Robin Hood Yard

“Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

“What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

“I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

“Why did you?”

“I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

“You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

“Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

“Me, for a start.”

“Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

“I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

“In what way?”

She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

“Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why did you reject him?”

“I didn’t! He rejected me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

“Pillow talk is dangerous.”

If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

“Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

“And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

“Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

“I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

“You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

“Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

“Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

“Hello stranger!”

It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.

“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

“Where exactly?”

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”

“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”