The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

checked his watch. Should he tell Johnny now? No, there was no point worrying him unnecessarily. The postcard might prove to be nothing more than an empty threat. Johnny had enough on his plate as it was. He got to his feet. They still ached at the end of the day, even though he no longer had to pound the pavements the way he had before his promotion.

      “I must be off. Why don’t you come down to Bexley on Wednesday? I’ve got the day off and could do with some help in the garden. I say ‘garden’ – at the moment it’s just a square of dry, brown earth. Lizzie would love to see you.”

      “It will be a pleasure – kind of. As long as there’s plenty of beer.”

      He watched Matt make his way out of the pub, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. No one, sober or not, wanted to pick a fight with the handsome giant. Johnny felt very fortunate to have such a friend.

      Stella lay in the darkness, alone and afraid in the strange surroundings. She had a raging thirst. The pain came in waves, ebbing and flowing as she tried to find a more comfortable position. She had been an utter fool to trust the man. To make matters worse he was the only person who knew where she was. She was still scared by his blithe assurance that her ordeal would soon be over.

      The bleeding had stopped – eventually. She had to get out of here. But how could she, when each move made her cry out in agony? She was paying for her impulsiveness now.

      A sudden draught told her that somewhere a door had been opened and closed. Stealthy footsteps came down the stairs.

      “Ah, still not in dreamland?” His whisper was menacing rather than soothing. “Here, this will help.” He took her arm. The needle sank into her flesh. Moments later she was unconscious.

       Chapter Four

       Sunday, 4th July, 4 p.m.

      He left the bedroom window open, lay naked under one sheet, but still found it difficult to sleep. The heat seeped down from the cooling roof-slates. Stella haunted his dreams, one moment laughing at his foolish fears, the next lying dead in a back alley. She had no right to treat him like this. The ring was back in his mother’s jewellery box.

      It was the first Sunday they had not been together in months. Johnny had spent the morning reading the papers: Amelia Earhart was still missing somewhere over the Pacific. The sports pages were dominated by the Wimbledon singles finals. The American Donald Budge had beaten the kraut Gottfried von Cramm – which was something – and Dorothy Round had saved Britain’s pride by defeating a Pole called Jadwiga Jedrzejowska. However, Johnny wasn’t particularly interested: tennis was a game for posh people.

      He was too restless to sit indoors and work on his novel so, after a stale potted-meat sandwich, he walked up to Islington Green, which was so crowded there wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen. Even the steps of the war memorial were crowded with families. Dress codes had been abandoned. It may have been the Sabbath, but rolled-up shirt-sleeves and knotted handkerchiefs were everywhere. The sellers of wafers, cornets and Snofrutes were making a fortune.

      He strolled beneath the wilting plane trees on Upper Street and, just as he knew he would, found himself going down St John Street to Smithfield.

      The Cock was closed. His knocking went unanswered. If Stella had returned there would surely have been someone home. He had been looking forward to a surreptitious beer but had to make do with the drinking fountain across the way.

      Johnny hated being at a loose end. Work, as Thomas Carlyle observed, was a great cure for boredom and misery. The “great black dome” of St Paul’s, seen bulging behind Newgate Prison in Great Expectations, beckoned.

      Charles Dickens was, as far as Johnny was concerned, the greatest writer that had ever lived. He had read his complete works twice, fascinated by how much and how little his native city had changed. Only three of his characters had ventured into the cathedral: Master Humphrey; David Copperfield, when giving Peggotty a guided tour of the capital; and John Browdie who sets his watch by its clock in Nicholas Nickleby. However, the image that struck Johnny most deeply was that of Jo, the young street-sweeper in Bleak House, who stares in wonder at the cross on its summit as he gobbles his hard-earned food on Blackfriars Bridge.

      He was glad to find there was no service currently in progress. Not a speck of blood besmirched the polished marble where the two men – one by desire, one by ill-luck – had gone to meet their maker. The Whispering Gallery was closed – so even if Stella had been with him he could not have proposed to her.

      “We meet again.” Father Gillespie regarded him over a pair of half-moon glasses. “I saw your item in the News. The bit about the halo was most amusing.” Was he being sarcastic? The deacon sat down beside him. “Any developments?”

      “I haven’t been back to the office since it appeared. I’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Johnny didn’t want everyone knowing he had nothing better to do on a Sunday.

      “I prayed for them both,” said the priest. “Especially the man who jumped – he won’t be buried in hallowed ground. Mr Yapp, on the other hand, will be. The one consolation is that he probably didn’t know what – or rather who – hit him.”

      “And they say God looks after his own.”

      Gillespie frowned. “Such cynicism in one so young. What are you doing here, if you’re a non-believer?”

      “Just revisiting the scene of the crime. I take it you deem suicide to be a criminal act?”

      “Indeed. God has plans for us all. He believes in you even if you don’t believe in Him.”

      “I’m glad someone does. I was going to ask my girlfriend to marry me yesterday, but she’s gone missing.”

      “Ah. Many girls run after an ill-starred suitor pops the question.”

      “Are you married?”

      “No – but . . .” He held up a forefinger to silence him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He looked around for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. “Here you are –” He produced a key and a piece of paper from beneath his surplice. “These were found in the collection box last night. I telephoned the police, but they didn’t seem that interested.”

      The key was a brass Chubb, the teeth of which, when turned upward, resembled the turrets of a castle. It was probably a door-key. The piece of paper was more interesting. It was old and creased, as if it had been carried in a wallet for years. There were four words written on it in a childish scrawl: I love you daddy.

      Johnny was unexpectedly moved. Had he ever said those words to his father?

      “This is not the sort of thing you’d throw away casually.”

      “I agree.” The deacon nodded. “Which is why I kept it. You’d be amazed at what we find in the collection box: sweet wrappers, cigarette ends, prayers and curses . . .”

      “How often is it emptied?”

      “Every evening when the cathedral closes. We can’t be too careful nowadays. It’s been broken into twice recently. We live in desperate times.”

      “Did they get away with much?”

      “A couple of pounds. Donations have dwindled and yet the list of vital repairs gets longer each year. Secular needs, alas, have supplanted spiritual ones.”

      “Whose responsibility is it to empty the box?”

      “The sacristan’s. He brings the money to me and, having counted it, I lock it in a cash-box kept in my office.”

      “So these items must have been put in the box yesterday. Why?”

      “I was hoping you would find that out, since the police clearly consider the matter unworthy of their attention. Of course there may be no connection between the two items. However,