âNelson and Trafalgar,' said Phoebe Astley aloud, as she parked her car at the corner of the two streets. âThey've always been keen on Nelson round here.' She had a young WDC with her, always a wise rule on a house call. âNot because they disliked the French, but because it upset shipping and shipping was what this part of London depended on. Docks, and ships and cargoes.'
âNot now though,' said the WDC.
âNo, not now. Then, it was part of the world's biggest port. Now it's got Heathrow. I don't know if it's the worlds' biggest airport, but it must be near it.'
Phoebe was sensitive about sounds and the constant throb and drum of the planes going into Heathrow irritated her. There was also another airfield further down the river so she got it both ways.
âYou have heard of Nelson and Trafalgar, I suppose? You don't think it's to celebrate a football team?'
âNo, of course not.' Her young DC was indignant. âAnd Lady Hamilton. I saw the film. Laurence Olivier was Nelson.'
History might not be exactly like that film, thought Phoebe, but why worry.
âOf course, it was an old film,' said the DC.
Three, Trafalgar Place was one of a terrace of thin, tall houses, clearly let out as rooms, with nothing smart about it. It looked clean but cheap.
âRing the bell and get us in,' she ordered the DC. âOh, all right, if the bell won't work bang on the knocker.'
The knocker did work so that soon a cross woman appeared. âCome in, come in, what is it you want? There's one room to let but I want references and money in advance.' She had the grim determined look of one who knows she isn't going to get a reference (which would be no good anyway)
but is absolutely determined to get the money. âAnd more if you two share.'
She thinks we're a pair of lesbians, decided Phoebe.
Once that confusion was cleared up and Phoebe had asked about Robert Eglin, there was some progress. That is, after the woman had managed to remember who Robert was.
She consulted a large red notebook. âEglin ⦠don't think that was his real name, he was an actor, or said he was. Probably Potts or Brown.'
Phoebe sighed. One step forward and one back.
âHe's been gone a long time. He went off with that poor little creature who lived with him, and the baby. He looked like death.'
âDid he?' She might have been nearer the truth than she knew.
âPaid up, though. Didn't leave owing.'
This was the trio of dead people, Phoebe knew this, but who they really, what their story was, was something else.
Police methods would identify them in the end, she was sure of that, but it would take time. Coffin was not willing to wait.
He might have to, though.
We know who the lad is, we know of his relationship with the girl, and we can guess the child belonged to both of them.
Beyond that, what do we know?
They must have family, they didn't spring from Zeus's forehead.
Â
âDangerous things, families,' said Coffin, when Phoebe said this to him. âNever had much of a one myself till Stella took me on.'
Or else he had too much. Abandoned by his mother as a infant, he had been brought up by a ârelation' who turned out to be no relation at all, but his mother's dresser ⦠they had loved each other very much.
Then later, after his own unsuccessful marriage and the
death of a son, he had discovered that mother had survived and married several times. Sensibly to rich men.
Very wise of her, Coffin had said to himself. I might have done the same. But although it was all right for women to look for a rich husband, indeed it was almost expected of them, there was a prejudice about a man marrying for money.
He'd married Stella who could spend money faster than she could earn it, but whom he loved.
Or, as he sometimes suspected, Stella had married him and all he had to do was to say Yes. As Stella had once observed: âIt's such a comfort being married to a top policeman if you are trying to run a theatre, it irons out so many little problems.'
Coffin had been left with a stiff, lawyer half-brother in Edinburgh (his father probably a Scottish Law Lord), and a delicious American half-sister called Laetitia Bingham who was a banker, very rich, but occasionally bankrupt.
The stuffy half-brother was now keeping his distance on account of the serial murders, but Letty had sent an email to say she was coming over and this murder saga
must
make a film. Stella was to see it did. They could use dummies for the dead ladies. At which Coffin winced.
âMy family is all right,' said Phoebe to him. âMy sister and her kids.' Not that she wanted kids herself, but she liked her sisters'. Family life at secondhand was probably safest for a police officer.
âSo what have we got?' Coffin ignored Phoebe's family reminiscences: he knew she quarrelled with her sister if they were together for longer than a day. âAll we have is his name. If it was his name,'
âYes, probably his stage name, and his real name was Fisher or Brown.'
âLook it up in THEATRE BOOK, all names and variations are there.'
âI have done. Nothing. Or nothing I could get a handle on.'
Coffin frowned. He never looked disagreeable when he frowned, just thin, thoughtful and anxious.
âI could positively like him when he looks like that,' thought Phoebe.âBut I won't because it would be dangerous.' Aloud, she said: âSuperintendent Miller has called another meeting of all for us investigating the serial killings, tomorrow morning, 9am sharp.' Since she had started working on the paedophile case, murders and investigations had clustered around her. Not that she'd got far. âAnd I think he's asked Joe Jones if he feels up to it.'
âHe called it because I told him to ⦠Stella will be there.'
Phoebe let her surprise show.
âShe's going to see photographs of all the dead women to see if she knew them.'
Brave of her, thought Phoebe, she won't enjoy it. Then she saw from the expression Coffin's face that Stella had not volunteered, but had been ordered to attend.
Not all bliss being the Chief Commander's wife.
Â
When she got back to work Mercy had both an email and a telephone message telling her of the big meeting so she knew it was serious. She also got one from Phoebe Astley complaining she was hard to track down. She returned to her office, sending an email back to Phoebe Astley. âMigraine, migraine,' she said in apology, âyou know how it is, you just want to be on your own. Brain pain.'
Brain pain. âWho wants a hot brain?' she asked herself, âbut sometimes you just get it.' The serial murders of women had done this for her. Superintendent Miller had added to it by sending out the invitation to a big meeting, but she guessed that John Coffin was behind it.
Mercy tried once more to get in touch with Joe. As usual Inspector Joe Jones, who always sheltered behind his wife on the telephone, let Josie speak first. She admitted she had had some time off from the hospital but was on her way back to work.
âAnd how's Joe?'
âHe can talk to you himself.'
He started at once, so Mercy guessed he had been listening to the telephone call. Any good detective would. And Joe was a very good detective but with a style all his own. He had trained young Mercy so she respected it.
âI heard about the bodies that were found. So I knew to be ready for a call in.'
Josie called out; âRemember to take your tablets with you.'
âTake no notice of her,' said Joe, a sardonic humour in his voice. âShe thinks I might drop dead.'
âIt's working in a hospital,' said Mercy. âDo it to me, I expect.' Her doctor friend was a bit strange sometimes. Stress. She had been worried over Joe herself but was not about to say so.
âOh a casualty of life,' said Joe. âHow's Dr Whatever-he's-called?'
Mercy avoided the question. That was a subject to steer clear of.
âI wish I found it easier to work with the Chief Commander, but I don't. Everyone likes him, I like him myself, but I find him hard to work with. Perhaps hard isn't the word, but I feel he expects more than I deliver.' This was about the third meeting that had been called in which they were told how all the recent murders were linked. Were they? And if so, how? Nothing seemed to fit.
âHe is a clever man,' said Joe.
âSo are you, Joe and you're OK to work with.'
âYou know what this summons to a meeting means? The boss is taking over.'
Distantly, through the telephone line, Mercy heard Josie saying; if Lady Pinero's going to be there, then I ought to be too.
âWhy?' asked Mercy.
âBecause I work in the University Hospital ⦠I see lots of faces. I might recognise one or two.' Josephine sounded emphatic.
â
Lady
Coffin or
Miss
Pinero,' said Joe, he put the receiver down with a clink.
Â
The meeting was held in a large room in an old part of the police building. Stories said that this area had been a school and the big room had been the school hall. On this morning it had had a brush up and polish which a first arrival claimed was for the benefit of the Chief Commander. If Coffin had heard the rumour about the school he would have been able to deny it: he had seen the room when he first took on his job and it was full of old police uniforms and boots with not a smell of food. Besides, there was no kitchen. No kitchen, no food.
He was punctual as were all the summoned detectives. Phoebe Astley was sitting next to Winnie Ardet while Sergeant Les Henderson had tucked himself away behind them. Winnie Ardet was a good-sized girl and he didn't want to be noticed. He had tried to tone down his bright red hair with cream which partly succeeded in flattening it down while not touching the colour. He enjoyed coming to these meetings although had they helped? Yes, probably, at least you could talk things over with your colleagues.
Les looked around at the people who had been working on these serial killings and he was bound to say that they all looked tired and anxious which was how he felt. Everyone had been advised by Miller, always a perfectionist, to bring a short precis of their thoughts and conclusions so they would be fluent and well briefed in case they wanted speak out. Les had his in a blue folder on his knees.
Inspector Joe Jones who had been away ill now looked better than any of them. Les grinned at him and got a grin in return.
On a big screen in front of them, pictures of the murdered women were appearing.
Amy Buckly, with her long hair, falling across her face. An early photograph, Les decided, taken as soon as the police
photographer got there. Nothing of the morgue about it. She had not been tidied up.
Mary Rice. Spectacles pushed away. Yes, that had been a nasty one. Not one that he had been working on himself, but he had gone to see the body in case it helped with Phillida Jessup.
Yes, there was Phillida on the screen. Really chewed up, poor Phillida. She had been one of the cases he had concentrated on which had not been easy. Nor successful, he had got nowhere.
Angela Dover. Had they called her Angela or Angie when she was alive? He had gone to the inquest on Angela, then he had been diverted back to work on Phillida. He had had the mournful feeling that he would have liked Angela if he had seen her alive. She wasn't that young, but then neither was he, but maybe in a different time or place they could have gone a long way together. Sometimes he felt this way about cases he was involved in.
Finally, the last body, so far. Must remember to say that because there could be another any minute. Lotty Brister was older than the other girls although she could have been younger, her body discovered in Peppard Alley, thrown into the gutter, almost as if she had been a mistake. In the working clothes for her elegant shop - Prada suit, Wolford tights - she had looked extremely youthful.
There was little comment as the pictures came up and settled into position on the screen. The audience watched in virtual silence. It meant that there was hardly any progress. This show would not be put on if the police had a suspect.
âClever chap, this killer,' murmured Phoebe. âCurse him.'
âWe'll get him in the end,' said Winnie Ardet.
âThink so?' Disillusionment was starting to show.
Winnie did not answer.
âNo, you don't really think so,' said Phoebe.
âIn time. Give us time, we'll get there in the end.'
Phoebe shook her head. âI feel as though he's watching us, this chap.'