The Whispering Gallery (9 page)

He stared after Stella as she weaved her way through the milling lawyers, clerks and secretaries. She was an evil witch who, with no need of a magic wand, had made his future vanish –
poof! –
in the midday sun. Nevertheless, Johnny loved her.

He needed a drink. No, make that several drinks. What had he done wrong? It was not like her to be so evasive. He clenched his fists in frustration. Until he knew what the problem was, he couldn't work out a solution.

Few people realised that a romantic soul lurked behind his cynical façade. He believed that love, if strong enough, could find a way out of any predicament. At the moment, though, he was groping in the dark.

The hot flagstones beneath his feet felt like trapdoors that might open at any moment. Knowing that the Tipperary would be full of colleagues slaking their thirsts for beer and gossip, he trudged on a little further to the King and Keys, where he was more likely to be left alone.

The pub was packed with jacketless hacks, most of whom worked for the
Daily Telegraph
. Even so, this didn't stop them dropping their fag-ends in other men's beer – or punching anyone for the slightest perceived offence.

Johnny pushed his way through to the back where an open door afforded a splendid view of a poky yard piled high with empty barrels and sun-bleached crates. The yellow flowers of London rocket stood out against the soot-blackened wall.

He ordered a double Scotch. Before he could pay the apple-cheeked landlord a familiar voice made his heart sink.

“Allow me.” For once his trademark scent of sandal-wood provided welcome respite from the odour of a hundred sticky armpits.

“Hello, Henry.” He picked up his glass and emptied it.

“Interesting choice of headgear. It suits you. Makes you look like a wounded powder monkey.”

“Don't patronise me. I'm not in the mood.” Simkins smiled benevolently. “Another? You look as if you need it.”

“That's very kind of you. It won't loosen my tongue, though.”

“Spoilsport.” He ruffled the carrot-coloured hair not covered by bandages. Johnny bridled: only Matt was allowed to do that. “Don't you want to tell me what happened?”

“There's nothing to tell. I was attacked and left for dead. You can read all about it after five o'clock.” He had to be careful. Simkins still had time to get something in the
Chronicle
.

“Any arrests?”

“No.”

“So you don't know who your attackers were?”

“It's flattering that you think there was more than one. Did you pay a couple of thugs to silence the only man to interview Callingham's grieving widow?”

“If I had, you wouldn't be standing here now. Besides, as you well know, it was a wild goose chase. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem.”

“Namely?”

“A ghastly accident.”

“Perhaps.”

Simkins raised a well-groomed eyebrow. “Are you suggesting there have been developments?”

“Wait and see.”

“The coroner's released both bodies.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“So?”

Johnny wasn't going to give his rival a head start by suggesting a connection between the two dead men and the attack, or the attack and the postcards – even if the latter only existed in the mind of Gustav Patsel.

“So, I've got other things on my mind.”

“Such as?”

“Private matters.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Simkins tossed his chestnut mane. “Girl trouble.” He sounded disappointed. “You should try the boys instead. They're much less complicated. Oh, but of course, you already have.”

Johnny refused to rise to the bait. He lit another cigarette. He waved at the landlord.

“My turn. What are you drinking?”

“Amontillado.”

“Sherry? In this weather!”

“Archie keeps a bottle in his fridge for me. The Spanish drink it chilled. You should try it.”

“No, thanks. What are you doing here, Henry?”

“Seeing a friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I very much doubt it. Perhaps you'll meet him on Friday. I trust you're still coming.”

“I suppose so.” He had never felt less sociable. On such occasions he was more confident with Stella on his arm. Crowds were more fun when you were part of a couple.

“I guarantee you'll never have seen anything like it.”

“Will I know any of the guests?”

“Most assuredly.” Simkins smiled into his drink. “There's at least one person looking forward to making your reacquaintance.”

He didn't feel like eating and he didn't feel like going back to the office, so he had another Scotch and brooded. He wasn't going to let Stella finish with him without a fight. At the very least she owed him an explanation.

He was more than squiffy by the time he staggered outside into Fleet Street, where the lunchtime crush had finally subsided. A lorry loaded with giant rolls of news-print was holding up the traffic as it manoeuvred into a position that would allow it to reverse into Bouverie Street. The driver must have been a rookie: most deliverymen approached the presses from Tudor Street where they could line up outside the glassworks. Impatient passengers on an open-topped double-decker shouted out instructions and immediately received a volley of abuse in reply. A white-gloved copper marched towards the jam.

Johnny ambled towards Ludgate Circus where he managed to hail a cab. The breeze from the open window cooled his hot skin. Already the alcohol was oozing from his pores. Sometimes he yearned to be away from the racket and rowdiness of the capital – but not for long. He didn't feel safe surrounded by green fields. Smoke was in his blood.

The doors of The Cock were bolted. Johnny kept banging on them till they opened.

“Bloody hell!” Bennion stood there with his arms folded across his broad chest. “What happened to you?”

“Attacked last night. Don't know who by. Don't know why. Can I have a drink?”

“Haven't you had enough?”

“Nowhere near. Still standing, aren't I?”

“Come in.” Johnny followed him to the bar. Bennion fetched him a Scotch.

“Thank you.”

“She's told you then?”

“Told me what? She won't tell me a damn thing. I've already asked her what's going on twice today: once on the telephone and once in person. She couldn't get away from me fast enough. I don't understand what I've done.”

“Nothing, dearie.” Dolly appeared from behind her husband, who, only too glad to defer to his missus, went upstairs for his afternoon nap. Years of listening to hard-luck stories had failed to equip him with the skills required to deal with affairs of the heart. It was all he could do to offer meaningless platitudes. Women were better at that sort of thing.

“It's not your fault,” continued Dolly. “She'll tell you when she's good and ready. She's got herself into a right old pickle and hasn't decided what to do yet. As soon as she has, I'm sure she'll tell you.”

“I was going to ask her to marry me.” The lump in his throat made it impossible to say any more.

“Come here.” She put her fat arms around him and pressed him to her breast. Johnny gritted his teeth. For once the pain felt good. “You have been in the wars, haven't you? She couldn't have chosen a worse moment.”

Johnny knew he was drunk. His whole body, including his heart, ached. He stifled his sobs. Dolly kept holding him and, in her turn, felt herself filling up at the thought of losing yet another prospective son-in-law. She really liked this one. There was something different about him. She had given up lecturing Stella: her beautiful daughter was a law unto herself. Besides, she only listened to her father – and he was not a man of many words. Each of them, in their own way, had spoiled her. Johnny would not be the last suitor to face the distressing consequences.

“I'm all right now.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand shame-facedly. “May I use the telephone?”

“Of course. You know where it is. How about a cup of tea?”

“Thank you.” He followed Dolly round the end of the bar. She bustled into the kitchen; he went down the hall.

“I was wondering where you'd got to,” said PDQ. “Patsel, the sadistic bugger, loved your piece.”

“I've been interviewing a couple of people.” Technically, it wasn't a lie. “I'm not feeling too good. Last night has finally caught up with me. Okay if I take the rest of the afternoon off?”

“I suppose so. If anyone asks I'll say you're following a lead. Call me if you don't think you'll make it in tomorrow.”

“No danger. I just need a good night's sleep. Thanks, Pete.”

Johnny replaced the receiver. His sense of relief was all too brief. He picked up the notepad that lay beside the Bakelite telephone. Someone – it wasn't Stella's handwriting – had jotted down the number of the
Daily News
. He tore off the page and put it in his pocket.

He had converted one of the pits into a makeshift mortuary. Half a dozen lanterns cast a flickering light over the human abattoir. He was completely unaffected by the eye-watering stench. Mustard gas had destroyed his sense of smell – and so much else – in France.

The mutilated body of his latest victim, the siren of Skinner Street as he liked to think of her, lay on a blood-stained operating table. His timing had been perfect, exploding with a groan as she had finally given up the ghost. Extreme unction, indeed.

As he sliced round the right breast, cutting through gland-tissue, fibrous tissue and fatty tissue, he reflected that his time studying medicine at St Thomas's – until he had been asked to leave after a “misunderstanding” with a nurse – had not been entirely wasted. The ligament of Cooper had always amused him, not that he could identify it now. Sir Astley Cooper's only claim to fame had literally made him a bit of a tit.

If everything went according to plan, he was going to be remembered for rather more.

Johnny alighted from the tram at Islington Green where mothers with prams, tramps with grog-blossoms and unemployed men with nothing to do were taking advantage of the shade provided by the giant plane trees. He bought some bread, cheese and tomatoes in St Peter's Street then walked round the corner to his flat in Cruden Street. A bottle of milk was still on the doorstep.

Having dumped his purchases on the kitchen table, he opened the sash window, then put the kettle on. As soon as he opened the milk he could tell it was off: it had curdled in the sun. He couldn't be bothered to go and get some more so he took a cup of black tea up to his bedroom.

Although the room appeared as tidy as usual, he could tell that someone had been through his belongings. Watkiss must have taken the opportunity to have a snoop around. Johnny owned little worth stealing – apart from his mother's jewellery – but, as far as he was concerned, his journal was priceless – and, instead of where he had left it, on his bedside table, it was lying open on his bed.

It was too much to hope that Watkiss had been unable to decipher his handwriting. He should have devised a code like Samuel Pepys. The young, red-blooded copper must have wanted him to know that he had read it, and if he had read the entries relating to last December, it would explain his animosity towards him that morning. Johnny didn't care what he thought. However, the prospect of him relaying what he had read to Matt made his blood run cold.

When Johnny had started his journal on his twenty-first birthday in 1927 he had promised himself that he would always tell the truth and nothing but the truth. The vow proved far more difficult to maintain than expected. It was easier to be honest with others rather than yourself.

There were times when he was ashamed of his behaviour, embarrassed by his emotions and annoyed at his perceived weaknesses, but he reckoned it was precisely these passages that would provide his children with the most entertainment if not edification. His aim was full-blown biography, a warts-and-all portrait of a common man, not breathless hagiography.

His investigation into corruption at Snow Hill police station had led him to a homosexual brothel where he had discovered an unexpected – and certainly un acknowledged – part of himself. While interviewing an attentive male whore he had found himself, much to his horror, becoming aroused. Furthermore, a photograph of Matt, naked and unconscious in the arms of another man, had made a deep impression on him. He had tried to erase it from his memory without success. The moment when he had finally faced up to his feelings and written about them had made him both proud and ashamed.

Johnny rarely re-read what he had written in his journal – it invariably stirred up a welter of emotions – but he forced himself to find the incriminating passage:

No wonder Watkiss had been so antagonistic towards him. However, would he – could he? – tell his superior officer that he was guilty of invading his closest friend's privacy? Perhaps the knowledge that he would only get himself into trouble had increased his frustration and revulsion.

One of the reasons Johnny had started to write
Friends and Lovers
was to explore these feelings that were deep yet taboo. Where did the boundary between friendship and physical attraction begin to blur? Did they have to be mutually exclusive? He didn't think so: it was impossible to be friends with someone you didn't like the look of. His alibi, should it ever be published, would be that it was only fiction, a sustained exercise in unbridled imagination. If D.H. Lawrence, the son of a Nottinghamshire coal miner, could explore this territory, then so could he.