The Whispering Gallery (19 page)

He had forgotten that he'd been strictly forbidden to reveal the identities of those he'd interviewed and had consequently only jotted down their Christian names. He wasn't thinking clearly. He was still reeling from Stella's news.

He didn't feel like returning to his empty house just yet. The words spoken that morning – in love, anger and dismay – would still be hanging in the air. All he had to look forward to was the Torquemada crossword in the
Observer
.

The increasing activity of the office would at least provide some kind of company. Besides, he ought to get Mrs Turquand a box of chocolates by way of an apology and there was nowhere open at this time on a Sunday afternoon. He stayed put and flicked through the day's papers that were strewn round the newsroom.

George Gershwin was on his deathbed in Hollywood. The thirty-eight-year-old musical genius had a brain tumour: another of God's sick jokes. Many of the songs he had written with his brother Ira were listed, including “Summertime”, “I Got Rhythm” and “The Man I Love”.

Johnny shifted uncomfortably. He did love Matt – but not in
that
way. Not really. And even if he did: what was the point in loving someone you could never have? As usual, Matt had been right: it was better not to say anything, to pretend the moment had never happened, to ignore the whispers of the subconscious mind.

Simkins had been up to his old tricks again. The Minister for Colonial Affairs – or “Colonic Affairs” according to the sniggering caption of the revealing photograph – had been caught in flagrante delicto with a male prostitute. His resignation was expected to be tendered tomorrow. Johnny admired him for not giving in to blackmail. Another blow for the terrible Tories. Simkins Senior must be so proud of his iconoclastic son.

Johnny looked at the photograph again. His heart skipped a beat. He had been in that very same room. He had been in the very same bed – it had been the only way he could interview the very same boy. It was not going to be easy to leave the past behind.

Monday, 12th July, 8.20 a.m.

Tanfield tossed aside the morning edition with a childish pout.

“Seems I missed all the excitement yesterday. You could have called me. I'd have been glad to help.”

“I'm sure Mummy and Daddy would have objected to having their dear Timmy torn from their loving embrace on a Sunday.”

“Only someone with no family life would say that. I hate Sundays. They seem to last twice as long in Wimbledon.”

“You're not the only one who misses work. Time crawls in Islington too.”

Johnny had spent the evening writing his journal. Heartbreak and murder made for great copy. He doubted he would ever have so much to write about a single twenty-four-hour period again. Sunday's events had also provided plenty of inspiration for the plot of
Friends and Lovers
.

Like Alice before him, he could escape from reality by passing through the looking-glass. His alter ego could make Stella's surrogate cry with joy – “Oh yes, yes! I will be your wife!” – and nine months later produce a beautiful, bouncing boy. Dimeo's counterpart, meanwhile, could be crushed – slowly, horribly, agonisingly – under the wheels of a packed rush-hour tram. Johnny glanced over to the sports desk. Dimeo, perched like a praying mantis, was typing away and ostentatiously whistling “A Nice Cup of Tea”.

Johnny was so busy giving the lothario the evil eye he didn't notice Tanfield studying the notes he had made the day before.

“Of course,
bravard
means ‘a cruel man' in French.”

“Does it?”

“
Certainement, mon ami
.”

“In that case, I'll excuse your impertinent snooping.” Johnny picked up the phone. Matt was out making inquiries so he asked to be put through to the Detective Squad instead.

“Inspector Woodling is currently unavailable. May I help you?”

“That depends, DC Penterell. Can you spell?”

“Have you noticed how Steadman rhymes with dead man?”

“The initial letters of the images on the postcards – A, B, V, R, A, R, J and D – can be re-arranged to spell the name J. Bravard.”

“We're aware of that.” Johnny waited for him to give Matt the credit but wasn't surprised when he didn't. The plain-clothes pack were all glory hounds.

“Are you also aware that
bravard
means ‘a cruel man' in French? Perhaps it's a
nom de guerre
.”

“Indeed.” The detective sounded excited. “There are six Bravards in the telephone directory but none of them has the initial J. Hello . . .” The ungrateful cur had hung up.

As soon as he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang. “I always knew you were a basket case.”

“Good morning, Henry. I suppose congratulations are in order. Why does spreading misery fill you with bliss?”

“Since when have you been on the side of the Tories?”

“Never have been, never will be. I don't like to see a good man destroyed in print though.”

“Good? The old bugger was breaking the law.”

“Something you've never done, of course.”

“That would be telling. As a matter of fact, I've got oodles of things to tell you – and something to give you. Let's have a celebratory lunch – on my expenses, naturally. Should we say the usual place at one p.m.?”

“Very well.”

The meal would provide Simkins with plenty of opportunities to gloat but, knowing him, he must be after something else as well. What though? Johnny was sick of freaks bearing gifts.

The white-coated waiter – his face a solemn mask which allowed him to pretend he was not eavesdropping on the conversation – placed the Tanqueray gins, a bottle of tonic water and a bowl of nuts on the occasional table between the leather wing-back armchairs and glided back to the bar.

“So what d'you want then?” said Johnny.

Simkins stared at the cloud-painted ceiling and sighed. “Why should I desire anything other than to spend time with an esteemed friend and colleague?”

“We've never been friends and you know it.”

“That's not my fault.”

“Do you feel good, having claimed another ministerial scalp?”

“Cloud nine doesn't come close. It took me months of hard work. I deserve it. The man was a hypocrite.”

“Only because the law didn't allow him to be his true self.”

“It was his politics I loathed, not his bedtime frolics.”

“The photograph was taken at Zick's brothel, wasn't it?”

“I did wonder if you'd notice. Bring back pleasant memories, did it?”

“Hardly. How much did you pay the boy?”

“Not a penny. Zick arranged it all. I haven't the foggiest who the boy is. He was a mere – now what's the
mot juste
? – tool. Ha!”

“Why wait till now to produce it?”

“I only received it on Friday.”

“Is Zick back in town, or has his shutterbug finally crawled out of the woodwork?”

“Timney? I've no idea where he is – of course, we know where his son Charlie is, don't we? Six feet under. You put him there.”

Johnny refused to be goaded. He hadn't torched the bookshop in which the boy had burned to death.

“Didn't you recognise Zick?” Simkins smirked. “I must say, Cecil was delighted to see you again.” He grinned at Johnny's confusion. “Walter Apthorp? You were so polite to him. It was priceless. You really are a prize ass!” His braying laughter shattered the venerable hush. “I do love the way you blush.”

“Fuck off! I only ever saw him dragged up as Cecilia. Matt will be very interested to learn he's back on his patch. He's never forgiven him for attacking his wife.”

“Too late! He'll be back in the City of Light by now.”

“Then he'll arrest you for aiding a fugitive.”

“I don't think so, Johnny. Zick gave me something else.” He handed over the stiff-backed Manila envelope. Johnny opened it. His heart sank. He had seen the image before: Matt, naked and unconscious, in the arms of an equally naked, unidentifiable man. Before he could tear it up, Simkins snatched it off him. “Just imagine the trouble this could cause if it were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“It already has.”

“Not necessarily. There is a way to make it vanish.”

“I'm all ears.”

He couldn't have the so-and-so arrested for the possession of indecent material because the contents of the photograph would rapidly become public. His prime objective had to be to protect Matt. The shame and humiliation that he had worked so hard to forget would destroy him if it became common knowledge. For all that Matt's colleagues might suspect he had been molested there had, until now, been no proof.

“Your barmy butcher story has captured the public's imagination. It's done wonders for your circulation, whereas the
Chronicle
's is falling. My exclusive yesterday might have slowed the rot but I need another coup to arrest the decline and regain my reputation as the best newshound in London. I want you to give me the story.”

“How can I? It's me he wants to kill.”

“True. But I plan to save you from his evil clutches. Give me everything you've got and I'll do my best to see he's caught. Of course, if I fail, you won't be around to regret it. However, I'd prefer you to be there to see me revel in my success.”

Johnny drained his glass. He wasn't going to let the bastard steal his story.

“Another?”

“No.”

Simkins beckoned the barman anyway.

Johnny got to his feet. “I'll send over all my research this afternoon. I think I know the name the killer is using.”

Now it was Simkins who was surprised. “Crikey! You have been a busy boy. You must think the world of Turner to be prepared to sacrifice such a scoop. Then again, he is a very handsome man . . .”

“I expect you to protect my identity. Your source must remain anonymous. I'll be sacked if they find out I've helped you.”

“Don't you worry – you're not the only one with connections in the police. Shall we proceed to the dining room?”

Johnny shook his head in disbelief. The urge to wipe the smirk off the bastard's face, to scream abuse at him, was becoming irresistible. He bit his tongue and walked out of the club.

“You owe me. I gave you what you wanted. Can you imagine how hard it was, having to wait outside when I knew exactly what was going on?”

“It was a small price to pay for protection. Who else would have allowed you to keep your job?”

“I did as I was told. Steadman isn't going to let it drop. He's determined to find out what happened. I could go to the police.”

“Who are they more likely to believe? Me or you? Do you want to go to prison? You'd never see him again.”

“I can't go on like this. It stops now. Leave us alone.”

“Or what? If I can't have him, neither can you.” The younger of the two men wiped away a tear, then, catching his tormentor off guard, leapt at his scrawny throat.

If Johnny could have kicked his own backside, he would have done so. He had brought this upon himself by failing to recognise Cecil Zick. The pimp had escaped justice again, while he now found himself trapped – and the worst part was that he couldn't talk to Matt about it.

How could he possibly trust Simkins? He might have several copies of the photograph or, even worse, possess the negative.

Johnny had often felt guilty about his antipathy towards the amoral fop who, until now, had treated him with generosity and a vague, grudging respect. However, by resorting to blackmail, Simkins had confirmed his worst suspicions. How could he get hold of the photograph yet still expose the killer himself? There had to be a way . . .

“Where the hell have you been?” Peter Quarles came bearing down on him. “The head has been identified. You need to go and interview her next of kin and neigh-bours.” He handed him a piece of paper.

“I was meeting an informant.”

“And?”

“Cecil Zick, the brothel owner who evaded capture last December, is back in London. He hosted an orgy on Friday evening attended by Commander Inskip. The stink of corruption is growing stronger.”

“Never mind about that now. This takes precedence. We need the next instalment for tomorrow's edition. The bonce was delivered to you, so you should follow up the story.”

“Who gave you this information?”

“An Inspector Woodling called. He was most anxious to speak with you. You're supposed to let me know of your whereabouts at all times.” PDQ's irritation masked what Johnny chose to interpret as relief.

“I'm on my way.”

Helena Nudd had lived in Arlington Street behind the Sadler's Wells Theatre on Rosebery Avenue. As Johnny got out of the cab he saw Henry Simkins standing outside the lodging house.

“You really should have stayed for lunch. The veal just melted in one's mouth. Commander Inskip was more than happy to take your place.” Johnny handed him an envelope containing his notes identifying J. Bravard as the potential killer. Friern Barnet Mental Hospital had refused to answer his enquiries about Bravard or even confirm or deny someone of that name had ever been a patient. “I suppose Inskip knew Zick was the host on Friday as well.”

“That's for me to know and you to find out. How did you know he was there though?”

“You're not the only one with connections in the police.”

“Touché.”

“When do I get the photo?”

“When I've got what I want. I do hope you haven't set me up. By the way, I'm making arrangements that will ensure, should anything happen to me, that the photograph will be sent to every newspaper in the land.” He smiled at his own cleverness. “Come on. We might as well do this together. The old bird is already about to fall off her perch.”

Simkins led the way into the dark terraced house. It was stifling. A smell of wet clothes and oxtail soup hung in the humid air. The landlady, obese and red-faced in a threadbare armchair, fanned herself with a copy of the
News
. The £2,000,000 national fitness campaign, which was now in its sixth month, had clearly passed her by.

“This is Miss Ody,” said Inspector Woodling. “She last saw Helena on Saturday evening when she went up to the Angel Picture Theatre to see
Night Must Fall
. She never came home.”

“Why didn't you report her missing?”

“And who might you be?”

“John Steadman from the
Daily News
.”

“It's all your bleeding fault!” She flung the paper at him. “Get out of my home!”

Simkins grinned with delight. “Do you wish to be exposed as the owner of a flop-house?” Johnny wasn't going to be given the bum's rush in front of Simkins and the police. “Is it customary for your young ladies to stay out all night? Or do you let rooms by the half-hour?”

“How dare you!” She was too fat to leap up so looked round for something else to throw at him. Her glasses case came flying towards him. Johnny dodged it easily and tried not to laugh as it landed in a fish tank. The water was so dirty it was impossible to tell if it contained goldfish or piranhas.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Simkins burst out laughing.

Inspector Woodling had heard enough. “Steadman, a word outside, if you please.”

Johnny was only too glad to step out into the relatively fresh air. The roar of traffic from St John Street, less than a hundred yards away, made the street seem an even more unpleasant backwater.

“We're wasting our time here,” said Johnny. “Why did you call me?”

“I wanted to let you know that J – as in James – Bravard died three years ago.”

“So it's an alias, a
nom de crime
?”

“Not necessarily. He had a son, Patrick Joshua Bravard, who inherited the family home in St John's Square. The place is empty. He moved out at the weekend, apparently.”

“Have you got a photograph?”

“No. He's not on our books. It seems he has a clean sheet.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Well, the War Office may have a record of him.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Friern Barnet refused to tell me if anyone named Bravard had ever been a patient.”

“He left in October 1933.”

“My article was published in July of that year. If our paths crossed, I must have said or done something to provoke him. What, though?”

“There's no second-guessing the mentally ill. The slightest perceived insult can trigger an over-the-top response.”

“What was he being treated for?”

“Major depression. He was seriously wounded in the war.”

“He must have recovered pretty well if he can move house and abduct a woman all in one weekend. He didn't have far to send the head though, did he? I live in Islington too.”

“I'm aware of that. The question is: where is he now?”

“Perhaps he's done a bunk.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Not at all. Strangely enough, a death threat tends to linger in one's mind.”

“I don't wish to unduly alarm you, but his sudden disappearance suggests he's about to make his final move.”

“Does Simkins know about this?”

“I haven't told him, but it won't be long before he finds out.” The copper did not realise how right he was.

“What can you tell me about the victim? I'm not going to get anything out of Miss Ody now.”

“She worked in the linen department of Catesby's in Tottenham Court Road. Her parents live in Manchester. A long-term fiancé went off with another of Ody's tenants a couple of months ago. It hit her hard and she'd only just started going out again.”

Johnny's heart went out to her. Talk about bad luck: you pluck up the courage to re-enter the dating game and end up losing your head – literally. He was going to catch the man who killed her – even if it did mean using Simkins as bait.

“He must have known that we'd soon identify the head,” continued Woodling. “He must be pretty confident that his bolt-hole is secure.”

“Unless he's hiding in plain sight. Where's DC Penterell?”

“You're not suggesting he's got anything to do with the murders?”

“Of course not – he hasn't the gumption. I just wondered what he was up to.”

“He's at the cinema, seeing if any of the staff recognise Nudd.”

“Are you going to watch the house in St John's Square?”

“What's the point? It's empty.”

“Can I see for myself? I'd like to be able to describe where my would-be killer was hiding.”

“I suppose so. It's on the way back to Snow Hill. What about Simkins?”

“Let's leave him to his own devices. He's not the one under sentence of death.”

Not yet anyway.

He dragged the body down to the crypt. The bloody head bounced sickeningly on each step. Where better to hide a corpse? He would drag it along the ancient tunnel which connected St Vedast-alias-Foster to St Paul's that evening. It was working out even better than expected. The slow-witted cops were bound to be struck by the similarity to Callingham's death and put two and two together and make three as usual. Even the terrier-like Steadman might be convinced. If not, he would have to take further action. It seemed the Good Lord was on his side after all. He forgave genuine penitents all their sins.

Johnny stared out of the open window as the new radio car crawled down Farringdon Road. The City of London Police had only two of them. The booksellers skulked in the shade of the tarpaulins that covered their barrows.

“How did Simkins learn about Helena Nudd?”

“I don't know,” said Woodling. “I certainly haven't authorised a press release yet.”

“Someone at Snow Hill has a loose tongue.”

“And that's news to you?”

Johnny sighed in resignation. As always, who you knew was more important than what you knew.

“Where did the removal firm take Bravard's possessions?”

“They're in storage in Victoria. I've got your friend Sergeant Turner trying to find out exactly where – so we can search them – and the address that the bills are going to be sent to. Commander Inskip has told me I can have as many uniforms as I need. He wants the murderer caught almost as much as you do.”

“He had lunch with Simkins today. There's your leak.”

St John's Square wasn't a square at all but an irregular oblong off Clerkenwell Road. The door to number six had been kicked in and was now secured with a new hinge and padlocked bracket. All the windows of the smart townhouse were shuttered. Woodling produced a key and opened the lock. It reminded Johnny that Callingham's key – if indeed it had belonged to him – was still in his pocket.

Their footsteps on the dusty floorboards echoed off the empty walls where only the ghosts of paintings remained. Johnny started on the top floor – two small attic bedrooms intended for staff – and worked his way down the other four floors to the basement kitchen. The house was in an excellent state of decoration. Money clearly hadn't been a problem for its owner.

“Is the house going to be let or sold?”

“Let, I believe.”

“The bastard thinks he's coming back then,” said Johnny. “He actually thinks he's going to get away with it.”

He picked up the telephone that was on the floor in the hall. It was still connected. As he replaced the receiver it rang. Both men jumped.

“Good afternoon. The Bravard residence,” said Johnny, adopting the tone of a snooty butler.

“So, you found me then. I knew you wouldn't dis appoint me.” The voice on the other end, although just a whisper, made his blood run cold. He was talking to the man who wanted to kill him.

“I'm afraid I must . . .” Johnny was by no means as good a mimic as Simkins but he did his best to reproduce his upper-class vowels. “Steadman's lost all interest in you, said he had bigger fish to fry, so he's passed your story on to me. I'm his good friend Henry Simkins of the
Chronicle
. I promise I can guarantee you more column inches. Lord knows why you chose the cocky little pleb in the first place.”

Johnny imagined he could hear the cogs of the killer's brain whirring as he took in the misinformation. He was pretty sure they had never spoken to each other before, so it was unlikely that his deception would be detected. Before he could say anything else the line went dead. Johnny, frowning with disappointment, hung up.

“You shouldn't have done that,” said Woodling.