Coffin laughed, but gently. âYou can read my mind. I suppose it's why I love you.'
âNot all husbands would feel the same.' Her voice softened. âDon't get into trouble, my love, will you?'
âCertainly not. Why should I?'
âBecause it's the way you operate. It's known as sailing close to the wind.'
âNot me, never.' But he knew he did, especially if as now, Stella was involved. As she was, somehow. How and why, he did not know, but by God, he would find out.
âLook after yourself,' Stella said, no laughter now in her voice.
âYou do the same.'
âYou've given me a minder again, haven't you? Don't think I haven't noticed.'
Coffin kept silent. But not for long: âI won't go on my own. Phoebe Astley will be with me.'
But this was a lie. He was going alone. He knew the owner and eminence gris of the shop in question, remembered him from the old days in Deptford, recalled enough to know that he would never talk in front of a third party, let alone a woman. With Coffin on his own he might let something interesting out.
Wearing carefully chosen, unobtrusive clothes, Coffin strolled into the shop, pushing aside a large stuffed cat, several boxes full of what looked like old clothes, and a big, old-fashioned, crocodile skin trunk (which he tripped against, causing a confused noise), to be greeted by his old acquaintance. You couldn't say friend, since Coffin had been active in sending him to prison once, if not twice, years ago. As far as he knew, though, there had been no reason for imprisonment since the move to the Second City.
âHello, Johnny boy. Long time no see ⦠âcourse, I knew you were in the Second City, top of the heap too.'
âNot quite,' said Coffin, rubbing his ankle.
âLovely object, isn't it? Can't you just imagine it, travelling on the old Queen Mary to New York, or being put on the train in Paris by your maidservant to go to the South of France while you chatted to Noel Coward.'
âI didn't know you were such a romantic, Bert,' said Coffin, still rubbing his ankle.
âAt heart, Johnny, at heart. Always was. Not a side of me you saw, Johnny.'
âNo, it wasn't.' Prison for fraud, then robbery with some violence - a girlfriend with a badly fractured cheekbone did not readily call up a picture of a romantic man.
âI kept it hidden. Had to, you know what it was like living in John Evelyn Street.' Bert smiled radiantly. âBut now it can come out.'
âThat must be nice for you.'
âBetter than you think ⦠look around and see what I've collected, some things to keep forever, like the trunk, and others to sell.'
âLike the model of a naked woman.'
There was moment of silence.
âAh.' Bert did not cease to smile but perhaps his eyes hardened. âI knew you didn't come in just to say Hello and How are you.'
âYou sold a model recently. I need to know more about the sale: to whom, for instance?'
âWe always keep a modest stock of these ladies, not always on show, but those who want one know where to come. Sometimes they are needed for â¦' he coughed tactfully, â ⦠for medical reasons, sometimes for artistic reasons â¦' He gave up at this point and was silent.
Coffin waited in silence.
âThat lady was one of my favourites, she'd been with us for some time and I'd got to like her. You might think there's no difference between one and another, but there is if you live with them long enough.'
âAll right,' said Coffin impatiently, âafter you have lived long enough with one of these models to get attached to her, then you
do
sell it. It is a matter of business, after all.'
âWell, yes, Johnny, yes, a profit must come. We insist on cash.'
âYes, yes, so I daresay you know most of your customers?'
âNot by name.' said Bert with decision. âCouldn't expect it. I didn't sell the model, I might not have let her go, I like to think of them going to a good home. Like a dog, you know. My wife sold her.'
âI'd like to speak to her.'
Bert nodded. He went to the back door to shout. âMyrtle, Myrtle. Here with you.'
A memory stirred inside Coffin. Myrtle? Surely that had been the name of the very young and pretty girl whose cheekbone had been cracked? They'd married, had they? What a courtship.
In through the door came one of the thinnest women that Coffin had ever seen, so tall that she had to bend her head to get through the door.
âAh, there you are, Mirt.'
Mirt, Myrtle ⦠this was what the slender, pretty girl had turned into: a figure of length and no breadth with the pretty features pointed and sharp. A bit bruised as well, so Bert had not changed.
âThis copper wants to ask you about the dummy you sold.'
Mirt did not recognise him.
âWho did you sell it to?'
She shrugged. âSome tall thin bird in trousers.'
âLesbian?' asked Bert. He sounded unsurprised.
She shrugged again. âCould be.'
Bert looked at Coffin: âWe get birds going both ways. You should see some of them. Some don't even know for sure themselves.'
âWould you know her again?' asked Coffin.
Mirt shook her head. âDoubt it.'
âWhy are you so worried?' asked Bert.
Coffin did not answer. What could he say? That it was left as a present for my wife and I wouldn't mind killing whoever it was?
âWait a minute,' said Myrtle.âI remember you now: you're John Coffin, and you're a big boss figure now. You arrested my Bert once.'
âHe deserved it.'
âCourse he did. And more.'
âHere,' protested Bert.
His wife ignored him, while she studied Coffin's face. What she saw there seemed to interest her.
âThese questions you're asking. Got anything to do with all these murders?'
âWhy? What makes you say that?' said Coffin alertly. For the first time he saw that there was a sharp, observant face imbedded in that flesh and bone.
There was a moment when no one spoke. Coffin waited, determined not to be the first to break the silence.
âI don't know,' said Myrtle. âIt's just the sort of thing you coppers do.'
âIs that all?'
She walked towards the back door. At the door, she said vaguely over her shoulder, as if she might mean something or she might not, just talking. âOh don't know. Just if I saw himher walking around the Second City, then I might give you a ring.'
Phoebe told Joe Jones and Sergeant Les Henderson, both of whom were having drinks with her, that tomorrow she was going round the houses where each victim had lived with the Chief Commander.
âWe know that,' said Les.
âAnd it behoves me to look out for myself.'
âI thought you liked him.'
âI do, he's a great man, I've known him a long while, and worked with him, but you have to watch yourself with his lordship, he is tough.'
They were drinking in the Golden Fleece, a bar popular with the Second City CID. It was early evening so the place was not crowded.
âYou're nervous,' said Les, surprised. She's in love with him, he thought, or she was once. Is now, said a realistic voice inside him. He's a bloody attractive man, damn him. Les had always fancied Phoebe himself. Not in love with her, he wasn't ready for a big emotion like that, but one or two pegs short of it, maybe.
âNever seen Phoebe nervous,' said Joe.
âNot nervous, just anxious,' Phoebe replied quickly.
âKeep us in touch, tell us everything and Les and I will help, won't we, Les?' Joe offered with a grin.
Les had worked with both Joe and Phoebe in his time and he thought that Phoebe was the one who saw further into the wood. âMaybe,' he said.
âOh come on,' said Phoebe. âI'm not buying you a drink to make me miserable but to cheer me up.'
Joe was a good detective but not one it was easy to find relaxing, not “jollity country” as Les had put it once. But he had somehow joined the party with Les. Les was a friend, Phoebe suspected it was because he reminded her of a
much younger John Coffin, but better perhaps not to go into that.
âI'm just a sort of chaperone, going round the homes, a woman better than a man.'
âInteresting thought,' said Les. âI wish he'd asked me.'
âOh it had to be a woman ⦠expendable when not needed,' said Phoebe with some bitterness.
âYou don't believe that,' said Les.
âNo, perhaps not. Anyway, we start tomorrow. His lordship could not manage earlier, an important meeting in London ⦠the other London, the bigger and richer one.'
âI think you are just very slightly drunk,' said Les kindly.
âNever.'
Phoebe had received a telephone call from Paul Masters setting out the arrangements late that afternoon while working on records in her new office. She had been on her own and with an aching head. No doubt, as a later sober reflection would point out to her, this had added to the irritation that Paul Masters had told her what she was to do and not the Chief Commander himself.
âI suppose they've already had the forensic teams round there?' she had enquired.
âOh yes.' Cheerfully, Masters added: âI'll see you get them all.'
âReckon I've got them,' she looked at her overburdened desk. She knew as Masters did that reports surged in on investigations such as this one and were read quickly. Then sometimes forgotten. There was only just so much you could take in, retain and use. This was the weakness of criminal investigations: you needed a polyheaded detective.
She had read them, though, and had now packed them away to take home to read again. Just in case. She knew from experience how sharp Coffin was on detail.
âBetter get home,' she said now to Les and Joe. âEarly start tomorrow.'
âShe won't solve the murders,' said Joe, watching her go. âNot in that mood.'
âOh I don't know. She's good. And she'll have the Chief with her and he can be more than good.'
Joe shrugged. âHe's had luck, I grant you that.'
âHe's got talent ⦠look at his history. Came up from nothing, mother left him behind and moved on â¦' He paused as he knew enough about Coffin to know that his mother had moved on to fresher and more profitable fields. Coffin must, in some ways, be like his mother.
Joe smiled, he had a good smile, Les thought, but with hidden mirth behind it. He must get to know him better and find out what the mirth was about. All detective work should start at home. His motto.
Phoebe waved at them from the door, Les waved back. âGood luck, girl.'
âSo you think she needs it?' Joe probed.
âEveryone does, don't they? Now and again, or all the time some cases. Like another drink?'
âI'll get them. My shout.'
Les watched him return carrying two glasses. âGlad to see you back, Joe. It was rotten luck being ill. Are you feeling up to it?'
âOh yes, sure. Bit of a false alarm I'm glad to say. But when you have a wife who's a power in the local hospital, you tend to get taken seriously when you fancy any symptoms.'
Les gave a laugh. âI wouldn't call you the imaginative sort, Joe.'
âEveryone can be on occasion ⦠even
my
wife. You married?'
âNo,' Les managed to sound regretful although a spouse would have severely cut into his love life. âThose I fancied didn't seem to fancy me. I will marry hopefully. I'd like a kid. You got any?'
âStepson.'
âYou can love him just as much.'
âSure.' Joe finished his drink, and stood up. âBetter get home.'
Les had one more drink and a sandwich before departing himself. He lived in a small flat on the ground floor of a block in Spinnergate. Contrary to what might have been expected of him as a male officer in the CID, he kept it immaculate. The bed was made before he left for work, the breakfast dishes washed and dried, the furniture was dusted and sometimes polished - but that was because he liked the smell of the polish. He even ironed his own shirts. He had one black cat who had befriended him but who knew to keep the rules: home early, stay in at night, and don't bring in a mouse. (Or if you must, don't let master see.)
He had asked Phoebe Astley round for a drink once and seen her looking at the polished wood and concluding he had a cleaner to do the work. He had been in her flat once too and knew that not only did she not have a help but did very little herself. His housewifely fingers had itched to dust a rather good table she had.
Phoebe had noticed the dust but the table had still remained unpolished as she walked in that evening. She opened her bag and tipped out the papers she needed to work on. She wished she knew what Coffin would be looking out for as they went round where the victims lived.
She fell asleep with the papers all around her, then woke up, to shower, drink some coffee and drive to the station.
Coffin was ready for her. âStella wanted to come on this tour with me,' he said cheerfully.
Phoebe was startled. âWhy?' She could not believe that Stella wearing casual (but couture) clothes would be a fit figure to go on this particular trail. Up stairs and down stairs, in and out, and probably without point in the end.
âI think because she felt she was an early victim but one that got away.'
A nasty feeling, thought Phoebe, could be true as well. âDid she want to come instead of me or as well as?' she asked.
âShe didn't make that clear. As well as, I expect.'
âI wouldn't have minded,' Phoebe said. âShe would have
added her own way of looking at things. Might have been valuable.'
Coffin did not answer. The truth was that he did not want Stella more mixed up with this affair than she already was.
âIt's a task for the professional,' was all he said. And then: âI'll drive.'
It was going to be a quiet, gentle entrance, not the police cars and supporters the Chief could command - and did so, when it suited him.
They would know him, of course. More people knew him than Coffin realised. He'd have to identify himself officially anyway. Phoebe might remain anonymous.
âWhat excuse do we use for coming?' After all, each household had already been interviewed and inspected.
âDo we need one?' Coffin was negotiating the difficult exit from the parking lot. It was always crowded and desperate souls sneaked in where and how they could.
âNo, I suppose not. Not with you in charge, sir.'
Coffin drove on silently at speed.
âWhere do we start, sir?'
âWith the first victim: Amy Buckly.'
Coffin knew where he was going through the network of narrow streets. They had been constructed by a Victorian builder, solid enough to survive two great wars with two air bombardments, after economic depression and the departure of the big ships from the dock. But now the little houses were bright with paint and small front gardens full of roses and window boxes jolly with geraniums. A smart car was as likely to be jostling for parking along the kerb as once the motorbike might have been. It was the new prosperity, born not of manual labour but expertise in the new technologies. The inhabitants of the docklands had always been open-minded and quick learners and now could do business with their emails with the best. This vitality had brought them through Tudor prosperity, Stuart civil wars, Hanoverian naval wars and
Victorian imperial power. Now the residents could be seen trotting up and down the streets, some still cobbled, ears tight to mobile phones.
The smartness was patchy however, some areas acheiving the look before others, but where Amy Buckly had lived was one of the richer streets. A well-dressed man in a silk shirt and a tie of flowing beauty that almost matched his hair was walking past the car as they drove up. He did not look up from his mobile at first but as they edged into a clear spot by the kerb space, he took notice.
âHey, that's my parking space.'
Coffin leaned out of the window. âPolice.'
âOh yes, easy to say that.'
Coffin nodded at Phoebe who produced her card.
âFuck you,' said the telephone holder, still managing to continue his conversation. âNo, not you, Debby, at least not right now,' he added wickedly.
Coffin got out of the car, locking it behind him and went up to the door of the house.
âI don't think there will be anyone there, unless her family has moved back in. They left after the murder. Couldn't stand it.' Phoebe was feeling in her pocket. âI've got a key.'
âWho took over the case?'
âSuperintendent Miller. He gave me the key.'
There was a shrill barking from behind the door.
âSomeone's back.'
âYes, she had a dog.'
The door was opened by a tall, pretty young woman. She seemed unsurprised to see them and held the door open wider in a tacit invitation to enter.
âLet me see now, Sergeant Henderson assisted,' said Coffin thoughtfully.
âI knew you were coming.' She was eyeing Phoebe. âChief Inspector Astley?'
Coffin gave Phoebe a speculative look. So Les Henderson was not the gossip.
Phoebe could see what he was thinking, she hastened to defend herself.
âNo, not through me.And I don't think I know you, Miss Buckly.'
âNo, but I saw you when you came to the school, Close Street school, about a paedophile case you were working on a year or so ago. You didn't speak to me nor to Amy as far as I know but of course, we knew who you were.' The dog was winding itself round her feet but keeping a sharp gaze on the two visitors.
âOne of the kids was a victim. Dragged into a van and kept overnight, then dumped.' She stared directly at Phoebe, âWe were all very upset.'
âWe're still working on it,' said Phoebe hastily. Although Heaven knew she hadn't done much lately. The small boy, Victor Passy, as she remembered, had been a poignantly painful case to investigate, brutal indeed, but the interesting thing was that as even she had talked to him, she had seen that he was a resilient kid and was recovering well. âWe often have to work on more than one case at once.'
There was silence, the girl said thoughtfully: âAre you saying that the paedophile cases and the murders are connected?'
Coffin answered for them both: âNo, we don't think so.' The girl said: âYes, I see what you mean: the sort of person who would get sexual pleasure from abusing a child would probably not get it from killing an adult. And the other way round.'
She picked up the dog which licked her cheek. âI hope you are right, and telling me the truth.'
Coffin nodded. âYes.' This was a clever, shrewd girl, not one you lied to. He felt cold dip inside him: he knew that he had not paid enough attention to the paedophile cases because of Stella and the murders. âI'm not on speakers with this rotten case,' he said inside, âand I mustn't blame Stella.'