The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

tried again. “I really would like to meet him.”

      “Impossible, I’m afraid. Term ends this week, then he’s off to France for a fortnight on a cultural exchange organised by the school.”

      “He still wants to go?”

      “Why wouldn’t he? It will do him good.”

      “Do you have any other children?”

      “No.” She turned away from him and stared out of the window. A coal wagon rattled past. No matter how high the temperature people still needed hot water. He waited for her to say what was on her mind. “We did have a daughter, but she died sixteen years ago. Scarlet fever. Freddie did everything he could but the infection just kept on spreading.”

      “I’m sorry.” His sister’s premature death would have made Daniel, their only son, even more precious. No wonder his mother was so protective of him. “Was your husband particularly religious before your daughter died?”

      “He didn’t turn to God afterwards, if that’s what you mean. We’ve always gone to church once a week.”

      “Which one?”

      “St Mary’s in Church Street. It’s only a short walk away.”

      “I’m still puzzled why a religious man would choose to kill himself in a house of God.”

      “I told you: he didn’t!”

      “Just humour me for a moment. What were his views on suicide?”

      “Freddie was a man of science rather than superstition. He saw a lot of suffering in his work and did his best to relieve it. He said there was nothing noble about suffering. It was quite meaningless. He disapproved of those who seemed to take pleasure in wallowing in Christ’s agony on the cross. He found it sadistic and distasteful.” Johnny couldn’t have agreed more. “He was a good man and he did his best to help others. He valued life too much to take his own: suicide went against everything he stood for.”

      “Who did he see when he needed a doctor himself?”

      “What business is it of yours?”

      “Perhaps he had discovered that he was terminally ill and wanted to spare you the pain of watching him die inch by inch. Believe me, there’s nothing worse. It is agonising for both parties. My mother succumbed to bone cancer – eventually . . .” A lump came into his throat. Lack of sleep was making him emotional. The older he became the more his memory ambushed him.

      “You have my condolences – and my assurance that Freddie was fit as a fiddle.”

      “He didn’t appear so on Saturday. He was gaunt, thin as a rake and, at a guess, in mental turmoil. When was the last time you saw him?”

      “It was around eleven, I think. He said he was going to visit a patient in Mortlake.”

      “Did he give a name?”

      “No.”

      “What time did he say he’d be back?”

      “He didn’t.” Her cup of tea remained untouched. “I can’t believe I’ll never see him again. The thought of being alone for the rest of my life is terrifying. Are you married?”

      “Not yet. As a matter of fact, I was going to go down on bended knee on Saturday.”

      “You’re like my Freddie: always putting work first.”

      “I didn’t have much choice. Please don’t take this as further impertinence, but you’re an attractive lady. I’m sure, in time, you’ll meet someone else.”

      “I don’t want anyone else! I want Freddie back.” She burst into tears. Johnny remained silent. Sometimes words were useless.

      When she had calmed down again the widow got to her feet, her anger still simmering. “Thank you for being there for my husband. Please leave us alone to grieve. I’m not familiar with the Daily News but I have no wish to provide entertainment for its readers. Freddie took The Times. Goodbye.”

      She walked out of the café leaving Johnny to pay. He didn’t mind though. Her parting shot was worth more than sixpence.

      If her husband was a reader of The Times she would no doubt announce his funeral arrangements in the classified advertisements on the front page. He would go to the funeral and, one way or another, whether she liked it or not, make the acquaintance of young Daniel Callingham.

       Chapter Eight

      When he got back to the office, much in need of a cold bath, the box of roses had gone. A terse note in his pigeonhole ordered him to attend Snow Hill police station forthwith. There was also a message from Matt: Call me. Johnny knew what was coming.

      “Hello, Matt.”

      “Which part of ‘Wait for the detective’ didn’t you understand?”

      “I couldn’t sit around all day until he deigned to turn up. You know I had to meet Mrs Callingham. And it’s just as well I went when I did, because Henry Simkins, the slippery bastard, was already at Moor Lane pretending to be me!”

      “I don’t care. You deliberately disobeyed a police officer. I’ve a good mind to arrest you for obstructing a murder investigation.”

      “Oh fuck off! How d’you know it’s murder anyway? Percy Hughes tells me the arm is unlikely to have come from Bart’s. Hello?”

      Matt had hung up. The muscles in Johnny’s neck and shoulders – which had been acting up since he got up – tightened once again.

      “How did you get on?” Peter Quarles, the deputy news editor, pencil behind his ear as usual, stopped by Johnny’s desk. He spent most of his time smoothing down the feathers ruffled by Patsel. Ten years older than Johnny, he was ten times more popular than their superior. He was the proud father of identical twin boys, now aged six, who looked just like their father: open-faced, button-nosed and with enviably neat ears.

      “Callingham’s widow says she doesn’t want any more publicity – but she’s adamant he didn’t kill himself, so there’s a story here somewhere. She wouldn’t let me speak to her son although she confirmed that the note saying I love you daddy was written by him. I’m going to make sure I’m at the funeral though, and I’ll try and corner him then.”

      “OK. In the meantime see what you can find out about the other bloke who died.”

      “Graham Yapp.”

      “That’s him. It’ll be one way of keeping the story alive. However, your main priority is this morning’s unwanted gift. The detective who turned up was most put out you weren’t here. He gave poor Reg a hard time.”

      “What was the chap’s name?”

      “Detective Constable George Penterell. I got the impression he hasn’t been in the job long and is keen to make his mark. You better not keep him waiting any longer.”

      “Should I show him this?” He got out the postcard of St Anastasia which had arrived on Saturday. “It must have been sent by the same person.”

      “You better had,” said Quarles. “You don’t want to be charged with withholding evidence. Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. In my humble opinion that’s both true and untrue. There’s got to be an initial spark of attraction, hasn’t there? Something to make the pupils dilate. Speaking of which: how’s Stella?”

      “I wish I knew. She spent the weekend in Brighton, apparently. With a bit of luck I’ll see her tonight – assuming I’m not banged up at Snow Hill.”

      Johnny arrived at the police station fully appreciating the meaning of the phrase “muck sweat”. He felt – and smelt – filthy. Usually