The Whispering Gallery Read Online Free Page A

superior:
    â€œYou’re not fit to be a journalist. You wouldn’t know a good story if it came up and kicked your fat arse.”
    Such exchanges were not uncommon – Patsel had given up complaining to the high-ups; their inaction was widely interpreted as a suggestion that the German should quit before he was interned – but they had become more frequent as the heatwave lengthened and tempers shortened.
    The oppressive temperatures only added to the sense of a gathering storm. The “war to end all wars” had been nothing of the sort. It was becoming increasingly obvious each week that diplomacy – or, as Blenkinsopp put it, lily-livered appeasement – had failed and that Britain would soon be at war again.
    The argument stopped as suddenly as it had started. Blenkinsopp knew there was nothing he could do: the Hun’s word was final. He stormed off to the pub leaving Patsel pontificating to thin air. Johnny, catching Dimeo’s eye, had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning. Blenkinsopp had the right idea: it was time for a beer.
    Johnny joined the exodus of office-workers as they poured out into the less than fresh air. The north side of Fleet Street remained in the sun: its dusty flagstones radiated heat. A stench that had recently become all too familiar hung over its drains. Johnny, ignoring the horns of impatient drivers, crossed over into the shade. He still had a couple of hours to kill before he was due to meet Matt.
    He lit a cigarette and strolled down to Ludgate Circus, jostled by those keen to get back to their families, gardens or allotments. It was not an evening to go to the pictures. Cinema managers were already complaining about the drop in audiences. On the other hand, the lidos were packed out. People were fighting – literally – to get in.
    In Farringdon Street the booksellers were closing up for the day, a few bibliophiles browsing among the barrows until the very moment the potential bargains disappeared beneath ancient tarpaulins. He cut through Bear Alley and came out opposite the Old Bailey.
    A crowd of men, beer in hand, sleeves rolled up, blocked the pavement in West Smithfield. It was illegal to drink out of doors but in such weather indulgent coppers would turn a blind eye – in return for a double Scotch. Squeals and shouts came from children playing barefoot in the recreation ground. A couple of them were trying to squirt the others by redirecting the jet of the drinking fountain. There was a palpable sense of relief that the working week was finally over.
    The swing doors of The Cock were wedged open. Stella’s father was behind the bar. Johnny perched on a stool and waited for him to finish serving one of his regulars, a retired poulterer who didn’t know what else to do but drink himself to death.
    â€œSo she really isn’t with you then?”
    Johnny noted the choice of words – isn’t not wasn’t – and shook his head. “Still no word?”
    â€œNot a blooming thing. This isn’t like her.” Bennion ran his hand through greying hair that was becoming sparser by the day. “What’ll you have?”
    â€œPint of bitter, please.” Johnny put the money on the bar. He had always made a point of paying for his drinks. It had made little difference though: Stella’s father had never liked him. Johnny didn’t take it personally: no man would ever be good enough for his Stella.
    â€œWe brought her up to be better than this.” He put the glass down on the mat in front of Johnny then helped himself to a whisky. He ignored the pile of pennies.
    â€œHas she ever forgotten to call before?” Johnny opened a pack of Woodbines and, out of politeness, offered one to Bennion. To his surprise, he took one.
    â€œThanks. It’ll make a change from roll-ups.”
    Johnny did not understand the attraction of rolling your own: flattening out the paper, sprinkling