The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Wednesday, 14th July, 8.15 a.m.

  Johnny studied the cherub behind the crossed swords: the symbol of St Paul. Was the child being protected by the weapons, or a prisoner of them? Frederick Callingham must have been temporarily out of his mind – but then, weren’t all suicides? Was their self-destruction an admission of defeat, atoning for a frightful wrong, or the ultimate act of self-possession? Perhaps Callingham believed he was protecting his son whether or not he succeeded in flattening his abuser. Perhaps he was afraid of what he would do if Daniel insisted on sticking to the wayward path he had chosen. Fathers and sons: Johnny always felt at a disadvantage when fatherhood was in the frame. I’m sorry . . . Perhaps Callingham had been apologising for being a bad father. It was futile trying to second-guess the dead doctor. However, the misguided man deserved his compassion: a physician unable to heal himself.

  The cathedral was gradually coming to life. Its calm interior subtly altered as its staff – who appeared like ants from his viewpoint in the Whispering Gallery – scurried hither and thither. The building was a massive machine – a wishing machine – that required constant maintenance. The fact that something so substantial could be built out of something so flimsy and invisible – faith – was a miracle in itself. Wren, a conjuror in stone, had pulled off a magnificent confidence trick. As his son was supposed to have said: Si monumentum requiris, circumspice. If you require a monument, look around. God did not exist, so it was nothing more than an extravagant folly, but even so it was a triumphal tribute to the works of man.

  What would he leave behind if Bravard had his way? A journal – juicy enough in parts – and an incomplete novel. Memories that would gradually fade in the minds of Matt and Lizzie. A thousand newspaper cuttings that would eventually yellow and crumble.

  “Coo-ee!”

  The cry echoed round the dome. Father Gillespie, who had just come into view, froze along with the other do-gooders. He beckoned Johnny to come down. Johnny shook his head. The mountain would have to come to Mohammed. He smiled at the inappropriateness of the phrase.

  The deacon was out of breath when he emerged on to the gallery.

  “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

  “Why haven’t you run away?”

  “Where to?”

  “Your sort always have somewhere to hole up.”

  “My sort?”

  “Child abusers. Paedophiles.”

  “I didn’t do anything to Daniel that Fewtrell hadn’t already done.”

  “That’s no excuse. The boys loved each other.”

  “So they said. In my experience, at that age there’s very little difference between love and lust.”

  “How many others have there been?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  Johnny felt physically sick. “Did Yapp know what was going on?”

  “He didn’t have a clue. Haggie is a whiz at dealing with dirty laundry. When Callingham turned up on the doorstep, Graham denied everything – which just made him seem more guilty.”

  “Why Daniel?”

  “His feelings for George made him more – now what’s the word . . .? – compliant.”

  “He’s only fifteen!”

  “That’s old enough to bleed.”

  Anger surged through Johnny’s veins. “How can you say such a thing? You’re a man of God.”

  “Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels.”

  “Remember that when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you in Pentonville.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to prison? You’ve only got the word of a deranged boy who has lost both his father and friend.”

  “And the testimonies of Wauchope, Corser and Haggie.” He was sure they would all sing like canaries to save their own necks. “And the blood on the steps of the crypt in St Vedast and in the tunnel leading from it.”

  That morning Johnny had entered the cathedral via the tunnel to ensure that Daniel was telling the truth. It was an unpleasant place for trysts – dark, damp and festooned with cobwebs. Perhaps the besotted boys, as if to prove that love is blind, hadn’t noticed.

  “You made, shall we say, a clerical error in not cleaning it up. Were you too proud? You know what comes after pride.”

  The priest said nothing – a silent acknowledgment of his mistake.

  “I told you once I knew where the key fitted I’d have the whole story. Why did you give it to me?”

  “To throw you off the scent. I thought it would lead you to Fewtrell.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “He attacked me. It was self-defence. I may be old, but I didn’t just murmur a few words over mass graves in the war. I fought hand to hand with the Bosch.” He smiled at a sudden memory. “Some of them were so young – and beautiful. It’s not happenstance that angels have blond hair and blue eyes.”

  Johnny thought of Matt lying on the pillow beside him. He was no angel.

  “How did you know Daniel would be at the offices of the News yesterday?”

  “I didn’t. I sent Wauchope to fetch you. It seems that someone else is out to kill you so I thought I’d do us both a favour.”

  A terrifying thought struck Johnny. Were two people really after him? There was no such thing as a coincidence. Could it be Gillespie who had sent him the parcels? Had he set up Bravard as a scapegoat, a fall guy? Could the two men have met during the war? Did Gillespie know that Bravard would soon be safe and sound in Switzerland? The voice he heard on the telephone in St John’s Square could have been Gillespie’s. The first parcel had arrived two days after Callingham fell from the gallery – but the first postcard had already been sent by then. Although he wasn’t a left-footer the priest would know all about Catholic saints – but Gillespie wasn’t interested in women. Then again, chopping them up was hardly a sign of affection.

  “Did you attack me last Tuesday?” He stepped away from Gillespie and grabbed the railings.

  “Alas, that was nothing to do with me. I can’t imagine there’s a shortage of people who’d like to knock your block off.” He took a step towards him. “Why are you trembling, Steadman? Death is nothing to be afraid of. As it says over the entrance here: Resurgam – I will rise again.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve no intention of falling. You should be thinking of your own skin. If there’s a hell, you’ll be there in seconds.” Johnny nodded at the two policemen who had started walking in opposite directions round the gallery.

  “Ah. I see you brought the cavalry. Pity: all I did was protect myself from a child molester.”

  “It takes one to know one. You stood by and watched while Yapp died for your sins.”

  “I thought you were a non-believer.” He took another step forward. Johnny stood his ground. If it came to it, he would shove the devil over the banister. “What’s to stop me taking you with me?” Gillespie’s eyes burned with fury, not fear.

  “This,” said Johnny, producing the cosh. He slapped the life-preserver in the palm of his hand. It made a reassuring sound. He was itching to use it. “Do you know what fishermen call the club they use to kill fish? A priest.” He raised his arm. “This is for Daniel and George.”

  Gillespie, however, refused to give him the satisfaction. He glanced at the two policemen, glared at Johnny and snarled, “Fuck you” then climbed over the railings.

  “Wait!” said Johnny. “Did you kill the missing women? Do you know a Joshua Bravard?”

  Gillespie whispered something. Johnny, eager to hear, was about to step forward but, before he could do so, found himself held back by Matt’s strong arms. Before he too could be grabbed, Gillespie let go of the railings and took the plunge.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Why did you stop me?” Johnny turned to face Matt.

  “I’d have had to arrest you for assault – and you’d hardly catch Bravard if you were banged up in a cell. Besides, I could see it in his eyes: he was going to take you with him. I saved your nec
k – again.”

  “Thank you.” He’d have embraced him if there hadn’t been other cops around.

  Far below a crowd was already congregating round Gillespie’s corpse. The eternal fascination of death.

  “Don’t be too despondent. You got your man in the end.”

  “He’s escaped justice though – and now he’s gone there’s no need to expose him as a paedophile. The living must take precedence over the dead. The reputations of Dr Callingham and his son – even though they’re a murderer and a pervert – will remain unblemished.”

  “At least Gillespie can’t harm any more choirboys.”

  “And Wauchope?”

  “He wanted you charged with assault until it was pointed out that he could be charged with child abduction. I should think his days in the arms of Mother Church are numbered.”

  “Sarge . . .” A spotty-faced constable whom Johnny had never seen before came trotting up.

  “Yes, Gazzard?”

  “Your wife’s gone into labour. She’s been taken to Bexley Hospital.”

  “I very much hope not. It’s a booby hatch. She’s supposed to be going to St Mary’s in Sidcup.”

  The constable blushed. “I knew you lived in Bexley . . .”

  “And jumped straight to the wrong conclusion. Go on, since you’re here – try and take some witness statements with more accuracy.”

  “Aren’t you going to the hospital?” Johnny was amazed at Matt’s calmness.

  “When my shift ends at two. I’ll only have to kick my heels in a corridor. With a bit of luck, Matt Junior will be waiting for me by the time I get there.”

  “What about Lizzie? She needs you.”

  “No, she doesn’t. Her mother will be with her. Men aren’t allowed in the maternity ward.”

  “Even cops?”

  “We’ll see. I don’t know why you’re more worried than I am. Haven’t you got more important matters to attend to?”

  They looked at the broken body of Gillespie. His limbs, at unnatural angles, formed a swastika on the marble floor. No one had bothered to adjust his cassock, which had somehow ended up round his waist. His withered legs, riddled with varicose veins, were as thin as sparrow-shanks. It was an undignified pose for a man who had used his respected position to satisfy his unnatural lust. How many childhoods had he ruined? They would never know.

  “You’re right. The fact that Gillespie killed George Fewtrell will still make a sensational story. If I choose my words carefully, I might be able to get away with implying he was abusing the young man.”

  “I should think he was an expert in all kinds of abuse. You’ll need to make a statement, so you might as well come back to Snow Hill with me now. Inspector Woodling has been trying to get in touch with you. Your dear friend Henry Simkins appears to have gone missing.”

  In the event, Woodling was not in the station-house so Johnny was soon free to go. Could Gillespie have been responsible for the abduction of Simkins? Had he and Bravard been in cahoots? His brain was buzzing with all manner of crackpot theories.

  As he walked down Ludgate Hill he could see a mass of cumulonimbus clouds, giant cauliflowers, towering in the west. It was, if anything, even hotter. The entire capital seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the heatwave to break.

  There was a small parcel on his desk. Before he could open it, Dimeo cautiously approached.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Stella’s finished with me.”

  “And why would that be of interest to me?”

  “Well . . .” The shame-faced sportsman was disconcerted. “You can try and patch things up now.”

  “And how, exactly, do you bring a dead baby back to life?”

  “Watch what you’re saying!” Dimeo looked round the office to see if anyone had heard. “Look, Johnny, I’m truly sorry for what’s happened.”

  “More like sorry I found out. Not used to being given the elbow?”

  “I don’t mean that. What I did was despicable. Stella loves you.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She never did – not really – but that doesn’t let you off the hook. I can just about understand sleeping with a colleague’s girl, but what I don’t get is why you had to tell her about the assault – it’s not as if you don’t find seduction easy.”

  “I thought she had a right to know.”

  “Why?” Johnny lowered his voice. “I was raped – and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I have to live with it every day. That doesn’t mean I now find men attractive. You’re a handsome devil, Dimeo, but I don’t want you to fuck me.”

  “Jolly glad to hear it. I’m sorry, Johnny, honest.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry I hit you.”

  “What’s that?” Dimeo nodded at the parcel. “Strangely enough, it’s not addressed to you.”

  He waited until Dimeo was back at his desk then unwrapped the package. It was from Bravard. There was a postcard of a painting by Jean Vignaud – Abelard and Héloïse Surprised by Master Fulbert – the significance of which eluded him. He opened the box slowly: there, on a bed of cotton wool, nestled a pair of what could only be testicles. They looked like lumps of Turkish Delight but smelled slightly fishy. A wave of nausea swept over him. What fresh hell was this? Johnny turned over the postcard:

  If you wish to see your so-called friend alive again, do exactly as instructed. A taxi will collect you from the office at 6 p.m. Come alone. JB

  Johnny raced upstairs to the library. It was as if he were trapped in a recurrent nightmare. Apparently Simkins – who else could it be? – had succeeded in luring Bravard out of his lair. Johnny almost felt guilty. Simkins may be a blackmailer, but he didn’t want his death on his conscience. He consoled himself that, one way or another, Simkins, for the sake of a scoop, had deliberately placed himself in jeopardy. Meanwhile, this was likely to be the last time he would have to decipher one of Bravard’s sick pictorial puzzles.

  He was relieved to see that Amy’s chair was empty. The latest – last? – delivery made the very idea of flirting seem obscene. He ran his fingers along the smooth red leather of the Encyclopaedia Britannica before pulling out the first volume.

  Peter Abelard, a twelfth-century scholar, had fallen in love with Héloïse, the niece of a canon of Notre Dame in whose house he lodged. When the affair was discovered the canon had Abelard castrated. In spite of his enduring love for Héloïse, the scholar went on to become a monk. Johnny couldn’t see Simkins following suit. Poor Henry – it couldn’t have happened to a nastier man. On the other hand, the unwilling eunuch could be dead already. If he were, the pornographic photograph could be on its way to the whole of Fleet Street right now.

  Johnny reluctantly telephoned Woodling. The Welshman was beside himself with rage.

  “You’re unbelievable, Steadman. Not only do you tell Bravard that you’re Simkins – you tell Simkins everything there is to know about him. Were you deliberately setting up a rival?”

  “How d’you know I told Simkins anything?”

  “He rang yesterday evening to say that he was on his way to meet Bravard. It was deliberate provocation, a tease. He knew it was far too late to put a tail on him. He’s got what he deserves. By the way, he said to remind you about the deal. What deal?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Well, if he dies, it’ll be your fault.”

  “I have his balls in my hand as we speak.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They were delivered in a box this morning.”

  “Was there a message?”

  “No.” He couldn’t risk telling the truth. Involving the police would only complicate matters.

  “How d’you know they’re Simkins’s balls then? They could be anybody’s. If you’re lying to me, Steadman, you’ll regret it. Wherever you go, you leave death in your wake. I’ve just heard about Gillespie – not that he deserves to be mourned. I’ll send someone to collect the, um, evidence. If you interfere in this case once more I’ll ha
ve you arrested for obstruction.”

  “I am the case.”

  “Not any longer. Keep out of my way. And don’t forget to keep us informed about your movements. Simkins’s safety takes priority now.”

  “It’s a bit late for that.”

  Woodling, instead of responding, hung up.

  One thing was for sure: Johnny wasn’t going to do as either Bravard or Woodling told him. For a start, he wished to remain intact: he had lost quite enough in the past fortnight as it was. However, he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could stop Bravard by himself. Perhaps Dimeo would help – he was good at acting surreptitiously and if he lost his balls, so much the better.

  He took the package over to him. “Take a look.”

  Dimeo, surprised, did not hesitate. “Crikey! Are they what I think they are?”

  “Like to help me get the man who did this?”

  “I presume he’s the same one who’s been sending you the other bits.”

  “Indeed. I need you to secretly follow me in a taxi tonight. I can’t inform the police because the ex-owner of these baby-makers will die if I do. You’ll need an accomplice. Who do you suggest?”

  “What about Tanfield?”

  “He’s just a boy!”

  “He can handle himself though. We’ve been training together.”

  “What kind of training?”

  “Boxing.”

  No wonder Dimeo had never actually clipped the cub round the ear. He would have fought back.

  “Okay – but I’ll have to run it past PDQ.”

  Quarles agreed – on condition that he came along as well. “There’s safety in numbers.”

  “And three’s a crowd.”

  “We won’t be together. We’ll travel in different taxis.”

  “What can I say? I’m touched that so many people are concerned for my safety.”

  “It’s the story that concerns me. If we can get this guy before the boys in blue it will make us look even better.”

  Tanfield, of course, was thrilled. “Thanks for this opportunity, Johnny. I won’t let you down.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” He didn’t tell the boy that he had made Dimeo and PDQ promise to protect him at all costs.