Phoebe herself was horrified at what had happened. Or, in this case, not happened. âSuch a mass of faxes has come through, it was kind of imbedded in them.'
âFind out where the fax came from,' ordered Coffin once again.
âOught not to be difficult. Comes over the telephone wire, after all.'
âAnd get hold of James Davy, that actor, Stella said he would give her a lift in his car from Heathrow.'
âI'll call on him myself, sir.' There was a reserved note in Phoebe's voice. âHe's so beautiful, isn't he? And that lovely voice. I'll take someone with me.'
Coffin wanted to say: Oh don't worry, he's more likely to seduce his chauffeur than you, but he contented himself with âThank you.'
No one's virtue was tried one way or another as it soon transpired that James had not gone to London but stayed in Scotland, travelling to Pitlochry to see a friend who was in a play there. He was obliging his chauffeur to drive north to collect him.
âJust like Jamie, ' thought Coffin, âputting himself first. If he'd been on that flight, he could have looked after Stella.'
Coffin found that his misery worked in two strands: in one he could make bitter jokes about people like James Davy, while in the other, he was sure he would never know happiness again.
Â
The long dark night wore on.
Coffin went between his home in the tower and his office, hoping for a message or the sight of Stella in either. He drank a great deal of coffee but thought it wiser not to go for the whisky because when Stella did appear he wanted to be sober.
Stella
must
appear.
Paul Masters came in during the night with the information that the London fax had been sent from: âMind Machine in Ely Street, Spinnergate. One of those outfits with rows of computers, printers and faxes.'
âIt would be Spinnergate,' said Coffin, who felt he hated Spinnergate. Oh God, where was Stella? A search was going on, but so far, nothing, âNot near Minden Street? They had had their own Jack the Ripper there.'
âNear Madras Market.'
âNear enough,' said Coffin gloomily for whom it was becoming a bad night. A bad bloody night.
It was a bad night for Phoebe too.
She had also been given some news in the night ⦠and it wasn't good news. She did not know why it had come to her, she was not dealing with the murders. Except she did know: that bloody fax with âLook to the Lady' on it.
She knew she must wait for morning before telling Coffin. âWe have a body. A woman, not long dead. Badly cut up.'
She could not tell the Chief Commander straight away. She must see the body first to see if it was Stella.
The man, so falsely called a stalker (murderer of women he might be, collector of odds and ends of bodies he might also be, but stalker he was not) considered his official description as he went to his wardrobe.
He knew what a stalker was in the police sense, none better, but he rejected the description. Being a careful reader of the newspapers and also wanting to know what was said of his exploits, he had read that he was so named.
He grinned. A stalker moved with careful, quiet tread after his innocent, nervous prey. Now that was not his approach. Imagination, style, was his mark. More of an actor. Or actress, a sex label was not important. He went to his wardrobe to choose what to wear today. Or tonight as it would be.
No, library first, then the costume. Inspiration before execution.
Catch them when they are not thinking.
He opened a drawer in a chest of four drawers. He called it a library but it was more properly a collection: a collection of drawings and photographs. Not one of the pictures therein was his work, but his was the pleasure. After all, the hand that enjoys the glitter of the diamond had not dug, cut, or polished the gem, just paid a price and got the satisfaction.
I am a complicated person, he told himself, studying a picture of a child. In fact, I am not one person but two, three even. No one really knows who I am.
Idly, death being much on his mind, he wondered which of his selves would die first. He would not have a choice, of course. Just depended what cap he had on. He would wear a hat, it was decidedly a head covering day. Or night, more precisely. He chose the cap from a selection he had built up, then adjusted it with care.
He happened to know that Stella Pinero was short sighted.
She might not recognise his face, but she would certainly recognise what he was wearing.
If she thought about it at all, she might wonder how he knew where to find her.
You're a very well known lady, Stella, here in the Second City, and your publicity people do a good job. Good job for me too, Stella. So when I read in the gossip column in the local newspaper that you were finishing up the filming in Scotland, this week, day named, and that you planned to grab the first plane back, I knew what to do.
Watch for you on the last two flights of the day. Don't see you being earlier. In fact, I would have taken a bet on it being the last flight. I rate you, emotionally, a last plane of the day woman.
There was a picture of you too in the paper so I knew you had a new hair cut, a new colour too for all I knew. I would know you though, Miss Pinero, Lady Coffin.
Â
Â
Stella arrived, tired but cheerful at Heathrow airport. She didn't expect to be met so she was walking briskly to the taxi rank, when a voice halted her.
âMa'am, Lady Coffin, Miss Pinero ⦠PC Waters, the Chief Commander asked me to meet you â¦'
Stella looked at him. âSo my husband sent you?'
The man nodded. Not a talkative type Stella decided. âAre you a police officer?'
âRetired, ma'am. I used to be PC Waters ⦠now I have my own business'. He held the car door open. The cap pulled down over his forehead, dark spectacles, and handkerchief up to his nose. A huge sneeze.
âSorry, ma'am, nothing catching. Just hay fever.'
âDon't know you, do I?'
âYou've forgotten me, ma'am.' He was handing her towards the car.
Stella was tired, content for the moment to lie back and let the streets of London slip past her. It was a dark quiet night, the time when she most liked the city. She felt its history then with a sense of the small, ancient villages which had been absorbed into the docklands. Her husband had said that he was convinced that some of the local slang was Anglo-Saxon in origin, if not earlier still, Celtic. âMind you,' he had added with a laugh, âmost of the words that have come through couldn't be called dinner table talk.'
For a minute or two she dozed, letting the familiar streets slip past. She had had almost nothing to eat all day, working hard to get finished, but she had shared a bottle of champagne with a few of the cast. It had not been very good champagne which distantly, dreamily, she began to blame for the weird dreams that tramped through her head. She saw strange pictures of strings of blood, ribbons of blood. Distantly, she heard a voice calling her name. Not a voice she knew. Then the picture in her head went dark and then darker still. Shapes, figures in this darkness. Silent. Voiceless.
But the sleep was not deep and soon she came to the surface. She looked out of the window but did not recognise the road. On either side were tall, neglected buildings, which looked empty. Old disused factories which had not yet been converted into smart apartments. Possibly never would be, she thought. Not where she would choose to live.
This wasn't the way home.
She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. âYou've taken the wrong route.'
Close to, she thought that she did not care for the look of the back of his neck. You could tell a lot from a man's neck, she thought: this was a thick, unlovely neck which did not suggest a good person. He was wearing an old raincoat pulled up high.
He did not answer her but began to slow down while drawing into the kerb. Hell is a city much like London, she thought suddenly. Marvellous Shelley. She had a strong
unexpected feeling that the sooner she was out of the cab the better. Stella started to open the cab door, meaning to get out. Then she would find out the name of the road and ask the way of the first pedestrian she met. As far as she could see at the moment the road was empty. It was late, probably about midnight by now. Certainly felt late.
But before she could do so, a tall, thin figure began to get in the car. Another man, she thought.
âWhat is this? Who are you? Driver, what's going on?'
He turned his head towards her, looking over his shoulder, eyes still masked with dark spectacles.
âSometimes it is better to hunt in pairs.' His teeth showed in a grin.
At this point Stella realised with a shock that the second figure, masked and impossible to identify, was probably a woman.
Coffin awoke with a feeling of heavy pressure on his stomach. Without opening his eyes he knew that this came from Gus seeking comfort and company.
âHe must have put on weight,' thought Coffin sleepily. But no, lying on top of the dog, completely relaxed and at ease, was the ginger cat. The pair, after a first period of cautious hostility, had adopted a cautious friendship. Or it might be fairer to say that the cat made the advances and Gus put up with it. Perhaps it was not true to say that Gus had a kind heart, but he was a polite fellow.
Coffin was still half asleep but he woke up with a start.
Stella ⦠where was Stella?
He sat up with a jerk, dislodging both the animals. Of course he wasn't in bed, you don't go comfortably to bed when your beloved wife is missing. He was lying on top of the covers with a blanket thrown over him. He didn't remember even getting that far himself, and it was possible that Phoebe or Paul Masters had led or pushed him that way as exhaustion grew too great to fight off. There was a mug of coffee or tea on the bed table, but he could tell by the skin on the top that it had been there a long time. All night, probably, he didn't remember putting it there.
It was morning. A grey, grim daylight was flooding the room. He could hear rain beating against the window.
Oh Stella, Stella, where are you?
Then the telephone by the bed began to ring. He reached out, dislodging the cat who was sitting there looking at him, then knocking over the mug of coffee as he went.
As his hand touched the phone, it stopped ringing. The instrument was wet with cold coffee.
âDamn you,' he said to the cat who gave him a green-eyed stare in return.
His hand shaking, he dialled the code which allowed you to learn which number had just called. In reply all he got was a taped, tinny voice telling him that the caller rang from a public call box and the number was therefore unavailable.
Coffin slammed the receiver down then got out of bed. Coldly, fiercely he began to telephone Phoebe Astley.
The events of the day before began awakening in his mind, coming alive before his eyes and ears.
First, a happy call from Stella saying that she was on her way home.
Then followed, far too quickly, by the message about Stella saying that the Stalker had got her.
âI didn't believe it,' said Coffin aloud. âNo one did.' But Stella had arrived on the flight from Scotland and had not been seen since.
Yesterday he had got down to his routine of work, completing a report, answering letters, while inside a fury of anxiety and anger fought with each other. The anger touched Phoebe Astley and Paul Masters, both of whom understood and forgave without showing either of those emotions which would certainly have angered Coffin even more. He was frustrated with himself and sometimes felt a flash of anger at Stella.
The telephone rang again. This time it was Phoebe.
It's not Stella,' she said at once to him. âBut I would like you to take a look at a body.'
âSo you think it is her,' he said savagely.
She was silent for a moment. âI just want to make sure, sir - I thought â¦'
âThank you, Phoebe,' said Coffin, not altogether kindly. âYou thought that once I had seen this latest poor, dead, ravaged creature and saw it wasn't Stella that I would walk away in relief. Well, I don't think I will, I think I will just know what my wife could look like when it has been her turn.'
âAll the same, I would be pleased if you'd come to look at the dead woman,' said Phoebe steadily. âI'll drive.'
âNo, you won't drive, and neither will I. I will take the official car which I use when I want to look important.'
Phoebe nodded, accepting her fate (which at the moment clearly was to irritate the Chief Commander) and went to wait for the car. She knew from past experience that the official car, so called, unless ordered well in advance, could take its time about arriving. Coffin rarely used it, preferring to drive himself. She remembered him telling her once that as a young and hard-up detective in South London he had seen one of what he called âthe boss figures' driving past in an official car, and he had fantasised about the pleasures of such a car and had promised he would have the right to one himself in time. There was something sad, and yet typical of him, that now he had it, he did not care for it.
Then she rallied: don't underestimate him you've known him long enough to know how tough and resilient he is.
Stella too, she reassured herself. Whatever pool Stella falls into, you can back her to rise to the top and climb out. You had to
find
the pool first though, came the reminder, and while every police unit in London and beyond had been alerted, no sighting of Stella had come through. Nothing to suggest where further inquiry might be useful. What the police called a âblack silence' was operating. Could be broken at any moment, of course, but all you could do at the now was pray if you were that way inclined, or swear if that was more your style.
She did both.
âCome on, Stella, surface,' she found herself saying, then adding without meaning to: Dead or Alive.
Phoebe got into the car after the Chief Commander, then the two of them sat in the back in silence.
âThe last time I did a visit like this I recognised the victim, Angela Dover, and she had worked for me once,' said Coffin. âDid that help at all?'
Phoebe said in a thoughtful voice. âAs you know Jack Miller is handling the murders, but I can tell you something
about Angela Dover, she was a great clubber. Out every night to various places, dancing, drinking, drugs as well possibly. She was quite a wild one. She could easily have attracted the notice of the killer.'
âShe looked such a quiet girl,' said Coffin.
âOh, looked.' Phoebe shrugged.
âI could do with a result.'
âThere's a lot of effort going into the killings and the paedophile letters as well,' said Phoebe, evasively.
âIn other words, no progress? In spite of Angela? Poor Angela, not even helping towards a solution. Am I right?'
âNot quite, sir. You know yourself there can be negative progress when wrong ideas are ruled out, and on the positive side, every little bit of information counts.'
âFaxes, phone calls: this chap is using them and getting away, laughing.'
âIn the end, they will
give
us an answer.'
âYou mean someone will come rushing in and shout: I know who it is, the killer is John Bloggs of Brown Street.'
âYes,' said Phoebe, doggedly. âAnd it very likely might be you, sir, you know how to get results.'
âHe knows me and he knows Stella, this killer and the paedophile, I know they're connected' said Coffin. âThat I swear.'
âYou are a public figure, and so is Stella.'
The Chief Commander got out of the car. âWait for us, Norris.'
âOf course, sir.' Norris was holding the car door. Norris had been a black cab driver before coming to the Second City and he always drove the police car as if it was a Rolls.
Feeling desolate, longing for the telephone in his pocket to ring and to hear the voice of Stella, Coffin turned to Phoebe.
âCome on then. Let's get this over.'
As he looked down at the poor, carved up body of another young woman, he wanted to say: âJust more of the same,' but he couldn't do it because every death was both the same and yet different. You owed it to the dead to admit this.
In fact, this woman had been dead longer than Stella had been absent. It was not a new killing.
âI don't know this poor creature. You rate her as one of the series? Not just a victim flung in by someone else as an extra?'
Phoebe shook her head. âNo, both the pathologist and the forensic team assert that she was killed by the same pair of hands.'
The naked body, swollen and with patches of discoloration, also bore a savage knife cut out which supported this assertion. âWhere was she found?'
âIn an alley way off behind an old factory in Spinnerwick.' Phoebe did not add that the knowledgable Mimsie Marker (who had somehow found out about the body before any public announcement) had told her that Pepper Alley was a well known place for the tucking away of awkward bodies and that this was the third or so in Mimsie's memory. âMakes him a local, dear, doesn't it?' she had said, handing over her morning paper to DCI Astley.
âThe pathologist, Dr. Hair - no one you know, sir - says that the distribution and demarcation of florid hypostasis on the front of the breasts and abdomen indicates that she had been in a cramped position and the body doubled up for a number of hours in a confined space ⦠a cupboard or a car boot.'
âHelpful if either the car or the cupboard can be located.' Without another word, Phoebe nodded at the mortuary attendant who had been standing watching them. He lifted one leg so that Coffin could see the back of the dead woman's calf.
âThe pathologist thought that possibly more than one person was involved in the killing.'
âWhat makes him think that?' Coffin was not entirely convinced.
âThere are bruises on her arms and legs: the placing and size and shape of which he does not believe could come from
one
pair of hands.'
âAny chance of the odd fingerprint showing up?' Coffin knew that in certain circumstances this could be so. A bloody fingerprint could always be read.
DCI Astley knew what he was thinking, but no luck. âNot a fingerprint, although there is some blood.'
âTwo people, two killers,' said Coffin as he turned away. âHave there been two all the time and we didn't notice?'
âIt's possible, isn't it?'
âAre you telling me that Stella is in the hands of two men?'
âI can't possibly know that, sir. It's just something that seemed indicated and I thought I ought to tell you.' Phoebe made her voice more determined. âWe will find her.' She put an emphasis on every word.
âOh thank you â¦' But he knew he was being unfair. âI feel that I ought to be out pounding the streets looking for her.' He turned to the attendant. âCover her up.'
Phoebe led him outside. âHave a good scream.'
To her relief, the Chief Commander laughed. âNot quite my style.'
âIt's a relief, I can tell you.'
âI don't believe you have ever done it.' Coffin looked at the self contained, controlled face of the Chief Inspector.
âHaven't I though. You don't know the world I live in, sir.'
Coffin thought he did, and better than Phoebe Astley understood, but he took himself quietly back to his office, hoping against hope that Stella would greet him. All the time, he was haunted by a picture of her lying dead in a field, by a hedge, covered up with leaves and branches.
He had walked back to his office, leaving Phoebe behind with the car. In the outer office, Paul Masters was huddled over a set of documents. He looked up and said good morning but before he could say more an assistant hurried forward with a parcel.
âThis came for you, sir.'
âWhy haven't you opened it?'
âIt's marked personal, Chief Commander.'
âWe don't usually take much notice of that.' He reached out his hand for a neat brown paper parcel. âCut the string for me.' He was suspicious. âDon't leave any fingerprints on it.'
âIt's such pretty stuff: red and blue,' said his helper, but she did cut it. The paper unfolded delicately as if on purpose to show what was inside.
It was a shoe.
âI think it is Stella's,' said Coffin. His voice was unsteady.
âBut why is there only one?' The assistant seemed puzzled.
Coffin did not answer, and Paul Masters, who had been watching and listening unobtrusively, got up and called the woman away. âMarge, come and give me a hand. I want help.'
âThanks,' muttered Coffin. He looked at Marge and could almost see the half joke forming in her mind, but thank God, not on her lips: And has Lady Coffin only got one leg?
But what she actually said, with a cry of surprise â¦âOh sir, there's blood.'
Coffin thought to himself that it was a
coup de foudre
. He got Phoebe on the phone immediately. âI want more officers on this, it's essential we find Stella before it's too late.'
Â
With difficulty, Coffin finished his day's routine of work. He had a talk on the telephone with the Head of CID in London, in which they settled the arrangements for a meeting later in the month. He said nothing about Stella but he thought the man knew from the way he asked after her. Then he composed some reports, read one or two others and censored another couple. All work which required just enough mental effort to keep the top of his mind occupied while his worry for Stella rumbled underneath.