The Whispering Gallery

“About what?”

“Ain’t no one called you?”

“No, not in connection with Stella.”

“That ain’t right. What’s she playing at?”

“I wish I knew. Where is she?”

“Still in Brighton. She’s decided to stay on for an extra day. According to her friend, she’s having a whale of a time.”

“Friend?”

“The person who called.” Dolly sounded as if she’d realised she had said too much.

“Was it a man or a woman?”

Dolly hesitated. Johnny let the silence build.

“A man. At least I think it was a man . . .”

“Did he give a name?”

“No. I was so pleased to get some news, I didn’t ask. This heat’s making me even dafter than usual. We’ll most likely get all the details when she comes home tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So you don’t want me to speak to the police?”

“There’s no need. Ah, the brewery’s arrived. I’ll say one thing for this summer – it ain’t half giving folk a thirst. Bye, Johnny. I’ll get Stella to call you as soon as she gets back.”

He sat at his desk, nonplussed, staring into space. His initial relief and gratitude that Stella was all right gradually gave way to disquiet and irritation. Why hadn’t this mystery man called him? Stella must know he’d be going out of his mind. Why hadn’t she called her parents and the bank herself? And why weren’t her parents more concerned about the stranger who was apparently keeping their daughter company? No doubt they would interrogate her when she eventually returned home. In the meantime, though, it was unlike Stella to be so thoughtless. Something wasn’t right. What was she hiding?

A large pot-belly blocked his view.

“What’s this about a rotten bit of woman?” Patsel mopped his brow. There were already two dark circles under the arms of his starched shirt.

“Help yourself.” Johnny nodded at the box that was still on his desk. His boss didn’t need a second invitation. He lifted the lid with all the glee of a child opening a present on Christmas Day. What he found seemed to fill him with both disgust and delight.

“Have you any inkling of who this once belonged to?”

“I’m not a clairvoyant. What d’you want me to do? Read her palm?”

“Ha ha! You are joking, yes?”

“Sort of. Why would I – how could I – know who this woman was?”

“I’m sure you know lots of painted ladies.” Patsel’s lips curled as he surveyed the bloated fingers. Johnny’s colourful sexual history had long since earned him the nickname “Stage Door”.

“Nail polish isn’t a sign of moral degeneracy – at least, it isn’t in this country.”

“Why send flowers to you?” Patsel picked up the card and read out the quotation. “Rabindrath Tagore.”

“How on earth d’you know that?” Johnny was seriously impressed. He would never have guessed that Patsel read Indian poetry.

“It is on a tea-towel in my wife’s kitchen.”

“I see.” Johnny was relieved that the German’s philistine reputation remained intact. He had no wish to start respecting him. “I’m as mystified by this as you are. However, I believe the same person also sent me this.” He retrieved the postcard of Saint Anastasia from the drawer in front of him.

“Beauty is not in the face,” recited Patsel in a singsong voice. “Beauty is a light in the heart.” He gave a snort that befitted his porcine features. “Pure schmaltz. Still, let us hope you receive soon another gift.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Johnny. “Why on earth would you want someone else to be mutilated?”

“This is a godsend, no? A great story has been handed you on a plate – or rather in a box. You need to track down the rest of the body and identify it.”

“The police are on their way. They want a statement from me. Meanwhile, my item on the jumper at St Paul’s has produced a widow. I’m going to see her later this morning.”

“Sehr gut. Well done, Mr Steadman. Keep me informed.” The German’s eyes continued their inspection of the newsroom. “Mr Dimeo! Feet off the desk, please!”

Johnny wrapped up the box, stowed it under his desk, then – glad to put some distance between himself and the unwanted gift – went over to where all the newspapers of the day were displayed on giant book-rests. He always kept an eye on what his rivals were up to: Simkins, for example, in the Chronicle, was exposing, with characteristic relish, a Tory MP’s penchant for nudist holidays. The article would no doubt induce another fit of apoplexy in his long-suffering father, the Honourable Member for Orpington (Conservative). Good.

As he flicked through the pages, ink smearing his fingers, his mind returned to the gruesome delivery. There was one person who did have easy access to body parts: Percy Hughes. The unprepossessing young man, one of Johnny’s secret informants, was an assistant in the mortuary of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Johnny still suffered an occasional nightmare in which he was trapped in one of the morgue’s refrigerators while Hughes played with the corpse of his mother.

It was half past eight already – and there was still no sign of the police. If he left the office now he could call on Hughes before he went to Moor Lane police station. It was tempting. The arm would stay put, but Mrs Callingham wouldn’t. He didn’t want to miss her – somebody else might get to her first.

Instinct told him there was more to the story than a freak accident. Besides, from the crime desk’s point of view two dead men took precedence over a single unidentified body part. Matt would be more than displeased, but what did he expect him to do? Sit here twiddling his thumbs? He had waited half an hour – well, almost. Johnny grabbed his jacket.

The lift door opened to reveal a towering police constable and an equally tall man in a dark suit. Johnny had not set eyes on either of them before.

“The newsroom is to your right gentleman,” said the lift-boy. Johnny, avoiding their gaze, stood aside to let the two men pass. He didn’t breathe out until the concer-tina door was closed again. The boy just stared at him.

“What are you waiting for? Get me out of here.”

“Been naughty, have we? Don’t you like bluebottles or red roses?”

“Mind your own business.”

“You do know they’re here to see you?”

“Indeed. I’ll catch up with them later. Don’t worry, I’ll see that you don’t get into trouble.”

The youth, who would be quite good-looking once his acne had cleared up, sniffed.

“Ta very much – but don’t go out on a limb for me.”

Chapter Six (#ulink_96adc0ac-eccc-535f-8a8e-fd8ab43164e8)

Johnny, pushing his luck, stuck his head round the door of the switchboard room. It was stifling. A dozen young women, plugging and unplugging cables, intoned “Daily News, good morning”, “One moment, please” and “Connecting you now.”

“I’ll be out of the office for a couple of hours, girls.” He was answered by a chorus of wolf-whistles and cat-calls.