The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

glass and an ironic cheer.

      The Rolling Barrel was only a few doors down from Snow Hill police station, so it was the first place that thirsty coppers made for when they came off duty. It was gloomy and smoky inside the pub. All the tables were taken so Johnny went to the bar. The clock behind the bar showed it was five past eight.

      “What are you doing here, Steadman?” Philip Dwyer, one of Matt’s colleagues, glared at him. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

      The sergeant’s eyes were glazed and his speech was slurred. Surely he couldn’t have got in such a state in five minutes?

      Dwyer leaned forward. A blast of beery breath hit Johnny in the face. “Be a good chap and fuck off.”

      As a journalist, Johnny was accustomed to being unpopular. However, his unmasking of corruption at Snow Hill in December had hit a nerve both within the force and without. The ensuing scandal had made Johnny’s name – but at considerable cost to himself and Matt. His investigations had also led to the deaths of four other men. They would always lie heavily on his conscience. Rumours about what had happened to him and Matt continued to circulate – out of Matt’s earshot. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of the big, blond boxer.

      Johnny was in no mood to be pushed around by a drunken desk sergeant, especially when he could see that Matt wasn’t in the boozer. There was no point in buying a drink just to annoy Dwyer: in the state he was in he might throw a punch, Johnny would throw one back and then end up being arrested. Johnny strolled out and soon he found Matt propping up the bar in the Viaduct Tavern, round the corner in Giltspur Street.

      “Dwyer just told me to fuck off.”

      “Glad to see you did as you were told for once.”

      “It’s good to see you too.”

      Johnny meant it. He immediately felt at ease in Matt’s company. He always did. It was as if a chemical reaction took place, their personalities somehow combining to produce a sense of well-being. No one else had this effect on Johnny. Matt was a winner of the lottery of life: he was tall, very good-looking and popular. He literally saw the world in a different way to other, shorter, people. As much as Stella made Johnny happy and alleviated his habitual loneliness, she didn’t make him feel safe, secure and stronger in himself the way Matt did. It was, he supposed, his role to make her feel that way. At the moment, though, Stella was making him nervous and fearful. Nervous about what she would say when he eventually popped the question and fearful about her disappearance. He needed some Dutch courage.

      “Same again?”

      “I’ll have one for the road, thanks. I promised Lizzie that I’d be home by ten – and given the mood she’s in these days there’ll be hell to pay if I’m not.”

      Once upon a time Johnny would have experienced a stab of jealousy at such a remark. He had fallen for Lizzie as soon as he set eyes on her and had been heartbroken when she had – quite understandably, in his opinion – chosen Matt as her husband instead of him. Lizzie had worked hard to convince Johnny that his love for her was just an adolescent crush. Now they were, in the time-honoured phrase, “just good friends”.Nevertheless, a part of Johnny remained unconvinced. He was happy for Matt – he and Lizzie had an enviable marriage – yet in his eyes she would always be “the one that got away”.

      “How is Lizzie?” They moved over to a table that had just been vacated by a pair of postmen. Johnny set down the glasses on its ring-stained veneer.

      “She’s finding the heat unbearable – although it’s not quite as suffocating in Bexley.”

      Johnny had been afraid that he would see less of his friend when he moved from Islington to one of the new housing developments that were sprawling out across the virgin countryside round the capital. However, because police officers were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station, the move had produced the opposite effect. Matt had to sleep in the officers” dormitory at Snow Hill more often than in the past.

      Lizzie, who had cajoled Matt into the move, now complained that he was hardly ever at home. She had been forced to give up her job in Gamage’s, the “People’s Popular Emporium”, when she became noticeably pregnant. Apparently customers did not wish to be served by mothers-to-be – even in the maternity department. Six months on, she was stuck in the new three-bedroom house, miles away from all her friends and with only the baby inside her for company.

      “When’s the big day?” said Johnny.

      “A couple more weeks – but we’ve been warned that first babies are often overdue.”

      “Who can blame them?” Johnny took another swig of his bitter. “What a time to enter the world.”

      “At least I won’t have to enlist: being a copper is a restricted occupation. Pity, really. I fancy killing a few Nazis. What will you do if and when the balloon goes up?”

      “I haven’t given it much thought. My flat feet will keep me out of the army. Perhaps I’ll get a job with the Ministry of Information, or I could be a stretcher-bearer.”

      “Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Chamberlain might yet save the day.”

      “Sure – and I’m going win the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

      “You’ll have to write a novel first.”

      “As a matter of fact I’ve started.”

      “Pull the other one. You’ve been talking about writing a book for years.”

      “It’s true. I’ve only written the first few chapters, but I’m enjoying the process so far. It makes a change from having to report the facts. It’s so liberating to be able to make things up. It’s like taking off a straitjacket.”

      “Have you got a title?”

      “Friends and Lovers. But I’ll probably change it.”

      “What’s it about?”

      “You and me, amongst other things. Most first novels are autobiographical.”

      Matt put down his pint. His blue eyes stared into Johnny’s. “I trust you’ll be discreet.”

      “Of course. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Matt – even if it ever does get published.”

      “I hope so. Does Stella know you’re writing about her?”

      “She knows I’m writing a novel. Actually, she’s the reason I haven’t been making much progress.”

      Matt laughed. “Real-life lovers are more fun than made-up ones.”

      “In most cases, certainly. However, it seems Stella’s gone missing. Her parents haven’t seen her since yesterday morning and I still don’t know whether or not she turned up at St Paul’s this afternoon.”

      “Perhaps she’s punishing you for putting the job first.”

      “The thought had crossed my mind. But it doesn’t explain why she’s taking out her frustration on her parents. She told them she was staying in Brighton last night. If she’d decided to stay another day, she should have let them know.”

      “She probably guessed you were going to propose. That’d be enough to make any woman run a mile.”

      “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Johnny lit a cigarette but didn’t offer Matt one. He was trying to give them up. Lizzie didn’t like him smoking in their new home. “Any news about the nameless suicide?”

      “Nothing. A post-mortem will be held on Monday.”

      “Perhaps the Daily News will come to your aid.”

      “I saw your piece. It was good of you to play down the horror of the situation. Imagine learning of your husband’s death in a newspaper.”

      “I did – hence my reticence. However, the bloody halo round the dead man’s