The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

      “Stood you up, did she?” Louis Dimeo, the paper’s sports reporter, had slipped into the vacant seat at the desk opposite, which used to be Johnny’s. A grin lit up his dark, Italian features. Johnny was handsome enough but Louis, who spent most of his spare time kicking a ball or kissing girls, was in a different league – as he never stopped reminding him.

      “Who?”

      “Seeing more than one woman, are we? Surely you haven’t taken a leaf out of my book? Stella, of course.” They sometimes had a drink together after work – always with other colleagues, never alone – but Louis was too concerned about his physique to sink more than a couple of pints.

      “An exclusive fell into my lap. Well, almost.” His telephone started ringing. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

      “It’s all under control. The stringers will soon be calling the copytakers.”

      “Why aren’t you at a match?”

      “I drew the short straw. Answer the bloody thing!” He sloped off back to his own desk.

      “Steadman speaking.”

      “You must know by now that leaving the scene of a crime is against the law.”

      “So is suicide, but there’s not much you can do about it, is there?” He smiled. It was always good to hear from Matt.

      “What did she say?”

      “I haven’t asked her. She hadn’t turned up by the time I left. She was late, as usual.”

      “Constable Watkiss tells me you spoke to Father Gillespie. As you’re no doubt aware, the man who jumped had no identification on him. We’ll be releasing an artist’s impression of him on Monday – if his wife hasn’t reported him missing by then.”

      “How d’you know he was married? He wasn’t wearing a ring.”

      “We don’t. I’m just hazarding a guess. His appearance doesn’t match that of anyone on our missing-persons list.”

      “Is it okay for me to describe him in my piece? It might prompt someone to come forward.” Johnny held his breath.

      “Yes – but I didn’t say that you could. Understood?”

      “Of course. Thank you. Have you informed Yapp’s next of kin yet?”

      “We’re trying to find out who that is. He was unmarried. Your piece might prove doubly useful.”

      “I aim to please. Fancy a drink later?”

      “Aren’t you going to see Stella?”

      “Why can’t I see both of you?”

      “I thought you had something to ask her.”

      “I still want to do it in St Paul’s. I’m not going to let what happened stop me.” Some might have chosen to see the accident as an ill omen – but not him. He refused to believe in such nonsense.

      “Very well. I’ll be on duty till eight p.m. If I’m not in the Rolling Barrel, I’ll be in the Viaduct.” Matt hung up before he could say anything else.

      Instead of replacing the receiver, Johnny dialled the number of The Cock. He knew it off by heart.

      “Hello, Mrs Bennion. It’s Johnny. Is Stella there?”

      “I’ve told you before: call me Dolly. I thought she was seeing you today.”

      “We were due to meet this afternoon but I had to come in to the office. I assumed she’d be back home by now. Perhaps she’s gone shopping.”

      “Wouldn’t surprise me.” She lowered her voice. “Did you see Stella last night?”

      “No. I haven’t seen her since Thursday. Why?”

      “She told us that she was going to visit a friend in Brighton and since she didn’t have to go to work the next day she would spend the night there. Her father took some persuading. He thought you were behind it!”

      “Alas, no.” Should he have said that? “So you haven’t heard from her since yesterday?”

      “Not a dicky bird.”

      “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll turn up any minute now.”

      “I hope so.” She did not sound convinced. Johnny had said the wrong thing: telling people not to worry just served to raise their concern. It was like the dentist, drill in hand, telling you to relax: the very word made you tense up in anticipation of pain.

      “I know so. Give my regards to Mr Bennion.”

      “I will. He’s having his afternoon nap before the doors open again.” Johnny cursed himself silently. He had probably just woken up his prospective father-inlaw, who already suspected him of whisking off his daughter for a prolonged bout of seaside sex. Now that was inauspicious.

      He replaced the receiver and stuck his face in front of the desk-fan. The back of it, which contained the tiny motor, was too hot to touch. The place would probably be cooler if all the fans were turned off.

      He should have waited for Stella. What if she hadn’t gone to St Paul’s? Perhaps she had not meant to be late. Something – something bad – could have happened. He crushed the thought. Maybe the beach and the sea breezes had proved too much of a temptation and she had decided to spend the entire weekend away from the stifling City. He wouldn’t blame her if she had.

      Stella had never mentioned a pal who lived in Brighton. He’d assumed he’d been introduced to all her friends by now: she’d certainly been introduced to all of his. He enjoyed showing her off, being told that he’d done well for himself, batting away such envious remarks as “Lost her white stick, has she?” Then again, if he had chosen well, so had she. Stella held his heart in her hands. She knew she could count on him.

      He checked that the plain gold band was still safely buttoned up in his jacket. It should have been on her finger by now. He sighed in disappointment – but there was no use dwelling on what might have been. He got out his notebook. He had work to do.

      It took him less than half an hour. Father Gillespie was unable to furnish him with any further information except the fact that Graham Yapp had been forty-eight. As he bashed out the report, Johnny recalled the other dead man’s expression as he had looked down from the gallery. Even from where he was sitting Johnny could tell it had been one of anticipation rather than fear, of anger rather than regret. And yet his last words had been I’m sorry: an apology for breaking the God-botherer’s neck? A believer was unlikely to have chosen such a place to kill himself.

      He handed in his copy to the subs and returned just in time to catch the tea lady. His mother had always said a hot drink was more cooling than a cold one – but only because it encouraged perspiration. He sipped the stewed brew and stared into space. The story was a minor scoop but it had made him a hostage to fortune. If the jumper turned out to have been pushed he would look like an incompetent fool.

      He read his messages – there was nothing that couldn’t wait till Monday morning – then turned his attention to the mail.

      The two envelopes were the same size but there the similarity ended. The first one was cream-coloured and unsealed. The thick weave of the paper felt pleasurably expensive. It contained a postcard of Saint Anastasia. The martyr, golden-haloed, was draped in red robes. She held a book in one hand and a sprig of palm in the other. A look of ecstasy spread across her pale face. There was a single sentence, carefully inscribed in a swooping hand, on the back:

       Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.

      There was no signature. He was always getting letters from cranks. To begin with he had kept them in a file along with the threats of grievous bodily harm – or worse – from people who disagreed with what he had written or objected to having their criminal activities exposed in print.