Mark Sanderson - The Whispering Gallery

“I don’t suppose you still have the envelope?”

“No – but it was the same as the one that arrived today. What are you going to do?”

“It’s not up to me – not that I’d tell you, even if it were. Inspector Woodling is in charge of the investigation.” He carefully picked up the postcard by a corner and placed it in the folder, which appeared to contain a single piece of paper.

“Well, I’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”

“Thank you.” Penterell’s drily ironic tone was not lost on Johnny. “And I’ll let you know if you have to make an official statement. In the meantime, I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you.”

“Worried? Why should I be worried?” Johnny hadn’t been worried – but he was now.

“If someone’s trying to gain publicity, they’re not going to chop off your arms – they need you to be able to use a typewriter.”

“That’s good to know.” Johnny grabbed his jacket and made for the door. Before he could turn the knob, Penterell placed a large hand on top of his. Unlike Johnny’s, it was cool and dry.

“You won’t say anything about the postcard will you?”

“No. Why should I? I’d already mucked up any incriminating fingerprints.” Penterell looked relieved.

“Thanks. I’d hate your friend to get the wrong impression of me.”

“Friend?”

“Sergeant Turner.”

So that was why he’d initially been so ingratiating. Although they had never deliberately kept their friendship secret, Matt and Johnny hadn’t shouted it from the rooftops either. Even so, it seemed their connection was common knowledge at Snow Hill. Perhaps that’s why Matt had been so angry. He loathed being put in a compromising position.

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