The Whispering Gallery (3 page)

He checked that the plain gold band was still safely buttoned up in his jacket. It should have been on her finger by now. He sighed in disappointment – but there was no use dwelling on what might have been. He got out his notebook. He had work to do.

It took him less than half an hour. Father Gillespie was unable to furnish him with any further information except the fact that Graham Yapp had been forty-eight. As he bashed out the report, Johnny recalled the other dead man's expression as he had looked down from the gallery. Even from where he was sitting Johnny could tell it had been one of anticipation rather than fear, of anger rather than regret. And yet his last words had been
I'm sorry
: an apology for breaking the God-botherer's neck? A believer was unlikely to have chosen such a place to kill himself.

He handed in his copy to the subs and returned just in time to catch the tea lady. His mother had always said a hot drink was more cooling than a cold one – but only because it encouraged perspiration. He sipped the stewed brew and stared into space. The story was a minor scoop but it had made him a hostage to fortune. If the jumper turned out to have been pushed he would look like an incompetent fool.

He read his messages – there was nothing that couldn't wait till Monday morning – then turned his attention to the mail.

The two envelopes were the same size but there the similarity ended. The first one was cream-coloured and unsealed. The thick weave of the paper felt pleasurably expensive. It contained a postcard of Saint Anastasia. The martyr, golden-haloed, was draped in red robes. She held a book in one hand and a sprig of palm in the other. A look of ecstasy spread across her pale face. There was a single sentence, carefully inscribed in a swooping hand, on the back:

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.

There was no signature. He was always getting letters from cranks. To begin with he had kept them in a file along with the threats of grievous bodily harm – or worse – from people who disagreed with what he had written or objected to having their criminal activities exposed in print. Nowadays he just threw them straight in what the public schoolboys, who were everywhere in the City, called the wagger-pagger-bagger. However, he liked the image of the serene saint so he simply put it to one side.

The second envelope, a cheap white one that could have been bought in any stationer's, was sealed. Wary of paper cuts, he used a ruler to slit it open. An invitation requested his presence at the re-opening of the much-missed Cave of the Golden Calf in Dark House Lane, EC4 on Friday, 9th July from 10 p.m. onwards. A woman, one arm in the air, danced on the left side of the card. Johnny studied the Vorticist design: the way a straight black line and a few jagged triangles conjured up an image of swirling movement, of sheer abandon, was remarkable.

Much-missed? He had never heard of the place. Still, it was intriguing. What was the Cave? A new restaurant? Theatre? Nightclub? There was no telephone number or address to RSVP to, so he would have to turn up to find out. Perhaps Stella would like to go.

He hung around for as long as he could, willing the telephone to ring. It didn't.

Patsel, throwing his considerable weight about as usual, provided a distraction. Bertram Blenkinsopp, a long-serving news correspondent, had written a piece about widespread fears that the groups of Hitler Youth currently on cycling tours of Britain were actually on reconnaissance missions. The smiling teenagers – who looked, at least in the photographs, very smart in their navy blue uniforms of shorts and loose, open-neck tunics – were said to be “spyclists” sent to note down the exact locations of such strategic sites as steelworks and gasworks. Why else would they have visited Sheffield and Glasgow?

However, Patsel, putting the interests of the Fatherland above those of his adopted country, spiked the article – “Where's the proof?” – and accused Blenkinsopp of producing anti-Fascist propaganda. A stand-up row ensued. The whole newsroom kept their heads down and pretended not to be listening as the irate reporter lambasted his so-called superior:

“You're not fit to be a journalist. You wouldn't know a good story if it came up and kicked your fat arse.”

Such exchanges were not uncommon – Patsel had given up complaining to the high-ups; their inaction was widely interpreted as a suggestion that the German should quit before he was interned – but they had become more frequent as the heatwave lengthened and tempers shortened.

The oppressive temperatures only added to the sense of a gathering storm. The “war to end all wars” had been nothing of the sort. It was becoming increasingly obvious each week that diplomacy – or, as Blenkinsopp put it, lily-livered appeasement – had failed and that Britain would soon be at war again.

The argument stopped as suddenly as it had started. Blenkinsopp knew there was nothing he could do: the Hun's word was final. He stormed off to the pub leaving Patsel pontificating to thin air. Johnny, catching Dimeo's eye, had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning. Blenkinsopp had the right idea: it was time for a beer.

Johnny joined the exodus of office-workers as they poured out into the less than fresh air. The north side of Fleet Street remained in the sun: its dusty flagstones radiated heat. A stench that had recently become all too familiar hung over its drains. Johnny, ignoring the horns of impatient drivers, crossed over into the shade. He still had a couple of hours to kill before he was due to meet Matt.

He lit a cigarette and strolled down to Ludgate Circus, jostled by those keen to get back to their families, gardens or allotments. It was not an evening to go to the pictures. Cinema managers were already complaining about the drop in audiences. On the other hand, the lidos were packed out. People were fighting – literally – to get in.

In Farringdon Street the booksellers were closing up for the day, a few bibliophiles browsing among the barrows until the very moment the potential bargains disappeared beneath ancient tarpaulins. He cut through Bear Alley and came out opposite the Old Bailey.

A crowd of men, beer in hand, sleeves rolled up, blocked the pavement in West Smithfield. It was illegal to drink out of doors but in such weather indulgent coppers would turn a blind eye – in return for a double Scotch. Squeals and shouts came from children playing barefoot in the recreation ground. A couple of them were trying to squirt the others by redirecting the jet of the drinking fountain. There was a palpable sense of relief that the working week was finally over.

The swing doors of The Cock were wedged open. Stella's father was behind the bar. Johnny perched on a stool and waited for him to finish serving one of his regulars, a retired poulterer who didn't know what else to do but drink himself to death.

“So she really isn't with you then?”

Johnny noted the choice of words –
isn't
not
wasn't
– and shook his head. “Still no word?”

“Not a blooming thing. This isn't like her.” Bennion ran his hand through greying hair that was becoming sparser by the day. “What'll you have?”

“Pint of bitter, please.” Johnny put the money on the bar. He had always made a point of paying for his drinks. It had made little difference though: Stella's father had never liked him. Johnny didn't take it personally: no man would ever be good enough for his Stella.

“We brought her up to be better than this.” He put the glass down on the mat in front of Johnny then helped himself to a whisky. He ignored the pile of pennies.

“Has she ever forgotten to call before?” Johnny opened a pack of Woodbines and, out of politeness, offered one to Bennion. To his surprise, he took one.

“Thanks. It'll make a change from roll-ups.”

Johnny did not understand the attraction of rolling your own: flattening out the paper, sprinkling the line of tobacco that always reminded him of a centipede, licking the edge of the paper and rolling it up – usually with nicotine-stained fingers. It was such a fiddly, time-consuming business. Why go to all that trouble when someone else had already done so? To save money, he supposed: in the long run, roll-ups were much cheaper. Dolly preferred ready-made cigarettes as well: Sweet Aftons. They were, according to the ads, good for the throat.

“She won't have forgotten. There are only two reasons why she hasn't rung: either she's unable to or she doesn't want to. Dolly's been asking around but not heard anything encouraging. A lot of her friends don't have a telephone.”

“Perhaps she's just staying on the beach for as long as she can,” said Johnny. He never sunbathed: his pale skin soon burned.

“Are you still in touch with Sergeant Turner?” Bennion, who generally made a point of looking everyone in the eye, gazed over Johnny's shoulder. So that was it: he wanted something. That explained his embarrassment.

“I'm seeing him later,” said Johnny, and drained his glass.

“Another?”

“Please.” The publican, having served a couple of customers, returned with a fresh pint. The pile of pennies remained untouched.

“Could you ask him to make a few enquiries?”

“I'm as anxious as you are to see Stella again,” said Johnny. “She's only been gone for a day though. It's too early to report her missing. Besides, she could turn up at any second.”

“And what if she doesn't?”

“I'll do everything I can to find her – and that includes enlisting the help of Matt and his men. If she's not back by Monday morning I'll raise the alarm myself.” The possibility that some ill had befallen her filled him with panic. He drowned it with beer.

He was half-cut after his third pint. The heat increased the power of the alcohol. There was still no sign of Stella. The pavement beneath his feet felt spongy. He sauntered down Hosier Lane, along King Street and into Snow Hill where John Bunyan's earthly pilgrimage was said to have come to an end.

It was cooler now: the incoming tide had brought a freshening breeze which felt delightful against his hot skin. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue dome that stretched serenely over the exhausted capital. A kestrel hovered overhead. Johnny stopped and enjoyed one of those rare, uncanny moments when, despite its millions of inhabitants, thousands of vehicles and ceaseless activity, there was complete silence in the city. Seconds later it was shattered by the sound of smashing glass and an ironic cheer.

The Rolling Barrel was only a few doors down from Snow Hill police station, so it was the first place that thirsty coppers made for when they came off duty. It was gloomy and smoky inside the pub. All the tables were taken so Johnny went to the bar. The clock behind the bar showed it was five past eight.

“What are you doing here, Steadman?” Philip Dwyer, one of Matt's colleagues, glared at him. “Haven't you done enough damage?”

The sergeant's eyes were glazed and his speech was slurred. Surely he couldn't have got in such a state in five minutes?

Dwyer leaned forward. A blast of beery breath hit Johnny in the face. “Be a good chap and fuck off.”

As a journalist, Johnny was accustomed to being unpopular. However, his unmasking of corruption at Snow Hill in December had hit a nerve both within the force and without. The ensuing scandal had made Johnny's name – but at considerable cost to himself and Matt. His investigations had also led to the deaths of four other men. They would always lie heavily on his conscience. Rumours about what had happened to him and Matt continued to circulate – out of Matt's earshot. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of the big, blond boxer.

Johnny was in no mood to be pushed around by a drunken desk sergeant, especially when he could see that Matt wasn't in the boozer. There was no point in buying a drink just to annoy Dwyer: in the state he was in he might throw a punch, Johnny would throw one back and then end up being arrested. Johnny strolled out and soon he found Matt propping up the bar in the Viaduct Tavern, round the corner in Giltspur Street.

“Dwyer just told me to fuck off.”

“Glad to see you did as you were told for once.”

“It's good to see you too.”

Johnny meant it. He immediately felt at ease in Matt's company. He always did. It was as if a chemical reaction took place, their personalities somehow combining to produce a sense of well-being. No one else had this effect on Johnny. Matt was a winner of the lottery of life: he was tall, very good-looking and popular. He literally saw the world in a different way to other, shorter, people. As much as Stella made Johnny happy and alleviated his habitual loneliness, she didn't make him feel safe, secure and stronger in himself the way Matt did. It was, he supposed, his role to make her feel that way. At the moment, though, Stella was making him nervous and fearful. Nervous about what she would say when he eventually popped the question and fearful about her disappearance. He needed some Dutch courage.

“Same again?”

“I'll have one for the road, thanks. I promised Lizzie that I'd be home by ten – and given the mood she's in these days there'll be hell to pay if I'm not.”

Once upon a time Johnny would have experienced a stab of jealousy at such a remark. He had fallen for Lizzie as soon as he set eyes on her and had been heartbroken when she had – quite understandably, in his opinion – chosen Matt as her husband instead of him. Lizzie had worked hard to convince Johnny that his love for her was just an adolescent crush. Now they were, in the time-honoured phrase, “just good friends”.Nevertheless, a part of Johnny remained unconvinced. He was happy for Matt – he and Lizzie had an enviable marriage – yet in his eyes she would always be “the one that got away”.

“How is Lizzie?” They moved over to a table that had just been vacated by a pair of postmen. Johnny set down the glasses on its ring-stained veneer.

“She's finding the heat unbearable – although it's not quite as suffocating in Bexley.”

Johnny had been afraid that he would see less of his friend when he moved from Islington to one of the new housing developments that were sprawling out across the virgin countryside round the capital. However, because police officers were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station, the move had produced the opposite effect. Matt had to sleep in the officers” dormitory at Snow Hill more often than in the past.

Lizzie, who had cajoled Matt into the move, now complained that he was hardly ever at home. She had been forced to give up her job in Gamage's, the “People's Popular Emporium”, when she became noticeably pregnant. Apparently customers did not wish to be served by mothers-to-be – even in the maternity department. Six months on, she was stuck in the new three-bedroom house, miles away from all her friends and with only the baby inside her for company.

“When's the big day?” said Johnny.

“A couple more weeks – but we've been warned that first babies are often overdue.”

“Who can blame them?” Johnny took another swig of his bitter. “What a time to enter the world.”

“At least I won't have to enlist: being a copper is a restricted occupation. Pity, really. I fancy killing a few Nazis. What will you do if and when the balloon goes up?”

“I haven't given it much thought. My flat feet will keep me out of the army. Perhaps I'll get a job with the Ministry of Information, or I could be a stretcher-bearer.”

“Let's hope it won't come to that. Chamberlain might yet save the day.”

“Sure – and I'm going win the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

“You'll have to write a novel first.”

“As a matter of fact I've started.”

“Pull the other one. You've been talking about writing a book for years.”

“It's true. I've only written the first few chapters, but I'm enjoying the process so far. It makes a change from having to report the facts. It's so liberating to be able to make things up. It's like taking off a straitjacket.”

“Have you got a title?”

“
Friends and Lovers
. But I'll probably change it.”

“What's it about?”

“You and me, amongst other things. Most first novels are autobiographical.”

Matt put down his pint. His blue eyes stared into Johnny's. “I trust you'll be discreet.”

“Of course. You've got nothing to worry about, Matt – even if it ever does get published.”

“I hope so. Does Stella know you're writing about her?”

“She knows I'm writing a novel. Actually, she's the reason I haven't been making much progress.”

Matt laughed. “Real-life lovers are more fun than made-up ones.”

“In most cases, certainly. However, it seems Stella's gone missing. Her parents haven't seen her since yesterday morning and I still don't know whether or not she turned up at St Paul's this afternoon.”

“Perhaps she's punishing you for putting the job first.”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But it doesn't explain why she's taking out her frustration on her parents. She told them she was staying in Brighton last night. If she'd decided to stay another day, she should have let them know.”