Coffin Knows the Answer

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘No, 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 ‘the 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 ‘black 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.

  ‘Come 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.

  ‘The last time I did a visit like this I recognised the victim, Angela Dover, and she had worked for me once,’ said Coffin. ‘Did that help at all?’

  Phoebe said in a thoughtful voice. ‘As 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.’

  ‘She looked such a quiet girl,’ said Coffin.

  ‘Oh, looked.’ Phoebe shrugged.

  ‘I could do with a result.’

  ‘There’s a lot of effort going into the killings and the paedophile letters as well,’ said Phoebe, evasively.

  ‘In other words, no progress? In spite of Angela? Poor Angela, not even helping towards a solution. Am I right?’

  ‘Not 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.’

  ‘Faxes, phone calls: this chap is using them and getting away, laughing.’

  ‘In the end, they will give us an answer.’

  ‘You mean someone will come rushing in and shout: I know who it is, the killer is John Bloggs of Brown Street.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phoebe, doggedly. ‘And it very likely might be you, sir, you know how to get results.’

  ‘He knows me and he knows Stella, this killer and the paedophile, I know they’re connected’ said Coffin. ‘That I swear.’

  ‘You are a public figure, and so is Stella.’

  The Chief Commander got out of the car. ‘Wait for us, Norris.’

  ‘Of 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.

  ‘Come 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: ‘Just 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.

  ‘I 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. ‘No, 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. ‘Where was she found?’

  ‘In 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. ‘Makes him a local, dear, doesn’t it?’ she had said, handing over her morning paper to DCI Astley.

  ‘The 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.’

  ‘Helpful 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.

  ‘The pathologist thought that possibly more than one person was involved in the killing.’

  ‘What makes him think that?’ Coffin was not entirely convinced.

  ‘There 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.’

  ‘Any 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. ‘Not a fingerprint, although there is some blood.’

  ‘Two people, two killers,’ said Coffin as he turned away. ‘Have there been two all the time and we didn’t notice?’

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you telling me that Stella is in the hands of two men?’

  ‘I 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. ‘We will find her.’ She put an emphasis on every word.

  ‘Oh thank you …’ But he knew he was being unfair. ‘I feel that I ought to be out pounding the streets looking for her.’ He turned to the attendant. ‘Cover her up.’

  Phoebe led him outside. ‘Have a good scream.’

  To her relief, the Chief Commander laughed. ‘Not quite my style.’

  ‘It’s a relief, I can tell you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you have ever done it.’ Coffin looked at the self contained, controlled face of the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Haven’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.

  ‘This came for you, sir.’

  ‘Why haven’t you opened it?’

  ‘It’s marked personal, Chief Commander.’

  ‘We don’t usually take much notice of that.’ He reached out his hand for a neat brown paper parcel. ‘Cut the string for me.’ He was suspicious. ‘Don’t leave any fingerprints on it.’

  ‘It’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.

  ‘I think it is Stella’s,’ said Coffin. His voice was unsteady.

  ‘But 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. ‘Marge, come and give me a hand. I want help.’

  ‘Thanks,’ 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 …‘Oh sir, there’s blood.’

  Coffin thought to himself that it was a coup de foudre. He got Phoebe on the phone immediately. ‘I want more officers on this, it’s essential we find Stella before it’s too late.’

  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.

  He really thought that was the end of his paperwork for the time being so he slipped home to see to the animals. There was another packet waiting. He flinched from opening it but it had to be done.

  Inside using a dog, and horse and a human female child was one of the nastiest pieces of photographic pornography he had ever seen.

  A slip of paper inside said: Do you want to join in, Stella?

  He would like to have burnt it but being a policeman he was trained to keep the evidence so he put it in an envelope and sent it off to Dr James Carmichael (nicknamed Croggy) in the Dept of Practical Forensics who was making a careful study of all the pornographic material that had come in. He hoped to be able to draw some useful conclusions.

  Coffin despatched the envelope, then came back to sit in his big chair by the window in his workroom to do something, anything. He did not expect to sleep but he was soon in a dream world.

  In this dream world, which was not quite sleep, Stella and the mannequin walked together, hand in hand.

  Chapter 6

  While Coffin sat and wished he could sleep and dream, Dr Carmichael was working on the previous material sent him from Coffin’s office. It was odious stuff but he was used to working on it and found it was smoothed down by numerous cups of tea and coffee. Stronger drinks he allowed himself as evening came on.

  He hummed a cheerful tune as he worked. He really quite liked what he was doing but he did not admit it too readily because the material was so noisome. He had come to a certain conclusion about its origins (for they were various) and was pleased with himself.

  ‘I shall tell the Chief Commander. I hope he will be pleased too. He ought to be. We make progress.’

  ‘His Nibs is in fine fettle today,’ said the senior of his two assistants to his junior.

  ‘Perhaps he finds the stuff he’s had to look at more amusing than he lets on.’

  ‘No,’ said the senior assistant, who had a great respect for Dr Carmichael, although not admitting to it. ‘He’s a very decent sort is old Carmichael. Laughing at those obscenities would not be his style at all. And he wouldn’t like to see you laughing at them, and neither would I.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t.’

  Paul Masters, who kept a protective eye on his boss (which fortunately Coffin had not noticed or nothing would have alarmed him more) telephoned Dr Carmichael who was an old friend. ‘Hello, Croggy. How are things? That latest packet that I took the trouble to drop in straight off, anything of interest?’

  Dr Carmichael was willing to chat. ‘Join me in a drink and we’ll talk. I have got something to say.’

  ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘What about the Archery Shed, just behind Mimsie Marker’s stall?’ Mimsie’s stall, where she sold newspapers and magazines and refreshments, was famous in the Second City. It was near the busy tube station in Spinnergate down whose escalator the Chief Commander could often be seen hurrying on his way to London meetings.

  In spite of its name, the Archery Shed knew no archers with bows but was a smart and expensive drinking spot where you could get good wine and food. The chic world of the Second City had discovered it (prompted thereto by Mimsie Marker who was reputed to own a share) and it was always crowded.

  ‘I know where it is,’ said Paul. ‘See you there.’ He was early but Dr Carmichael was already there before him, seated by the window, drinking chilled white wine and eating a smoked salmon sandwich.

  ‘Looks expensive,’ said Paul as he slid into a seat.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Carmichael, ‘but good.’ He raised his hand to the waiter. ‘I’ve ordered the same for you.’

  ‘You’re paying?’ But he knew his friend.

  ‘Of course not.’ Dr Carmichael quaffed his wine. ‘I’ve done a lot of work on pretty odious stuff for your lot.’ He nodded his head. ‘It’s been interesting. I started off with no clear ideas of what was what. I never like to make up my mind in advance.’

  Paul Masters nodded, this being all that was required of him.

  ‘I suppose I took it for granted at first that the pictures came from one source. My experience is that the pornographer enjoys his own products beyond anyone else’s. I mean it’s kind of personal to them. But by degrees, I realised that there was no unity in this collection. I’ve got a much clearer idea of what has been going on: the chap who was collecting them and sending them on was interested in distressing the Chief Commander and Miss Pinero rather than giving himself pleasure. That’s not usually the way of it.’

  ‘I already got the idea that he didn’t care for the Chief Commander and Lady Coffin very much.’

  ‘All the same, it alters the picture.’

  ‘I’ll tell the Chief Commander what you say. Not that his mind will be on it until he gets Stella safe home again. Of course, he’s got these serial murders on his mind too.’

  ‘An obsessive paedophile and a serial killer, what a world,’ said Dr Carmichael. ‘Could they be connected? Who is handling the killings?’

  ‘Superintendent Miller and Inspector Winnie Ardet. Phoebe Astley is handling the paedophile case … she took over when Joe Jones went out sick. She was working with Mercy Adams but Mercy is away too at the moment. But she’ll be back.’

  ‘Two good teams. I’ve had to work on a couple of the bodies, and let me tell you, they were not a pleasant job. There is something about them that reminds me of the paedophile’s activities … .’ He stopped. ‘Same man doing both perhaps … Do you know, I think I’ve said something important …’

  ‘You might have done.’ Paul knew that his friend never underestimated himself.

  ‘Tell the Chief Commander, will you?’

  ‘He might have thought of it for himself …Anyway, can I give you a lift home?

  Paul Masters drove slowly through Spinnergate where the traffic was always heavy. He caught sight of a woman threading her way through the crowd on the opposite side of the road. He looked, then looked again.

  ‘Is that Stella Pinero?’

  Both men watched a slim figure hurrying along.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Carmichael. ‘Shall I get out of the car and go after her?’

  ‘Yes, better had.’

  They stopped the car, but by the time they were on the pavement, the woman had disappeared.

  ‘It may have been her,’ said Paul, ‘but perhaps I’d better not say anything to the Chief.

  Coffin fed the cat and dog once more, then sat back down in the big chair by the window in which he leaned back with closed eyes. He had not slept the night before because of thinking of Stella. Or that was what it felt like, but he thought he might have dreamt of her.

  She had been gone for well over twenty-four hours now. He was constant
ly thinking of Stella. All the police teams were alerted to look for her, to report anything that was helpful. But there was nothing. Nothing.

  Now he slept without realising it. When he opened his eyes there she was. Stella was standing, looking down at him.

  ‘Stella, darling Stella, is it really you?’ He stood up and put his arms round her; she was shivering slightly so that he held her tighter. ‘What happened? Where were you?’

  Stella took his hand, then sat down beside him. ‘I’m glad to be back. I wasn’t sure if I would make it.’

  ‘Tell me everything. I’m so glad you’re safe.’

  ‘As to where I was, I was in a park, most of the time … I think,’ she added thoughtfully.

  Coffin was silent for a moment, studying his wife’s face. ‘I believe you, my love, but why and how?’

  ‘I got into a car you sent at Heathrow. Or I thought it was so. I was very tired and I’d had some champagne on the way home … only a glass or two, but I suppose it relaxed me. I went to sleep, just a doze … when I woke up - came round, it felt more like it- I didn’t recognise the road … This isn’t the way, I thought. I tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him it wasn’t the way … then he turned round.’

  Stella was silent. Then: ‘I didn’t like his face … I hadn’t seen it properly before. And he did something … I can’t remember exactly what it was now, but I didn’t like it. But he slowed down so I opened the door to get out …then there was another man by this time.’ She paused ‘If it was a man.’

  She paused again. ‘Go on,’ said Coffin.

  ‘I pushed him or her back and jumped out …’

  ‘I’m glad you did. And then?’

  ‘He fell on the kerb, I remember that, then I think he jumped up and hit me, hit my head …’ She gave her husband a smile. ‘I’m vague about what happened next … I think I ran, I seem to remember running.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘The next thing I remember is waking up in a hut in a park. I must have run there. ’ She shook her head. ‘I must have dozed on and off for some time.’ Most of the day it must have been really, but she was only just realising that fact. How odd. Was it shock or that champagne? Or the hard work she had done in Scotland? All acting together, perhaps.