The Whispering Gallery (22 page)

“Why did you stop me?” Johnny turned to face Matt.

“I'd have had to arrest you for assault – and you'd hardly catch Bravard if you were banged up in a cell. Besides, I could see it in his eyes: he was going to take you with him. I saved your neck – again.”

“Thank you.” He'd have embraced him if there hadn't been other cops around.

Far below a crowd was already congregating round Gillespie's corpse. The eternal fascination of death.

“Don't be too despondent. You got your man in the end.”

“He's escaped justice though – and now he's gone there's no need to expose him as a paedophile. The living must take precedence over the dead. The reputations of Dr Callingham and his son – even though they're a murderer and a pervert – will remain unblemished.”

“At least Gillespie can't harm any more choirboys.”

“And Wauchope?”

“He wanted you charged with assault until it was pointed out that he could be charged with child abduction. I should think his days in the arms of Mother Church are numbered.”

“Sarge . . .” A spotty-faced constable whom Johnny had never seen before came trotting up.

“Yes, Gazzard?”

“Your wife's gone into labour. She's been taken to Bexley Hospital.”

“I very much hope not. It's a booby hatch. She's supposed to be going to St Mary's in Sidcup.”

The constable blushed. “I knew you lived in Bexley . . .”

“And jumped straight to the wrong conclusion. Go on, since you're here – try and take some witness statements with more accuracy.”

“Aren't you going to the hospital?” Johnny was amazed at Matt's calmness.

“When my shift ends at two. I'll only have to kick my heels in a corridor. With a bit of luck, Matt Junior will be waiting for me by the time I get there.”

“What about Lizzie? She needs you.”

“No, she doesn't. Her mother will be with her. Men aren't allowed in the maternity ward.”

“Even cops?”

“We'll see. I don't know why you're more worried than I am. Haven't you got more important matters to attend to?”

They looked at the broken body of Gillespie. His limbs, at unnatural angles, formed a swastika on the marble floor. No one had bothered to adjust his cassock, which had somehow ended up round his waist. His withered legs, riddled with varicose veins, were as thin as sparrow-shanks. It was an undignified pose for a man who had used his respected position to satisfy his unnatural lust. How many childhoods had he ruined? They would never know.

“You're right. The fact that Gillespie killed George Fewtrell will still make a sensational story. If I choose my words carefully, I might be able to get away with implying he was abusing the young man.”

“I should think he was an expert in all kinds of abuse. You'll need to make a statement, so you might as well come back to Snow Hill with me now. Inspector Woodling has been trying to get in touch with you. Your dear friend Henry Simkins appears to have gone missing.”

In the event, Woodling was not in the station-house so Johnny was soon free to go. Could Gillespie have been responsible for the abduction of Simkins? Had he and Bravard been in cahoots? His brain was buzzing with all manner of crackpot theories.

As he walked down Ludgate Hill he could see a mass of cumulonimbus clouds, giant cauliflowers, towering in the west. It was, if anything, even hotter. The entire capital seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the heatwave to break.

There was a small parcel on his desk. Before he could open it, Dimeo cautiously approached.

“I just wanted to let you know that Stella's finished with me.”

“And why would that be of interest to me?”

“Well . . .” The shame-faced sportsman was disconcerted. “You can try and patch things up now.”

“And how, exactly, do you bring a dead baby back to life?”

“Watch what you're saying!” Dimeo looked round the office to see if anyone had heard. “Look, Johnny, I'm truly sorry for what's happened.”

“More like sorry I found out. Not used to being given the elbow?”

“I don't mean that. What I did was despicable. Stella loves you.”

“No, she doesn't. She never did – not really – but that doesn't let you off the hook. I can just about understand sleeping with a colleague's girl, but what I don't get is why you had to tell her about the assault – it's not as if you don't find seduction easy.”

“I thought she had a right to know.”

“Why?” Johnny lowered his voice. “I was raped – and there's nothing I can do to change that. I have to live with it every day. That doesn't mean I now find men attractive. You're a handsome devil, Dimeo, but I don't want you to fuck me.”

“Jolly glad to hear it. I'm sorry, Johnny, honest.”

“Well, I'm not sorry I hit you.”

“What's that?” Dimeo nodded at the parcel. “Strangely enough, it's not addressed to you.”

He waited until Dimeo was back at his desk then unwrapped the package. It was from Bravard. There was a postcard of a painting by Jean Vignaud –
Abelard and Héloïse Surprised by Master Fulbert
– the significance of which eluded him. He opened the box slowly: there, on a bed of cotton wool, nestled a pair of what could only be testicles. They looked like lumps of Turkish Delight but smelled slightly fishy. A wave of nausea swept over him. What fresh hell was this? Johnny turned over the postcard:

Johnny raced upstairs to the library. It was as if he were trapped in a recurrent nightmare. Apparently Simkins – who else could it be? – had succeeded in luring Bravard out of his lair. Johnny almost felt guilty. Simkins may be a blackmailer, but he didn't want his death on his conscience. He consoled himself that, one way or another, Simkins, for the sake of a scoop, had deliberately placed himself in jeopardy. Meanwhile, this was likely to be the last time he would have to decipher one of Bravard's sick pictorial puzzles.

He was relieved to see that Amy's chair was empty. The latest – last? – delivery made the very idea of flirting seem obscene. He ran his fingers along the smooth red leather of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
before pulling out the first volume.

Peter Abelard, a twelfth-century scholar, had fallen in love with Héloïse, the niece of a canon of Notre Dame in whose house he lodged. When the affair was discovered the canon had Abelard castrated. In spite of his enduring love for Héloïse, the scholar went on to become a monk. Johnny couldn't see Simkins following suit. Poor Henry – it couldn't have happened to a nastier man. On the other hand, the unwilling eunuch could be dead already. If he were, the pornographic photograph could be on its way to the whole of Fleet Street right now.

Johnny reluctantly telephoned Woodling. The Welshman was beside himself with rage.

“You're unbelievable, Steadman. Not only do you tell Bravard that you're Simkins – you tell Simkins everything there is to know about him. Were you deliberately setting up a rival?”

“How d'you know I told Simkins anything?”

“He rang yesterday evening to say that he was on his way to meet Bravard. It was deliberate provocation, a tease. He knew it was far too late to put a tail on him. He's got what he deserves. By the way, he said to remind you about the deal. What deal?”

“I can't talk about it.”

“Well, if he dies, it'll be your fault.”

“I have his balls in my hand as we speak.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They were delivered in a box this morning.”

“Was there a message?”

“No.” He couldn't risk telling the truth. Involving the police would only complicate matters.

“How d'you know they're Simkins's balls then? They could be anybody's. If you're lying to me, Steadman, you'll regret it. Wherever you go, you leave death in your wake. I've just heard about Gillespie – not that he deserves to be mourned. I'll send someone to collect the, um, evidence. If you interfere in this case once more I'll have you arrested for obstruction.”

“I am the case.”

“Not any longer. Keep out of my way. And don't forget to keep us informed about your movements. Simkins's safety takes priority now.”

“It's a bit late for that.”

Woodling, instead of responding, hung up.

One thing was for sure: Johnny wasn't going to do as either Bravard or Woodling told him. For a start, he wished to remain intact: he had lost quite enough in the past fortnight as it was. However, he wasn't stupid enough to think he could stop Bravard by himself. Perhaps Dimeo would help – he was good at acting surreptitiously and if he lost
his
balls, so much the better.

He took the package over to him. “Take a look.”

Dimeo, surprised, did not hesitate. “Crikey! Are they what I think they are?”

“Like to help me get the man who did this?”

“I presume he's the same one who's been sending you the other bits.”

“Indeed. I need you to secretly follow me in a taxi tonight. I can't inform the police because the ex-owner of these baby-makers will die if I do. You'll need an accomplice. Who do you suggest?”

“What about Tanfield?”

“He's just a boy!”

“He can handle himself though. We've been training together.”

“What kind of training?”

“Boxing.”

No wonder Dimeo had never actually clipped the cub round the ear. He would have fought back.

“Okay – but I'll have to run it past PDQ.”

Quarles agreed – on condition that he came along as well. “There's safety in numbers.”

“And three's a crowd.”

“We won't be together. We'll travel in different taxis.”

“What can I say? I'm touched that so many people are concerned for my safety.”

“It's the story that concerns me. If we can get this guy before the boys in blue it will make us look even better.”

Tanfield, of course, was thrilled. “Thanks for this opportunity, Johnny. I won't let you down.”

“I sincerely hope not.” He didn't tell the boy that he had made Dimeo and PDQ promise to protect him at all costs.

He was halfway through writing his account of Fewtrell's murder and Gillespie's suicide when Victor Stone's secretary rang to summon him to the seventh floor.

The red light went out and the green light came on.

“Well done, Steadman. The choirboys of St Paul's can sit easily again.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I've had the Bishop of London on the blower.”

“Oh yes?”

“He wants me to kill the story.”

“There's a surprise. I hope you said he hadn't a prayer.”

“He's most concerned that we insist that Gillespie was acting alone.”

“But he wasn't. What about Wauchope?”

“He's already been sacked.”

“God moves in alacritous ways.”

“Indeed. Let me see your finished article before Herr Patsel does.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for your hospitality last night.”

“Don't mention it. Honoria was pleased to see you. Daniel's a nice lad.”

“Yes, he is. He's had a difficult two weeks.”

“He'll get over it. He's young.” Johnny was not so sure. “I'm told he was reunited with his grateful mother at Snow Hill this morning.”

“It's a damn nuisance that I can't mention him in the article.”

“Perhaps – but I don't think either mother or son would be grateful to have Callingham portrayed as a killer who got the wrong man. How's the hunt for Bravard going on?”

“He's sending a cab for me this evening at six o'clock. Mr Quarles, Dimeo and Tanfield are going to follow as unobtrusively as possible. I don't want to get the police involved because a man's life is at stake. I've got his balls in a box downstairs.”

“Jesus Christ, Steadman. This gets better and better. Who's the unfortunate hostage?”

“Most likely Henry Simkins, sir.”

“Ha! The fellow once had the cheek to turn down my offer of a job. Keep your hair on – it was before your time. He's a damn fine reporter.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so – but you'll be top dog if you can rescue him from this farrago. He seems to have been remarkably well informed. Any idea how he found out so much about your story so quickly?

“No, sir. You know how people talk.”

“Where would we be without gossip? Well, whatever you do, don't let Bravard get away. I want to know what makes him tick.”

“Surely you mean sick, sir?”

“Very funny. Now get out.”

Johnny spent most of the afternoon on his article, trying to reveal as much as possible without saying too much. If the man on the Clapham omnibus could be bothered to read between the lines it would be obvious to him that the Church of England was arranging a cover-up. If the organisation put as much effort into helping its flock, rather than itself, the world would be a better place.

Soon after 5 p.m. a tremendous thunder-clap shook the building. It felt like the crack of doom and brought home to Johnny that, if things went wrong that evening, these could be his last hours on earth. Having no heirs, he had never made a will, so he scribbled a note, addressed to Matt, leaving all his worldly goods – such as they were – to him and a request that he maintain in good condition his mother's grave in St Pancras & Islington Cemetery. He had no wish to lie mouldering in the ground, so he asked to be cremated and that his ashes be scattered in the Thames. He sealed it in an envelope and labelled it
Strictly Confidential
.

“What is that?” Pencil held a copy of his article in his hand.