The Whispering Gallery (6 page)

She walked out of the café leaving Johnny to pay. He didn't mind though. Her parting shot was worth more than sixpence.

If her husband was a reader of
The Times
she would no doubt announce his funeral arrangements in the classified advertisements on the front page. He would go to the funeral and, one way or another, whether she liked it or not, make the acquaintance of young Daniel Callingham.

When he got back to the office, much in need of a cold bath, the box of roses had gone. A terse note in his pigeonhole ordered him to attend Snow Hill police station forthwith. There was also a message from Matt:
Call me
. Johnny knew what was coming.

“Hello, Matt.”

“Which part of ‘Wait for the detective' didn't you understand?”

“I couldn't sit around all day until he deigned to turn up. You know I had to meet Mrs Callingham. And it's just as well I went when I did, because Henry Simkins, the slippery bastard, was already at Moor Lane pretending to be me!”

“I don't care. You deliberately disobeyed a police officer. I've a good mind to arrest you for obstructing a murder investigation.”

“Oh fuck off! How d'you know it's murder anyway? Percy Hughes tells me the arm is unlikely to have come from Bart's. Hello?”

Matt had hung up. The muscles in Johnny's neck and shoulders – which had been acting up since he got up – tightened once again.

“How did you get on?” Peter Quarles, the deputy news editor, pencil behind his ear as usual, stopped by Johnny's desk. He spent most of his time smoothing down the feathers ruffled by Patsel. Ten years older than Johnny, he was ten times more popular than their superior. He was the proud father of identical twin boys, now aged six, who looked just like their father: open-faced, button-nosed and with enviably neat ears.

“Callingham's widow says she doesn't want any more publicity – but she's adamant he didn't kill himself, so there's a story here somewhere. She wouldn't let me speak to her son although she confirmed that the note saying
I love you daddy
was written by him. I'm going to make sure I'm at the funeral though, and I'll try and corner him then.”

“OK. In the meantime see what you can find out about the other bloke who died.”

“Graham Yapp.”

“That's him. It'll be one way of keeping the story alive. However, your main priority is this morning's unwanted gift. The detective who turned up was most put out you weren't here. He gave poor Reg a hard time.”

“What was the chap's name?”

“Detective Constable George Penterell. I got the impression he hasn't been in the job long and is keen to make his mark. You better not keep him waiting any longer.”

“Should I show him this?” He got out the postcard of St Anastasia which had arrived on Saturday. “It must have been sent by the same person.”

“You better had,” said Quarles. “You don't want to be charged with withholding evidence.
Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.
In my humble opinion that's both true and untrue. There's got to be an initial spark of attraction, hasn't there? Something to make the pupils dilate. Speaking of which: how's Stella?”

“I wish I knew. She spent the weekend in Brighton, apparently. With a bit of luck I'll see her tonight – assuming I'm not banged up at Snow Hill.”

Johnny arrived at the police station fully appreciating the meaning of the phrase “muck sweat”. He felt – and smelt – filthy. Usually he was glad of the opportunities his job afforded him to get out and about – after two hours at a desk he was more than restless – but the dog days had left him dog-tired. He was sick of being at everyone's beck and call, resentful of having to traipse all the way to Snow Hill in the heat. By the time he got there he was out of breath and out of sorts.

“Mr Steadman? Glad to make your acquaintance – again.” They shook hands. “You look like you could do with a glass of water. This way.” DC Penterell towered over him, a smile of amusement playing on his thin lips. Large brown eyes with long lashes looked down on him benevolently. He was a giraffe in a new double-breasted suit.

Somewhat relieved at the unexpectedly polite welcome, Johnny wiped his brow and followed the detective through the swing doors with their bull's-eye windows and down a corridor painted dark grey below the dado and light grey above it. Penterell showed him into one of six grim interview rooms. Like the others, it contained a battered table, four sturdy chairs and absolutely nothing else.

“Have a seat. I won't be a moment. Take your jacket off, if you wish.”

Johnny did not need asking twice. He would have liked to take his shoes off as well, but that would have been going too far. His feet were singing.

Fortunately, Penterell had left the door open. He hated being in windowless rooms. Clangs and yells drifted up from the cells below. The single bulb in its enamelled tin shade above him was dazzling.

“I thought you might prefer tea.” The young man was carrying two cups and saucers and a glass of water on a tray. Not a drop had spilled. What next? An invitation to lunch? There was a brown cardboard folder under his right arm.

Johnny emptied the glass in one go. “Thank you.”

“What was so important this morning that you couldn't wait for me?” The large brown eyes hardened. Johnny felt the chair press into his clammy back.

“Another story. I was at St Paul's when the chap fell to his death on Saturday.”

“Fell?”

“Fell or jumped. You tell me.”

“It's not my case. I'm only interested in the owner of the arm that landed on your desk this morning.”

“Anybody reported one missing?”

“We wouldn't be sitting here if they had.”

“Am I your only lead then?”

“More or less . . . Which is why it would have been useful to speak to you earlier.”

“A couple of hours hasn't made any difference. The lack of blood suggests the arm – I'm assuming it was real – must have come from a dead person.”

“Your assumption is correct. Now all we've got to do is find the rest of her.”

“It is a woman's then?”

Penterell smiled again. “How many men d'you know paint their nails?”

“The killer could have painted them afterwards.”

“It wouldn't have flaked off if he had.”

“True. Although I don't think it's a coincidence the nail polish exactly matches the colour of the roses.” It would not have been a particularly difficult task. There were dozens of varieties of rose. “Why did you say ‘he'?”

“The chances of a woman doing such a thing are remote, to say the least.”

“Why? Just as many husbands are murdered by their wives as vice versa.”

“The victim was a woman.”

“Perhaps she had been seeing someone else's husband.”

“Are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. That came out wrong. Are you currently seeing a married woman?”

“No. I never have – well, not once I found out they were married. Why d'you ask?”

“There must be a reason why the arm was sent to you.”

“I get rubbish from all kinds of lunatic. It's usually just a pathetic plea for attention.”

“Rubbish?”

“You know what I mean.” Johnny reached into the inside pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of the chair. “I received this on Saturday.”

Penterell's eyes lit up. “It must have been sent by the same person.”

“Indeed. The killer, if that is what he or she is, must be a religious nut. I've never heard of St Anastasia or St Basilissa. Have you?”

“No. Perhaps he's going to work his way through the alphabet: A, B, C . . . You should have produced this straightaway. It corroborates the suggestion that you're specifically being targeted.”

“I doubt they'll find any decent prints apart from mine – and yours.”

In his eagerness to see the postcard, the detective had forgotten standard procedure. He flushed and dropped the evidence on to the table.

“I don't suppose you still have the envelope?”

“No – but it was the same as the one that arrived today. What are you going to do?”

“It's not up to me – not that I'd tell you, even if it were. Inspector Woodling is in charge of the investigation.” He carefully picked up the postcard by a corner and placed it in the folder, which appeared to contain a single piece of paper.

“Well, I'll let you know if anything else turns up.”

“Thank you.” Penterell's drily ironic tone was not lost on Johnny. “And I'll let you know if you have to make an official statement. In the meantime, I wouldn't be too worried if I were you.”

“Worried? Why should I be worried?” Johnny hadn't been worried – but he was now.

“If someone's trying to gain publicity, they're not going to chop off your arms – they need you to be able to use a typewriter.”

“That's good to know.” Johnny grabbed his jacket and made for the door. Before he could turn the knob, Penterell placed a large hand on top of his. Unlike Johnny's, it was cool and dry.

“You won't say anything about the postcard will you?”

“No. Why should I? I'd already mucked up any incriminating fingerprints.” Penterell looked relieved.

“Thanks. I'd hate your friend to get the wrong impression of me.”

“Friend?”

“Sergeant Turner.”

So that was why he'd initially been so ingratiating. Although they had never deliberately kept their friendship secret, Matt and Johnny hadn't shouted it from the rooftops either. Even so, it seemed their connection was common knowledge at Snow Hill. Perhaps that's why Matt had been so angry. He loathed being put in a compromising position.

The detective constable led Johnny back to the reception. For once he was glad not to see Matt. It was probably wise to give him time to calm down.

The meat market had long since ceased trading for the day. Nevertheless, the streets of Smithfield were thick with hatless office-workers on their lunch breaks seeking somewhere to bask in the sun. Johnny didn't feel like sitting at a desk either. He wasn't hungry but he could do with a drink. The Cock was only round the corner . . .

Stella's father was behind the bar. When he saw Johnny he broke off chatting to the half-pissed poulterer and wiped his hands on his apron. Before her husband could say a word, Dolly flung her arms round Johnny.

“I'm so relieved, dear. I can't wait to see her. I'll make sure she calls you as soon as she comes in.” She held on to him for so long that he had no choice but to breathe in her sweaty aroma that no amount of cheap perfume could disguise. An image of Lizzie, behind the cosmetics counter at Gamage's, popped into his head. There was a note of panic in Dolly's voice. The toxic combination of prolonged heat and high anxiety had clearly taken its toll.

“I'm not just here for the beer,” said Johnny. “I'd like to make a telephone call, if I may. Of course, I'll pay for both.”

“There's no need,” said Bennion. “They're on the house. What can I get you?”

“A pint of Double Diamond, please.” He was hoping to ask Dolly about the man she had spoken to that morning, but she had scuttled out of the bar while his back was turned. Everyone seemed to be behaving oddly today.

“I'm glad you didn't have to bother your mate,” said Bennion.

“Do the Snow Hill lot come in much nowadays?”

“Only when they want to sell some lottery tickets.”

“I thought that racket had been stamped out.”

No one ever won a prize. It was a way for coppers to pick the pockets of the public they were supposed to be protecting from crime.

“It's started again.”

Nothing changed.

Johnny drank his beer a little too fast. He was feeling light-headed by the time he slipped behind the bar and into the hallway of the pub where the telephone stood on a rickety three-legged table.

The Hello Girls had a couple of messages for him, neither of which needed an immediate response, so he asked to be put through to PDQ. Quarles's middle name was Donald, so his nickname – which coincidentally stood for “pretty damn quick” – was inescapable.

“They let you go!” His superior sounded almost disappointed.

“Indeed. They're of the opinion that I'm being targeted by a potential killer.”

“Good to know the
News
itself is not in danger.”

Such concern for his welfare was touching.

“It still could be. Goodness knows what I've done personally to deserve such attention. Do you want me to write a sensational piece to stir things up?”

“You mean, chance your arm?”

It was amazing how murder was a laughing matter to some.

“Ouch. Perhaps it would be better to await any further developments. We don't want to tip off the competition.”

“I'll raise it at the three o'clock conference. Where are you?”

“Smithfield. I thought I'd go and interview Yapp's housemates. If we know what sort of life he led, it might cast light on his death.”

“Good idea. Be back by four though, in case you have to file today.”

Johnny left a couple of shiny threepenny bits on the table. Two months after their introduction the novelty of the new coins still hadn't worn off. He shouted goodbye to Dolly, thanked Bennion for the beer, then headed out into the unrelenting sun.

Stella, lying on her bed upstairs, looked up at her mother. Dolly did not return her smile. She closed the door behind her.

Whenever possible Johnny remained in the shade. At the end of Old Bailey he cut straight across Ludgate Hill and entered Pilgrim Street. It was downhill all the way: the ground only stopped sloping when it reached the Thames. In Broadway a middle-aged couple sprawled on the pavement passing a bottle of gut-rot between them. A pungent whiff of cheese – and other things – hung above them. Only homeless people wore overcoats in this weather.

“Your good health, sir!” said the man, his tone of hail-fellow-well-met immediately putting Johnny on his guard. “Could you possibly spare sixpence so my dear wife and I might eat today?” The woman in question smiled to reveal an incomplete set of green teeth. Two pairs of yellow bloodshot eyes stared up at him.

Without breaking his stride Johnny flicked the coin towards the couple. Christ! He would rather kill himself than be reduced to such a servile state. What kept them going? The fact that they were, in spite of everything, still together? It was impossible to imagine himself and Stella in such reduced circumstances – and yet everyone was at the mercy of the economy. Stella had her family, but Johnny was alone in the world – which was one of the reasons she meant so much to him. The more he thought about her recent behaviour the more insecure he felt. She was not given to caprice. There was always a reason for her actions. Why had she suddenly made herself scarce?

“A thousand thank-yous, sir! God bless.” The beggar's words rang hollow. The good Lord had not shown him much benevolence. Johnny kept on walking and soon turned left into Carter Lane.

Wardrobe Place, where Graham Yapp had lived, was on the right, opposite a school for infants. Although all its high windows were wide open not a sound came from any of the classrooms.

A covered passageway led into the deserted courtyard; another one straight ahead led out to Knightrider Street. The space in the middle was rectangular rather than square. Five Georgian terraced houses, only the top floors raked by the sun, faced five more across the narrow divide. The heavy air pressed down on Johnny's head and shoulders. It was like entering a cockpit.

According to Father Gillespie, the Church Commissioners owned all the property in the yard. Yapp had lodged at Number Five. Johnny grasped the knocker – inappropriately shaped like a turban – and rapped on the freshly painted door. God was obviously a good landlord.

The knocks echoed off the surrounding blocks. Nothing happened. Johnny took out the mysterious key and tried it in the lock. It did not turn. However, before he could remove it, the door was opened with such force that Johnny was dragged forward. He almost fell over the step.

“What the devil d'you think you're playing at?” An old man in a collarless shirt, braces dangling, snarled at Johnny. His full head of snow-white hair was haywire. “You woke me up.”

“Who are you?”

“What's it to you?” The geriatric bantam put his hands on his hips.

“I'm John Steadman from the
Daily News
.” The door would have slammed shut if he hadn't had his foot on the threshold. He winced in pain. “Father Gillespie sent me.”

That wasn't quite true – the priest had merely given him the address – but it had the desired effect. The door swung open again.

“Should've said so right off.”

“You didn't exactly give me much chance.”

A smirk replaced the snarl. “Haggie's the name. I looked after Father Yapp, God rest his soul. Now what can I do for you?”

“You can let me in, for starters.”

The housekeeper stood back. Johnny entered a bare hallway. A smell of baking – Dundee cake? – filled the air. He could almost see his face in the green linoleum beneath his throbbing foot.

A Victorian painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane hung on the wall. It was always hot in Palestine: why would anyone go around with all that hair? The mere thought of a beard was enough to make him feel itchy. Only a man with something to hide would cultivate so many whiskers.

“Did Father Yapp live here alone?”

“Not likely – he was only a subchanter. He shared the house with three others.”

“Are they based at St Paul's as well?”

“No. One of them works in the Dean's office, but the other two are attached to different churches in the City. I look after them all.”

“Do you live in?”

“No thank you very much. I still like to go home to the missus – even after forty-three years.”

“Are residents allowed female guests?”

“This ain't a knocking shop!”

“That's not what I asked.”

The janitor gave a snort of derision. “What d'you think? Course not. Don't mean they have to be celibate, though. We're not bloody Romans here.”

“When was the last time you saw Father Yapp?”

“Saturday morning. I cook breakfast and dinner for the boys every day except Sunday. They have lunch wherever they happen to be.”

“It must be very hard work.”

“For them or for me?”

“For you.” Johnny met Haggie's eyes. “It must be exhausting if you need a siesta.”

The old man was the first to look away. He shuffled his feet.

“The heat gets to me, that's all. It's not every day. How about a cuppa?”

Johnny followed him along the hall and down the steep stairs to a basement kitchen. The low ceiling didn't bother him.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Sixteen years.” The housekeeper filled the kettle and set it on what looked like a new gas stove. “It was my first job after leaving the army. Damn lucky to get it, I was. There's always a demand for religion – especially in hard times – and men of the cloth don't walk out on strike.”

“It can't pay much.”

“Enough to keep the tallyman from the door. Like a slice?”

Johnny, all too aware that he had skipped lunch, was eyeing the fruitcake on the dresser hungrily. “Please.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at the well-scrubbed table. “What sort of man was Mr Yapp?”

“He had a heart of gold. Do anything for anybody, he would.” Haggie set a generous piece of cake before him proudly.

“Thank you. Did he have many friends?”

“Everybody liked Graham.”

“Anybody in particular? I know he wasn't married.”

“Not that I know of. He didn't discuss such matters with me. You'd have to ask the others. The Church was his life – I don't know as he had much of a one outside it.”

“What did he do at St Paul's? I haven't a clue what a subchanter does.”

“Graham was an assistant to the precentor.”

“I'm still in the dark.”

“Go to church much, do you?”

“Not at all.” Saturday had been the first time he'd set foot inside a house of God since he'd followed a possible informant into St Bartholomew-the-Great in December.

“The precentor is responsible for the liturgy and all the music. He runs the choir as well.”

“Important man, then.”

“Very. Which is why he needs an assistant. I take it you're a non-believer?”

“I believe in some things, but the Holy Ghost isn't one of them. The idea of an all-seeing, omniscient old man who sits on a golden throne in heaven surrounded by trumpet-tooting angels and fluffy clouds is ridiculous. If he existed he'd have to be a sadistic bastard to allow so many of his children to suffer such agony, misery and deprivation. It sounds highfalutin, but I suppose what I believe in is truth and justice – or the fight for them, at least – and . . .” A tone of defiance crept into his voice. “I do believe in love.”

“God is love.” It was said sincerely. Johnny smiled.

“I'll stick with the more earthbound version, thanks. Religion is just a means of control, a con trick that promises jam tomorrow only if you put up with dry bread today.” He took a bite of the cake which, packed with raisins, was rich and moist. “Mmmm. Delicious. You certainly know how to bake.”

“The army teaches you a lot.” He got up, poured boiling water into an enormous brown teapot and returned to the table.

“Does the name Frederick Callingham mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand. Why?”

“He's the man who broke Mr Yapp's neck. He was a doctor.”

“I thought pill-pushers were supposed to save life, not take it.”

“It could have been a freak accident. From what you've told me, no one appeared to bear a grudge against him. Perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You can say that again.”

“D'you recognise this?”

The housekeeper studied the key. “I don't think it'll open anything here.” He took out a large key-ring from one of the dresser's drawers. “We've only got one Chubb lock and that's in the back-door. See . . .” He showed Johnny one of the keys on the ring. “They don't match.”

“Can we try it, all the same?”

“If you must – but you're wasting your time.” His knees cracked as he got to his feet. “Follow me.” He led Johnny down the dark passage to a door at the rear of the building. “Go on then, see if it fits.”

It didn't. Johnny was disappointed.

“What's on the other side?” Haggie, anticipating the question, had the correct key at the ready.

“Nosy blighter, aren't you?”

“Have to be, in my job.”

Johnny expected to see a postage stamp-sized yard containing nothing but a washing line. However, although a couple of table-cloths hung limply in the humid air, they were stretched across a common paved area, not more than eight feet wide, to which all the houses backing on to St Andrew's Hill had access. The angry horn of a tug-boat drifted up from the Thames.

“Is there any other way into here?”

“A passage leads to the church round the corner.”

Johnny, pushing the laundry on other lines aside, headed to where the housekeeper had pointed. A dog-legged path between high brick walls ran all the way to St Andrew's. The plain, rectangular church, designed by Wren, had attracted some attention the previous year after one of its three bells from Avenbury – which had only been installed in 1933 – had tolled all by itself when a rector of the Wiltshire parish had died. Johnny didn't believe in ghosts. He jumped as a single peal marked the half-hour.

The housekeeper stood waiting impatiently for him. “The tea will be stewed now.”

“I'm sorry. It's half-past three. I've got to be off.”

“Suit yourself.”

“When will the other residents be back?”

“Not till this evening. Dinner's at six.” He locked the door behind him and led Johnny up the stairs to the hall. Before the housekeeper reached the front door it opened. A sturdy young man, blond hair plastered to his forehead, sweat beading his upper lip, burst in.

“Ah, Haggie. I . . .” He stopped when he saw Johnny. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You didn't. I was just leaving.”

“This is John Steadman. He's a reporter from the
News
,” said Haggie.

“How do you do. I'm George Fewtrell.” He wiped his palm on his cassock before shaking hands. “Excuse me, but I must get on.” He headed for the stairs.

“I'm investigating the death of Father Yapp,” said Johnny. “What can you tell me about him?” The cleric turned to face him.

“Nothing that you probably don't already know. It's a tragedy. Graham will be sorely missed.” He resumed the climb.

“Well, if you think of anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem, I'll be back again this evening.”

“I'll look forward to it.”

Johnny doubted that very much. He thanked Haggie for the fruitcake. The dogsbody nodded a farewell and closed the door.

Johnny looked up at the flat-fronted house. No one could be seen at the open windows but he was sure he was being watched.

Why had the word
reporter
made the colour drain from Fewtrell's face?