Coffin's Ghost (18 page)

‘Nothing much that you don’t know about. He was in trouble over a so-called accident, nearly killed a girl, she’s still having treatment, he did serve a short sentence.’

‘I know that,’ said Coffin irritably.

‘He’s a man who has accidents, hit a man with his car, that was an accident. And before that his current wife nearly lost an eye. All accidents. Now his stepdaughter is missing.’

‘I know that too.’

‘Then you know that she’s also the stepdaughter of Robbie Gilchrist.’

‘It’s a complicated relationship,’ said Coffin. But not unknown in theatrical circles.

Phoebe ran over it. ‘Her mother, the lady of the damaged eye, is a kind of serial wife. The girl is fond of Gilchrist, less so of Freedom, I’m told. Her real father is off the scene.’

Coffin knew that too. ‘He’s in Hollywood,’ he said. ‘He makes monsters.’

Even Phoebe was silenced. She liked a good horror movie. ‘Like Godzilla?’

‘No, more like Frankenstein’s Monster and Jack the Ripper . . . And Jekyll and Hyde. He does the faces.’

What a family. Blood for breakfast, it would be.

‘Anything else?’ Coffin asked while she considered this.

‘He’s not completely clear on anything but he always steps out of the shit. He certainly knows Albie, and probably doesn’t like him. I’d say that was mutual.’

‘I think he may be our killer.’

You want him to be, thought Phoebe.

‘See what you can find, where he was on the days and times in question. Does he have a gun? Did he know Duval? See what you can get. But try not to let him know. He’s a clever devil.’ And Coffin had a last thought: ‘Check who his lawyer is, it is going to be worth knowing.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Definitely not the sort of conversation in which to call the Chief Commander by his Christian name, even although she had done once. In the past in which they were both younger. And he was less fierce; he was very fierce at the moment.

I hate this business as much as he does, but it isn’t making me fierce. That’s the difference between men and women for you: they are aggressive animals.

Coffin hadn’t finished. ‘And while you’re at it, check on Gilchrist as well.’

‘Right.’

‘You never know.’

‘We’ll need extra help, sir.’ Certainly sir, this time. ‘We’re stretched now.’

Her unit was looking for the head and torso of the limbs deposited in Barrow Street, they were checking on all known contacts of Henriette Duval, and they might even be looking for a headless black and white cat.

Etta had moved around a lot. Phoebe had the latest report beneath her hand now. After leaving the Serena Seddon Refuge she had gone to live in a street near to the tube station
where she had a room. She took a job in a dress shop near by, then when it closed down, she went to work in a coffee shop, managing it. At this time, it seemed she was running an affair with one Joseph Abraham, and it was apparently for him that she had stayed in the Second City.

That relationship apparently ended because she took to working in a restaurant near the tube. Here she had another boyfriend. Only known by his nickname of Big Boy.

Note: informant for most of this is Mimsie Marker.

‘I guess you’ve seen the report on the Duval girl?’ Very quickly, she added, ‘sir’. Not because she wanted to be servile but because the Chief Commander was touchy today. And who wouldn’t be with what had been happening to him and around him from the first bloodstained message and initials J.C. in Barrow Street down to the cat’s head.

And I like cats, she said to herself, and so does he.

Coffin agreed he had seen the report. ‘Wants more detail, Phoebe. There must be some indication of what or whom she was frightened of.’

‘Got to be a man.’

‘Yes, Phoebe, but what we want is his face, his name, his whereabouts.’

‘We are working on it, sir, that’s why I said we were stretched.’

She paused, then added:

‘There is something else: it may be nothing. One of the uniformed lads has a father who lives in Blenheim Street, it’s not far from Barrow Street. He’s been away; when he got back everything in the garden looked as normal, but his terrier keeps wanting to dig up the potato patch . . . He told his son.’

‘Dig it up.’

‘Just on chance?’

‘All right, you’re stretched. Get the chief superintendent to find the men for you.’ He and Archie Young had worked together so often that they trusted each other to do what was required. It worked both ways, they helped each other out. ‘Get the potato patch dug up and’ – he put the emphasis here – ‘check on Freedom and Gilchrist.’

Coffin put the telephone down. Time to get: home. He could be in trouble. Freedom and Gilchrist, eh?

Stella will kill me if I put ‘em both away.

She was home, looking at the staircase from which an area of carpet had been cut.

‘Forensic tests,’ she said gloomily. ‘God knows why. No, don’t tell me.’

Coffin looked at the carpet which was pale grey and expensive. He had said at the time that they should leave the stairs uncarpeted and stone, but he knew better than to say so now.

Gus, the dog, was fussing around their feet while sniffing at the staircase with the anxious air of a dog who knows that strange goings-on have trespassed in his home, his kennel, his safe place.

Also he could smell both cat and blood. This was worrying.

The only sensible thing to do was to attach himself firmly to one member of his family; he chose Coffin whom he always regarded as his protector.

The glass in the broken window had already been restored. One thing about being a high-ranking police officer was that people jumped to your orders.

Stella broke into this comfortable reflection. ‘Of course, Jimmy Jones did the window at once because it was me. He’s devoted to me, runs my fan club, or one of them.’

Stella’s mobile telephone trilled away in her handbag.

‘You answer it,’ Coffin said quickly, ‘while I get us something to eat.’

They had a quiet dinner which Coffin put together, he had learnt a few domestic skills when Stella was off on one of her trips and had discovered that made-up soup and a sandwich was not beyond his skills. He could open the packet in which both foods were sold with the best.

The important thing, he said to himself as he heated the soup and drank some wine, is to know where to buy the best pre-cooked foods.

He carried it to the sitting room on a tray. There was still a lot of things unsaid between them but now was not the time
to start. Stella had finished her telephone call, but she was still clutching the telephone.

‘I think the battery is running down,’ she said absently. ‘The sound was poor.’

‘Have some food and a glass of wine.’

Thank you.’ Stella took the wine, drank the soup and ate whatever it was, Coffin could hardly remember himself, as he stared at his wife. She was pale and pensive.

‘Anything wrong?’

‘You mean more than we’ve had already?’

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

Stella didn’t answer. She held out her glass. ‘I think I need another glass of wine, and if I end up tipsy that is probably what I need too. It has been a lousy day.’ She drank some wine. ‘Has it been just one day? It feels longer.’

‘What was the phone call?’

‘You don’t usually ask who I speak to.’

‘You seem upset,’ he said simply.

‘It was Robbie Gilchrist, he wants to talk to you.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes, ah. He thinks you want to talk to him.’

‘I do.’

There was a short pause. Then Stella said, almost humbly, as if she was asking to be forgiven: ‘Do you think he is the killer?’

‘I think he might know who it is.’ A pause

‘How much does he matter to you, Stella?’

She looked surprised. ‘Only as a business partner, nothing personal. I’m not sure if I even like him. He’s better than Freedom, though.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Coffin gravely. ‘When does he want to come?’

‘Tonight. Now.’

He stood up and held out his hand to her. ‘Let’s hope we have a quiet night.’

Stella smiled at him. Perhaps not too quiet.

Coffin said: ‘Gilchrist can wait till tomorrow. We might know more by then.’

The torso, for instance. Dug out of a potato patch.

It was a quiet night around the St Luke’s Theatre. The big theatre and the Workshop Theatre were soon to be dark, part of the reason that made Stella anxious to work with Freedom and Gilchrist. But she had a new big show coming in, a singing and dancing comedy, things would look up.

It was noisier in the city centre as homecomers returned from a visit to the shops and theatres of the old West End in the old city beyond the Tower of London, flooding in on the tube as midnight approached. Mimsie Marker’s paper stall was boarded up, but the club in the basement behind her was crowded, while the all-night coffee shop down the road (famous for a lot more than coffee) was full of light and movement.

One of the couples on the last tube train back from Leicester Square was Evelyn and her husband Peter Jones. Then they walked towards the block of flats where they had a top-floor apartment. Bodichon Street was close to Drossers Market where Evelyn had caught a glimpse of Etta Duval.

Drossers Street Market was just folding itself away for the night. One or two stalls were still operating.

‘Good film, wasn’t it?’ said Peter to Evelyn. They were comfortable together. They both agreed that you had to get out of the Second City occasionally. This had been their night out. ‘Cup of coffee? Tiger’s Stall is still serving.’

‘We’re nearly home.’

‘Let’s live dangerously.’

They lined up at Tiger’s counter to get a mug of his coffee, which was hot and strong.

‘We your last customers?’ asked Peter, as he paid for the coffee.

‘Not quite.’ Tim, such was Tiger’s given name, nodded to the end of the stall. There in the shadows, leaning against the corner of the counter, back towards them, was a tall, thin girl, her hair falling over her shoulders. ‘She’s been there too long and I wish she’d move off.’

Peter stared at the girl, then turned to his wife. ‘You know who that is?’

Evelyn stopped him. ‘Leave this to me.’ She walked up to
the girl, and touched her gently. ‘Alice, you don’t know me, but I know you.’ She got no response at first, so even more gently she said it again. ‘Alice?’

When Alice turned round it was to show a great blue bruise down the side of her face.

Evelyn put her arm round the girl’s shoulders and led her away. ‘Come along, Alice, I know where to take you, my dear.’ Over the girl’s head she looked at her husband. ‘This kid’s in trouble.’

‘The refuge always opens its doors to those in distress,’ said Mary Arden philosophically to Evelyn, but taking care not to let the girl hear. ‘But why me?’

‘There’s no room in our flat, and I couldn’t leave her on the streets. I know there’s room here.’

Several families had moved out, as Evelyn knew, so yes, there was room.

‘We’re meant to help with family trouble, and I’d call her troubles family.’

Mary looked at her. ‘Reckon so?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, she can’t stay. Not for long. Just for a night.’

‘While we work things out,’ said Evelyn, who now felt responsible for the silent, weeping girl with Peter in the small waiting room.

‘Did she say where she’d been?’

‘Haven’t asked,’ said Evelyn.

‘No clothes or anything with her?’ said the knowledgeable Mary.

‘She seems to have a small bag with her.’

‘That’ll have her make-up. They always bring their makeup,’ said Mary. ‘So she’s not so bad, the really worst cases don’t do that, can’t stop for lipstick, but the medium-bad, the let’s-get-out-of-here-and-take-over-my-own-life, they do. She’ll probably have a nightdress and some money. That doesn’t mean she didn’t need an exit. You go. See you in the morning.’

When Evelyn had gone, Mary attended to Alice. She was kinder to the distraught girl than her brisk manner to Evelyn
had suggested. She took her to the small bedroom which was free, and showed her the bathroom. The girl looked grubby, but it was late.

‘Would you like a bath?’

Alice shook her head.

‘In the morning then.’ Mary was busy unpacking the small bag which did hold make-up and also a light cotton nightdress. Mary noticed that a thin band of blood ran along the hemline. She considered offering the girl a clean nightdress but decided to say nothing about it. ‘I’m glad you are back.’

‘I was coming back,’ said Alice. ‘I had to think about things . . .’

Mary looked at the bruise on her cheek. ‘I bet you did.’

Family or boyfriend, either could be the problem. Sex was there too, somehow, sex gone wrong, you didn’t get a blow that large out of love.

Coffin heard of her return the next morning; he knew before Phoebe Astley and Tony Davley.

Peter telephoned Stella to tell her. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

‘He was right,’ said Coffin.

‘She worked with him in the theatre, part time while she waited for a part.’ Stella looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure if she was ever going to make it, not clever, you see, although with her connection she had a head start. Peter liked her, I think, probably a lot more than he wanted to admit. I have wondered if that’s what she ran away from.’