Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson Page A

contents of their breakfast: if people were to see the process that led to the bacon and sausages ending up on their plate, many of them would lose their appetite. The consumer was not interested in the means of production, what counted was the finished product.
    Anyone of the cowled creatures roaming the aisles of Smithfield could have been Harry Gogg. Cursing himself for not getting a description from Percy, Johnny decided there was nothing more to be gained from hangingaround the market. Besides, he needed to take refuge from the cold.
    A board outside the Cock Tavern announced that it was permitted to open at 4 a.m. “for the accommodation of persons following their lawful trade and calling as salesmen, buyers, butchers, assistants, carmen and porters and attending a public market at Smithfield”. Taking a seat at the bar, Johnny ordered a “wazzer”, the speciality of the house. It tasted like a cup of tea laced with whisky. Whatever it was, it did the trick. Soon even his toes were warm.
    Those around him were tucking into plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, sausages, liver, kidneys and black pudding. With the salty, prickly smell of raw meat still in his nostrils, Johnny made do with a cigarette.
    By half past seven most of the day’s business had been concluded so far as the market workers were concerned. A group of bummarees came in and sat in a corner.
    The landlady went over to take their orders. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman with a mop of long, lank curls that looked as though someone had tipped a bowl of cold spaghetti over her. She did not seem to mind that their white coats were smeared with gore and had no problem countering their ribald banter with some of her own. Johnny watched in the mirror behind the bar as she served the five men their wazzers then went off to the kitchen.
    Fortified by the alcohol, he slipped off his stool and made his way to their table.
    “Sorry, mate. Never ’eard of ’im,” said the oldest, a grizzled bear of a man. His colleagues looked at each other.
    “He’s one of your lot. Look, he’s not in any trouble—I was told he may be able to help me, that’s all.”
    One of the younger ones muttered something. They all laughed.
    “There’d be a few bob in it for him,” said Johnny.
    “As I told yer, never ’eard of ’im.” The bummaree raised his voice so the whole pub could hear. “Anyone ’ere know of an ’Arry Gogg?”
    Silence fell. Everyone in the room was staring at Johnny. He returned their stares until they turned away. Slowly the conversation resumed.
    “Well, that is odd,” said Johnny sarcastically. He was riled. He hated being treated like an idiot. “Harry Gogg works in Smithfield. There can’t be that many of you—someone must know him.”
    The brute who’d spoken before lumbered to his feet. He could easily have carried half an ox on each shoulder.
    “You calling me a liar, son?”
    There was nothing Johnny could do. If he didn’t back down he’d be going head-first through the swing-doors before he knew what hit him.
    “No, no, not at all. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He retreated to the bar.
    “You’re pushing your luck,” said the landlady, introducing herself as Dolly. A pink wart nestled in the cleft between her nose and right cheek. “They’re a close-knit bunch and don’t like strangers. They’ve probably gotyou down as working for the taxman.” She set another wazzer in front of him and, when he insisted on paying, promised to tip him the wink if Gogg came in.
    He did not have long to wait. Harry was a winsome lad, fair-haired and fresh-faced. He scanned the room as if looking for someone then came and stood by Johnny at the bar. Although roughly the same height, he was twice as broad. He also seemed nervous. Instead of joining the other bummarees, he went and sat by himself. The only thing he ate was his thumbnail. It would be pointless talking to him now.
    Ten minutes later, Gogg drained his mug and