The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

  “Thank you,” said Johnny. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I hope the lucky young lady says yes. God bless.”

  He hated sunlight. He was a creature of the night, a lover of winter, a denizen of darkness where he could breathe and behave more freely. He was as old as the century, very rich – his dead father had been a banker and his late mother a cheese-parer – and, if viewed from the right, an extremely handsome man. However, those who caught the left side of his face would either stare, quickly avert their gaze or scream.

  His townhouse in St John’s Square, Clerkenwell, was a shrine to modernism and, in particular, Art Deco. Chrome and glass sparkled throughout the spacious, sparely furnished rooms. Mirrors, however, were conspicuously absent.

  An only child, he had long looked forward to disposing of his father’s art collection which consisted mainly of works by Lawrence Alma-Tadema. The pictures were too tawdry, too decadent; the women were too languorous, draped in too many clothes. He preferred nudes by Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele, and would spend many daylight hours studying the intricacies of the female form and its precious, perfect skin. At night he prowled the streets of the capital, relishing the liberty that the shadows granted him.

  He had no need to work – and the thought of having to mix with colleagues terrified him – so he spent his lonely days reading and planning long trips abroad: Paris, Rome, Venice and, his favourite destination, Berlin. His money isolated him from the common herd and silenced the exclamations of flunkeys. His extensive range of hats and scarves, plus the use of cosmetics, enabled him to pass unnoticed for at least some of the time. Heat, though, made his make-up trickle on to his upturned collars.

  Top-class prostitutes were regular visitors at his London home – until, while being taken only from behind, they made the mistake of glancing back at their generous, eccentric client. Goose-feather pillows could stifle screams of horror as well as ecstasy.

  He lay naked on the vast bed, waiting for the heat of the afternoon to subside. His pale, muscular body was surprisingly unmarked. He stroked his flat stomach slowly and admired the curves of his long, straight legs. Legs that had carried him out of trouble on countless occasions. He exercised every day with a pair of Indian clubs, swinging them until his body gleamed with sweat. His hand moved to his groin.

  No, not again. He had to save himself for tonight. She wouldn’t last much longer. He smiled in anticipation. The Dom Pérignon was already on ice. The thought of her tears, as he drank the champagne from a silver tankard, was exquisite.

  Ignoring his erection, he got up to run a bath.

  Chapter Five

  Monday, 5th July, 7.45 a.m.

  The start of a new working week usually filled Johnny with optimism and excitement. Who knew what it held in store? This particular Monday, though, he was filled with foreboding. He had slept only fitfully, tormented by dreams of entrapment and deceit. His claustrophobia had worsened since December.

  Stella was still missing. Acting out of character was a sure sign that something was wrong. Her worried parents had not heard from her. The silence was torturing him. He would call the bank on the stroke of eight o’clock.

  The sound of someone whistling made him look up. Reg, one of the boys from the post-room, was heading through the maze of desks towards him.

  “Mornin’, squire.” Reg plonked a large parcel down in front of him. “Ain’t you going to open it?”

  “Give me a chance!” Johnny stubbed out his cigarette. The long, narrow box was wrapped in brown paper and secured with string. There was something familiar about the handwriting on the label. Reg produced a pocket knife from his trousers and handed it to him. It was unpleasantly warm. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

  “You’re the one who goes on about the virtues of an enquiring mind.”

  “I don’t ‘go on’ about anything. If Patsel catches you lurking, you’ll get a clip round the ear.”

  “I can move a lot quicker than that Nazi.”

  Johnny cut through the string, tore off the paper and blushed. The cellophane in the lid of the box showed it was full of red roses.

  Reg whistled in mock-admiration. “Who’s a lucky boy then?” He didn’t even try to hide his giggling.

  “Shut your face,” hissed Johnny. No one gave a man flowers. Whoever had sent them was trying to humiliate him. The stems were freshly cut, the buds half-open. Johnny counted twelve – the lover’s cliché. Their glowing colour reminded him of Stella’s lips.

  “Who sent them?”

  “That’s what I’m about to find out, I hope.” Johnny opened the cream envelope. Saint Basilissa – another unheard of martyr – beamed out from the postcard. The image was identical to that of St Anastasia except that the robes were blue. The back, unsigned, simply stated:

  By plucking her petals, you do not gather the beauty of the flower.

  Another bleeding quotation. Reg, who was now perched on the corner of his desk, sniffed. Johnny, taking the hint, did the same. The heady scent of the roses overlay something less alluring yet equally sweet. He looked at the boy, who had stopped grinning.

  “Bit heavy for just a dozen roses.” Johnny picked up the box. He was right. There was a brain behind the bravado.

  Wary of thorns, Johnny cautiously parted the thick, green foliage. Reg, unable to restrain himself, peered over his shoulder. They both recoiled when they saw what it was.

  “Is it real?” Reg, curiosity conquering his instinctive revulsion, leaned forward to take a closer look. Johnny could smell the brilliantine on the lad’s hair.

  “I think so – but there’s nothing to be afraid of. It can hardly grab you round the neck.”

  They stared at the human arm that had been severed at the elbow. Even if the broken nails had not been painted red, the slenderness of the fingers and the lack of hair on the forearm suggested it had once belonged to a woman. Its smooth, soft skin was now blotchy, the flesh pulpy like that of an overripe peach.

  “Need a hand?” Louis Dimeo stared at the limb. “Bit whiffy, isn’t it?”

  “What d’you expect in this heat?” Johnny pushed the vile object away from him.

  The sports reporter shrugged. He didn’t seem at all revolted. “Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s dead. The arm could have been amputated. As far as I can see, there’s not a speck of blood.”

  “She? I hope you’re not implying this is Stella’s arm.” The sickening thought had crossed his mind. He refused to dwell on the possibility of such an atrocity – but the arm had belonged to someone, someone who he hoped had been dead already.

  “Certainly not. She . . .”

  “Go on.”

  Dimeo, aware that he had better tread carefully, swallowed. “I didn’t mean anything, Johnny, honest. I was just wondering why it was sent to you.”

  “It’s a good question.” Johnny, trying not to shudder, replaced the lid on the box and waved away his colleagues, who were threatening to gather like flies on shit. Clearly, news of the parcel was spreading rapidly. The hacks returned to their desks muttering in disappointment.

  “It’s more than likely just an armless prank,” said Dimeo. Johnny sighed in exasperation. The newsroom thrived on gallows humour, but for some reason this seemed personal.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  With a final wink for Reg’s benefit, Dimeo strolled away. “I don’t suppose you saw who delivered this?”

  Reg shook his head. “It was left outside the back entrance. Charlie found it when he arrived at seven.”

  The delivery manager was a punctilious timekeeper and expected his minions to follow suit. They worked twelve-hour shifts that began at 7.30 a.m., with only a thirty-minute break for lunch.

  “Okay. Tell Charlie the police will probably want to speak to him. Go on, sling your hook.”

  The telephone rang.

  “The jumper’s name is Frederick William Callingham. Doctor Call
ingham, actually. He was a General Practioner.”

  “Matt! I was just about to call you.”

  “Well, I’ve saved you the trouble. His wife Cynthia contacted us last night. A neighbour saw your piece and, knowing her husband was missing, took it round to show her yesterday. She’s going to officially identify the body this morning.”

  The week had hardly started yet already Matt sounded exhausted. He was certainly not in the mood for chitchat.

  “Where’s the body now?”

  “At the mortuary in Moor Lane.”

  “Can I interview Mrs Callingham?”

  “I would, of course, normally say that it is not the role of the City of London Police to aid and abet gentlemen of the press, but in this case the lady in question has expressed a wish to talk to the man who was with ‘her Fred’ when he died.”

  “Excellent. What time should I turn up?”

  “She should be available from ten fifteen. Don’t forget what she’ll have just been through.”

  “As if.” It wasn’t like Matt to tell him how to do his job. Johnny prided himself on his sensitive treatment of interviewees – assuming they deserved it.

  “Was there anything else?” Matt put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to someone. Johnny, waiting for his friend to finish, couldn’t hear what was said.

  “Don’t you want to know why I was about to call you?”

  “Stop pussyfooting around, Johnny. Just spit it out!”

  “There’s a woman’s arm on my desk. It was delivered in a box with a dozen red roses this morning.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you tell me right away?”

  “I could hardly get a word in.”

  “Pull the other one. You were waiting till I’d spilled all the beans.” Matt placed his hand over the receiver again while he spoke to whoever it was. This time Johnny heard him tell them to bloody well wait a minute. “I take it you’re not spinning me a yarn.”

  “When have I ever lied to you?” There had been a few occasions.

  “Very well. I’ll send someone to collect it and take your statement.”

  “I won’t be here, though: I’ll be at Moor Lane.”

  “A possible murder is more important than a grieving widow’s sob-story. Stay put until you’ve spoken to the detective.” Without waiting for a response, Matt hung up.

  Johnny was fed up with being told what to do: he didn’t work for Matt. Then again, the last time he had ignored Matt’s orders he had nearly got both of them killed. He was about to make the same mistake.

  It was five past eight. He gave the switchboard the number for Hoare & Co. The answering telephonist, having ascertained his name, asked him to wait.

  “Mr Steadman?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Margaret Budibent. May I enquire the nature of your business with Miss Bennion?”

  Johnny could picture her: a stout woman in her mid-fifties. He could see the half-moon glasses perched on the end of her powdered nose. Her affected way of speaking did not quite disguise her working-class vowels.

  “No, you may not.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. “She’s not here. She’s sick. Well, that’s what the man said.”

  “What man?”

  “The man who called. He wouldn’t give a name.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  Miss Budibent had another try at asserting her authority. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I’m her fiancé” – well, he would be if all went according to plan – “and neither I nor her parents, with whom she lives, have seen her since Friday morning. For all we know, Stella could have been abducted.”

  “That is indeed somewhat alarming.” Margaret Budibent could not have sounded less concerned if she tried. “Miss Bennion was not in the office on Friday – she took the day off at the last minute. And most inconvenient it was too. But she said she would be back at work today. Then this stranger called, just five minutes ago.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Simply that he was calling on behalf of Stella, who was ‘indisposed’ – that’s the word he used. Before I could ask him anything else, he hung up. Some people are so ill mannered.”

  “What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?”

  “I can’t say as I noticed. Let me think.” Johnny could hear her wheezing as she silently replayed the conversation in her head. “He had a local accent.”

  “Cockney?”

  “No, better than that. I mean he sounded as if he was from the Home Counties. Then again, there was something stilted about his speech. That’s it: he sounded as if he were reading a script rather than just talking.”

  Johnny gave her his extension number at the Daily News, then, having extracted a promise that she would call if she heard anything more, thanked her and hung up. Why hadn’t Stella called the bank herself? Had the stranger called The Cock as well?

  “Mrs Bennion? It’s Johnny.”

  “Hello, dear. You must be so relieved.”

  “About what?”

  “Ain’t no one called you?”

  “No, not in connection with Stella.”

  “That ain’t right. What’s she playing at?”

  “I wish I knew. Where is she?”

  “Still in Brighton. She’s decided to stay on for an extra day. According to her friend, she’s having a whale of a time.”

  “Friend?”

  “The person who called.” Dolly sounded as if she’d realised she had said too much.

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  Dolly hesitated. Johnny let the silence build.

  “A man. At least I think it was a man . . .”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No. I was so pleased to get some news, I didn’t ask. This heat’s making me even dafter than usual. We’ll most likely get all the details when she comes home tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? So you don’t want me to speak to the police?”

  “There’s no need. Ah, the brewery’s arrived. I’ll say one thing for this summer – it ain’t half giving folk a thirst. Bye, Johnny. I’ll get Stella to call you as soon as she gets back.”

  He sat at his desk, nonplussed, staring into space. His initial relief and gratitude that Stella was all right gradually gave way to disquiet and irritation. Why hadn’t this mystery man called him? Stella must know he’d be going out of his mind. Why hadn’t she called her parents and the bank herself? And why weren’t her parents more concerned about the stranger who was apparently keeping their daughter company? No doubt they would interrogate her when she eventually returned home. In the meantime, though, it was unlike Stella to be so thoughtless. Something wasn’t right. What was she hiding?

  A large pot-belly blocked his view.

  “What’s this about a rotten bit of woman?” Patsel mopped his brow. There were already two dark circles under the arms of his starched shirt.

  “Help yourself.” Johnny nodded at the box that was still on his desk. His boss didn’t need a second invitation. He lifted the lid with all the glee of a child opening a present on Christmas Day. What he found seemed to fill him with both disgust and delight.

  “Have you any inkling of who this once belonged to?”

  “I’m not a clairvoyant. What d’you want me to do? Read her palm?”

  “Ha ha! You are joking, yes?”

  “Sort of. Why would I – how could I – know who this woman was?”

  “I’m sure you know lots of painted ladies.” Patsel’s lips curled as he surveyed the bloated fingers. Johnny’s colourful sexual history had long since earned him the nickname “Stage Door”.

  “Nail polish isn’t a sign of moral degeneracy – at least, it isn’t in this country.”

  “Why send flowers to you?” Patsel picked up the card and read out the quotation. “Rabindrath Tagore.”

  “How on earth d’you know that?” Johnny was seriously impressed. He would never have guessed that Patsel
read Indian poetry.

  “It is on a tea-towel in my wife’s kitchen.”

  “I see.” Johnny was relieved that the German’s philistine reputation remained intact. He had no wish to start respecting him. “I’m as mystified by this as you are. However, I believe the same person also sent me this.” He retrieved the postcard of Saint Anastasia from the drawer in front of him.

  “Beauty is not in the face,” recited Patsel in a singsong voice. “Beauty is a light in the heart.” He gave a snort that befitted his porcine features. “Pure schmaltz. Still, let us hope you receive soon another gift.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Johnny. “Why on earth would you want someone else to be mutilated?”

  “This is a godsend, no? A great story has been handed you on a plate – or rather in a box. You need to track down the rest of the body and identify it.”

  “The police are on their way. They want a statement from me. Meanwhile, my item on the jumper at St Paul’s has produced a widow. I’m going to see her later this morning.”

  “Sehr gut. Well done, Mr Steadman. Keep me informed.” The German’s eyes continued their inspection of the newsroom. “Mr Dimeo! Feet off the desk, please!”

  Johnny wrapped up the box, stowed it under his desk, then – glad to put some distance between himself and the unwanted gift – went over to where all the newspapers of the day were displayed on giant book-rests. He always kept an eye on what his rivals were up to: Simkins, for example, in the Chronicle, was exposing, with characteristic relish, a Tory MP’s penchant for nudist holidays. The article would no doubt induce another fit of apoplexy in his long-suffering father, the Honourable Member for Orpington (Conservative). Good.

  As he flicked through the pages, ink smearing his fingers, his mind returned to the gruesome delivery. There was one person who did have easy access to body parts: Percy Hughes. The unprepossessing young man, one of Johnny’s secret informants, was an assistant in the mortuary of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Johnny still suffered an occasional nightmare in which he was trapped in one of the morgue’s refrigerators while Hughes played with the corpse of his mother.