Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson Page B

left. Johnny, making sure he avoided eye contact with the porters, followed. His senses quickened: he was on the trail again.
    Legwork was an essential part of the job. The best stories usually involved pounding the streets: chasing leads, witnesses and suspects—sometimes literally. Johnny knew what Matt was talking about when he complained of being footsore.
    The smog was beginning to thin now. Dawn was glimmering in the east. Johnny finally caught up with Gogg as he crossed the recreation ground. The statue of Peace , erected to allay the spirits of William Wallace and others who’d been executed on this very spot, ignored them.
    “Harry Gogg?”
    The bummaree looked over his shoulder and regarded him with suspicion. He kept on walking.
    Johnny followed.
    Without looking back, Gogg asked, “Who wants to know?”
    “My name’s Johnny Steadman. I’m a reporter on the News . I was told you might have some information for me. I’m willing to pay.”
    The boy stopped to use the drinking fountain. It was frozen.
    As Johnny caught up with him, he hissed, “Don’t look at me.”
    Leaning against the fountain, Johnny stared off into the distance, trying to look casual, as if it were normal to be loitering in the freezing cold.
    A moment later he heard the boy whisper: “Information about what?”
    “The death of a young man on Saturday night.”
    “Jesus Christ!” The lad looked round the park in panic. Shapes seemed to shift at its edges. “We can’t talk here. Follow me…Wait! Don’t make it obvious. Keep your distance.”
    They left West Smithfield and entered Cloth Fair. Johnny hoped they were not going far: he was supposed to be at the office by now. Well, if questioned, he could honestly say he had started work hours ago.
    Around him the medieval houses leaned out over the street as though whispering gossip to each other. Through the gloom he could just make out Gogg’s chunky frame on the left. He assumed the boy was heading for the pub on the corner of Rising Sun Court. However, when he reached it he suddenly veered across the lane and disappeared into an alley which ran alongsideSt Bartholomew-the-Great. Hesitating to check that he had been seen, he then went into the church.
    A few moments later, as the bells in the brick tower chimed eight o’clock, Johnny raised the latch and pushed open the heavy oak door.
    Although he had often heard the evening peal of London’s oldest parish church on his way to meet Matt, he had never been inside its flint-flecked walls before. He walked down the long nave. The black tiled floor was dangerously uneven. Gogg was waiting for him beside the choir screen, which showed monks going about their daily business. It looked brand new.
    “We should be safe here. Let’s see the colour of your money.”
    The ten-shilling note brought the pink back to Gogg’s cheeks. It was the equivalent of a day’s earnings. His melting brown eyes darted here and there, seeking eavesdroppers. His cowlick flickered in a draught. Satisfied that the church was empty, he nodded in the direction of the choir-stalls and they took a seat.
    “Why did your colleagues say they didn’t know you in the pub?”
    “Sheer 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