The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

simply put it to one side.

      The second envelope, a cheap white one that could have been bought in any stationer’s, was sealed. Wary of paper cuts, he used a ruler to slit it open. An invitation requested his presence at the re-opening of the much-missed Cave of the Golden Calf in Dark House Lane, EC4 on Friday, 9th July from 10 p.m. onwards. A woman, one arm in the air, danced on the left side of the card. Johnny studied the Vorticist design: the way a straight black line and a few jagged triangles conjured up an image of swirling movement, of sheer abandon, was remarkable.

      Much-missed? He had never heard of the place. Still, it was intriguing. What was the Cave? A new restaurant? Theatre? Nightclub? There was no telephone number or address to RSVP to, so he would have to turn up to find out. Perhaps Stella would like to go.

       Chapter Three

      He hung around for as long as he could, willing the telephone to ring. It didn’t.

      Patsel, throwing his considerable weight about as usual, provided a distraction. Bertram Blenkinsopp, a long-serving news correspondent, had written a piece about widespread fears that the groups of Hitler Youth currently on cycling tours of Britain were actually on reconnaissance missions. The smiling teenagers – who looked, at least in the photographs, very smart in their navy blue uniforms of shorts and loose, open-neck tunics – were said to be “spyclists” sent to note down the exact locations of such strategic sites as steelworks and gasworks. Why else would they have visited Sheffield and Glasgow?

      However, Patsel, putting the interests of the Fatherland above those of his adopted country, spiked the article – “Where’s the proof?” – and accused Blenkinsopp of producing anti-Fascist propaganda. A stand-up row ensued. The whole newsroom kept their heads down and pretended not to be listening as the irate reporter lambasted his so-called superior:

      “You’re not fit to be a journalist. You wouldn’t know a good story if it came up and kicked your fat arse.”

      Such exchanges were not uncommon – Patsel had given up complaining to the high-ups; their inaction was widely interpreted as a suggestion that the German should quit before he was interned – but they had become more frequent as the heatwave lengthened and tempers shortened.

      The oppressive temperatures only added to the sense of a gathering storm. The “war to end all wars” had been nothing of the sort. It was becoming increasingly obvious each week that diplomacy – or, as Blenkinsopp put it, lily-livered appeasement – had failed and that Britain would soon be at war again.

      The argument stopped as suddenly as it had started. Blenkinsopp knew there was nothing he could do: the Hun’s word was final. He stormed off to the pub leaving Patsel pontificating to thin air. Johnny, catching Dimeo’s eye, had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning. Blenkinsopp had the right idea: it was time for a beer.

      Johnny joined the exodus of office-workers as they poured out into the less than fresh air. The north side of Fleet Street remained in the sun: its dusty flagstones radiated heat. A stench that had recently become all too familiar hung over its drains. Johnny, ignoring the horns of impatient drivers, crossed over into the shade. He still had a couple of hours to kill before he was due to meet Matt.

      He lit a cigarette and strolled down to Ludgate Circus, jostled by those keen to get back to their families, gardens or allotments. It was not an evening to go to the pictures. Cinema managers were already complaining about the drop in audiences. On the other hand, the lidos were packed out. People were fighting – literally – to get in.

      In Farringdon Street the booksellers were closing up for the day, a few bibliophiles browsing among the barrows until the very moment the potential bargains disappeared beneath ancient tarpaulins. He cut through Bear Alley and came out opposite the Old Bailey.

      A crowd of men, beer in hand, sleeves rolled up, blocked the pavement in West Smithfield. It was illegal to drink out of doors but in such weather indulgent coppers would turn a blind eye – in return for a double Scotch. Squeals and shouts came from children playing barefoot in the recreation ground. A couple of them were trying to squirt the others by redirecting the jet of the drinking fountain. There was a palpable sense of relief that the working week was finally over.

      The swing doors of The Cock were wedged open. Stella’s father was behind the bar. Johnny perched on a stool and waited for him to finish serving one of his regulars, a retired poulterer who didn’t know what else to do but drink himself to death.

      “So she really isn’t with you then?”

      Johnny noted the choice of words – isn’t not wasn’t – and shook his head. “Still no word?”

      “Not a blooming thing. This isn’t like her.” Bennion ran his hand through greying hair that was becoming sparser by the day. “What’ll you have?”

      “Pint of bitter, please.” Johnny put the money on the bar. He had always made a point of paying for his drinks. It had made little difference though: Stella’s father had never liked him. Johnny didn’t take it personally: no man would ever be good enough for his Stella.

      “We brought her up to be better than this.” He put the glass down on the mat in front of Johnny then helped himself to a whisky. He ignored the pile of pennies.

      “Has she ever forgotten to call before?” Johnny opened a pack of Woodbines and, out of politeness, offered one to Bennion. To his surprise, he took one.

      “Thanks. It’ll make a change from roll-ups.”

      Johnny did not understand the attraction of rolling your own: flattening out the paper, sprinkling the line of tobacco that always reminded him of a centipede, licking the edge of the paper and rolling it up – usually with nicotine-stained fingers. It was such a fiddly, time-consuming business. Why go to all that trouble when someone else had already done so? To save money, he supposed: in the long run, roll-ups were much cheaper. Dolly preferred ready-made cigarettes as well: Sweet Aftons. They were, according to the ads, good for the throat.

      “She won’t have forgotten. There are only two reasons why she hasn’t rung: either she’s unable to or she doesn’t want to. Dolly’s been asking around but not heard anything encouraging. A lot of her friends don’t have a telephone.”

      “Perhaps she’s just staying on the beach for as long as she can,” said Johnny. He never sunbathed: his pale skin soon burned.

      “Are you still in touch with Sergeant Turner?” Bennion, who generally made a point of looking everyone in the eye, gazed over Johnny’s shoulder. So that was it: he wanted something. That explained his embarrassment.

      “I’m seeing him later,” said Johnny, and drained his glass.

      “Another?”

      “Please.” The publican, having served a couple of customers, returned with a fresh pint. The pile of pennies remained untouched.

      “Could you ask him to make a few enquiries?”

      “I’m as anxious as you are to see Stella again,” said Johnny. “She’s only been gone for a day though. It’s too early to report her missing. Besides, she could turn up at any second.”

      “And what if she doesn’t?”

      “I’ll do everything I can to find her – and that includes enlisting the help of Matt and his men. If she’s not back by Monday morning I’ll raise the alarm myself.” The possibility that some ill had befallen her filled him with panic. He drowned it with beer.

      He was half-cut after his third pint. The heat increased the power of the alcohol. There was still no sign of Stella. The pavement beneath his feet felt spongy. He sauntered down Hosier Lane, along King Street and into Snow Hill where John Bunyan’s earthly pilgrimage was said to have come to an end.

      It was cooler now: the incoming tide had brought a freshening breeze which felt delightful against his hot skin. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue dome that stretched