The Whispering Gallery (24 page)

“I have catholic tastes and I believe in beauty.” Bravard grinned, fully aware of the ghastly effect it had on the spectator. “I know you're stalling – hoping for a rescue that will never come – but I've got all night. You appreciate something far more, Johnny, once it has gone for ever. I also believe in pleasure – and pain.”

“Pain is meaningless.”

“I intend to change your mind. As you'll find out, the anticipation of it increases the agony.”

“I still don't understand why you're doing all this. Why the women? What had they done to you? Why me? Why now?”

“There is no why,” whispered Bravard. “Why do I look like this when I was doing my bit for King and Country? Why should you go from strength to strength, bringing down policemen, politicians and prostitutes? Why should you have lots of women and not have to pay for them? Why you and not me?
Why
is an empty word.
Because
carries more weight. Because cruelty is all there is. Because this country is finished. Five years from now it will be changed, changed utterly. Because I'm leaving for Helvetia. Because I wanted to make a grand parting gesture to show the contempt I feel for Britain and the Empire. Because I was bored. Because I was lonely. Because I could. Because . . .”

A metal clank made both of them jump.

“Move an inch and I'll slice one of your eyeballs into confetti.”

He darted out of the cell and into the darkness. Johnny realised he couldn't move even if he had wanted to. For the first time in his life – just when it was about to end – he fully understood what being paralysed with fear meant.

The buzzing that had been in the background all along suddenly got louder. It was as if someone had turned up the volume on a badly tuned wireless. Great clouds of flies – bloated bluebottles and glinting green-bottles – disturbed by the unseen Bravard and attracted by the candlelight, swarmed round them.

Simkins's look of disgust and despair brought Johnny to his senses. He undid the rest of the buckles that bound Simkins to the operating table. As soon as his hands were free, Simkins pointed at a tray of surgical instruments. Johnny selected a large scalpel. Simkins palmed it but made no attempt to get off the table.

A scream, the like of which neither man had ever heard, rent the foetid air. So the woman had been alive. Bravard, afraid that she might be making a feeble attempt to escape, was merely tying up a loose end. For one foolish moment Johnny had hoped the police had found the entrance to the torture chamber. Half unhinged by the whole experience, he tried not to cry. He didn't want to die.

Bravard, re-entering the cell, stopped in mock surprise then, in a moment of bizarre hilarity, started to sing. “Oh dear, what can the matter be? Johnny and Henry are locked in the laboratory
.
” He giggled at his rewording of the playground song.

Simkins, summoning up what little strength he had left, stuck the scalpel into Bravard's bare thigh as far as it would go. He gasped and – with just the hint of a grimace; was he high on something? – began to extricate the blade.

“You've no idea how much you'll regret that,” hissed Bravard. “I had finished with you, Simkins, but your futile gesture has made a further procedure necessary. Afterwards you won't be able to stick your nose in other people's business again.” Turning to re-tie the restraints that had strapped Simkins to the table he realised that all of them had been undone. “What the . . .?”

It was now or never.

The jar of what Johnny hoped was ethanol smashed at Bravard's feet. The candle seemed to take an age as it flew end over end through the foul air. For a sickening second nothing happened, then the amateur surgeon was engulfed in fire. The make-up on his face melted rapidly and added purple and green to the flames. His mouth gaped in a silent scream.

Johnny helped Simkins to his feet. Unable to stand unaided, he put his arm round Johnny's shoulders. Bravard lurched towards them, a surgical saw in his upraised hand.

The bullet came out of nowhere and blew him into the air. Blood and bone exploded in a brown mist. Shattered specimen jars added their fuel to the fire. Bravard landed on the two naked men who fell together to the ground. The flames from the human torch licked their flesh. They screamed in agony until unconsciousness finally claimed them.

An aroma of roasted meat filled the underground abattoir. DC Penterell couldn't help himself. He wiped his mouth.

“Sorry, sir.”

Inspector Woodling had seen many horrors in his career but even he was momentarily silenced. He stared at the scene of carnage, mentally logging every detail. There was no doubt about it: this was one for the memoirs.

Saturday, 17th July, 2.30 p.m.

It bucketed down the next day – St Swithin's Day – and as usual a special service was held in St Swithin, London Stone on Cannon Street. Wren's octagonal dome, from the outside at least, was almost as beautiful as that of St Paul's. It rained the following day as well but as the weekend dawned the skies slowly cleared and the much-needed forty days and nights of rain failed to materialise. Once again the myth bore little resemblance to reality. Even so the capital's citizens went about their business with renewed vigour. They did not miss the heat: such high temperatures just weren't British. Johnny's spirits lifted too.

He had been released from St Bartholomew's Hospital the day before. The burns on his back, although painful, had proved to be superficial. Cracked ribs or not, he had still been forced to lie on his stomach.

The first person he saw when he opened his eyes was Matt.

“Boy or girl?” His voice was croaky. He let Matt hold a glass of water to his lips.

“A girl. Eight pounds four ounces.” He glowed with paternal pride.

“Congratulations.”

“You bloody idiot. Did you really think you could handle Bravard by yourself?”

“I had no choice.” Revealing that he had been blackmailed would only cause further trouble.

“Woodling saved your life – and Simkins's.”

“When did they start tailing me again?”

Matt tried not to grin. “They never stopped. Fortunately for you, we're rather better at it than your Keystone colleagues.”

“Inskip must be very pleased with himself. He's very chummy with Simkins. He's still in my sights.”

“Sometimes it's better to just let it go. No one can set the world to rights by themselves.”

For the second time in a minute Johnny held his tongue.

Peter Quarles was his next visitor. After apologising for his own incompetence and that of Dimeo and Tanfield – “the traffic was murder” – he sat patiently beside the bed while Johnny dictated his account of the previous night's events. The fact that Bravard had operated literally beneath the noses and feet of playing schoolchildren made it all the more horrific. The police had recovered the remains of five women – so far. Had they been loved and missed? Would they be mourned? If there were families and friends they would no doubt think about the manner of their deaths every day for the rest of their lives. Had the women been prostitutes or just poor souls like Helena Nudd, whose only crime had been to want a little company? Had they been motivated by money, pity or desire? If at all possible, he intended to find out.

“Four front pages in a week, Johnny, well done.”

“I trust Captain Vic is satisfied.”

“He sends his best wishes and said not to worry about the medical bills.”

“I wasn't.”

Stella was his third visitor. “You needn't have bothered.”

“I only had to come across the road.”

Their green eyes met. Johnny saw regret in hers; she saw hurt in his. Perhaps it was delayed shock, perhaps it was the final realisation that whatever had been between them had evaporated. Henceforth they would be strangers. He watched her walk out of the ward dry-eyed.

The Callinghams, having seen the
News
on Friday morning, were his final visitors.

“Did you push old Gillespie then?” Daniel leaned forward eagerly.

“No, I didn't.”

“Pity. I hope he didn't die straightaway.”

“Daniel!” His mother glared at him. “Thank you for rescuing him, Mr Steadman.” She tried to stroke her son's hair but he turned his head away. How much had he told her? Would she ever reconcile herself to his true nature?

“Does it hurt?” The boy was studying his bandaged back.

“Like hell.”

“Come along, Daniel. We mustn't outstay our welcome.”

“We've just arrived, Mama!”

“Thank you once again for your discretion, Mr Steadman. Believe me, it's greatly appreciated.”

“Look after your mother, Daniel. You're the man of the house now.”

“I suppose I am.”

Johnny suspected that the death of the boy's lover had eclipsed that of his disapproving father. It was unrealistic to expect a fifteen-year-old to grieve for two people at the same. He held out his hand. The boy took it straightaway.

“Remember that your father loved you very much.”

“It's true, Daniel.”

Johnny expected the mother to start crying but, having regained mastery of herself, she retained her composure. In their own way, women were stronger than men.

“Well, he had a funny way of showing it.”

Simkins, having fallen on top of Johnny, had come off far worse than him. Bravard, of course, was dead, but the blackmailer would live. Before leaving the ward on the day of his discharge, Johnny stopped by Simkins's bed.

“How are you?”

“I'll survive – thanks to you. There's no sign of septicaemia. It seems Bravard really did want me to live to tell the tale.”

“I've already done it.”

“So I hear. I owe you, Steadman. I've been an absolute bounder. You might as well know that two of Cecil Zick's former bum-boys attacked you last week. Zick will never forgive you for closing down his brothel. He had you followed as soon as he returned from Paris. As for the lovely picture of your friend – I should feel guilty for using it to my advantage, but I don't. However, I am grateful to you for trying to rescue me. You – and only you – will receive the photograph this afternoon. I presume you'll be at the office.”

“Where else would I be?”

“That makes two of us. Work is all that's left to me now.”

“You'll have the sympathy of every man in Fleet Street.”

“It won't stop them making jokes, though. Who'd have thought my balls would one day be evidence in a murder case?”

“From what I saw, they'll make a very small contribution. Anyway, look on the bright side: George Bernard Shaw said losing one's libido is like being unchained from a runaway horse.”

There was a poster advertising
Saratoga
, starring Clark Gable and Jean Harlow, on the platform at London Bridge. Harlow had died before it was in the can but MGM had somehow managed to complete the movie without her. Money always found a way. Perhaps he would take Millie to see it – she had popped in to see him on the ward whenever she could – so it could be his way of saying thank you. Horse racing, though, bored the pants off him – maybe it would bore the pants off her too.

Harlow's chaotic personal life still intrigued him. It might be a good idea to put
Friends and Lovers
in his bottom drawer – for Matt's sake as well as his – and concentrate on the real world of facts instead of seeking refuge in fantasy. Real life was far more interesting than make-believe.

The photograph, as promised, had been delivered to the office by messenger. The large sealed envelope had contained no accompanying note or apology. Johnny had taken the picture home and, having stared at it for longer than he should, burned it in the kitchen sink. As Matt had said: “Just let it go.”

He got off the train at Bexleyheath – no one could accuse him of not learning from experience – and strolled south, past fields of buttercups, to Izane Road. Everyone – including both sets of grandparents – was in the back garden. All the roses were now in bloom: none of them were as beautiful as Lizzie.

The proud parents with their newborn babe formed a scene worthy of a picture postcard – one that Johnny would have been glad to receive. Two weeks ago he would have sworn that a wife and child were all he wanted. Now he was not so sure. Could he settle for second best? He had never been good at compromise.

“Lila Mae, this is your Uncle Johnny.” Lizzie placed the baby – which looked like every other baby he had ever seen – in his cradled arms. Tiny, pink fingers, with perfect, tiny nails, closed automatically round her father's massive forefinger.

“We'd like you to be a godfather,” said Matt, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready to renounce the devil and all his works?”

Johnny, bracing himself, gazed into Matt's sky-blue eyes.

“I think so,” he said.

The following four books were of particular use in my research:

Wilde's Last Stand: Decadence, Conspiracy & the First World War
by Philip Hoare (Duckworth, 1997)

The Thirties: An Intimate History
by Juliet Gardiner (HarperPress, 2010)

We Danced All Night: A Social History of Britain Between the Wars
by Martin Pugh (Bodley Head, 2008)

Islington's Cinemas & Film Studios
by Chris Draper (Islington Libraries)

Mark Sanderson
is a journalist. Since 1999 he has written the Literary Life column in the
Sunday Telegraph
and he reviews crime fiction for the
Evening Standard
. His memoir,
Wrong Rooms
, a moving account of his relationship with his partner who died from skin cancer, was published in 2002 to wide-spread critical acclaim. Melvyn Bragg described it as “one of the most moving I have ever read”. This is his second novel featuring reporter John Steadman and policeman Matt Turner.

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