The Whispering Gallery (12 page)

He took a cab to Copenhagen Street. The driver's shock at his potential fare's appearance – and initial impulse to put his foot down and leave him standing on the street – had evaporated at the sight of the ten-shilling note. It never ceased to amaze him what so little money could achieve. On the other hand, the thought of what his life would have been like had his parents not been well-heeled terrified him. He was the most fortunate unfortunate alive.

He sat back on the cool leather seat and hid behind his newspaper. Steadman had finally started to take him seriously. The slightly mocking tone of the article, as if challenging him to reveal himself, was irritating though. All in good time. The game was going to be played by his rules or not at all. And he would most certainly win.

He had chosen the Copenhagen because it catered for those who did not wish to be dazzled by the bright lights of Upper Street and the Holloway Road. The former shop was a local cinema for local people. Prices were lower, and the audiences poorer, which would make his offer seem all the more generous. He checked the hypodermic in his pocket: better sure than sorry.

The main feature was a local product too. Its title –
Dr Syn
– had tickled his fancy. However, as George Arliss pretended – unconvincingly – to be a presumed-dead pirate pretending to be the vicar of Dymchurch, his interest in the tale of eighteenth-century smugglers on the coast of Kent gradually dwindled until it couldn't even be aroused by the haughty looks of Margaret Lockwood. His concentration wasn't helped by the fact that each time someone went outside to the lavatory daylight flooded the screen.

He switched his attention to the late afternoon audience. The advantage of sitting in the back row on the left meant that he could survey the whole house and if any lovers, coming up for air, cast their eyes in his direction they only saw his good side. There! She looked a suitable patient. He waited for another burst of sunlight. Yes, she would more than do.

The thought of speeding her through the darkness, away from the long arm of the law, to treat her however he wanted made the blood surge through his veins. She would soon become his own buried treasure.

“Thanks. I thought you'd forgotten all about me.” Matt set down his spade and reached for the mug of tea.

“Hardly. Sorry about Monday. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“It's not the first time you've gone against me and, more than likely, won't be the last.” He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. “How're you feeling?”

“As if I've gone a full fifteen rounds with you.” Johnny held up his hand. “Don't say it. I know I wouldn't last one round.”

“There's different ways to win a fight. Fancy foot-work can be just as important as brute strength. Lord knows, you run rings round me sometimes – or rather, you try to.”

Johnny wasn't sure about his feet but he did believe his wits were quicker than Matt's – most of the time anyway.

“Thanks for helping me out yesterday.”

“If you'd really been on your deathbed I'd have come myself. Watkiss do as he was told?”

“Yes, I think so.” Would Matt have asked the PC to search for his novel? “Did he say anything when he got back to the station?”

“Nothing of note. He just said you'd been discharged and gave me back your door-key. Why?”

“It doesn't matter.” Now was not the time to raise the spectre of Christmas Past. At least, he hoped it wasn't. He gazed round the back garden. “I'd every intention of getting stuck in. I feel like I've let you down.”

“Don't worry – as you can see, I'm making good progress. Having four brothers does have its compensations.”

A large area had already been dug over and staked out in preparation for a lawn, and more roses had been planted by the open French window that led off the dining room.

“I received another parcel today. A female breast.”

“How lovely! Perhaps the other one will turn up tomorrow. You get more for a pair.” Matt ran his hand through his damp hair and sighed in disgust. “That's enough to turn anyone green. Don't mention it to Lizzie.”

“As if I would!”

“Well, I'm just saying – she's got a lot on her plate. You weren't supposed to get another one: they were monitoring your post.”

“I know. Thanks for telling me.”

“There was no point. I knew it would be a waste of time. If the first one was hand-delivered then the second one would probably be too. That's why they put a man on Hereflete House.”

“It wasn't delivered to the
News
. It was left on my doorstep.”

“Woodling must have been furious.” Matt grinned at the thought. “I trust you waited for the detective this time.”

“Indeed. I'd hardly replaced the receiver when Stenhouse turned up. Why is this case being taken so seriously when a body hasn't even turned up yet?”

Matt looked him in the eye. “You're not the only one who's received a postcard.”

“Does the handwriting match?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell me before?”

“I wanted to tell you in person rather than on the telephone.”

“Why?”

“It was a picture of St Rufus. The message on the back said:
John Steadman, scribbler on the
Daily News
, will be dead by midnight on Sunday, 1st August.
”

The message was – in both senses of the word – a sentence of death. Above them swifts continued their aerial manoeuvres. Johnny listened to their screams as they chased their prey. He felt Matt's eyes upon him. It was ironic: he had set off here contemplating suicide, only to be told that his death had already been announced.

“It'll be all right,” said Matt. “You've always been a cat with nine lives.”

“Used most of them up though, haven't I?” He stared at his feet in embarrassment. “I'm really glad you told me. Rufus means ‘red-haired' in Latin. Whoever it is must have seen me in real life: my by-line photograph is, of course, black-and-white. This is going to make a sensational story.” He could see Patsel's eyes lighting up at the prospect of such copy – and being rid of his most troublesome reporter.

Matt forced the spade deeper into the earth. “Come on. I need a breather.”

He led the way over the dusty soil to a couple of green-and-white striped deckchairs that, according to the legend branded on their frames, had once been the property of Southend Borough Council. Johnny glanced over to the kitchen window, but there was no sign of Lizzie.

“You going to take your shirt off as well?”

“Not today.”

“It's not like you to be shy.”

“The last thing I need is sunburn. I'm already black and blue.”

“Let's see.”

Johnny undid the buttons. “Ouch! Whoever it was meant business. Looks like they knew what they were doing.”

“What d'you mean?”

“They wanted to cause you the maximum amount of pain with the minimum amount of risk.”

“So they weren't trying to kill me. Just giving me a taste of what was to come?”

The warm air felt good on his bare skin so he left his shirt off. He moved his deckchair into the lengthening shade.

“Perhaps.”

“At least I now know why Penterell was so convinced there was a personal angle to the case. So who was the postcard addressed to?”

“Commander Inskip.”

“He must have thought Christmas had come early.”

“Perhaps – but he couldn't just sit on his hands and wait for Santa Claus. The first parcel proved the threat was a real one. Now you know why I was so angry that you'd waltzed off with the widow.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.” He doubted that his absence had made any difference, but wisely refrained from saying so. “I suppose it's just as well Stella's gone off with another man. There are too many widows as it is.” Johnny was gratified to see that Matt appeared genuinely shocked.

“She turned you down then?”

“I never got the chance to ask her. She's been off with me ever since she came back from Brighton – if she ever went there.”

Matt scratched the side of his head. “I thought she was better than that.”

“She was always too good for me.”

“Bollocks! You're too good for her. What're you going to do now?”

“I'm going to demand a proper explanation. I've only seen her for about a minute this week.”

“How're you going to do that?”

“
Cherchez l'homme
– I'm going to find the bugger, even if it means shadowing her. I want to know what he looks like. In fact, I've got to find two other men as well: the man who's going to kill me, and George Fewtrell.”

“I won't waste my breath advising you to leave it to the professionals, but just remember – us coppers mount man-hunts all the time.”

“What about woman-hunts? Have you any idea who the arm belonged to?”

“Not yet. All the pathologist would say was that it probably came from a woman under the age of thirty. The breast – if it came from the same person – may provide further information. I visited the mortuaries at Moor Lane and Bart's myself and drew a blank both times. Every hospital, every morgue and every under-taker's in the capital has been checked. Nothing's gone missing.”

“What about missing persons?”

“We're compiling a list of potential victims.”

“How many are on it so far?”

“More than forty women.”

“That many?”

“That's just in the past six months.”

“The arm and breast can't be that old. They hadn't been embalmed.”

“No – but if someone is abducting women they may have started before this week.”

“There haven't been any reports of mutilated corpses, have there?”

“None that haven't been accounted for. Of course, most people on the list won't be dead. Women go missing for all sorts of reasons. A husband who's too handy with his fists, an over-protective father, an unwanted admirer, an unwanted pregnancy, angry creditors . . . Most of them turn up alive, if not well. It's easier to change your name than change your life. Without money, you can never be free.”

“Which is why there will always be those who jump into the Thames.”

Matt shook his head. “Being dead is not the same thing as being free.” He looked into Johnny's eyes, daring him to disagree. Johnny bit his lip. “Anyway, who's this George Fewtrell?”

“He's one of the God-botherers who lived with Graham Yapp – the bloke who got crushed in St Paul's. I was chasing him when I was set upon.”

“Do you really think a man of the cloth would lead you like a sacrificial lamb to slaughter?”

“There has to be a connection. I don't believe in coincidences.”

“A coincidence is merely the moment when preparation meets opportunity.” Matt was quoting one of Johnny's pet refrains.

“So you do listen to me sometimes!”

Matt's laughter – a joyful, almost girlish, sound that immediately raised one's spirits – came out of nowhere.

“Let's have a beer.” After the first swig he cadged a cigarette off Johnny – making sure, like a guilty schoolboy behind the bike shed, that Miss didn't catch him. “I sometimes think it would be easier to give up booze as well as fags, but there's no way I'm going to do that.”

Lizzie made Matt have a bath – and Johnny put his shirt on – before they ate. While Matt was upstairs Johnny asked her:

“D'you think it's unreasonable to expect to be loved for the person you are?”

“Unrealistic, perhaps, but not unreasonable. You should be loved for the things you do as much as for what you are. Why d'you ask?”

“Just before Winnie Verloc stabs her husband in
The Secret Agent
, Conrad says that the pornographer had made the mistake of assuming he was loved for simply being himself. I've always found that a devastating indictment. It might explain why I'm still unmarried.”

“In one way Stella could be said to have done you a favour. She's broken your rose-tinted spectacles. You have to be clear-eyed about the person you're going to spend the rest of your life with.” She plucked a sprig of mint from a bunch that she'd bought and added it to the pan of Jersey potatoes bubbling on the stove. “I can't wait to pick my own herbs from the garden.”

“So you have no regrets?”

“Plenty – but not about Matt. I regret having to give up work. I regret losing my independence. I regret having to ask my parents for help.”

The doctor and his wife, both insufferable snobs, were of the opinion that their daughter had married beneath her – but, fortunately for her, that didn't stop them supplementing her husband's wages. Matt's hard-won promotion to sergeant had gone some way towards salving his wounded pride.

“So you're glad you moved?”

“Absolutely. Don't think you've avoided the guided tour. I'll show you round later.”

“And the baby?”

She turned from buttering the bread to face him. “Is it that obvious?”

“No. You're not the only one who knows their friends. You will regain your figure. I will be able to put my arms round your waist again one day.”

“Those days are over – for both of us.” She shook her black bob. “It's not that. D'you really think I'm that empty-headed? I've always wanted to give Matt the children he longs for – he'll be an excellent father – but I don't want to be
just
a new mother. I'm determined to be the same old Lizzie – even if I am carrying a babe-in-arms. And the sooner it chooses to arrive, the better.”

Matt, his scrubbed skin golden-pink, came into the kitchen. The incongruous scent of Camay, the
white, pure soap for women
, competed with the aromas of frying eggs and gammon. He put his arms round his wife and kissed her on the neck. Johnny, in spite of himself, felt a stab of jealousy.

After the meal, the men returned to the deckchairs to have another beer. The sun was slowly sinking into a sea of orange and mauve. When he asked if Lizzie needed any help in clearing up, she threw a tea-towel at him.

“I must say you're taking the news remarkably calmly,” said Matt, smoking one of Johnny's cigarettes.

“What else can I do? I haven't got the energy to run around screaming blue murder.”

“There may come a point when you'll be taken into custody for your own safety.”

“They can try. I haven't broken any laws. It would look like the police were trying to muzzle the press.”

“Inskip is unlikely to offer you any other form of protection – you know, officers posted outside your home and the
News
. He can't spare the manpower. It's not easy tracing missing people.”

“I don't want protecting. It would cramp my style too much – as would mooching round a City copshop or being cooped up in some anonymous location in the suburbs. I intend to find the assassin before he finds me – again.”

“The second parcel – and a second potential victim – will only increase the pressure on Inskip. Sooner or later he'll be forced to go public – to warn everyone and to ask for assistance.”

Johnny decided this was not the moment to mention the article that would hit the streets the next day.

“So come on, Johnny – what have you said about it?”

There were times when Johnny swore that Matt could read his mind.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

Matt sighed. “Been stirring up a hornets” nest as usual?”

“Penterell was less than helpful on the telephone. I suggested that he was stonewalling – probably because there was nothing of interest to report.”

“You're no doubt right. It's early days yet. I'll do my best to keep you in the picture.”

“I know you will. And I'll do my best to stay alive.”

“That's very good of you.” He ruffled Johnny's hair. “Okay if I stay over on Saturday?”

“Of course.” It would be reassuring to have Matt under his roof. “Won't Lizzie want you here though?”

“The in-laws are coming for the weekend. You know how much Lizzie's mother likes me. The disappointment drips off her. Our Summer Fair is the perfect excuse. Come along, if you want to. The new Artillery Ground, Bunhill Fields from two p.m. It's all in a good cause.”

“Yes – good publicity for the boys in blue. God knows they need it.”

“The kids will have a ball. There'll be swings and roundabouts, a coconut shy, ice-cream, dogs, horses, a tug-of-war and one of the new gun-cars.”

A recent spate of smash-and-grab raids by armed men had prompted the introduction of special vehicles with holes in the windows that allowed officers to shoot while remaining in relative safety behind the doors.

“Will Watkiss be in the pillory?”

“That could be arranged. Want to throw a sponge at him?”

“The book, more like.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing much except . . .”

“Except what?” Forewarned was forearmed. “Well, someone – it might not have been him – has been reading my journal.”

“Any particular date.”

“No.”

“Well, that's something. Watkiss is a good lad but, if he starts dropping hints that he's been prying into our personal lives, I'll drop him.”

Johnny didn't doubt it.

A bat, as if dangled on a string, fluttered through the dusk. Here and there lights came on in the new homes: yellow oblongs in the black. Warbling voices emanated from an unseen wireless. There was life here after all.

One of the rosebushes was already in full bloom. Its musky scent percolated the still night air. Johnny sniffed. The smell was familiar.

“A housewarming present from my father,” said Matt. “All he does nowadays is tend his roses. Says he doesn't miss the force at all. They're called Beauty.”