It was not like Jack Miller to show much emotion. Coffin had thought that he had trained himself to regard victims as non-people, (although he was reputed to be a good family
man and loving husband, fond of dogs too), but this case must be different.
Amy Buckly had been found by the Close Canal, an eighteenth century construction which still carried barge traffic today. Her body was stretched, face down, in the mud and weeds on a narrow path which bordered the canal. She had been dead about six hours. Aged twenty-four, she was a school teacher who had taught a class of some twenty infants in Close Street School. She had been a pretty girl. Her Jack Russell dog had been with her on that last walk by the canal, one they often took together, so Coffin was told, and it was his return home alone to where she lived with her family that started the search. She was found by a woman police constable who had been at school with Amy.
Ten days later, Mary Rice was found dead near the railway station she used to travel into central London every day to work in an office, where she had a job in IT. She was in her late twenties. She often stayed late in London after work to eat with friends, perhaps have a drink, and then come home. She had a small flat, sometimes shared with a boyfriend, sometimes alone. Currently, she had been on her own. Her body was tucked away in an alley behind the railway station where it had been found by a man going on early shift the next morning. She had been dead about five hours.
Phillida Jessup had died just a couple of days after Mary Rice, although her body had not been found so soon. It was finally discovered on Pilling Common, a notorious place of death. She was the youngest of the three victims, a student at the local university in her first year reading for a language degree. Her body had been found in the University Botanical Gardens. Her father was a CID officer in the London Met.
When Coffin read that he wondered if this was why Jack Miller was anxious to see him.
He was just considering that, and turning his eyes towards the folder on the latest victim who had also been found on
Pilling Common, though not near where Phillida Jessup had turned up, when Jack Miller and Winnie Ardet arrived.
Ever the gentleman, Superintendant Miller let Winnie walk in first. Winnie managed her usual smile but both officers looked worried.
âThanks for seeing us so soon, sir,' said Miller.
âSerial killings have a horror of their own,' said Coffin with sympathy. âAnd you
are
sure that this is what you are handling?'
âOh it's one man all right,' said Miller gloomily. âAnd a cunning one too ⦠even if we cop him we might have a job pinning it on him. He leaves none of his blood or semen around. Pity he didn't start operating in the Met. area. Why us in the Second City?'
âLives or works here?' said Coffin, making it a question.
âNot hard to get here to do the work,' said Winnie. âCould start from anywhere. That's what I think. So far, we have no evidence.'
âCertainly knows the district,' said Jack Miller. âI wish he had kept out of Spinnergate. Seems keen on Pilling Common, but he isn't the first. Probably not the last.'
âCould be one of a ring of friendly faces looking at us, and we don't know. That's what's worrying us and what we wanted to say.' This was Winnie Ardet at her most earnest. She went on: âWe are terribly anxious.'
Coffin felt he had worries of his own that were being passed over. Did they not know?
They must have heard on the excellent police communication network of the paedophile investigation, impossible that they shouldn't, but nothing was said.
They had heard, of course, but were not mentioning it. Or not yet. Perhaps it was called tact.
âThe reason we need to speak to you, sir, is that there are tales, rumours floating round that the murderer is a police officer. Either acting or retired. Everyone has picked it up. Have you, sir?'
âNo, nothing has come my way.' Not officially but hints and murmurs.
âAnd the twist to the tale is,' said Jack Miller fiercely, âthe extra bit of sauce is that the rumour has it that the man is someone I know. No one is willing to offer a name, of course,' he ended savagely.
Coffin shook his head.
âI bet Paul Masters has heard something,' said Miller. âSo I want to go at him.'
âI guess Masters would have told me and quite soon too, if he thought it important.' But he knows this paedophile thing oppresses me. âAnyway, let's have him in and ask.'
Paul Masters answered the summons, nodded his head and admitted yes, stories had been coming to him. âI would have told you, of course sir, if it had been anything but rumour. No names, of course. Nothing you can lay hands on. My feeling is that it's a bit of nastiness with no foundation, the sort that springs up sometimes. Anything concrete would have come to you at once.'
âGood.' He turned to Superintendent Miller and Inspector Ardet. âSo I am not going to hand the case over to the Met. and ask you two to retire from the case which I guess was what you came to do.'
âThere was a silence.âWe'll get him, sir,' said Miller fiercely. âThank you for your confidence.' Then he said: âHeard about the paedophile you've got ⦠Glad to help if we could.'
âThank you.'
âI wondered if you would come to see the latest victim. No name yet.'
âDo you think I might know her?'
âThere's a chance, sir, she had a newspaper in her pocket with an article about the killings, your name was mentioned, and she had ringed it round ⦠. Doesn't mean anything, of course, sir, but we are trying every angle.'
He looked at his diary, then at his watch. He had less than an hour free. âLet's do it then, let's do it now.'
Nothing could make Coffin take these visits to see a body in the police mortuary in his stride. It was death, and not usually a peaceful one. True, this was one of the duties from which rising importance had emancipated him, and he usually managed to avoid it. So why was he going now?
Because he was asked. What better reason?
Now as he looked down at the small figure, he thought that the dead always appear to shrink. At first, anyway.
Miller peeled back the sheet over the face.
He looked in silence. âYes, I do know her. Or I did.' He turned away more moved than he wanted to show. âShe was my secretary, a temporary one, a few years ago. Poor child.'
She had been young, and now somehow looked even younger in death.
He hoped he would not have to reveal that she had developed a kind of love for Coffin and that was why he had had to dismiss her. Or move her on; the word dismissal had not been mentioned.
âAt least I can give you her name, Angela Dover, and Paul Masters will be able to give addresses and so on.'
I must get to Masters first, he thought, warn him. But Paul was always discreet.
Coffin was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that the two serious cases, the murders and the paedophile were bumping into each other more and more.
Is there a connection? he asked himself.
Only in time and space, in his memory of other cases.
Â
Life was not as straightforward and easy for the Chief Commander as it might have been. Before he could speak to Paul Masters, he had to take several telephone calls, firstly three recorded messages. He plugged the earpiece in so he could hear and no one else could listen in.
The first, which he welcomed, was from Stella. âHello, love. On my way home, I'm at Edinburgh airport, hoping to catch the next flight. Haven't booked a seat, but I think I'll get on.
Hopefully, as they say. Don't even try to meet me ⦠I bet you weren't anyway, I think I told you not to, but I can see Jamesy Davy and he always has his Rolls to meet him, show off that he is, so I will get him to bring me home.' Of course he was not jealous of Jamesy who had nothing except his looks and a certain acting skill, but what would they do with him when they got him? Take him out to dinner and wish him well? Stella did not wait for him to answer before it was Goodbye Love, and she was gone, so no decision was demanded of him.
The next call was different. It came from a friend and former colleague in the Met., Commander Peter Barnes.
âPete here, sorry not to speak to you in person but I have to get off and you have your answerphone on permanently as far as I can see.'
This was true enough. Except for calls routed through Paul Masters which Coffin took after consideration, all calls to his office were recorded. You could get him at home. If you were lucky. (Stella had her own phone and own number ⦠essential, she claimed in her business. Anyway, most people used her mobile or sent her email messages.)
âThere is a rumour going round that your Stella has a stalker after her. If this is true, it may be the same one who had a trial run here in South London last year. Used to send presents of a nasty kind with the threat of more to follow. Never caught. We thought we had him, but no. Moved on? Could it be your fellow or an imitator? Let's meet and talk. Advice: Don't tell Stella ⦠he's looking for fear as a prize.'
The third call was nothing but silence, with the hint of a distant laugh. A giggle ⦠Somehow that was less agreeable.
Working with Paul Masters on routine affairs, Coffin asked: âAny idea who would ring up and just giggle â¦?'
âAlways a few lunatics around,' said Masters lightly, as he handed over a file of letters to be signed.
Not very cheering, thought Coffin, even as he admitted the truth of it.
âCheck where the call came from,' he ordered.
The answer soon came back: number withheld.
Phoebe who had appointed herself as Gus-Looker-After had given the dog a walk and returned him to his master, where he was now sitting on the Chief Commander's feet. Dog and man, left alone, both considered Stella's return.
âShe won't be long now, old chap.'
Phoebe Astley telephoned to confirm that, as from this moment, she had taken over the paedophile operation. âNo progress as yet'. What a beast the man is. Is he one person or group? What could you call him, she asked herself â a deranged paedophile stalker? Something to find out. Also does he buy photographs or did he take them all himself? She well knew there were outfits that specialised in marketing paedophilia. No, she thought they were purchased, the pictures varied in style so much. A lot to find out here.
Coffin went back to his desk work where presently Paul Masters came in to ask him if he would take a call from Commander Peter Barnes.
Again? thought Coffin. Twice in one day?
âPut him through.'
He knew at once, from Pete Barnes' voice that it was not good news.
âStella with you?'
âNo, she's not back yet. ' He did not want to ask, but he had to. âWhy?'
âOne of my mates in Scotland had an anonymous call saying that the Stalker had got her.'
Â
There was a long, long dark night ahead for Coffin.
To his furious and alarmed shout at Pete Barnes (and he was not a shouter) demanding evidence, he got the answer that a fax had come through, Stella's terrified face, and on it typed: Look to the Lady. It had been sent to the hotel where Stella had been staying.
âThe hotel passed the fax on at once to the local police ⦠they
are well informed, knew what was going on in the Second City, and certainly knew who Stella is. I have a mate there, and he saw I had a copy fast,' Barnes said. He had started to say âwas' but hurriedly altered it to the present tense, at no time would he be the one to push Stella into the past.
When the fax arrived on Coffin's desk he looked at it and felt sick. Then he looked again. Then he looked again.
âThis fax,' he said, âis of a picture of Stella in a film, made some years ago too. This is Stella acting, not Stella here and now.'
âIt's a calling card,' said Pete with relief in his voice.
âBut also a warning.'
As far as could be established Stella had caught her flight from Edinburgh, the flight had arrived safely but she had not telephoned her husband. She had left the hotel in Scotland where she had been staying, saying goodbye and that she was off home, and that was the last her friends had seen of her.
âTrace where the fax came from,' ordered Coffin, praying that his wife would arrive at any moment, surprised at how very anxious he was. Spouses of important officers did get such messages sometimes.
Phoebe Astley's office had also received the same fax. But it had only been given attention much later than the one sent to Fillmore on the edge of Edinburgh, from which Commander Peter Barnes' friend had passed it on. For this Phoebe was apologetic. Coffin accepted her apology; he knew well that not all faxes get prompt attention. One of the facts of life.