The Whispering Gallery by Mark Sanderson

such queries. They were put-downs, attempts to reinforce the pecking order. “Essex Road School for Boys.”
    â€œAh,” said Wauchope. “I suppose you wouldn’t be a journalist if you’d gone to Winchester or Rugby.”
    â€œThere are plenty of public school boys in Fleet Street.”
    â€œHe’s right,” said Corser. “D’you know Henry Simkins?”
    â€œOnly too well,” said Johnny. “He was at Westminster College the same time as me. His father’s an MP.”
    â€œI know. Any idea who’s Yapp’s next of kin?”
    â€œThere isn’t one,” said Wauchope. “Father Gillespie told me this afternoon. He was hoping to make the funeral arrangements, but the police are refusing to release the body.”
    â€œSo you’re not alone in suspecting foul play,” said Corser.
    Johnny was pleased: it meant that the cops were still investigating Callingham’s demise. His wife would have to wait to place her death notice in The Times .
    â€œDoes the name Frederick Callingham ring a bell?” The two priests looked at each other.
    â€œNo,” said Corser.
    â€œNo,” said Wauchope. “Who is he?”
    â€œHe was the man who killed Yapp.”
    â€œAh,” said Wauchope. “Gillespie said it was a suicide.”
    â€œCongregations are falling across the City,” said Corser with a poker-face.
    â€œI would have thought the threat of another world war would be good for the prayer business,” said Johnny.
    â€œYou can pray anywhere,” replied Corser. “Where do you work?”
    â€œSt Lawrence Jewry in Gresham Street.”
    â€œDo either of you recognise this?” Johnny produced the key.
    â€œNo,” said Corser. “No,” said Wauchope. “Where did you find it?”
    â€œI didn’t find it,” said Johnny. “It turned up in the collection box at the cathedral on Saturday. Take a closer look.”
    â€œThere’s no need.” Corser held up a key-ring. “All present and correct.”
    â€œWell, if there’s nothing else . . .” said Wauchope. He got to his feet and strolled over to the window.
    Corser, while Johnny’s attention was diverted, leaned over and grabbed his notebook. Unable to decipher the lines and squiggles, he threw it back across the table.
    â€œThat’s another reason why shorthand is so useful,” said Johnny.
    The basement door closed. Wauchope’s back stiffened. Was Haggie on his way home to his wife? No, Johnny could hear him still clattering away downstairs. He rushed to the window.
    George Fewtrell was hurrying towards St Andrew’s. Johnny grabbed his notebook – “I thought you lot were not supposed to bear false witness” – and dashed down the stairs to the basement. The housekeeper came out of the kitchen.
    â€œYou should have told me he was here!” Johnny didn’t wait for an answer.
    The tablecloths had been taken in but a few items of laundry still hung in the muggy air. Johnny shoved them aside and ran down the passage that led to the church. He tore round the corner of the dog-leg totally unprepared for the waiting fist and the cold brass knuckleduster.

Chapter Eleven
    Tuesday, 6th July, 12.05 a.m.
    The bells of St Andrew by the Wardrobe brought him round. As they tolled midnight they were joined by the bells of other Wren churches, the doleful carillon growing in number and volume, slowly spreading through the breathless air, heralding another day of stress and heat-stroke, swelling until the bells seemed to be ringing inside his throbbing head. He made no attempt to get up. The clappers fell silent and unconsciousness reclaimed him.
    It was only when something started licking his face – a strong tongue rasping his cheeks, hot death-breath filling his nostrils – that Johnny opened his eyes. What he saw was enough to make him sit up and yell – in pain