of corruption within the City of London Police the previous Christmas was still talked about. Patsel couldn’t afford to lose any more staff from the crime desk – Bill Fox had retired in March – and furthermore he didn’t want Johnny working for the competition.
“I’ve got a story and I guarantee you no one else has got it – yet. A man’s just committed suicide in St Paul’s.”
“So what? Cowards kill themselves every day.”
“Only someone who doesn’t understand depression and despair would say that,” said Johnny, bristling. He held up his hand to stop the inevitable torrent of spluttering denial. “There’s more: he took someone with him. When he jumped from the Whispering Gallery he landed on a priest.”
“Ha!” The single syllable expressed both laughter and relief. Patsel’s eyes glittered behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses. “So much for the power of the Saviour. Has he been identified?”
“I know who the priest was, but the jumper didn’t have anything on him except his clothes. No money, no note, no photograph.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was there. I went through his pockets.”
Patsel was impressed – but he wasn’t about to show it.
“What?” Johnny could tell his boss was itching to say something.
“It is not important. Okay. Give me three hundred words – and try to get a name for the suicide.”
Johnny nodded. He had an hour and a half to develop the lead into a proper story. The copy deadline for the final edition was 5 p.m. There was a sports extra on a Saturday so that most of the match results could be included. He flopped down into Bill’s old chair and tipped back as far as he could go, just as his mentor had. Fox had taught him a great deal – in and out of the office. Although Johnny had no intention of following in the footsteps of the venal but essentially good-hearted hack, he had taken his desk when he left. It was by a window – not that it offered much of a view beyond the rain-streaked sooty tiles and rusting drainpipes in the light well at the core of the building.
“Stood you up, did she?” Louis Dimeo, the paper’s sports reporter, had slipped into the vacant seat at the desk opposite, which used to be Johnny’s. A grin lit up his dark, Italian features. Johnny was handsome enough but Louis, who spent most of his spare time kicking a ball or kissing girls, was in a different league – as he never stopped reminding him.
“Who?”
“Seeing more than one woman, are we? Surely you haven’t taken a leaf out of my book? Stella, of course.” They sometimes had a drink together after work – always with other colleagues, never alone – but Louis was too concerned about his physique to sink more than a couple of pints.
“An exclusive fell into my lap. Well, almost.” His telephone started ringing. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“It’s all under control. The stringers will soon be calling the copytakers.”
“Why aren’t you at a match?”
“I drew the short straw. Answer the bloody thing!” He sloped off back to his own desk.
“Steadman speaking.”
“You must know by now that leaving the scene of a crime is against the law.”
“So is suicide, but there’s not much you can do about it, is there?” He smiled. It was always good to hear from Matt.
“What did she say?”
“I haven’t asked her. She hadn’t turned up by the time I left. She was late, as usual.”
“Constable Watkiss tells me you spoke to Father Gillespie. As you’re no doubt aware, the man who jumped had no identification on him. We’ll be releasing an artist’s impression of him on Monday – if his wife hasn’t reported him missing by then.”
“How d’you know he was married? He wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“We don’t. I’m just hazarding a guess. His appearance doesn’t match that of anyone on our missing-persons list.”
“Is it okay for me to describe him in my piece? It might prompt someone to come forward.” Johnny held his breath.
“Yes – but I didn’t say that you could. Understood?”
“Of course. Thank you. Have you informed Yapp’s next of kin yet?”
“We’re trying to find out who that is. He was unmarried. Your piece might prove doubly useful.”
“I aim to please. Fancy a drink later?”
“Aren’t you going to see Stella?”
“Why can’t I see both of you?”
“I thought you had something to ask her.”
“I still want to do it in St Paul’s. I’m not going to let what happened stop me.” Some might have chosen to see the accident as an ill omen – but not him. He refused to believe in such nonsense.
“Very well. I’ll be on duty till eight p.m. If I’m not in the Rolling Barrel, I’ll be in the Viaduct.” Matt hung up before he could say anything else.
Instead of replacing the receiver, Johnny dialled the number of The Cock. He knew it off by heart.
“Hello, Mrs Bennion. It’s Johnny. Is Stella there?”
“I’ve told you before: call me Dolly. I thought she was seeing you today.”
“We were due to meet this afternoon but I had to come in to the office. I assumed she’d be back home by now. Perhaps she’s gone shopping.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” She lowered her voice. “Did you see Stella last night?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since Thursday. Why?”
“She told us that she was going to visit a friend in Brighton and since she didn’t have to go to work the next day she would spend the night there. Her father took some persuading. He thought you were behind it!”
“Alas, no.” Should he have said that? “So you haven’t heard from her since yesterday?”
“Not a dicky bird.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll turn up any minute now.”
“I hope so.” She did not sound convinced. Johnny had said the wrong thing: telling people not to worry just served to raise their concern. It was like the dentist, drill in hand, telling you to relax: the very word made you tense up in anticipation of pain.
“I know so. Give my regards to Mr Bennion.”
“I will. He’s having his afternoon nap before the doors open again.” Johnny cursed himself silently. He had probably just woken up his prospective father-inlaw,
