Chapter Eight
When he got back to the office, much in need of a cold bath, the box of roses had gone. A terse note in his pigeonhole ordered him to attend Snow Hill police station forthwith. There was also a message from Matt: Call me. Johnny knew what was coming.
“Hello, Matt.”
“Which part of ‘Wait for the detective’ didn’t you understand?”
“I couldn’t sit around all day until he deigned to turn up. You know I had to meet Mrs Callingham. And it’s just as well I went when I did, because Henry Simkins, the slippery bastard, was already at Moor Lane pretending to be me!”
“I don’t care. You deliberately disobeyed a police officer. I’ve a good mind to arrest you for obstructing a murder investigation.”
“Oh fuck off! How d’you know it’s murder anyway? Percy Hughes tells me the arm is unlikely to have come from Bart’s. Hello?”
Matt had hung up. The muscles in Johnny’s neck and shoulders – which had been acting up since he got up – tightened once again.
“How did you get on?” Peter Quarles, the deputy news editor, pencil behind his ear as usual, stopped by Johnny’s desk. He spent most of his time smoothing down the feathers ruffled by Patsel. Ten years older than Johnny, he was ten times more popular than their superior. He was the proud father of identical twin boys, now aged six, who looked just like their father: open-faced, button-nosed and with enviably neat ears.
“Callingham’s widow says she doesn’t want any more publicity – but she’s adamant he didn’t kill himself, so there’s a story here somewhere. She wouldn’t let me speak to her son although she confirmed that the note saying I love you daddy was written by him. I’m going to make sure I’m at the funeral though, and I’ll try and corner him then.”
“OK. In the meantime see what you can find out about the other bloke who died.”
“Graham Yapp.”
“That’s him. It’ll be one way of keeping the story alive. However, your main priority is this morning’s unwanted gift. The detective who turned up was most put out you weren’t here. He gave poor Reg a hard time.”
“What was the chap’s name?”
“Detective Constable George Penterell. I got the impression he hasn’t been in the job long and is keen to make his mark. You better not keep him waiting any longer.”
“Should I show him this?” He got out the postcard of St Anastasia which had arrived on Saturday. “It must have been sent by the same person.”
“You better had,” said Quarles. “You don’t want to be charged with withholding evidence. Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. In my humble opinion that’s both true and untrue. There’s got to be an initial spark of attraction, hasn’t there? Something to make the pupils dilate. Speaking of which: how’s Stella?”
“I wish I knew. She spent the weekend in Brighton, apparently. With a bit of luck I’ll see her tonight – assuming I’m not banged up at Snow Hill.”
Johnny arrived at the police station fully appreciating the meaning of the phrase “muck sweat”. He felt – and smelt – filthy. Usually he was glad of the opportunities his job afforded him to get out and about – after two hours at a desk he was more than restless – but the dog days had left him dog-tired. He was sick of being at everyone’s beck and call, resentful of having to traipse all the way to Snow Hill in the heat. By the time he got there he was out of breath and out of sorts.
“Mr Steadman? Glad to make your acquaintance – again.” They shook hands. “You look like you could do with a glass of water. This way.” DC Penterell towered over him, a smile of amusement playing on his thin lips. Large brown eyes with long lashes looked down on him benevolently. He was a giraffe in a new double-breasted suit.
Somewhat relieved at the unexpectedly polite welcome, Johnny wiped his brow and followed the detective through the swing doors with their bull’s-eye windows and down a corridor painted dark grey below the dado and light grey above it. Penterell showed him into one of six grim interview rooms. Like the others, it contained a battered table, four sturdy chairs and absolutely nothing else.
“Have a seat. I won’t be a moment. Take your jacket off, if you wish.”
Johnny did not need asking twice. He would have liked to take his shoes off as well, but that would have been going too far. His feet were singing.
Fortunately, Penterell had left the door open. He hated being in windowless rooms. Clangs and yells drifted up from the cells below. The single bulb in its enamelled tin shade above him was dazzling.
“I thought you might prefer tea.” The young man was carrying two cups and saucers and a glass of water on a tray. Not a drop had spilled. What next? An invitation to lunch? There was a brown cardboard folder under his right arm.
Johnny emptied the glass in one go. “Thank you.”
“What was so important this morning that you couldn’t wait for me?” The large brown eyes hardened. Johnny felt the chair press into his clammy back.
“Another story. I was at St Paul’s when the chap fell to his death on Saturday.”
“Fell?”
“Fell or jumped. You tell me.”
“It’s not my case. I’m only interested in the owner of the arm that landed on your desk this morning.”
“Anybody reported one missing?”
“We wouldn’t be sitting here if they had.”
“Am I your only lead then?”
“More or less . . . Which is why it would have been useful to speak to you earlier.”
“A couple of hours hasn’t made any difference. The lack of blood suggests the arm – I’m assuming it was real – must have come from a dead person.”
“Your assumption is correct. Now all we’ve got to do is find the rest of her.”
“It is a woman’s then?”
Penterell smiled again. “How many men d’you know paint their nails?”
“The killer could have painted them afterwards.”
“It wouldn’t have flaked off if he had.”
“True. Although I don’t think it’s a coincidence the nail polish exactly matches the colour of the roses.” It would not have been a particularly difficult task. There were dozens of varieties of rose. “Why did you say ‘he’?”
“The chances of a woman doing such a thing are remote, to say the least.”
“Why? Just as many husbands are murdered by their wives as vice versa.”
“The victim was a woman.”
“Perhaps
