The ring of spectators that was growing by the minute reluctantly parted to let him through. Forgetting, once again, where they were, they broke into an excited chatter. A look of exasperation flitted across Gillespie’s face. Would he have to close the cathedral?
Johnny, using shorthand, scribbled down a few details while they were still fresh in his memory – the exact location of the bodies, the appearance of the two corpses, their time of death – before hurrying down the north aisle and out of the door by All Souls Chapel.
It was like standing in front of a blast furnace. He squinted in the sunshine, blinded for a moment, then hurried down the steps which in the dazzling light appeared to be nothing more than a series of black-and-white parallel lines. It was so hot even the pigeons had sought the shade.
Should he wait for Stella or run with the story? He only hesitated for a moment. She was not expecting him to propose so would not be particularly disappointed. Besides, it would serve her right for being late yet again. She would guess what had happened when she saw the bloody aftermath where they were supposed to have rendezvoused.
As he made his way down Ludgate Hill, overtaking red-faced shoppers, he slipped off his jacket and slung it over his arm. He took off his hat and loosened his tie. It made little difference. Sweat trickled down his spine, made his shirt stick to the small of his back. He licked his top lip. He was glad the office was only five minutes away. He could see it in the distance, shimmering in the haze.
The newsroom was a sauna even though all the third-floor windows were flung wide open. The roar of traffic competed with the constant trilling of telephones and the machine-gun tat-a-tat of typewriters. Fans whirred uselessly on every desk. Any unanchored piece of paper would be sent waltzing to the floor. The sweet smell of ink from the presses on the ground floor and dozens of lit cigarettes failed to mask the odour of unwashed armpits.
Johnny checked his pigeonhole for any post, memos or telephone messages. There were several slips from the Hello Girls on the ground floor and two envelopes. Before he could open either of them, Gustav Patsel, the news editor, came waddling up to him.
“It is your day off, no? What are you doing here?”
Rumours that Patsel was going to jump ship – go to another newspaper, or goose-step back to his Fatherland – had so far proved annoyingly untrue. He made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Johnny’s recent promotion from junior to fully fledged reporter, but hadn’t had the guts to say anything to the editor, Victor Stone. Like most bullies he had a yellow belly. Johnny’s previous position remained unfilled. The management, trying to slow the soaring overheads, had ordered a temporary freeze on recruitment.
“Pencil” – as Patsel was mockingly known – considered Johnny disrespectful. He could never tell when he was being serious or insubordinately facetious. However, Steadman was too good a journalist to sack. His exposé of corruption within the City of London Police the previous Christmas was still talked about. Patsel couldn’t afford to lose any more staff from the crime desk – Bill Fox had retired in March – and furthermore he didn’t want Johnny working for the competition.
“I’ve got a story and I guarantee you no one else has got it – yet. A man’s just committed suicide in St Paul’s.”
“So what? Cowards kill themselves every day.”
“Only someone who doesn’t understand depression and despair would say that,” said Johnny, bristling. He held up his hand to stop the inevitable torrent of spluttering denial. “There’s more: he took someone with him. When he jumped from the Whispering Gallery he landed on a priest.”
“Ha!” The single syllable expressed both laughter and relief. Patsel’s eyes glittered behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses. “So much for the power of the Saviour. Has he been identified?”
“I know who the priest was, but the jumper didn’t have anything on him except his clothes. No money, no note, no photograph.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was there. I went through his pockets.”
Patsel was impressed – but he wasn’t about to show it.
“What?” Johnny could tell his boss was itching to say something.
“It is not important. Okay. Give me three hundred words – and try to get a name for the suicide.”
Johnny nodded. He had an hour and a half to develop the lead into a proper story. The copy deadline for the final edition was 5 p.m. There was a sports extra on a Saturday so that most of the match results could be included. He flopped down into Bill’s old chair and tipped back as far as he could go, just as his mentor had. Fox had taught him a great deal – in and out of the office. Although Johnny had no intention of following in the footsteps of the venal but essentially good-hearted hack, he had taken his desk when he left. It was by a window – not that it offered much of a view beyond the rain-streaked sooty tiles and rusting drainpipes in the light well at the core of the building.
“Stood you up, did she?” Louis Dimeo, the paper’s sports reporter, had slipped into the vacant seat at the desk opposite, which used to be Johnny’s. A grin lit up his dark, Italian features. Johnny was handsome enough but Louis, who spent most of his spare time kicking a ball or kissing girls, was in a different league – as he never stopped reminding him.
“Who?”
“Seeing more than one woman, are we? Surely you haven’t taken a leaf out of my book? Stella, of course.” They sometimes had a drink together after work – always with other colleagues, never alone – but Louis was too concerned about his physique to sink more than a couple of pints.
“An exclusive fell into my lap. Well, almost.” His telephone started ringing. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“It’s all under control. The stringers will soon be calling the copytakers.”
“Why aren’t you at a match?”
“I drew the short straw. Answer the bloody thing!” He sloped off back to his own desk.
“Steadman speaking.”
“You must know by now that leaving the scene of a crime is against the law.”
“So is suicide, but there’s not much you can do about it, is there?” He smiled. It was always good to hear from Matt.
“What did she say?”
“I haven’t asked her. She hadn’t turned up by the time I left. She was late, as usual.”
“Constable Watkiss tells me you spoke to Father Gillespie. As you’re no doubt aware, the man who jumped had no identification on him. We’ll be releasing an artist’s impression of him on Monday – if his wife hasn’t reported him missing by then.”
“How d’you know he was married? He wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“We don’t. I’m just hazarding a guess. His appearance doesn’t match that of anyone on our missing-persons list.”
“Is it okay for me to describe him in my piece? It might prompt someone to come forward.” Johnny held his breath.
“Yes – but I didn’t say that you could. Understood?”
“Of course. Thank you. Have you informed Yapp’s next of kin yet?”
“We’re trying to find out who that is. He was unmarried. Your piece might prove doubly useful.”
“I aim to please. Fancy a drink later?”
“Aren’t you going to see Stella?”
“Why can’t I see both of you?”
“I thought you had something to ask her.”
“I still want to do it in St Paul’s. I’m not going to let what happened stop me.” Some might have chosen to see the accident as an ill omen – but not him. He refused to believe in such nonsense.
“Very well. I’ll be on duty till eight p.m. If I’m not in the Rolling Barrel, I’ll be in the Viaduct.” Matt hung up before he could say anything else.
Instead of replacing the receiver, Johnny dialled the number of The Cock. He knew it off by heart.
“Hello, Mrs Bennion. It’s Johnny. Is Stella there?”
“I’ve told you before: call me Dolly. I thought she was seeing you
today.”
“We were due to meet this afternoon but I had to come in to the office. I assumed she’d be back home by now. Perhaps she’s gone shopping.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” She lowered her voice. “Did you see Stella last night?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since Thursday. Why?”
“She told us that she was going to visit a friend in Brighton and since she didn’t have to go to work the next day she would spend the night there. Her father took some persuading. He thought you were behind it!”
“Alas, no.” Should he have said that? “So you haven’t heard from her since yesterday?”
“Not a dicky bird.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll turn up any minute now.”
“I hope so.” She did not sound convinced. Johnny had said the wrong thing: telling people not to worry just served to raise their concern. It was like the dentist, drill in hand, telling you to relax: the very word made you tense up in anticipation of pain.
“I know so. Give my regards to Mr Bennion.”
“I will. He’s having his afternoon nap before the doors open again.” Johnny cursed himself silently. He had probably just woken up his prospective father-inlaw, who already suspected him of whisking off his daughter for a prolonged bout of seaside sex. Now that was inauspicious.
He replaced the receiver and stuck his face in front of the desk-fan. The back of it, which contained the tiny motor, was too hot to touch. The place would probably be cooler if all the fans were turned off.
He should have waited for Stella. What if she hadn’t gone to St Paul’s? Perhaps she had not meant to be late. Something – something bad – could have happened. He crushed the thought. Maybe the beach and the sea breezes had proved too much of a temptation and she had decided to spend the entire weekend away from the stifling City. He wouldn’t blame her if she had.
Stella had never mentioned a pal who lived in Brighton. He’d assumed he’d been introduced to all her friends by now: she’d certainly been introduced to all of his. He enjoyed showing her off, being told that he’d done well for himself, batting away such envious remarks as “Lost her white stick, has she?” Then again, if he had chosen well, so had she. Stella held his heart in her hands. She knew she could count on him.
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.
Chapter Three
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 ge
t 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.
The Whispering Gallery Page 2