The Whispering Gallery. Mark Sanderson

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СКАЧАТЬ got out of the taxi across the road from The Cock and entered the courtyard of the hospital by St Bartholomew-the-Less. A father fondly watched his child playing in the fountain at the centre. Such scenes moved Johnny. Would a father’s love have made him turn out differently?

      It was cool in the basement. A tunnel connected the main block to the mortuary at the back. Before it was built, the dead would have been wheeled across the courtyard with only a sheet to protect them from prying eyes.

      As he approached the double-doors of the morgue the pungent smell of disinfectant grew stronger. Johnny peeped through one of the round windows and saw the back of the duty pathologist, bending over the naked body of an old man. Hughes, his assistant, looked up and blanched. He said something to his superior, pulled a curtain round the dissecting table, and, with a scowl, came out to join Johnny.

      “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

      “I was hoping I’d seen the last of you.” Hughes tossed his lank, greasy hair away from his face and wiped his bloody hands on his apron. “What you want?”

      “Don’t be like that. Haven’t you missed me just a teensy-weensy bit?”

      “No.”

      “I bet you missed my money, though.” Johnny nodded towards the pathologist. “Does he know about your little sideline?”

      Hughes ignored the question.

      “I haven’t got all day.”

      “Be like that then. I just came by to thank you for your little gift.” Johnny studied the lugubrious thug carefully.

      “Dunno what yer talkin” about.”

      “So you’re not short of a woman’s arm? Nothing’s gone missing recently?”

      “Dunno what you mean.”

      “Someone sent me the forearm of a woman this morning.”

      Hughes curled his lip – in amusement rather than distaste. “Well, it weren’t me.”

      “Sure about that?”

      “Sure as eggs is eggs.”

      “OK. I believe you.”

      “Why would anyone do such a thing? It’s sick.”

      Johnny suspected the attendant was no stranger to midnight perversions. “Indeed. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

      “Hughes – get back here this minute!” The pathologist rapped on the door and glared through the porthole. Whatever he held in the palm of his hand dripped on to the black-and-white tiled floor.

      “I assume I can count on your discretion,” said Johnny. “I don’t want anyone else stealing my thunder.”

      “Your secret’s safe with me. And if I hear anything about missing body parts, I’ll give you a bell.”

      “Thank you. I’ll be more than generous.”

      The butcher’s boy slipped through the doors and disappeared behind the green curtain that hid the outspread, opened corpse.

      Johnny blinked as he re-emerged into the sunshine. A dust devil made him sneeze. He’d never get away with taking another cab – the top brass were enforcing one of their periodic clamp-downs on expenses – so he would have to walk.

      As he emerged from the shade of the gate-house into West Smithfield he saw an instantly recognisable figure in the distance. He immediately turned on his heels and dived into St Bartholomew-the-Less. Had he been seen?

      The church was empty: no one – not even an anxious parent, bereaved lover or just a lost soul – was seeking succour from above at this moment. He entered a pew, knelt on a battered hassock and lowered his head as if in prayer. The phrase whited sepulchre came to mind.

      Johnny licked the sweat off his upper lip and waited. It was so quiet he imagined he could hear his heart beating. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunbeams. A plaque on the wall stated that Inigo Jones had been christened here in 1573. A few seconds later Matt’s heavy footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the covered gateway.

      The police had clearly got their act together – assuming Matt was here to enquire about any missing pieces of a human jigsaw. And why else would he be here, in person? He had sounded so busy on the telephone. The fact that both uniformed and plain-clothed officers were already involved suggested they were taking the case seriously. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have stayed in the office. His guilt at disobeying his friend was now mixed with relief that he had not bumped into him – literally. It would not have been a pleasant encounter.

      Johnny got to his feet and re-entered the real world. At the end of Little Britain he crossed Aldersgate Street and cut through Falcon Square where John Jasper stayed in The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The public house that gave its name to the square was still shut up. Johnny licked his dry lips: a swift half would have just hit the spot.

      Addle Street eventually gave way to Aldermanbury. The police station, home to A Division, came into view on the corner of Fore Street and Moor Lane.

      When he saw who was standing on the steps outside he broke into a run.

       Chapter Seven

      “Pipped at the post once again, dear boy. Never mind. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Henry Simkins, sleek and cool in a linen suit, looked the new arrival up and down with amusement.

      Johnny was aware how hot and dishevelled he must be. As he caught his breath he inspected the smart, well-to-do lady waiting beside his rival. In spite of the heat she was dressed all in black. Her red-rimmed eyes suggested she had been crying.

      “Mrs Callingham. How d’you do? I’m John Steadman.” He touched his hat and held out his hand. Ignoring it, she turned to Simkins in confusion.

      “Ha, ha, ha, Simkins! Don’t try and deceive this poor woman,” said Simkins. “She’s been through quite enough as it is.” His eyes shone with mischief as he watched Johnny’s already red face get redder.

      “Mrs Callingham, this unscrupulous toff is in fact Henry Simkins from the Chronicle.”

      Simkins laughed and shook his bare head. His chestnut curls gleamed in the sunlight. They were so long they almost touched his narrow shoulders.

      “If you don’t admit who you are this minute I’ll knock the damn truth out of you.” Johnny clenched his fists. He turned to the widow they were fighting over. She must have been about forty years of age. Her almost oriental eyes exuded misery. “This man is an impostor. He wasn’t with your husband when he died. Has he shown you any identification?”

      “Leave her alone, Simkins,” said Simkins. “You’re adding to her distress.” He put an arm round her shoulders and tried to shepherd her away. “I must say, Simkins, I find your joke in somewhat poor taste.”

      Johnny showed the woman his press card. She studied his photograph.

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