style="font-size:15px;"> “What’s this about a rotten bit of woman?” Patsel mopped his brow. There were already two dark circles under the arms of his starched shirt.
“Help yourself.” Johnny nodded at the box that was still on his desk. His boss didn’t need a second invitation. He lifted the lid with all the glee of a child opening a present on Christmas Day. What he found seemed to fill him with both disgust and delight.
“Have you any inkling of who this once belonged to?”
“I’m not a clairvoyant. What d’you want me to do? Read her palm?”
“Ha ha! You are joking, yes?”
“Sort of. Why would I – how could I – know who this woman was?”
“I’m sure you know lots of painted ladies.” Patsel’s lips curled as he surveyed the bloated fingers. Johnny’s colourful sexual history had long since earned him the nickname “Stage Door”.
“Nail polish isn’t a sign of moral degeneracy – at least, it isn’t in this country.”
“Why send flowers to you?” Patsel picked up the card and read out the quotation. “Rabindrath Tagore.”
“How on earth d’you know that?” Johnny was seriously impressed. He would never have guessed that Patsel read Indian poetry.
“It is on a tea-towel in my wife’s kitchen.”
“I see.” Johnny was relieved that the German’s philistine reputation remained intact. He had no wish to start respecting him. “I’m as mystified by this as you are. However, I believe the same person also sent me this.” He retrieved the postcard of Saint Anastasia from the drawer in front of him.
“Beauty is not in the face,” recited Patsel in a singsong voice. “Beauty is a light in the heart.” He gave a snort that befitted his porcine features. “Pure schmaltz. Still, let us hope you receive soon another gift.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Johnny. “Why on earth would you want someone else to be mutilated?”
“This is a godsend, no? A great story has been handed you on a plate – or rather in a box. You need to track down the rest of the body and identify it.”
“The police are on their way. They want a statement from me. Meanwhile, my item on the jumper at St Paul’s has produced a widow. I’m going to see her later this morning.”
“Sehr gut. Well done, Mr Steadman. Keep me informed.” The German’s eyes continued their inspection of the newsroom. “Mr Dimeo! Feet off the desk, please!”
Johnny wrapped up the box, stowed it under his desk, then – glad to put some distance between himself and the unwanted gift – went over to where all the newspapers of the day were displayed on giant book-rests. He always kept an eye on what his rivals were up to: Simkins, for example, in the Chronicle, was exposing, with characteristic relish, a Tory MP’s penchant for nudist holidays. The article would no doubt induce another fit of apoplexy in his long-suffering father, the Honourable Member for Orpington (Conservative). Good.
As he flicked through the pages, ink smearing his fingers, his mind returned to the gruesome delivery. There was one person who did have easy access to body parts: Percy Hughes. The unprepossessing young man, one of Johnny’s secret informants, was an assistant in the mortuary of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Johnny still suffered an occasional nightmare in which he was trapped in one of the morgue’s refrigerators while Hughes played with the corpse of his mother.
It was half past eight already – and there was still no sign of the police. If he left the office now he could call on Hughes before he went to Moor Lane police station. It was tempting. The arm would stay put, but Mrs Callingham wouldn’t. He didn’t want to miss her – somebody else might get to her first.
Instinct told him there was more to the story than a freak accident. Besides, from the crime desk’s point of view two dead men took precedence over a single unidentified body part. Matt would be more than displeased, but what did he expect him to do? Sit here twiddling his thumbs? He had waited half an hour – well, almost. Johnny grabbed his jacket.
The lift door opened to reveal a towering police constable and an equally tall man in a dark suit. Johnny had not set eyes on either of them before.
“The newsroom is to your right gentleman,” said the lift-boy. Johnny, avoiding their gaze, stood aside to let the two men pass. He didn’t breathe out until the concer-tina door was closed again. The boy just stared at him.
“What are you waiting for? Get me out of here.”
“Been naughty, have we? Don’t you like bluebottles or red roses?”
“Mind your own business.”
“You do know they’re here to see you?”
“Indeed. I’ll catch up with them later. Don’t worry, I’ll see that you don’t get into trouble.”
The youth, who would be quite good-looking once his acne had cleared up, sniffed.
“Ta very much – but don’t go out on a limb for me.”
Johnny, pushing his luck, stuck his head round the door of the switchboard room. It was stifling. A dozen young women, plugging and unplugging cables, intoned “Daily News, good morning”, “One moment, please” and “Connecting you now.”
“I’ll be out of the office for a couple of hours, girls.” He was answered by a chorus of wolf-whistles and cat-calls.
“Hello, Johnny!” Lois, a suicide blonde old enough to be his mother, winked at him. “When are you taking me out for that drink you’re always promising me?”
“The next time I get jilted.”
“And what, may I ask, d’you think you’re doing?”
Johnny jumped. He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He turned round. The basilisk eyes of Doreen Roos locked on to his. “Mr Steadman, I might have known it was you. You know very well that reporters are not allowed in here.”
“As you can see, I haven’t actually crossed the threshold.”
The supervisor tut-tutted in irritation. “Why can’t you phone down, like everyone else?”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you.” She stood aside to let him pass.
“Bye, Johnny!”
“Bye, girls. I’ll bring back some lollies.”
“Oh no, you won’t,” said Mrs Roos. Food was strictly forbidden in the exchange.
Johnny slung his jacket over his shoulder and, with a nod of sympathy to the doorman sweating in his long coat and peaked cap, went out into the swirling heat and noise of Fleet Street. No one wanted to walk
