Read Online Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson - Free Book Online Page B

something. Again and again, he kept asking if Johnny had anything else to tell him. Johnny kept mum: he knew that the tighter Bill got, the looser his tongue became.
    It went against the grain to deceive Bill. In addition to being his mentor, the older man had helped Johnnypay his mother’s medical expenses. Without his generosity, she would not have been able to stay in hospital until the end. Bill knew what it was to lose someone to cancer: his wife had died of it. He did not talk about her much, brushing off Johnny’s questions with: “It was a long time ago, dear boy, when you were still sucking your mother’s tits.” Even with those closest to him, Bill preferred office gossip or conversation about books to personal disclosure. He rated Thackeray, Gissing and Jerrold above Dickens—which often led to heated arguments. Spouseless and childless, Bill did not seem to have a life outside work. His colleagues appeared to be his only friends. Drinking and smoking were his major hobbies. He said the tobacco was good for his asthma. Johnny wondered what Bill would do with himself when he retired the following year.
    He felt especially guilty because only that morning, Bill—as helpful as ever—had given him the telephone number of an alienist after he’d made up a story about Daisy having nightmares and wanting to find someone who could treat her.
    During his lunch break, Johnny had sounded out Dr Meikle. After listening to Matt’s symptoms the doctor said it sounded as though his friend was refusing to face up to a traumatic event in his past. If he continued to do so he could well suffer a breakdown. Meikle had warned Johnny: “He should come to see me at once.”
    When he relayed the suggestion, Matt had been swift to reject it. “There’s nothing in my past that would explain the nightmares. I haven’t got the time to lie around ona couch all day. Besides, it would no doubt cost a pretty penny. I’ve got this far without a man in a white coat. The bad dreams’ll probably stop as suddenly as they started.”
    Johnny hoped so. Before Matt hung up, he’d filled him in on the previous night’s brief encounter with PC Vinson, and secured a promise to find out the name of the apparently non-existent transferred recruit.
    There was no moon and the absence of street-lights made progress tricky as he made his way downhill along St John Street. Smithfield was still asleep. Drivers who had arrived overnight snored on in their cabs. The clock in Grand Avenue said 3.27.
    Johnny turned into Cowcross Street. Green Hill’s Rents was just past the Hope on the left. It was a dead-end, only about three hundred yards long. Why had Gogg suggested meeting here?
    There was only one building of consequence in the cul-de-sac: a cold store. Its huge double doors were unlocked. Johnny pushed them open and slipped through the gap. He found himself in a wide hallway plastered with posters of prize bulls advertising the Smithfield Club Cattle Show at the Royal Agricultural Hall, Islington, from 7th December through to the 11th.
    Deep humming filled his ears and tickled his feet. A corridor lined with poky offices ran off to the left. The plywood and glass partitions were unlit and unoccupied. The narrow stairs on the right presumably led to the cellar. Perhaps Gogg was down there.
    The humming got louder. The foundations of the building seemed to pulsate with barely suppressed energy. It was suffocatingly warm.
    A gigantic refrigerator filled the gloomy basement. A vertical strip of light told him that the door was ajar. Wisps of steam streamed out.
    “Hello? Harry?”
    There was no reply. Where the hell was the boy?
    He pulled open the steel door. Winter blasted out. He blinked and felt the skin on his face shrink.
    Wooden duckboards ran down the middle of the fridge. On either side frozen carcasses hung from hooks attached to two circular rails. Ball-bearings ensured every cadaver could be reached without stepping on to the stainless