less and less of Matt since he’d joined the Detective Squad. There was no doubt he was a devoted father – he adored Lila Mae, even if he was hopeless at changing nappies. However, after the birth, Matt had seemed to lose interest in her. A distance crept between them and, unless she was mistaken, it was, like Lila, growing by the day. It was almost as if she’d served her purpose by producing a baby. When Matt did pay her any attention – usually on a Saturday night, after a bout of boxing and boozing – it felt as though he was acting out of duty rather than desire.
Could you suffer from postpartum depression fifteen months after the event? It was unlikely. She had been down in the dumps for a couple weeks in September last year – when the prospect of caring for such a helpless, relentless bundle of need had become overwhelming – but the feeling had passed. Resentment at being trapped, being a prisoner of her all-consuming love for Lila, had given way to resignation and, eventually, a newfound resilience.
She was proud of the fact that she’d regained her slim figure – well, almost – but why had she bothered? No one else saw her. Men rarely gave more than a glance to women pushing prams. She missed the admiration she’d attracted while working in Gamages. Her parents had been right when they’d said such a position was beneath her. Their darling daughter was not meant to be a salesgirl, yet they’d been perfectly happy when she’d left the department store to be a housewife and mother. They seemed to have forgotten she had brains as well as beauty.
She didn’t feel clever today though. She felt grubby, distracted and disappointed. She kissed Lila on a chubby pink cheek; sniffed her silky fair hair. Her whole world had shrunk to this infant. She owed it to herself not to drown in domestic drudgery. She couldn’t go on like this.
She got out of the armchair and lay Lila down in her cradle. The baby whimpered and waved her arms but did not wake. Lizzie, watching over her, sighed deeply. It wasn’t only nappies that she had to change.
He didn’t light the paraffin heater even though the cold gave him goose pimples. Perhaps it wasn’t the pervasive underground chill. Perhaps it was nervous anticipation.
The vat squatted on the workbench. He wouldn’t peep inside it again. The contents made him gag. The thought of touching the thick, foul liquid made his stomach lurch. Sweat beaded his broad forehead.
The bottles were lined up waiting. He put on a pair of cotton gloves, picked up the first one and turned the spigot.
Nothing happened. Then, just as he was about to turn off the tap, a black trickle quickly became a torrent. He grinned with relief. He’d soon be done.
The expected knock on the cellar door came at the exact appointed time. That was encouraging. He paid the pair of toughs and pointed to the crate.
“Remember, gentlemen, if you do it right, I’ll give you the same again.”
“Piece of cake,” said the older one, licking his lips. His accomplice hoisted the crate on to his shoulder with ease.
“We’re going to enjoy this.”
He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.
They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.
It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.
“I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.
“What was he called?”
“Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”
Close enough.
“Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”
“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”
“You won’t. You have my word.”
“Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”
“Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”
“Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”
“I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”
“Keep your hair on! I know you.”
He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?
“You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”
She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.
“I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”
“Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”
They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.
“What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”
She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.
“I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”
“Why did you?”
“I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”
Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.
“You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”
“Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”
“Me, for a start.”
“Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”
“I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”