“Will you stay, or are you planning to move?”
“It’s far too early to say. Daniel’s unsettled enough as it is.”
“Did your husband have life assurance?”
“Is impertinence another concomitant of the job?” The narrow eyes glared at him. “You think I pushed Freddie over the edge?”
“You wouldn’t be the first wife who valued money more than their spouse’s life – but no, I don’t suspect you of murder. Are you the sole beneficiary?”
“Daniel will receive his share when he’s twenty-one – not that it’s any business of yours.”
Johnny tried again. “I really would like to meet him.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid. Term ends this week, then he’s off to France for a fortnight on a cultural exchange organised by the school.”
“He still wants to go?”
“Why wouldn’t he? It will do him good.”
“Do you have any other children?”
“No.” She turned away from him and stared out of the window. A coal wagon rattled past. No matter how high the temperature people still needed hot water. He waited for her to say what was on her mind. “We did have a daughter, but she died sixteen years ago. Scarlet fever. Freddie did everything he could but the infection just kept on spreading.”
“I’m sorry.” His sister’s premature death would have made Daniel, their only son, even more precious. No wonder his mother was so protective of him. “Was your husband particularly religious before your daughter died?”
“He didn’t turn to God afterwards, if that’s what you mean. We’ve always gone to church once a week.”
“Which one?”
“St Mary’s in Church Street. It’s only a short walk away.”
“I’m still puzzled why a religious man would choose to kill himself in a house of God.”
“I told you: he didn’t!”
“Just humour me for a moment. What were his views on suicide?”
“Freddie was a man of science rather than superstition. He saw a lot of suffering in his work and did his best to relieve it. He said there was nothing noble about suffering. It was quite meaningless. He disapproved of those who seemed to take pleasure in wallowing in Christ’s agony on the cross. He found it sadistic and distasteful.” Johnny couldn’t have agreed more. “He was a good man and he did his best to help others. He valued life too much to take his own: suicide went against everything he stood for.”
“Who did he see when he needed a doctor himself?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Perhaps he had discovered that he was terminally ill and wanted to spare you the pain of watching him die inch by inch. Believe me, there’s nothing worse. It is agonising for both parties. My mother succumbed to bone cancer – eventually . . .” A lump came into his throat. Lack of sleep was making him emotional. The older he became the more his memory ambushed him.
“You have my condolences – and my assurance that Freddie was fit as a fiddle.”
“He didn’t appear so on Saturday. He was gaunt, thin as a rake and, at a guess, in mental turmoil. When was the last time you saw him?”
“It was around eleven, I think. He said he was going to visit a patient in Mortlake.”
“Did he give a name?”
“No.”
“What time did he say he’d be back?”
“He didn’t.” Her cup of tea remained untouched. “I can’t believe I’ll never see him again. The thought of being alone for the rest of my life is terrifying. Are you married?”
“Not yet. As a matter of fact, I was going to go down on bended knee on Saturday.”
“You’re like my Freddie: always putting work first.”
“I didn’t have much choice. Please don’t take this as further impertinence, but you’re an attractive lady. I’m sure, in time, you’ll meet someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else! I want Freddie back.” She burst into tears. Johnny remained silent. Sometimes words were useless.
When she had calmed down again the widow got to her feet, her anger still simmering. “Thank you for being there for my husband. Please leave us alone to grieve. I’m not familiar with the Daily News but I have no wish to provide entertainment for its readers. Freddie took The Times. Goodbye.”
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.
Chapter Eight
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 cal
l, 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.
Chapter Nine
The Whispering Gallery Page 6