The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

he chooses to write for the yellow press?” She blushed, realising what she had said. “Excuse me. I meant no offence.”

      “None taken.” Johnny was used to being held in low esteem – at least in certain quarters.

      “How did he know I wanted to see you?”

      “I’m afraid I’m not the only one with connections at Snow Hill. Money loosens most tongues and he’s not averse to using his own to do it. After all, he’s not short of a bob or two.”

      They were impeding the constant stream of foot traffic that flowed in and out of the police station.

      “We can’t talk properly here. Fancy a cup of tea?”

      They walked down to Moorfields and found a café opposite Moorgate Street station. The sound of slamming doors and whistles reached their table through the open windows. Once the harassed waitress had taken their order – Johnny, having skipped breakfast, was starving – Mrs Callingham launched into what was clearly a pre-prepared speech.

      “I can’t thank you enough, Mr Steadman, for being there on Saturday. I know you tried your best to help Freddie. If it weren’t for you I’d probably still be tearing my hair out at home.” Her immaculate coiffure gave no sign of being disturbed.

      “Call me Johnny.” He waited for her to reveal her own Christian name. She remained silent. He produced his notebook. “Cynthia is your first name, isn’t it?”

      “Is it relevant?”

      “I can’t keep referring to you as Mrs Callingham in the interview.”

      “There isn’t going to be an interview. I merely wanted to express my deep gratitude and find out if Freddie had said anything apart from ‘I’m sorry’.”

      “No, he didn’t. Any idea what he was apologising for?”

      “I presume it was for injuring the other man. I do hope he didn’t know that he’d gone and killed him.”

      “Why don’t you want me to write anything further?”

      “I’ve got Daniel to think of. He’s just lost his father. The last thing he needs is a pack of newshounds chasing after him. We require privacy now, not publicity.” A minute ago she’d been grateful for the attention he had created.

      “How is your son?”

      She looked at him as if it were a stupid question.

      “Awfully upset. What did you expect? Daniel’s a very private child, though. He doesn’t talk about his feelings. It’s even an effort to get him to tell me what’s going on at school.”

      “Which school is that?”

      “St Paul’s.”

      Johnny’s antennae quivered. “Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

      “Not really. The school is in Hammersmith.”

      “It used to be next-door to the cathedral.”

      “That was years ago.”

      “OK. Have you any idea why your husband was in St Paul’s?”

      “None at all.” She waited until the waitress had uncere moniously deposited two cups of tea and a bacon sandwich in front of them. Johnny tucked in straightaway. It gave him time to think. He swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and went on the attack.

      “Why did he kill himself?”

      “He didn’t!” Her eyes welled up. “He wouldn’t! He’d never do such a thing. He was a religious man. He was a devoted father. Freddie was not the type to deliberately leave us in the lurch.”

      “You haven’t found a note then?” He couldn’t see a doctor, no matter how desperate, scribbling Dearest dear . . .

      “No.” She pressed her thin lips together firmly. Suicide was a crime – just attempting it could land you in prison. Was she so anxious to avoid the social stigma that she preferred to think her husband may have been murdered?

      “So you’re suggesting he was pushed?”

      It was theoretically possible. Although he hadn’t seen anyone do it, someone could have hidden at the top of the stairs and shot out at an opportune moment to shove Callingham in the back. Surely though – with all those necks craned upwards to admire the dome – someone would have spotted them?

      “Not at all. Most likely it was a terrible accident. He must have tripped and fallen over the railings.” That was a precise choice of word. Most people would have said “banister” or “balustrade”.Had she been there at the time? Perhaps she had already visited the crime scene.

      “Then why was there nothing – and I mean absolutely nothing – in his pockets?”

      “There was this –” She held up her infant son’s loving message. Johnny, concluding that he no longer had any use for it, had let the widow keep the childhood relic.

      “It was found in the collection box. Why would he voluntarily give away such a cherished memento, unless he knew he was going to die?”

      “I don’t know. Perhaps someone else put it there.”

      “Who? Did anyone hold a grudge against your husband?”

      “He was a doctor. Doctors don’t have enemies.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. Any of his patients die recently? The bereaved, in their grief, are prone to suspect foul play or gross incompetence.”

      “My husband was a very good doctor and a very popular man. I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on his character.” She made as if to get up from the table.

      “Please wait, Mrs Callingham. I’m sorry. Writing about crime day in and day out tends to make you think the worst of people. You and I are on the same side. We both want to know exactly what happened on Saturday, but we never will unless we continue to talk.” He fished for the key that Gillespie had given him. “Have you ever seen this before?”

      Somewhat mollified, she held out her hand for the key. She examined it with interest.

      “No, I haven’t. It wouldn’t fit any of the locks in our house. Where did you find it?”

      “It was in the same collection box.”

      She looked up. “That’s as maybe, but I can assure you it did not belong to Freddie.”

      “Perhaps your son might recognise it.”

      “Why would he?” She sighed. “If you wish, I’ll ask him this evening.”

      “I’d prefer to ask him myself.”

      “That’s out of the question.”

      “Why? It would be in your presence.”

      “I don’t want you coming anywhere near our home.”

      Johnny chose not to be insulted. “Where do you live?” Seeing her hesitate, he added: “I can easily find out. Your husband will be listed in the Medical Register.”

      “Number 21 Ranelagh Avenue, SW6.”

      Johnny knew his GPO codes. The Callinghams lived in Barnes.

      “Was your husband’s practice there?”

      “Indeed. Two rooms and a lavatory on the ground floor. The separate entrance made it ideal.”

      “Will you stay, or are you planning to move?”

      “It’s far too early to say. Daniel’s unsettled enough as it is.”

      “Did your husband have life assurance?”

      “Is impertinence another concomitant of the job?” The narrow eyes glared at him. “You think I pushed Freddie over the edge?”