Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson Page A

smoke and cooking fumes hung above the tables. The musty smell of damp wool mingled with the aromas of fried bacon and minestrone soup. The conversational hubbub was intermittently drowned out by the violent hiss of the hot-water machine.
    Matt was sitting at a table for two at the back. It was hardly private, but it would have to do.
    “Have you ordered yet?” asked Johnny, taking off his gabardine. He draped it over the other coats that hung from hooks in the corridor leading to the toilets. An image of Harry Gogg, naked and bleeding, came into his head. As of last night, Matt was not the only one having bad dreams.
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Come on! You know I hate eating by myself,” said Johnny.
    “You should be used to it by now.” Matt glanced up to ensure that the barb had hit its mark. He winked. For a moment he was his old, teasing self.
    “Thank you, Cunt stable.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    Johnny had already decided not to mention the kiss in Passing Alley. He was ashamed. Besides, it would only complicate matters.
    Making sure no one was watching, he handed Matt a parcel—the knife carefully wrapped in newspaper—and gave him an edited version of the previous day’s events.
    Matt listened without comment then slid a Manilaenvelope across the ring-stained wood. Before he could open it, Arturo, the barrel of a proprietor, loomed over them.
    “Aha! Bigger plates! City cop!”
    This was an oblique, ironic reference to police corruption. It was endemic in every force but—in a perfect example of double-think—it was deemed not to interfere with their capacity to uphold the law. Not seriously, anyway. The Home Secretary or the Big Five, as the top brass at Scotland Yard were known, would occasionally make noises about stamping it out, but nothing much was ever done.
    The corruption was casual rather than corporate: taking back-handers from street bookies for turning a blind eye; zealously enforcing traffic regulations, then dropping any charges in return for a generous gratuity; selling tickets for non-existent lotteries to local shopkeepers who knew they could not win. The bobby remained a pillar of the community—someone who could be relied on in a crisis; a source of reassurance in everyday life—even though it was known that such protection money was a perk of the job. A little graft was a small price to pay: the rozzers worked hard, they deserved it.
    If a copper chose to be honest—and Johnny assumed Matt did—then that was fine too, as long as he did not peach on his colleagues. However, in the Robbery Squad, things had started to get out of hand: detectives were more interested in arranging break-ins than arresting thieves. The keepers of the peace invariably kept a piece for themselves.
    Arturo suggested the dish of the day: fresh mutton pies with mushy peas. Johnny tucked in straight away.
    “What?”
    Matt glowered at him. “Open the envelope!” He lowered his voice. “And don’t let anyone else see.”
    “Sorry,” said Johnny. He reluctantly laid down his knife and fork. It was just as well: what he was about to set eyes on would have made him choke.
    The envelope contained a picture of Matt and another man whose head was out of shot. Both of them were naked. Matt was sitting in front of the other man with his back towards him: a pair of rowers, perhaps, except that they were on a bed not a boat and the man behind was not holding an oar but the shaft of Matt’s cock.
    Johnny did not realise he was staring at the photograph until Matt, with a muttered curse, snatched it off him, turned it face down on the table and slid it back. Johnny blushed. He had not seen his friend in the nude since they had gone skinny-dipping in the canal as kids. The water by the power station in Poole Street was always warm.
    They’d swim every chance they could get when they were kids. Wednesday’s swimming lesson had been one of the highlights of their school week. Johnny could still smell the