The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

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      “I would, of course, normally say that it is not the role of the City of London Police to aid and abet gentlemen of the press, but in this case the lady in question has expressed a wish to talk to the man who was with ‘her Fred’ when he died.”

      “Excellent. What time should I turn up?”

      “She should be available from ten fifteen. Don’t forget what she’ll have just been through.”

      “As if.” It wasn’t like Matt to tell him how to do his job. Johnny prided himself on his sensitive treatment of interviewees – assuming they deserved it.

      “Was there anything else?” Matt put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to someone. Johnny, waiting for his friend to finish, couldn’t hear what was said.

      “Don’t you want to know why I was about to call you?”

      “Stop pussyfooting around, Johnny. Just spit it out!”

      “There’s a woman’s arm on my desk. It was delivered in a box with a dozen red roses this morning.”

      “Why the devil didn’t you tell me right away?”

      “I could hardly get a word in.”

      “Pull the other one. You were waiting till I’d spilled all the beans.” Matt placed his hand over the receiver again while he spoke to whoever it was. This time Johnny heard him tell them to bloody well wait a minute. “I take it you’re not spinning me a yarn.”

      “When have I ever lied to you?” There had been a few occasions.

      “Very well. I’ll send someone to collect it and take your statement.”

      “I won’t be here, though: I’ll be at Moor Lane.”

      “A possible murder is more important than a grieving widow’s sob-story. Stay put until you’ve spoken to the detective.” Without waiting for a response, Matt hung up.

      Johnny was fed up with being told what to do: he didn’t work for Matt. Then again, the last time he had ignored Matt’s orders he had nearly got both of them killed. He was about to make the same mistake.

      It was five past eight. He gave the switchboard the number for Hoare & Co. The answering telephonist, having ascertained his name, asked him to wait.

      “Mr Steadman?”

      “Yes.”

      “This is Margaret Budibent. May I enquire the nature of your business with Miss Bennion?”

      Johnny could picture her: a stout woman in her mid-fifties. He could see the half-moon glasses perched on the end of her powdered nose. Her affected way of speaking did not quite disguise her working-class vowels.

      “No, you may not.”

      “Oh.” She wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. “She’s not here. She’s sick. Well, that’s what the man said.”

      “What man?”

      “The man who called. He wouldn’t give a name.”

      “What exactly did he say?”

      Miss Budibent had another try at asserting her authority. “What business is it of yours?”

      “I’m her fiancé” – well, he would be if all went according to plan – “and neither I nor her parents, with whom she lives, have seen her since Friday morning. For all we know, Stella could have been abducted.”

      “That is indeed somewhat alarming.” Margaret Budibent could not have sounded less concerned if she tried. “Miss Bennion was not in the office on Friday – she took the day off at the last minute. And most inconvenient it was too. But she said she would be back at work today. Then this stranger called, just five minutes ago.”

      “What did he say?”

      “Simply that he was calling on behalf of Stella, who was ‘indisposed’ – that’s the word he used. Before I could ask him anything else, he hung up. Some people are so ill mannered.”

      “What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?”

      “I can’t say as I noticed. Let me think.” Johnny could hear her wheezing as she silently replayed the conversation in her head. “He had a local accent.”

      “Cockney?”

      “No, better than that. I mean he sounded as if he was from the Home Counties. Then again, there was something stilted about his speech. That’s it: he sounded as if he were reading a script rather than just talking.”

      Johnny gave her his extension number at the Daily News, then, having extracted a promise that she would call if she heard anything more, thanked her and hung up. Why hadn’t Stella called the bank herself? Had the stranger called The Cock as well?

      “Mrs Bennion? It’s Johnny.”

      “Hello, dear. You must be so relieved.”

      “About what?”

      “Ain’t no one called you?”

      “No, not in connection with Stella.”

      “That ain’t right. What’s she playing at?”

      “I wish I knew. Where is she?”

      “Still in Brighton. She’s decided to stay on for an extra day. According to her friend, she’s having a whale of a time.”

      “Friend?”

      “The person who called.” Dolly sounded as if she’d realised she had said too much.

      “Was it a man or a woman?”

      Dolly hesitated. Johnny let the silence build.

      “A man. At least I think it was a man . . .”

      “Did he give a name?”

      “No. I was so pleased to get some news, I didn’t ask. This heat’s making me even dafter than usual. We’ll most likely get all the details when she comes home tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow? So you don’t want me to speak to the police?”

      “There’s no need. Ah, the brewery’s arrived. I’ll say one thing for this summer – it ain’t half giving folk a thirst. Bye, Johnny. I’ll get Stella to call you as soon as she gets back.”

      He sat at his desk, nonplussed, staring into space. His initial relief and gratitude that Stella was all right gradually gave way to disquiet and irritation. Why hadn’t this mystery man called him? Stella must know he’d be going out of his mind. Why hadn’t she called her parents and the bank herself? And why weren’t her parents more concerned about the stranger who was apparently keeping their daughter company? No doubt they СКАЧАТЬ