber-soled shoes a better grip but in such icy conditions it just made it easier to skid. He returned to the pavement.
The crossroads where Pentonville Road turned intoCity Road was clear of traffic in every direction. A lone policeman stood in the doorway of the Angel cinema. He nodded but did not bother to extinguish his cigarette. Johnny’s head ached. Lack of sleep or excess alcohol? Both, probably.
He knew it was a bad idea to go for a drink with Bill, but he hadn’t had the heart to put him off two evenings in one week. Even so, as they had sat in the Tipperary, which Bill still insisted on calling the Boar’s Head—printers returning from the Great War had given the pub its new name—it was all Johnny could do to stay awake. He could not tell him that he had been up since five, and that he would have to be up again in a few hours time, because that would only invite questions.
He did, however, have one question of his own.
“How come you didn’t tell me that a wolly had transferred from Snow Hill to the Met?”
“Sheer ignorance, dear boy.” Bill’s bloodshot eyes—like road maps of Great Britain—regarded him quizzically. “What’s the matter? You think I’m holding back on you?”
“Your calls turned nothing up?”
“Nothing relevant.” Bill leaned forward. “I promised not to run the story.”
“What story?” Johnny was struggling to mask his trepidation. Even if Bill had given his word that he would not write about the death of a cop, that didn’t mean he too was sworn to maintain his silence.
“Nobody’s been transferred. A constable has beensacked—and you know how the powers-that-be like to keep such matters hush-hush.”
“What did he do?” asked Johnny.
Bill chuckled. “It sounds like this feller was a chap after my own heart. You know how they’re introducing bicycles so that the boys in blue can patrol longer beats?”
“Yes.” Matt had told him: he preferred being footsore to being saddle-sore.
“Well, the blighter was winding a piece of string round the odometer and pulling it back and forth so that, when his sergeant checked, it looked as if he was covering the requisite distance instead of just sitting on his arse and smoking.”
“I have to admit, it demonstrates a certain ingenuity. What was the cop’s name?”
“Don’t know. Rotherforth wouldn’t tell me.”
“Rotherforth? He ’s your source? When I spoke to him he rubbished the tip-off.”
“Keep your hair on. He and I go way back. I got you the dope, didn’t I?”
“Yes, thanks a lot, Bill.”
There was no way he was going to mention the dead cop after that. He tried changing the subject, but Bill had known him long enough to sense when his protégé was withholding
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