Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  Had they been talking out of fear of reprisals, or was that the Joe Coffin they knew?

  Emma’s mobile vibrated in her bag. She pulled it out and glanced at the display. Nick. What the hell did he want?

  Emma stuffed the phone back in her pocket. He could wait. She had things to do.

  Emma climbed out of the car and locked it. The morning air was cool and damp.

  She walked up the drive, past the garage. As she approached the front door, it swung open.

  “What kept you?” said the small, wiry man standing in the hall.

  Emma stepped inside the house.

  She checked her watch. “You said ten o’clock. Look, it’s two minutes past.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” the man said, casting a quick glance outside and then shutting the door. “I told you ten o’clock, and here you are, turning up at two minutes past ten. I was getting ready to leave, you know how nervous this makes me.”

  “All right, I’m sorry.” Emma looked at him, his suit and tie, shiny black shoes. “Fuck, Merv, you really made an effort today, didn’t you?”

  Merv stood up a little straighter, adjusted his tie. “You like it?”

  “Shit, yeah, I like it. Look at you, you even combed your hair!”

  “Got to look the part, you know,” Merv said, beaming with pleasure.

  Emma nodded, smiling. “Oh yes, you look the fucking part, all right.” She looked at him some more. “Okay, Merv, what is it you’re supposed to be? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look great and all, but I’m used to seeing you looking like something even the cat refused to drag in.”

  Merv’s face fell. “Really?”

  “Yep, really.”

  “Well, you know, it can get difficult sometimes, living on your own, there are some days you just don’t feel like making the effort.”

  “Merv, believe me, you live on your own, it’s still worth the effort to brush your teeth and maybe have a wash once in a while, you know what I mean?”

  “You never said anything before.”

  “I never wanted to offend you. It’s not easy telling someone they smell.”

  “I smell?”

  “Oh, fuck, Merv, don’t go getting all pissy on me. Look at you, you look fantastic today!”

  “Yes, well, I wanted to look the part.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “Maybe I should try looking the part more often.”

  “That’s a good idea, Merv. But what’s the part you’re playing?”

  “Oh. Well, I thought, as I am breaking into a house that is the scene of a crime, that it would help if my attire gave off the appearance of officialdom.”

  “Right.”

  Merv pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and opened it up. “Look, I even made myself an ID badge, just in case anyone asked what I was doing here.”

  Emma looked at the laminated card.

  MERVYN PRICE

  WEST MIDLANDS SCENE OF CRIME OFFICER

  “That’s great, Merv,” Emma said. “You know you put your real name on that badge, don’t you?”

  Merv beamed. Nodded his head.

  “You show that badge to anyone, yet?”

  Merv shook his head, still beaming.

  “Okay, that’s good. Don’t show the badge to anyone, Merv. All right?”

  Merv’s smile faded. “Why not, Emma?”

  “Because if someone sees it, and decides to ring the police anyway, and tell them that there is a SOCO called Mervyn Price inside Joe Coffin’s house, you’ll be in cuffs before you know it. Your name’s all over police files for breaking and entering, Merv! What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I thought it was a good idea.”

  “Just ... don’t show anyone the badge, all right?”

  Merv nodded. “Well, I’m going to go and leave you alone now, anyway. You’re in the house, like you asked.” He handed her a key. “Just make sure to lock the door on the way out.”

  “Of course I will, Merv.” Emma took his hand, slipped some money into it. “Thanks.”

  Once Merv had gone, the house seemed unnaturally quiet. Emma stood in the carpeted hall, not sure if she could carry out her search of the house, after all. There was a framed photograph on the wall to her right. Coffin and Steffanie, and Michael. A studio portrait, Coffin and Steffanie sitting together on the floor, Michael, could only be about one-year-old, sitting in between them. They were all smiling, Michael waving his hands at the camera. Coffin looked relaxed, his right hand on the floor, supporting him, his left forearm draped casually over a knee. With that big, goofy smile of his, he looked handsome.

  Emma could understand why the women fell for him.

  Steffanie, as always, looked stunning. She was smiling too, but was it just Emma, or did Steffanie’s smile appear to be a little more professional, less heartfelt than it should?

  Baby Michael was adorable. Emma’s insides twisted up into a tight knot at the thought of what happened to them. And the guilt returned, too, the feeling that she had played an unwitting part in their deaths.

  Emma buried the guilt, shoving it back where she couldn’t see it for the moment. The point of breaking into Coffin’s house was to find the USB stick, not agonise over her possible role in Michael’s death. Emma moved softly along the hall, pushed open a door.

  The living-room was light and airy. Everything lined up neat and tidy, like a showroom. Large flat panel TV mounted on the wall above the fireplace, black leather sofa and two armchairs arranged to face the television, light beige carpet, another framed portrait of the family. Michael a tiny baby in this one, held between Coffin and Steffanie, all of them tastefully naked.

  The photograph, the room’s decor, all had Steffanie’s touch to it. Emma just couldn’t reconcile Joe Coffin living here, couldn’t match this living space, and that photograph, with the man she had spent time with yesterday.

  In shocking contrast to the rest of the room was the large patch of dried blood on the carpet. This was where Steffanie had been murdered, left to bleed out from the wide, ragged gash in her throat. What still puzzled the police was the lack of any signs of a struggle, or a break in. Steffanie had to have let her killer in, as her body was discovered inside the house, all the doors and windows locked shut.

  Emma stared at the brown bloodstain, once again struggling with her guilt. Emma had found Steffanie to be cold and calculating and didn’t believe for one second that she ever loved Joe Coffin. Steffanie had been an expert manipulator of everyone she met, Emma was sure. She used her body for tips when she was pole dancing, and she married Joe Coffin for no other reason than a way out of a life she had grown bored with. But then that didn’t work out the way she intended, and she ended up saddled with a baby, changing nappies, feeding, washing, bathing, trapped in the house all day, playing Mummy. And then there were those tedious hours spent at the local toddler groups, discussing nappy rash, baby clothes, first baby steps, and all the other crap that Steffanie had no interest in whatsoever.

  Sure, she would have acted the part, played the role of new mother to perfection, fooled everyone she met. But inside, she hated it all, maybe even hated her son, for transforming her from desirable sex goddess into a slave for an insatiable, ever demanding creature that considered itself to be the centre of the universe.

  That was why she had been prepared to shop Coffin for the murder of Terry Wu, along with Mortimer Craggs and the whole Slaughterhouse Mob. Emma was reasonably sure that Wu hadn’t been Coffin’s first contract killing, and those other murders were probably documented in the evidence that Steffanie had gathered.

  As far as Emma was concerned, Steffanie Coffin had been a cold-hearted bitch.

  Still didn’t make her feel any better about what happened to her and Michael, though.

  Emma had no interest in searching the living-room. If the USB stick was anywhere in the house, then Emma was convinced it would be hidden amongst Michael’s things. That day at The Fifth Lock, the slip
of paper with the still of Terry Wu on it, from the video footage, that had been hidden in a pack of baby wipes. Steffanie had never struck Emma as a woman of much imagination. She was reasonably certain that Steffanie would have hidden the USB stick somewhere similar.

  The police would have done a thorough search of the house for evidence in the murder case, but they hadn’t been looking for any items hidden by Steffanie, or anybody else for that matter. They were looking for forensic evidence, or a murder weapon.

  Mortimer Craggs’ crew though, that was different. If Steffanie’s murder had been a hit ordered by Craggs, because he found out she was going to the papers with enough evidence to land him in prison for the rest of his life, then he would have ordered a detailed search of her house, too. There was a distinct possibility that Craggs already had the USB stick, and all the damning evidence it contained.

  That thought wasn’t worth pursuing. If Craggs had found the USB stick, he’d probably destroyed it by now, along with any chance Emma had of a big, juicy story to make her name with.

  Emma left the living-room and took the carpeted stairs two at a time. She slipped her way into Michael’s bedroom, hesitated just over the threshold, like she was invading a sacred place. Stuffed teddies filled one corner of a large cot, the blue walls were decorated with space rockets, and comical aliens and spacemen, and brightly coloured, plastic toys piled up in a play box.

  Michael hadn’t wanted for anything.

  Except perhaps the love of his mother.

  But what about Joe Coffin? Had those hands that had dispensed death also been able to dispense love and affection?

  Emma began searching the room.

  She took the toy box first, carefully removing the toys one by one, examining them for openings, somewhere big enough to hide a USB stick. The battery compartments of the electrical toys were the most obvious place to start. Emma had brought a selection of small screwdrivers with her to open up the flaps. Soon she was surrounded by trains, walkie talkies, talking teddies, toy computers that beeped and buzzed when she switched them on, and a couple of big, bright plastic contraptions with flashing lights and levers and buttons, that she had no idea what they did.

  When she had finished with the toys she moved onto the wardrobe, carefully searching through all of Michael’s clothes, her fingers running along the thick seams and searching through the tiny shoes. She examined the wardrobe too, scouring every inch of it for hidden recesses.

  Nothing.

  Emma lifted the mattress out of the cot and searched it for any cuts, anywhere Steffanie might have inserted the stick. Nothing that she could see, not even any repairs to the mattress. She searched through the bedding, through the drawers in the dresser.

  When she had finished, Emma sat down in the middle of the room and rested her head in her hands.

  Maybe she had underestimated Steffanie, after all. If the USB stick wasn’t here, then Emma had no idea where to continue looking for it.

  Or, the other possibility was that Craggs already had it.

  Emma’s head snapped up as she heard the rumble of the garage door being swung open. On her hands and knees, she crawled over to the window and peered over the window ledge.

  Joe Coffin was standing on the drive, looking into the open garage.

  “Oh, fuck,” Emma muttered.

  What the hell was he doing here? Hadn’t he said he was staying away, that the memories back here would be too painful to be around?

  Quickly and quietly as possible, Emma began putting Michael’s room back as she had found it. She put the mattress back in the cot, folding the sheets over it. She picked up a square, soft, blue blanket, with a drawing of a cartoon dog printed in a repeating pattern all over it. The blanket looked like a child’s comforter, looked well used.

  Emma put the blanket in the cot. Turned around. The toys, their compartments were all open, batteries scattered across the floor.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Emma muttered.

  Why the hell hadn’t she tidied up as she searched the room?

  She knelt down on the floor and began gathering the batteries up, snapping them into their compartments. Her hands were shaking as she tried tightening the screws up.

  If Coffin found her up here, what would he do? Emma had absolutely no explanation for being in his house, searching through his dead son’s possessions.

  The toy train fell out of Emma’s hands, the two batteries rolling across the carpet.

  “Fuck!”

  She stood up. Fuck this, she had to get out before Coffin came upstairs and found her.

  Leaving the bedroom in a mess, Emma stepped out onto the landing. She could see down the stairs to the front door. Couldn’t go out that way. She had to walk past the garage entrance to get back to her car.

  Her car! Shit. If Coffin was in the garage, then he had a nice view of her car parked across the road. At least it was the hire car, and not the Fiesta. But how to get back to her car if it was in his line of vision the whole time?

  She would just have to leave it for the moment, come back later and collect it. Right now she needed to get the fuck out of Coffin’s house before he came in and found her. Emma took a couple of steps down the stairs, unconsciously holding her breath, expecting Coffin to open the door at any moment, and stare up at her, his look of astonishment turning to anger.

  She stopped walking, gripped the bannister.

  Her phone was buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Nick again. She put the mobile away, ignored him.

  But she couldn’t walk any further down the stairs. She had the strong sense that she had missed something. Something so obvious that she would kick herself if she knew what it was.

  Steffanie. No imagination, absolutely none at all. Intelligent, focused, scheming, but not one scrap of imagination about her. How often would she have spent playing with Michael in his bedroom? Those toys looked brand new still, like they had just been bought yesterday.

  It took imagination to play with toys, didn’t it? A willingness to suspend disbelief, and enter into a child’s make believe world, much of which involved garishly coloured, noisy toys, and teddy bears.

  Not something that Emma could picture Steffanie being at ease with.

  And honestly, did children really need playing with? Stick them in front of the television, or a PlayStation, or give them an iPad. That would keep a kid quiet for hours, surely?

  Emma turned slowly, looked back up the stairs at the open bathroom door. Sure, you didn’t have to play with children, but what every child needed was its nappy changing, its bottom cleaning.

  On top of the bathroom cabinet were three packs of baby wipes.

  “No fucking imagination, Steffanie,” Emma whispered.

  She glanced back down at the front door. No sign of Coffin coming in the house yet. Whatever he was doing in the garage was keeping him busy.

  Steffanie crept into the bathroom. She reached up and pulled down the three packs of baby wipes. Was tempted to rip them open straight away, but couldn’t bear to be in the house any longer. Not with Coffin downstairs.

  Emma sat down on the toilet lid.

  Got to think about this. Keep calm. If you run outside now, Coffin will see you.

  As far as Emma could work it out, she only had two choices. One was to find a way out of the back of the house and hope that there wasn’t a view from the garage over the back gardens. She would have to leave the car, come back for it later. That meant a long walk back into the city centre, or a taxi.

  The second choice was to sit tight inside the house and hope that Coffin didn’t come inside.

  The sound of a key in the front door made both her choices redundant. Emma remained sitting on the toilet lid, staring through the open doorway at the landing and the top of the stairs. Out of her line of view, she heard Coffin opening the front door and stepping inside. It was all over now. Her career, most definitely. Even Karl, her editor, wouldn’t stand by her after she was arrested for
breaking and entering.

  And, considering Coffin’s reputation, there was a good chance her life might be over very soon, too.

  She glanced around the bathroom, looking for an escape route. Apart from the bathroom door, the window was the only way out, and the section that opened up was far too small for her to climb through. If Coffin walked into the kitchen, maybe she could creep down the stairs and then make a run for it through the door, and to her car.

  Emma didn’t think she would get very far, though.

  Maybe he wouldn’t even come upstairs. What if he had just come back to pick up some things?

  Like, clothes?

  From his bedroom.

  Or maybe he was moving back in.

  Emma closed her eyes, tried focusing on listening for his footsteps. If she could work out where he was going, which room he was moving into, she might have a chance.

  Emma flinched as she heard the front door slam shut. That was it, he was definitely staying. There was no chance of her escaping now. All she could do was hope to appeal to his better nature.

  Emma flinched again at the sound of a loud, low rumble. Sounded like a motorbike.

  Curious, she slipped off the toilet lid and onto the floor. She crept along the carpet until she could see downstairs, peering over the top step at the front door. It was shut, and the hall was empty. Emma crept out of the bathroom and back into Michael’s bedroom. On her hands and knees, amongst the toys and batteries scattered over the carpet, she looked cautiously out of the bedroom window.

  Coffin, astride a huge motorbike, was on the drive, revving the engine which was spewing clouds of purple smoke from the exhausts. What was that? A Harley-Davidson?

  She watched as Coffin kicked the kickstand down and got off the bike. He shut the garage door. Just like yesterday he was wearing blue jeans, white T-shirt and his black, scuffed leather jacket. He looked like he was having trouble using his right arm. Wasn’t it his right shoulder the psycho bastard had chewed up?