should be an exclusive, in the first edition at least. Well done, Steadman. And try not to snore at the judge.”
“I thought I was on special assignment!”
“You are—from Monday. Mr Patsel will need time to arrange the necessary cover. Besides, you’ve got the weekend to get going. Good luck.” He stood up, aglow with health and vigour. “Towel please!”
Somehow Johnny resisted the urge to throw it at him.
Four cups of tea later, Johnny had written his account of Gogg’s murder. He thought it prudent to omit Matt’s name as well as his own. He hung around to check the subs did not mangle his pristine prose and, in the meantime, received a slap on the back from Patsel, who appeared to be in an unusually good mood. Perhaps he had found another job.
“Good stuff, Steadman. It reads as if you were actually there. Were you?”
“A friend in the force tipped me off, sir.”
“ Sehr gut . That’s what it’s all about: information, information, information.”
When he got back to his desk he found Bill standing beside it reading the carbon copy.
“Morning, Coppernob. Rough night, was it? Worth it, though, for this. Should be one in the eye for Simkins.”
“Hope so.”
“Is this what you’ve been up to then? Consorting with lunch-mashers?”
“Only the one,” said Johnny, trying not to think of the cop’s tongue in his mouth.
“Enjoy yourself?”
“Not much.”
“By the way, this came for you.” He held out a thin white envelope.
It was stamped PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. Johnny tore it open. This time there were just three words:
DON’T STOP NOW.
ELEVEN
Saturday, 12th December, 12.50 p.m.
Johnny decided to call into Gamage’s on his way to meet Matt. The Holborn department store, decked with fairy lights and paper chains, was packed with Christmas shoppers. Lizzie, fetching as ever in her uniform, was standing by one of the cosmetics counters, dabbing perfume on any passing woman who wished to sample the latest fragrance from Paris.
As usual, his heart leapt. Even though she was constantly in his mind’s eye, it still sent a jolt through him whenever she was actually present in the flesh. He wondered if he should buy some scent for Daisy, but was unsure whether he was ever going to see her again.
Their last encounter had not gone well. Accusing her of playing hard to get had, as it turned out, not been the best of tactics: it had only increased her indignation. He felt he’d had a good excuse for postponingtheir date. Matt would always come first, and on this occasion he had been in real need of help. But Daisy had been in no mood to listen to explanations. He suspected she rather enjoyed a blazing row: as if there were not enough drama in her working, workaday, life.
Even so, a gentleman should make it up to her. Besides, selecting a gift for her would provide him with an excuse to talk to Lizzie.
Lizzie’s supervisor seemed unconvinced by the charade. Under her disapproving gaze, Lizzie took various samples down from the display so he could sniff each one in turn. As soon as the woman’s back was turned, she told him that Matt was still unaware that he was a father-to-be and that he was still having nightmares. When he departed empty-handed a few moments later, the supervisor gave a loud snort of disdain.
It was obvious that Matt had not caught up on his sleep. The face that looked up as Johnny entered Gianelli’s was haggard. Edvard Munch’s The Scream sprang to mind. Usually Matt radiated an air of well-being and vitality: whenever the station-house was struck by flu, he’d be the last man standing, more than happy to do a double shift to cover for a colleague and pick up some overtime to boost Lizzie’s “get-out-of-N1” fund.
Johnny felt sure that the news about the baby would buck him up. However, it was not down to him to break it. Besides, he had promised Lizzie.
The caff in Limeburne Lane, round the corner fromthe Old Bailey, was crowded. A miasma of cigarette
“I thought I was on special assignment!”
“You are—from Monday. Mr Patsel will need time to arrange the necessary cover. Besides, you’ve got the weekend to get going. Good luck.” He stood up, aglow with health and vigour. “Towel please!”
Somehow Johnny resisted the urge to throw it at him.
Four cups of tea later, Johnny had written his account of Gogg’s murder. He thought it prudent to omit Matt’s name as well as his own. He hung around to check the subs did not mangle his pristine prose and, in the meantime, received a slap on the back from Patsel, who appeared to be in an unusually good mood. Perhaps he had found another job.
“Good stuff, Steadman. It reads as if you were actually there. Were you?”
“A friend in the force tipped me off, sir.”
“ Sehr gut . That’s what it’s all about: information, information, information.”
When he got back to his desk he found Bill standing beside it reading the carbon copy.
“Morning, Coppernob. Rough night, was it? Worth it, though, for this. Should be one in the eye for Simkins.”
“Hope so.”
“Is this what you’ve been up to then? Consorting with lunch-mashers?”
“Only the one,” said Johnny, trying not to think of the cop’s tongue in his mouth.
“Enjoy yourself?”
“Not much.”
“By the way, this came for you.” He held out a thin white envelope.
It was stamped PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL. Johnny tore it open. This time there were just three words:
DON’T STOP NOW.
ELEVEN
Saturday, 12th December, 12.50 p.m.
Johnny decided to call into Gamage’s on his way to meet Matt. The Holborn department store, decked with fairy lights and paper chains, was packed with Christmas shoppers. Lizzie, fetching as ever in her uniform, was standing by one of the cosmetics counters, dabbing perfume on any passing woman who wished to sample the latest fragrance from Paris.
As usual, his heart leapt. Even though she was constantly in his mind’s eye, it still sent a jolt through him whenever she was actually present in the flesh. He wondered if he should buy some scent for Daisy, but was unsure whether he was ever going to see her again.
Their last encounter had not gone well. Accusing her of playing hard to get had, as it turned out, not been the best of tactics: it had only increased her indignation. He felt he’d had a good excuse for postponingtheir date. Matt would always come first, and on this occasion he had been in real need of help. But Daisy had been in no mood to listen to explanations. He suspected she rather enjoyed a blazing row: as if there were not enough drama in her working, workaday, life.
Even so, a gentleman should make it up to her. Besides, selecting a gift for her would provide him with an excuse to talk to Lizzie.
Lizzie’s supervisor seemed unconvinced by the charade. Under her disapproving gaze, Lizzie took various samples down from the display so he could sniff each one in turn. As soon as the woman’s back was turned, she told him that Matt was still unaware that he was a father-to-be and that he was still having nightmares. When he departed empty-handed a few moments later, the supervisor gave a loud snort of disdain.
It was obvious that Matt had not caught up on his sleep. The face that looked up as Johnny entered Gianelli’s was haggard. Edvard Munch’s The Scream sprang to mind. Usually Matt radiated an air of well-being and vitality: whenever the station-house was struck by flu, he’d be the last man standing, more than happy to do a double shift to cover for a colleague and pick up some overtime to boost Lizzie’s “get-out-of-N1” fund.
Johnny felt sure that the news about the baby would buck him up. However, it was not down to him to break it. Besides, he had promised Lizzie.
The caff in Limeburne Lane, round the corner fromthe Old Bailey, was crowded. A miasma of cigarette
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