The Whispering Gallery (2 page)

A woman screamed. A sickening crack echoed off the Portland stone. Tourists scattered across the black-and-white chequered marble. Johnny turned and, instinctively going against the flow of fleeing sightseers, moved closer to the centre of the action.

The jumper had fluked a soft landing but was surely dead. Black blood seeped from his head. Johnny knelt down and, using his fore and middle fingers, felt for a pulse behind the man's ear. To his amazement, he detected a faint beat. He rolled him off the unfortunate clergyman he had landed on. It was too late: the corpulent priest resembled a beetle crushed by a callous schoolboy. He lay face down, his limbs and neck splayed at crazy angles. There was a hole in the sole of his left shoe.

Johnny, feeling nauseous, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. If he had stood his ground for just a few seconds more it could have been him lying broken on the floor. Perhaps there was a god after all.

The suicide opened his eyes. The escaping blood had created a sticky halo round his head. His lips moved. Johnny bent down to hear what the beanpole was trying to say.

“I'm sorry. I . . .” His eyelids fluttered.

“What's your name?” asked Johnny, already thinking of the piece he was going to write. He felt in vain for a pulse. The wretch was wearing a black suit of good quality. It was as if he had dressed up for the occasion. Johnny went through the man's pockets. That was odd – they were completely empty. There was no wallet or loose change, no keys, not even a handkerchief.

“Can you believe it? He's robbing the poor guy!” An American, flushed with indignation, pointed a pudgy finger at Johnny. The rubberneckers, reassured that it had not started raining men, had slowly gathered round to get a closer look. The circle tightened round him.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm trying to find out who he is. Why don't you make yourself useful and go and find someone in authority?”

“There's no need.” A middle-aged man in a dog collar gently cut through the crowd. Beady eyes took in the scene. They showed no sign of shock or grief. Countless funerals – in Britain and in France during the Great War – had inured him to death. “Please stand back.” He was plainly accustomed to being obeyed.

“Is he one of yours?” Johnny nodded at the flattened priest.

“And you are . . .?”

“John Steadman,
Daily News
.”

“Ah.” The gimlet eyes bore into him. “Mr Yapp was a member of our chapter. I presume he's beyond our help?”

“Indeed. My deepest condolences.”

The clergyman searched for but could not detect a note of insincerity. “I'm Father Gillespie, Deacon of St Paul's.”

“How d'you do.” They shook hands. Johnny reached into his pocket and flipped open the notebook with its miniature pencil held in a tiny leather loop. It went everywhere with him. “What were Mr Yapp's Christian names?”

“Graham and Basil. He was proud to share his initials with Great Britain.”

“Thank you. I don't suppose you know who the other man is? It seems he jumped from the Whispering Gallery.”

“He wouldn't be the first to have done so.” The deacon sighed and lowered his voice. “And doubtless won't be the last.” The eavesdroppers craned their necks. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stand back. This is a house of God, not a freak show.”

“The police will have to be informed.”

“The call is being made as we speak.”

Johnny was impressed. “That was quick.” It wouldn't take long for the Snow Hill mob to get here. He handed Father Gillespie a business card. “May I telephone you later?”

“Of course. But what's the hurry? You're an eyewitness. The police will want to talk to you.”

“Actually, I'm not. I didn't see the man jump. For all I know, he could have been pushed. However, by all means tell the cops I was here. They know where to find me.”

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.