Free The Whispering Gallery by Mark Sanderson

shoulders – which had been acting up since he got up – tightened once again.
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œCallingham’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.”
    â€œOK. In the meantime see what you can find out about the other bloke who died.”
    â€œGraham Yapp.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œWhat was the chap’s name?”
    â€œDetective 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.”
    â€œShould 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.”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMr 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.
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œI thought you might prefer tea.” The young