The Whispering Gallery

Chapter Six

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.

“Hello, Johnny!” Lois, a suicide blonde old enough to be his mother, winked at him. “When are you taking me out for that drink you’re always promising me?”

“The next time I get jilted.”

“And what, may I ask, d’you think you’re doing?”

Johnny jumped. He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He turned round. The basilisk eyes of Doreen Roos locked on to his. “Mr Steadman, I might have known it was you. You know very well that reporters are not allowed in here.”

“As you can see, I haven’t actually crossed the threshold.”

The supervisor tut-tutted in irritation. “Why can’t you phone down, like everyone else?”

“I was in a hurry.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” She stood aside to let him pass.

“Bye, Johnny!”

“Bye, girls. I’ll bring back some lollies.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” said Mrs Roos. Food was strictly forbidden in the exchange.

Johnny slung his jacket over his shoulder and, with a nod of sympathy to the doorman sweating in his long coat and peaked cap, went out into the swirling heat and noise of Fleet Street. No one wanted to walk in such oppressive weather. It took him five minutes to find a cab. The breeze coming through the open windows as it trundled up Ludgate Hill – St Paul’s straight ahead – provided scant relief.

He got out of the taxi across the road from The Cock and entered the courtyard of the hospital by St Bartholomew-the-Less. A father fondly watched his child playing in the fountain at the centre. Such scenes moved Johnny. Would a father’s love have made him turn out differently?

It was cool in the basement. A tunnel connected the main block to the mortuary at the back. Before it was built, the dead would have been wheeled across the courtyard with only a sheet to protect them from prying eyes.

As he approached the double-doors of the morgue the pungent smell of disinfectant grew stronger. Johnny peeped through one of the round windows and saw the back of the duty pathologist, bending over the naked body of an old man. Hughes, his assistant, looked up and blanched. He said something to his superior, pulled a curtain round the dissecting table, and, with a scowl, came out to join Johnny.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I was hoping I’d seen the last of you.” Hughes tossed his lank, greasy hair away from his face and wiped his bloody hands on his apron. “What you want?”

“Don’t be like that. Haven’t you missed me just a teensy-weensy bit?”

“No.”

“I bet you missed my money, though.” Johnny nodded towards the pathologist. “Does he know about your little sideline?”

Hughes ignored the question.

“I haven’t got all day.”

“Be like that then. I just came by to thank you for your little gift.” Johnny studied the lugubrious thug carefully.

“Dunno what yer talkin” about.”

“So you’re not short of a woman’s arm? Nothing’s gone missing recently?”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Someone sent me the forearm of a woman this morning.”

Hughes curled his lip – in amusement rather than distaste. “Well, it weren’t me.”

“Sure about that?”

“Sure as eggs is eggs.”

“OK. I believe you.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing? It’s sick.”

Johnny suspected the attendant was no stranger to midnight perversions. “Indeed. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Hughes – get back here this minute!” The pathologist rapped on the door and glared through the porthole. Whatever he held in the palm of his hand dripped on to the black-and-white tiled floor.

“I assume I can count on your discretion,” said Johnny. “I don’t want anyone else stealing my thunder.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. And if I hear anything about missing body parts, I’ll give you a bell.”

“Thank you. I’ll be more than generous.”

The butcher’s boy slipped through the doors and disappeared behind the green curtain that hid the outspread, opened corpse.

Johnny blinked as he re-emerged into the sunshine. A dust devil made him sneeze. He’d never get away with taking another cab – the top brass were enforcing one of their periodic clamp-downs on expenses – so he would have to walk.

As he emerged from the shade of the gate-house into West Smithfield he saw an instantly recognisable figure in the distance. He immediately turned on his heels and dived into St Bartholomew-the-Less. Had he been seen?

The church was empty: no one – not even an anxious parent, bereaved lover or just a lost soul – was seeking succour from above at this moment. He entered a pew, knelt on a battered hassock and lowered his head as if in prayer. The phrase whited sepulchre came to mind.

Johnny licked the sweat off his upper lip and waited. It was so quiet he imagined he could hear his heart beating. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunbeams. A plaque on the wall stated that Inigo Jones had been christened here in 1573. A few seconds later Matt’s heavy footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the covered gateway.

The police had clearly got their act together – assuming Matt was here to enquire about any missing pieces of a human jigsaw. And why else would he be here, in person? He had sounded so busy on the telephone. The fact that both uniformed and plain-clothed officers were already involved suggested they were taking the case seriously. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have stayed in the office. His guilt at disobeying his friend was now mixed with relief that he had not bumped into him – literally. It would not have been a pleasant encounter.

Johnny got to his feet and re-entered the real world. At the end of Little Britain he crossed Aldersgate Street and cut through Falcon Square where John Jasper stayed in The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The public house that gave its name to the square was still shut up. Johnny licked his dry lips: a swift half would have just hit the spot.

Addle Street eventually gave way to Aldermanbury. The police station, home to A Division, came into view on the corner of Fore Street and Moor Lane.

When he saw who was standing on the steps outside he broke into a run.

Chapter Seven

“Pipped at the post once again, dear boy. Never mind. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Henry Simkins, sleek and cool in a linen suit, looked the new arrival up and down with amusement.

Johnny was aware how hot and dishevelled he must be. As he caught his breath he inspected the smart, well-to-do lady waiting beside his rival. In spite of the heat she was dressed all in black. Her red-rimmed eyes suggested she had been crying.

“Mrs Callingham. How d’you do? I’m John Steadman.” He touched his hat and held out his hand. Ignoring it, she turned to Simkins in confusion.

“Ha, ha, ha, Simkins! Don’t try and deceive this poor woman,” said Simkins. “She’s been through quite enough as it is.” His eyes shone with mischief as he watched Johnny’s already red face get redder.

“Mrs Callingham, this unscrupulous toff is in fact Henry Simkins from the Chronicle.”

Simkins laughed and shook his bare head. His chestnut curls gleamed in the sunlight. They were so long they almost touched his narrow shoulders.

“If you don’t admit who you are this minute I’ll knock the damn truth out of you.” Johnny clenched his fists. He turned to the widow they were fighting over. She must have been about forty years of age. Her almost oriental eyes exuded misery. “This man is an impostor. He wasn’t with your husband when he died. Has he shown you any identification?”

“Leave her alone, Simkins,” said Simkins. “You’re adding to her distress.” He put an arm round her shoulders and tried to shepherd her away. “I must say, Simkins, I find your joke in somewhat poor taste.”

Johnny showed the woman his press card. She studied his photograph.

“It certainly looks like you.” Simkins laughed.

“Where’s yours?”

“I have no need for such fripperies,” sighed Simkins. “Anyone can fake them. Shame on you, Simkins, for trying to dupe this grieving widow.”

Johnny remembered the slip of paper that Father Gillespie had passed on to him. It was worth a go. He retrieved it from the back of his notebook.

“If I wasn’t with your husband, how did I get this?” He thrust it towards her. Simkins read out the proclamation – I love you daddy – and tried to snatch it, but Johnny was too quick for him. “Oh no you don’t, you bastard.”

Mrs Callingham gasped at the coarse epithet.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. D’you recognise it?”

“Yes, yes I do.” Tears sprang into her eyes once more. “Freddie kept it in his wallet. Daniel gave it to him when he was four – he’s fifteen now.”

Simkins knew the game was up. Before either of them could shower him with recriminations – or worse – he made off towards London Wall.

“See you Friday evening, Steadman. You’ll have a ball, I promise!”

As if he could trust any promise Simkins made. Johnny assumed he must have been invited to the Cave of the Golden Calf as well.

“So you really are Mr Steadman?” She returned the lace handkerchief she was clutching to her handbag. They finally shook hands. “Why was that gentleman pretending to be you?”

“He was intending to hijack your story. Simkins has the morals of a snake. He must have inherited them from his father, who’s a Tory member of parliament.”

“And he chooses to write for the yellow press?” She blushed, realising what she had said. “Excuse me. I meant no offence.”

“None taken.” Johnny was used to being held in low esteem – at least in certain quarters.

“How did he know I wanted to see you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not the only one with connections at Snow Hill. Money loosens most tongues and he’s not averse to using his own to do it. After all, he’s not short of a bob or two.”

They were impeding the constant stream of foot traffic that flowed in and out of the police station.

“We can’t talk properly here. Fancy a cup of tea?”

They walked down to Moorfields and found a café opposite Moorgate Street station. The sound of slamming doors and whistles reached their table through the open windows. Once the harassed waitress had taken their order – Johnny, having skipped breakfast, was starving – Mrs Callingham launched into what was clearly a pre-prepared speech.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr Steadman, for being there on Saturday. I know you tried your best to help Freddie. If it weren’t for you I’d probably still be tearing my hair out at home.” Her immaculate coiffure gave no sign of being disturbed.

“Call me Johnny.” He waited for her to reveal her own Christian name. She remained silent. He produced his notebook. “Cynthia is your first name, isn’t it?”

“Is it relevant?”

“I can’t keep referring to you as Mrs Callingham in the interview.”

“There isn’t going to be an interview. I merely wanted to express my deep gratitude and find out if Freddie had said anything apart from ‘I’m sorry’.”

“No, he didn’t. Any idea what he was apologising for?”

“I presume it was for injuring the other man. I do hope he didn’t know that he’d gone and killed him.”

“Why don’t you want me to write anything further?”

“I’ve got Daniel to think of. He’s just lost his father. The last thing he needs is a pack of newshounds chasing after him. We require privacy now, not publicity.” A minute ago she’d been grateful for the attention he had created.

“How is your son?”

She looked at him as if it were a stupid question.

“Awfully upset. What did you expect? Daniel’s a very private child, though. He doesn’t talk about his feelings. It’s even an effort to get him to tell me what’s going on at school.”

“Which school is that?”

“St Paul’s.”

Johnny’s antennae quivered. “Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Not really. The school is in Hammersmith.”

“It used to be next-door to the cathedral.”

“That was years ago.”

“OK. Have you any idea why your husband was in St Paul’s?”

“None at all.” She waited until the waitress had uncere moniously deposited two cups of tea and a bacon sandwich in front of them. Johnny tucked in straightaway. It gave him time to think. He swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and went on the attack.

“Why did he kill himself?”

“He didn’t!” Her eyes welled up. “He wouldn’t! He’d never do such a thing. He was a religious man. He was a devoted father. Freddie was not the type to deliberately leave us in the lurch.”

“You haven’t found a note then?” He couldn’t see a doctor, no matter how desperate, scribbling Dearest dear . . .

“No.” She pressed her thin lips together firmly. Suicide was a crime – just attempting it could land you in prison. Was she so anxious to avoid the social stigma that she preferred to think her husband may have been murdered?

“So you’re suggesting he was pushed?”

It was theoretically possible. Although he hadn’t seen anyone do it, someone could have hidden at the top of the stairs and shot out at an opportune moment to shove Callingham in the back. Surely though – with all those necks craned upwards to admire the dome – someone would have spotted them?

“Not at all. Most likely it was a terrible accident. He must have tripped and fallen over the railings.” That was a precise choice of word. Most people would have said “banister” or “balustrade”.Had she been there at the time? Perhaps she had already visited the crime scene.

“Then why was there nothing – and I mean absolutely nothing – in his pockets?”

“There was this –” She held up her infant son’s loving message. Johnny, concluding that he no longer had any use for it, had let the widow keep the childhood relic.

“It was found in the collection box. Why would he voluntarily give away such a cherished memento, unless he knew he was going to die?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps someone else put it there.”

“Who? Did anyone hold a grudge against your husband?”

“He was a doctor. Doctors don’t have enemies.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Any of his patients die recently? The bereaved, in their grief, are prone to suspect foul play or gross incompetence.”

“My husband was a very good doctor and a very popular man. I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on his character.” She made as if to get up from the table.

“Please wait, Mrs Callingham. I’m sorry. Writing about crime day in and day out tends to make you think the worst of people. You and I are on the same side. We both want to know exactly what happened on Saturday, but we never will unless we continue to talk.” He fished for the key that Gillespie had given him. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Somewhat mollified, she held out her hand for the key. She examined it with interest.

“No, I haven’t. It wouldn’t fit any of the locks in our house. Where did you find it?”

“It was in the same collection box.”

She looked up. “That’s as maybe, but I can assure you it did not belong to Freddie.”

“Perhaps your son might recognise it.”

“Why would he?” She sighed. “If you wish, I’ll ask him this evening.”

“I’d prefer to ask him myself.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Why? It would be in your presence.”

“I don’t want you coming anywhere near our home.”

Johnny chose not to be insulted. “Where do you live?” Seeing her hesitate, he added: “I can easily find out. Your husband will be listed in the Medical Register.”

“Number 21 Ranelagh Avenue, SW6.”

Johnny knew his GPO codes. The Callinghams lived in Barnes.

“Was your husband’s practice there?”

“Indeed. Two rooms and a lavatory on the ground floor. The separate entrance made it ideal.”

“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.”