The “fancy one” was still talking at her. About Stella, of course.
âWell, sir â¦' she began.
âIt's her theatre. Or will be. The ground's hers. Or the lease is.'
âWhat are you saying, sir?'
âIt seems to touch my wife again,' he said with a groan. âI don't like it.'
âI don't see it, sir.' But Phoebe said it reluctantly, she knew her boss well enough to trust his intuitions.
Coffin ignored this comment and went on:
âWhen the scientific boys work out how long the bodies have been there, let me know.' More and more they were relying on the scientists. Even crime was getting technical.
âIt's important to find out how long these bodies have been there, and who they are.'
âI agree.'
âAnything new on the serial killer?'
She shook her head. âNo.'
âThe press will be howling like hyenas ⦠I don't know why they haven't been already.'
âI know,' ventured Phoebe. âIt's the royal divorce. They want all the news space they can get.'
âI didn't know there was one.'
âOh, there will be. Bound to be.'
If she hoped for a laugh she didn't get one. Coffin went on:
âAnd when you've finished work today, you might pop in and see Mercy.'
Phoebe nodded. âWill do.'
âI think she might be worried about Joe. I am too. I had a word with his doctor but he didn't say much.'
Â
Phoebe didn't go straight away at the end of the day. First, she wanted to talk to the rest of her colleagues handling the serial killings.
Before that she had spoken on the phone to the forensic and pathologists involved.
She got on to the forensic experts first to prod them on.
Phoebe knew that it was hopeless to ask for quick answers from the two scientists in charge, because, as they had told her often in the past, their work by its very nature was slow and methodical.
But she could try.
âWell, Dickie' she said to the forensic expert, âGet a move on, please.'
âWe're in the same fight here, you know. And it's Dickon, not Dickie,'
âSounds Anglo-Saxon ⦠Chaucer? Or Shakespeare?'
âIt's a family name, and both Chaucer and Shakespeare were English but not Anglo- Saxon.' He knew she was baiting him but could not help rising to it. The trouble with forensic medicine was that it was a humourless business. Pathology, might just be one degree worse, she judged.
Dr Death, Phoebe called the pathologist Hugh Meldrum, but she had to admit that Dr Meldrum, young and a new recruit to the Second City Police as very junior pathologist, was easier to talk to than Dickon. He would produce a bit of information, because he always did. He handed over these snippets of information like polished pearls, then sat back to wait for her response.
âSo what have you got for me?'
âIt's very early, too soon to speak with authority.' Nevertheless, he would do so. He always did. âSo handle with care.' He added his usual rider.
âWell, come on, please. Let me have your first thoughts.' She tried not to sound hurried since this irritated Meldrum who did not like his pearls spat upon.
âThere are three bodies.' He paused: a pearl was coming.
âRight.' This was to hurry him up.
âA young male, fully extended, on his left side a female, likewise at full stretch, she is also young, and on her left, an infant. You understand this is just from my first superficial inspection?'
âOf course.' She could tell that a real, natural pearl was about to appear, nothing cultured.
âThe girl was strangled, the baby was smothered and as far as I can tell before a post mortem, the lad was poisoned.' He became portentous. âAnd before you ask, I cannot as yet say what the poison was. Or how it was administered.' He added âBut it
may
have been self-administered. His body bears no signs of violence â¦'
âAre you suggesting that he killed his companions, then committed suicide?' said Phoebe.
âAnd then lay down and drew the earth over the three of them? That
would
be an interesting case.' Meldrum remarked drily.
âIt's that already,' said Phoebe, with feeling.
She frowned as she settled at her desk and considered the situation. She never knew if he was laughing at her or not.
Phoebe picked up the telephone, but no one she wanted to speak to seemed to be at their desk.
Her next port of call was a corner of the canteen where she had pleaded with all those officers dealing with the serial murders to come to an impromptu meeting. If they could manage it.
She had chosen this spot rather than the small briefing room where they could have met as being more informal.
They could manage it.
Coffin's name, which she had used, was powerful.
From the door she totted up who she had got. Les
Henderson, next to him Inspector Winnie Ardet, and even Superintendent Miller. Not a bad tally, she'd got the most important.
âAll present and correct,' she said lightly. Then, sensing that this did not go down well, âthanks for coming.'
âThink we'd dare not?' This was Winnie.
Sometimes, oh sometimes, said Phoebe to herself, I sense not everyone likes me very much.
âWe've all got plenty on our plate with the serial killer on our patch.'
âIf it
is
just the one killer,' said Winnie.
âIf it is, but I think its probable.' Phoebe smiled at Winnie. To her relief, Winnie smiled back.
âNo real evidence, he's a clever bugger. You'd think he was the invisible man, the way he manages to leave no forensic traces. None,' she said with real feeling.
âSo what do you want from us?' asked Sergeant Henderson. âWhat can we do for you? I know you won't think me cynical if I believe you aren't planning to do anything for us? No sudden revelations or confessions that we ought to hear?' as Phoebe shook her head. âNo, I thought not, love, so out with it.'
Phoebe stood up. âLet's have a drink while we talk. I'm sure you all want one. No, I'll do it, I called this meeting.' She knew her colleagues well enough to know what they wanted to drink. Les would want beer, Winnie a dry white wine, and Miller would have coffee with her.
She looked at Les and he rose politely to help her carry the drinks.
âSo what are we playing at?' he asked.
âNo game Les.'
When they got back to the table she ran quickly through what had happened from the beginning: the messages, the strange figure of the mannequin woman, the attack on Stella. Parallel with all this in time were the serial murders. And little Charlie Fisher, the killing that she could make no sense of.
Her audience listened without comment.
Glad I provided the drinks, she thought, or they wouldn't know what to do.
âThe Chief Commander thinks it is all, somehow, aimed at Stella.'
She got no applause but a moment of silence. Then Winnie said: âShe's certainly a lady that knows how to get into trouble, we've seen it in the past, but I don't think even she would arrange all this just for publicity.'
Phoebe ignored this. âAnd now three bodies have been discovered on the site of the new theatre.'
Into the silence, Les muttered: âHad heard a little something. Better go and take a look.'
âMay not be easy, there should be a tent over it by now and the whole area fenced off, I ordered it. Oh, and Les, if you go inside, but I'd prefer you didn't, protective clothing, boots and gloves, please.'
âI know the rules.'
âJust reminding you.'
âWere they killed on the spot?'
âNo.' Phoebe felt sure of herself here.
âThen that's not how our serial killer works: he kills and walks away. And three bodies, did you say? He's never done three at one go.'
âWho's your SOCO?' asked Superintendent Miller, always the professional.
âWe soon won't have enough officers left free to have a Scene of the Crime Officer for every murder,' grumbled Les.
âWe all know that you will have done everything the right way,' said Winnie. âGod you knows you've had enough practice, we all have.'
âThanks, Winnie.'
âBut I think we are all beginning to feel a bit sick.'
âAll I am asking, and it's what the Chief Commander wants, is to find out where Stella comes in. Well, that's it, friends, thank you for coming.'
âIt's back to work,' said Les, leading the exit. âI don't know if what you and the Chief Commander have brewed up helps or not.'
Phoebe thought she did not know either.
Â
As she walked across the canteen and then out into the corridor which led to the car park, she saw Coffin. She held back as he went to his car.
He was walking in that head down, purposeful way that usually meant a problem elsewhere.
Well, he had plenty of those, but where was he going now?
Phoebe knew him well enough to feel a sense of disquiet.
But she also knew where she had to go and that was to see Mercy Adams. She knew where Mercy lived - at least she knew the address although she had never been there. After Mercy's second husband died, she went back to live in the family home with her children. A flat was carved out for her on the top two floors of the largish old house where she had grown up. She felt happy there, she had told Phoebe, and having her own establishment had kept family relationships peaceful.
She walked up to the door, pressed the bell which said Adams, then waited.
No one came. So she pressed it again. This time, she heard footsteps coming towards the door, so she got her face ready to smile at Mercy with gentle sympathy and not too much enquiry.
But it was Mercy's mother who opened the door.
âCan I speak to Mercy? I'm Phoebe Astley, we work together.'
âOh yes, I know you dear.' She held the door open more widely so that Phoebe stepped into the hall which smelt of furniture polish and lavender. âI don't want to disturb her, dear, she's had a terrible migraine and I think she's just dropped off. Some other time?'
âYes, of course. Will you tell her I called and give her my
sympathy ⦠I know how painful migraine can be. I've had it myself sometimes.'
âIt's tension, I think, don't you?'
âHer doctor could help, I expect. There are some drugs that work for migraine for most people.'
âOh yes, I'll see she goes once she's safe to walk around. You look after yourself too, dear.'
âOh I do, I do,' Phoebe assured her, thinking that Mercy's mother was a candidate for a soothing potion herself.
As she got into her car to drive off, she turned her head to see if all was clear behind before moving out. Just coming into view at top of the road, was a figure she could swear was Mercy's.
As she sat there, debating whether to get out and run to greet Mercy, she saw the figure turn round and disappear round the corner.
Recognised the car? What about that rumour that she had had an abortion and doesn't want to talk about it? With someone like Mercy you could never tell. Perhaps it had more to do with that young doctor of hers?
She drove off slowly. What the hell was happening?
When you are a man with a taste for killing then murder is the ultimate refreshment.
It should not be so, the murderer, in his way a highly moral man, knew this but had to admit the pleasure.
He had, as all good performers must have, a props room where he kept all that was needed for his performances. It was in an old garage not so far away from Mimsie Marker's stall and next door to the Catholic Church. He often had a conversation with Father McPartlin. He enjoyed meeting him although he had to be very careful what he said and what face he turned towards him.
A sharp observer, Father McPartlin. Well, it stood to reason, you could not survive as a parson in the Second City without a strong heart and stronger reason, so Father McPartlin had certainly observed that he wore a wig and that his head underneath it was as shiny bald as an egg. Too kindly and polite to mention anything. You could get good wigs that, apparently, could not be told from real but they were very expensive, and why waste money? Personally he thought this one suited him, made him feel quite boyish. But the curls tickled.
He took his wig off, with the Father watching, and shook his head. âBit warm today.'
âIt is, it is ⦠Do you know, I think your hair is growing back.'
âIs it? The doctors said it might.' He was indifferent.
âWhich hospital do you attend?'
Lovely prissy way of talking, the father had.
âThe University Hospital.'
âYou don't mind me asking? My intention is kindly.'
Of course, it is, loving kindness is your business. Mine is hate.
âNot at all, Father.' Besides, I don't have to tell the truth. Nor
do I. He could feel a comfortable, warm bubble of hate springing up inside him. He had no use for it at the moment but it was good to feel it was there if he needed it.
He went back inside, making things tidy. He hung up several garments, then he inspected two pairs of shoes. They must be polished. No stains anywhere, though. Remarkable that, but of course, he knew what to do.
Presently, his attention was claimed by voices from outside on the steps to the church He put his ear to the wall to listen.
Mimsie Marker's strong tones penetrated where he was standing, thinking about life. And death.
âHere are your sandwiches, Father. Made them myself, they are good but you ought to eat properly, Father.'
âYour sandwiches are very nourishing, Mimsie.'
âNot like good hot roast beef, Father, or a lamb chop or two ⦠or fish on the right day. It's not one of those starvation days today, is it?'
âNo, not today, Mimsie.'
âGood, because you've got grilled bacon in those sandwiches.'
The voices fell away at that point so he could hear no more. Then by careful attention he could hear them again. Discussing his favourite subject.
The killings.
âI hope you are taking care, Mimsie, when you go around ⦠these murders â¦'
âDon't worry about me, Father. I can look after myself. I always have a heavy walking stick in my hand and a knife in my pocket ⦠I know how to use it, too.'
âSo does the murderer, Mimsie.' He added, âOf course, you can always go home in your Rolls.'
âI do
not
have a Rolls, Father,' said Mimsie severely, âthat is a total fabrication.'
The killer murmured to himself that Mimsie was safe, she was not in his killing market. âOf course, if you are keen, then I will try to fit you on to the list.'
But no, there was no response from the little bubble of anger and hate inside him, so Mimsie was certainly safe.
He went back to tidying up the garments, all of which he would take home to wash. It was true, as he knew, that forensic scientists could pick up traces of blood and other matters on an article of clothing that had been washed, but he also knew that modern detergents and bleaches could seriously decompose such traces.
Mimsie Marker (who in his opinion ought to be getting back to her stall) and the Father were still talking .âNo, there is no description of the killer that I've heard,' she was saying.
No, of course, you wouldn't have heard. Who do you think you are? thought the killer.
âAnd if there had been one, then you can bet that one of my customers would have passed it on to me. I get a lot of important police officers coming along for a paper and perhaps a drink before they catch a train across the river.'
The killer ground his teeth in anger. She might be correct, some officers knew how to talk, all right, and over a hot coffee and a sandwich might well do so.
He got on with his work, his mood still sour. Mimsie must have gone and the Father be off eating his bacon sandwiches because all was quiet.
Then once more he could hear a conversation floating in from the street. Two women this time.
âOh she's so lovely.'
Not a voice he recognised.
âI go see almost every play she's in. Not the very highbrow or tragic ones. She's always good, our dear Stella Pinero but to my mind she's at her best in comedy.'
âI agree. But I do like her in Shakespeare. But you can't call Shakespeare highbrow, can you?'
No, you can't, you cow, he thought, putting his eye to a crack in the door. No one he knew. Middle-aged, both of them. Well dressed, one in a red suit, the other in black, wearing a bit of jewellery, hair seen to by a good hairdresser. Not
on the game. But he had known that from the snatch of conversation. There might be a few toms who appreciated the acting of Stella Pinero but in his experience nary a one that liked Shakespeare. Funny that, because they must have done once when the first Globe theatre was building. One of the best places in Tudor London to tout for custom, he wouldn't mind betting.
Wasn't that how Nell Gwynne started out?
He heard the name Stella again, and the bubble of anger inside him grew into a great balloon. One that swelled and pulsated.
It had Stella Pinero's face on it.
There was a red balloon hanging from a string on a hook on the wall on which some unskilled hand had drawn eyes, a nose, and mouth.
He drew his hand up and down the pretend head. âOh Stella, you little know.' He stood looking at the plastic face. âYou think you've been through it and escaped. That is so, isn't it?' He took a deep breath. âThat was only a rehearsal, Miss Pinero. You know what a rehearsal is, don't you? A forerunner to the
real
performance.'
Father McPartlin was quiet, and the street outside was empty.
He stroked the plastic face again, almost with affection.âI wish I could trust you to react with fear the way you should, but you are one tough lady.' He pushed the face away, so that it swung on its cord. âI shall have to work on that.' He gave the face a hard slap, then walked away.
He had left his mobile phone on the table in the middle of the room. On this table he piled things that did not matter like old newspapers and empty plastic bags from big stores, all anonymous stuff, so that if anyone discovered his secret hidey-hole they would not get much profit from what lay around. It would be discovered in the end. Nothing was a secret for ever in his experience but he planned not to be there then. Move on, and out, that was his plan. Yes, they would
pick up a few fingerprints from the plastic bags and even the table itself, but so what? He did not care.
He knew he would be found out as the killer, sooner or later. He wanted to be.
At the end, he wanted Stella Pinero to know all.
He tapped out a number on the mobile and waited for an answer. One came eventually but he knew to wait.
âHello. I was busy.'
âOf course. Well, there you are.'
Conversation between the two was never easy. It was hard to know why since on many issues their views were the same. Just bad communicators, he supposed. Yet in his profession, such as it was, he should be a good one.
âI wanted to let you know that you had a call from that young woman who is keen on you.'
âA call in person? Or the phone?'
âTelephone. I told her you would get in touch.'
âI suppose I had better.'
âI think so, she sounded distressed.'
âShe's got worries, poor woman.'
âHaven't we all?'
There was so much truth in this that a silence fell. Then he muttered something about the hospital.
âOh yes, the bloody hospital,' came the even lower mutter in reply.