Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

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      He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

      They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

      It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

      “I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

      “What was he called?”

      “Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

      Close enough.

      “Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

      “I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

      “You won’t. You have my word.”

      “Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

      “Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

      “Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

      “I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

      “Keep your hair on! I know you.”

      He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

      “You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

      “Is that a good or bad thing?”

      “Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

      She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

      “I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

      Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”

      “Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

      They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

      “What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

      “Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

      She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

      “I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

      “Why did you?”

      “I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

      Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

      “You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

      “Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

      “Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

      “Me, for a start.”

      “Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

      “I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

      “In what way?”

      She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

      “Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

      “Nothing.”

      “So why did you reject him?”

      “I didn’t! He rejected me.”

      “I find that hard to believe.”

      “Stop flattering me.”

      “I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

      “Pillow talk is dangerous.”

      If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

      “Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

      “No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

      “And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

      “Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

      She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

      “I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

      “You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

      “Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

      “Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s СКАЧАТЬ