Snow Hill. Mark Sanderson

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СКАЧАТЬ bloody-mindedness. I’m not exactly popular round here.”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s a long story—and it’s not why you’re here.”

      “True.” Johnny would have liked to hear the story nonetheless. Nosiness was another prerequisite of the job. “Okay, first I’d like to assure you that whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”

      “I’ve heard that before. Who put you on to me?”

      “A friend. No names—I don’t betray confidences, remember? What can you tell me about a dead cop?”

      The porter froze.

      “He was a cop? A bloody cop? That fucking bastard—he didn’t tell me that. I knew something was off—he was too generous.”

      He put his head in his hands. Was he crying? Johnny was filled with concern. There was something innately attractive about the boy.

      “Harry, what’s going on? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

      Suddenly Gogg leapt to his feet. Someone had lifted the giant latch.

      “Green Hill’s Rents,” he whispered. “Three thirty tomorrow morning. I start work at four, so don’t be late. I’ll tell you everything then, I promise. The bastard’s gone too far this time. He’s got it coming.”

      Johnny realised the boy had been thinking, not crying. His frustration must have shown in his face, for Gogg flashed a grin and said, “Trust me.” Then he scurried off.

      For a while, Johnny remained seated, listening intently. He could not hear a thing: no receding footsteps, Harry leaving, the hum of traffic, birdsong…The silence was unnerving.

      Knowing that if he sat any longer he would fall asleep—or freeze to death—Johnny got to his feet. To kill time while he waited for whoever had disturbed their encounter to show themselves, he decided he might as well take a look round the church.

      He wandered through the ambulatory, investigating the numerous nooks and crannies, trying—and failing—to identify the period and style of the various additions and renovations. The piecemeal quality of the church’s construction actually served to enhance its austere charm. Of all the memorials that embossed the walls, that to Margaret and John Whiting, who both died in 1681, made the greatest impression:

       Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd To live without her, likd it not and dyd.

      Johnny knelt down in a pew and said a prayer for his parents. He no longer believed in an all-merciful God. He was not sure what he believed in any more. Truth? Justice? Love? Did any of them endure?

      As he got to his feet he noticed an oriel window above him, beautiful if incongruous. The central panel of its stone base was decorated with a cloverleaf. It contained a rebus, a visual puzzle, in which a crossbow arrow pierced a cask. A bolt and a tun.

      Something moved: there was a figure in the window, dressed in black. Johnny tried not to appear startled. He pulled himself together and exited the pew. In the distance a door slammed.

      “Have you worked it out yet?” A young man, his palms pressed together, approached.

      “Who was Bolton?” Johnny, having compiled crosswords, considered the rebus insultingly simple.

      “Ah, very good, very good. The Prior was a fascinating man but completely loopy. He built the window so he could observe Mass without having to enter the church.”

      “Rather voyeuristic of him, wasn’t it? Religion as a spectator sport.”

      “Well, in a manner of speaking, it’s all theatre, isn’t it? But, like most pursuits, it’s more fun taking part.” He smiled conspiratorially. There was a blob of food on his dog collar. “Prior Bolton also built Canonbury Tower in Islington. Have you seen it?” Johnny nodded. “He was convinced that an apocalyptic tidal wave was going to wash away the City in 1524. Something to do with a conjunction of water signs, apparently. That’s why he built the tower—and he didn’t stop there. He went on to have a house built on the highest spot in Harrow-on-the-Hill. It seems he thought the flood wouldn’t reach him there.”

      “Après lui, le deluge.”

      “Fortunately not. The end of the world still awaits us. Came pretty close though in the Great War. The church was hit during a Zeppelin raid in 1916, but the bomb only damaged the west gateway. The Lord looks after his own.”

      “And the people blown to bits? Who was looking after them?”

      They had learned all about the Zeppelin raids at school. It was impossible to imagine how the victims must have felt. Death from the air: another great technological advance.

      The verger cleared his throat. “You’re a non-believer then? Never mind. You may not love Jesus, but He still loves you.”

      Well, at least that made one person. Johnny did not think it appropriate to share the thought. He said goodbye to the 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 into City 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.

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