The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

to kill yourself, surely you’d keep something of such sentimental value on your person. I love you daddy . . . The first thing to ascertain is whether or not the jumper was a father.”

      “Well,” said Father Gillespie. “That should be easy, once you know his identity. I expect the key may prove more of a problem. I’ve heard of the key to the mystery, but not the mystery of the key!” He laughed at his own joke, then quickly composed himself. “I must prepare for evensong.”

      “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