to live more than thirty minutes from their station, the move had produced the opposite effect. Matt had to sleep in the officers” dormitory at Snow Hill more often than in the past.
Lizzie, who had cajoled Matt into the move, now complained that he was hardly ever at home. She had been forced to give up her job in Gamage’s, the “People’s Popular Emporium”, when she became noticeably pregnant. Apparently customers did not wish to be served by mothers-to-be – even in the maternity department. Six months on, she was stuck in the new three-bedroom house, miles away from all her friends and with only the baby inside her for company.
“When’s the big day?” said Johnny.
“A couple more weeks – but we’ve been warned that first babies are often overdue.”
“Who can blame them?” Johnny took another swig of his bitter. “What a time to enter the world.”
“At least I won’t have to enlist: being a copper is a restricted occupation. Pity, really. I fancy killing a few Nazis. What will you do if and when the balloon goes up?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. My flat feet will keep me out of the army. Perhaps I’ll get a job with the Ministry of Information, or I could be a stretcher-bearer.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Chamberlain might yet save the day.”
“Sure – and I’m going win the Nobel Prize for Literature.”
“You’ll have to write a novel first.”
“As a matter of fact I’ve started.”
“Pull the other one. You’ve been talking about writing a book for years.”
“It’s true. I’ve only written the first few chapters, but I’m enjoying the process so far. It makes a change from having to report the facts. It’s so liberating to be able to make things up. It’s like taking off a straitjacket.”
“Have you got a title?”
“Friends and Lovers. But I’ll probably change it.”
“What’s it about?”
“You and me, amongst other things. Most first novels are autobiographical.”
Matt put down his pint. His blue eyes stared into Johnny’s. “I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“Of course. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Matt – even if it ever does get published.”
“I hope so. Does Stella know you’re writing about her?”
“She knows I’m writing a novel. Actually, she’s the reason I haven’t been making much progress.”
Matt laughed. “Real-life lovers are more fun than made-up ones.”
“In most cases, certainly. However, it seems Stella’s gone missing. Her parents haven’t seen her since yesterday morning and I still don’t know whether or not she turned up at St Paul’s this afternoon.”
“Perhaps she’s punishing you for putting the job first.”
“The thought had crossed my mind. But it doesn’t explain why she’s taking out her frustration on her parents. She told them she was staying in Brighton last night. If she’d decided to stay another day, she should have let them know.”
“She probably guessed you were going to propose. That’d be enough to make any woman run a mile.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Johnny lit a cigarette but didn’t offer Matt one. He was trying to give them up. Lizzie didn’t like him smoking in their new home. “Any news about the nameless suicide?”
“Nothing. A post-mortem will be held on Monday.”
“Perhaps the Daily News will come to your aid.”
“I saw your piece. It was good of you to play down the horror of the situation. Imagine learning of your husband’s death in a newspaper.”
“I did – hence my reticence. However, the bloody halo round the dead man’s head was too good an image not to use. Some will no doubt find it sacrilegious and/ or inappropriate. There’s never any shortage of readers willing to go out of their way to be offended.”
Matt checked his watch. Should he tell Johnny now? No, there was no point worrying him unnecessarily. The postcard might prove to be nothing more than an empty threat. Johnny had enough on his plate as it was. He got to his feet. They still ached at the end of the day, even though he no longer had to pound the pavements the way he had before his promotion.
“I must be off. Why don’t you come down to Bexley on Wednesday? I’ve got the day off and could do with some help in the garden. I say ‘garden’ – at the moment it’s just a square of dry, brown earth. Lizzie would love to see you.”
“It will be a pleasure – kind of. As long as there’s plenty of beer.”
He watched Matt make his way out of the pub, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. No one, sober or not, wanted to pick a fight with the handsome giant. Johnny felt very fortunate to have such a friend.
Stella lay in the darkness, alone and afraid in the strange surroundings. She had a raging thirst. The pain came in waves, ebbing and flowing as she tried to find a more comfortable position. She had been an utter fool to trust the man. To make matters worse he was the only person who knew where she was. She was still scared by his blithe assurance that her ordeal would soon be over.
The bleeding had stopped – eventually. She had to get out of here. But how could she, when each move made her cry out in agony? She was paying for her impulsiveness now.
A sudden draught told her that somewhere a door had been opened and closed. Stealthy footsteps came down the stairs.
“Ah, still not in dreamland?” His whisper was menacing rather than soothing. “Here, this will help.” He took her arm. The needle sank into her flesh. Moments later she was unconscious.
Sunday, 4th July, 4 p.m.
He left the bedroom window open, lay naked under one sheet, but still found it difficult to sleep. The heat seeped down from the cooling roof-slates. Stella haunted his dreams, one moment laughing at his foolish fears, the next lying dead in a back alley. She had no right to treat him like this. The ring was back in his mother’s jewellery box.
It was the first Sunday they had not been together in months. Johnny had spent the morning reading the papers: Amelia Earhart was still missing somewhere over the Pacific. The sports pages were dominated by the Wimbledon singles finals. The American Donald Budge had beaten the kraut Gottfried von Cramm – which was something – and Dorothy Round had saved Britain’s pride by defeating a Pole called Jadwiga Jedrzejowska. However, Johnny wasn’t particularly interested: tennis was a game for posh people.
He was too restless to sit indoors and work on his novel so, after a stale potted-meat sandwich, he walked
