The “fancy one” was still talking at her. About Stella, of course.
‘Well, sir …’ she began.
‘It’s her theatre. Or will be. The ground’s hers. Or the lease is.’
‘What are you saying, sir?’
‘It seems to touch my wife again,’ he said with a groan. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘I don’t see it, sir.’ But Phoebe said it reluctantly, she knew her boss well enough to trust his intuitions.
Coffin ignored this comment and went on:
‘When the scientific boys work out how long the bodies have been there, let me know.’ More and more they were relying on the scientists. Even crime was getting technical.
‘It’s important to find out how long these bodies have been there, and who they are.’
‘I agree.’
‘Anything new on the serial killer?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘The press will be howling like hyenas … I don’t know why they haven’t been already.’
‘I know,’ ventured Phoebe. ‘It’s the royal divorce. They want all the news space they can get.’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘Oh, there will be. Bound to be.’
If she hoped for a laugh she didn’t get one. Coffin went on:
‘And when you’ve finished work today, you might pop in and see Mercy.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘Will do.’
‘I think she might be worried about Joe. I am too. I had a word with his doctor but he didn’t say much.’
Phoebe didn’t go straight away at the end of the day. First, she wanted to talk to the rest of her colleagues handling the serial killings.
Before that she had spoken on the phone to the forensic and pathologists involved.
She got on to the forensic experts first to prod them on.
Phoebe knew that it was hopeless to ask for quick answers from the two scientists in charge, because, as they had told her often in the past, their work by its very nature was slow and methodical.
But she could try.
‘Well, Dickie’ she said to the forensic expert, ‘Get a move on, please.’
‘We’re in the same fight here, you know. And it’s Dickon, not Dickie,’
‘Sounds Anglo-Saxon … Chaucer? Or Shakespeare?’
‘It’s a family name, and both Chaucer and Shakespeare were English but not Anglo- Saxon.’ He knew she was baiting him but could not help rising to it. The trouble with forensic medicine was that it was a humourless business. Pathology, might just be one degree worse, she judged.
Dr Death, Phoebe called the pathologist Hugh Meldrum, but she had to admit that Dr Meldrum, young and a new recruit to the Second City Police as very junior pathologist, was easier to talk to than Dickon. He would produce a bit of information, because he always did. He handed over these snippets of information like polished pearls, then sat back to wait for her response.
‘So what have you got for me?’
‘It’s very early, too soon to speak with authority.’ Nevertheless, he would do so. He always did. ‘So handle with care.’ He added his usual rider.
‘Well, come on, please. Let me have your first thoughts.’ She tried not to sound hurried since this irritated Meldrum who did not like his pearls spat upon.
‘There are three bodies.’ He paused: a pearl was coming.
‘Right.’ This was to hurry him up.
‘A young male, fully extended, on his left side a female, likewise at full stretch, she is also young, and on her left, an infant. You understand this is just from my first superficial inspection?’
‘Of course.’ She could tell that a real, natural pearl was about to appear, nothing cultured.
‘The girl was strangled, the baby was smothered and as far as I can tell before a post mortem, the lad was poisoned.’ He became portentous. ‘And before you ask, I cannot as yet say what the poison was. Or how it was administered.’ He added ‘But it may have been self-administered. His body bears no signs of violence …’
‘Are you suggesting that he killed his companions, then committed suicide?’ said Phoebe.
‘And then lay down and drew the earth over the three of them? That would be an interesting case.’ Meldrum remarked drily.
‘It’s that already,’ said Phoebe, with feeling.
She frowned as she settled at her desk and considered the situation. She never knew if he was laughing at her or not.
Phoebe picked up the telephone, but no one she wanted to speak to seemed to be at their desk.
Her next port of call was a corner of the canteen where she had pleaded with all those officers dealing with the serial murders to come to an impromptu meeting. If they could manage it.
She had chosen this spot rather than the small briefing room where they could have met as being more informal.
They could manage it.
Coffin’s name, which she had used, was powerful.
From the door she totted up who she had got. Les Henderson, next to him Inspector Winnie Ardet, and even Superintendent Miller. Not a bad tally, she’d got the most important.
‘All present and correct,’ she said lightly. Then, sensing that this did not go down well, ‘thanks for coming.’
‘Think we’d dare not?’ This was Winnie.
Sometimes, oh sometimes, said Phoebe to herself, I sense not everyone likes me very much.
‘We’ve all got plenty on our plate with the serial killer on our patch.’
‘If it is just the one killer,’ said Winnie.
‘If it is, but I think its probable.’ Phoebe smiled at Winnie. To her relief, Winnie smiled back.
‘No real evidence, he’s a clever bugger. You’d think he was the invisible man, the way he manages to leave no forensic traces. None,’ she said with real feeling.
‘So what do you want from us?’ asked Sergeant Henderson. ‘What can we do for you? I know you won’t think me cynical if I believe you aren’t planning to do anything for us? No sudden revelations or confessions that we ought to hear?’ as Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, I thought not, love, so out with it.’
Phoebe stood up. ‘Let’s have a drink while we talk. I’m sure you all want one. No, I’ll do it, I called this meeting.’ She knew her colleagues well enough to know what they wanted to drink. Les would want beer, Winnie a dry white wine, and Miller would have coffee with her.
She looked at Les and he rose politely to help her carry the drinks.
‘So what are we playing at?’ he asked.
‘No game Les.’
When they got back to the table she ran quickly through what had happened from the beginning: the messages, the strange figure of the mannequin woman, the attack on Stella. Parallel with all this in time were the serial murders. And little Charlie Fisher, the killing that she could make no sense of.
Her audience listened without comment.
Glad I provided the drinks, she thought, or they wouldn’t know what to do.
‘The Chief Commander thinks it is all, somehow, aimed at Stella.’
She got no applause but a moment of silence. Then Winnie said: ‘She’s certainly a lady that knows how to get into trouble, we’ve seen it in the past, but I don’t think even she would arrange all this just for publicity.’
Phoebe ignored this. ‘And now three bodies have been discovered on the site of the new theatre.’
Into the silence, Les muttered: ‘Had heard a little something. Better go and take a look.’
‘May not be easy, there should be a tent over it by now and the whole area fenced off, I ordered it. Oh, and Les, if you go inside, but I’d prefer you didn’t, protective clothing, boots and gloves, please.’
‘I know the rules.’
‘Just reminding you.’
‘Were they killed on the spot?’
‘No.’ Phoebe felt sure of herself here.
‘Then that’s not how our serial killer works: he kills and walks away. And three bodies, did you say? H
e’s never done three at one go.’
‘Who’s your SOCO?’ asked Superintendent Miller, always the professional.
‘We soon won’t have enough officers left free to have a Scene of the Crime Officer for every murder,’ grumbled Les.
‘We all know that you will have done everything the right way,’ said Winnie. ‘God you knows you’ve had enough practice, we all have.’
‘Thanks, Winnie.’
‘But I think we are all beginning to feel a bit sick.’
‘All I am asking, and it’s what the Chief Commander wants, is to find out where Stella comes in. Well, that’s it, friends, thank you for coming.’
‘It’s back to work,’ said Les, leading the exit. ‘I don’t know if what you and the Chief Commander have brewed up helps or not.’
Phoebe thought she did not know either.
As she walked across the canteen and then out into the corridor which led to the car park, she saw Coffin. She held back as he went to his car.
He was walking in that head down, purposeful way that usually meant a problem elsewhere.
Well, he had plenty of those, but where was he going now?
Phoebe knew him well enough to feel a sense of disquiet.
But she also knew where she had to go and that was to see Mercy Adams. She knew where Mercy lived - at least she knew the address although she had never been there. After Mercy’s second husband died, she went back to live in the family home with her children. A flat was carved out for her on the top two floors of the largish old house where she had grown up. She felt happy there, she had told Phoebe, and having her own establishment had kept family relationships peaceful.
She walked up to the door, pressed the bell which said Adams, then waited.
No one came. So she pressed it again. This time, she heard footsteps coming towards the door, so she got her face ready to smile at Mercy with gentle sympathy and not too much enquiry.
But it was Mercy’s mother who opened the door.
‘Can I speak to Mercy? I’m Phoebe Astley, we work together.’
‘Oh yes, I know you dear.’ She held the door open more widely so that Phoebe stepped into the hall which smelt of furniture polish and lavender. ‘I don’t want to disturb her, dear, she’s had a terrible migraine and I think she’s just dropped off. Some other time?’
‘Yes, of course. Will you tell her I called and give her my sympathy … I know how painful migraine can be. I’ve had it myself sometimes.’
‘It’s tension, I think, don’t you?’
‘Her doctor could help, I expect. There are some drugs that work for migraine for most people.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll see she goes once she’s safe to walk around. You look after yourself too, dear.’
‘Oh I do, I do,’ Phoebe assured her, thinking that Mercy’s mother was a candidate for a soothing potion herself.
As she got into her car to drive off, she turned her head to see if all was clear behind before moving out. Just coming into view at top of the road, was a figure she could swear was Mercy’s.
As she sat there, debating whether to get out and run to greet Mercy, she saw the figure turn round and disappear round the corner.
Recognised the car? What about that rumour that she had had an abortion and doesn’t want to talk about it? With someone like Mercy you could never tell. Perhaps it had more to do with that young doctor of hers?
She drove off slowly. What the hell was happening?
Chapter 12
When you are a man with a taste for killing then murder is the ultimate refreshment.
It should not be so, the murderer, in his way a highly moral man, knew this but had to admit the pleasure.
He had, as all good performers must have, a props room where he kept all that was needed for his performances. It was in an old garage not so far away from Mimsie Marker’s stall and next door to the Catholic Church. He often had a conversation with Father McPartlin. He enjoyed meeting him although he had to be very careful what he said and what face he turned towards him.
A sharp observer, Father McPartlin. Well, it stood to reason, you could not survive as a parson in the Second City without a strong heart and stronger reason, so Father McPartlin had certainly observed that he wore a wig and that his head underneath it was as shiny bald as an egg. Too kindly and polite to mention anything. You could get good wigs that, apparently, could not be told from real but they were very expensive, and why waste money? Personally he thought this one suited him, made him feel quite boyish. But the curls tickled.
He took his wig off, with the Father watching, and shook his head. ‘Bit warm today.’
‘It is, it is … Do you know, I think your hair is growing back.’
‘Is it? The doctors said it might.’ He was indifferent.
‘Which hospital do you attend?’
Lovely prissy way of talking, the father had.
‘The University Hospital.’
‘You don’t mind me asking? My intention is kindly.’
Of course, it is, loving kindness is your business. Mine is hate.
‘Not at all, Father.’ Besides, I don’t have to tell the truth. Nor do I. He could feel a comfortable, warm bubble of hate springing up inside him. He had no use for it at the moment but it was good to feel it was there if he needed it.
He went back inside, making things tidy. He hung up several garments, then he inspected two pairs of shoes. They must be polished. No stains anywhere, though. Remarkable that, but of course, he knew what to do.
Presently, his attention was claimed by voices from outside on the steps to the church He put his ear to the wall to listen.
Mimsie Marker’s strong tones penetrated where he was standing, thinking about life. And death.
‘Here are your sandwiches, Father. Made them myself, they are good but you ought to eat properly, Father.’
‘Your sandwiches are very nourishing, Mimsie.’
‘Not like good hot roast beef, Father, or a lamb chop or two … or fish on the right day. It’s not one of those starvation days today, is it?’
‘No, not today, Mimsie.’
‘Good, because you’ve got grilled bacon in those sandwiches.’
The voices fell away at that point so he could hear no more. Then by careful attention he could hear them again. Discussing his favourite subject.
The killings.
‘I hope you are taking care, Mimsie, when you go around … these murders …’
‘Don’t worry about me, Father. I can look after myself. I always have a heavy walking stick in my hand and a knife in my pocket … I know how to use it, too.’
‘So does the murderer, Mimsie.’ He added, ‘Of course, you can always go home in your Rolls.’
‘I do not have a Rolls, Father,’ said Mimsie severely, ‘that is a total fabrication.’
The killer murmured to himself that Mimsie was safe, she was not in his killing market. ‘Of course, if you are keen, then I will try to fit you on to the list.’
But no, there was no response from the little bubble of anger and hate inside him, so Mimsie was certainly safe.
He went back to tidying up the garments, all of which he would take home to wash. It was true, as he knew, that forensic scientists could pick up traces of blood and other matters on an article of clothing that had been washed, but he also knew that modern detergents and bleaches could seriously decompose such traces.
Mimsie Marker (who in his opinion ought to be getting back to her stall) and the Father were still talking .‘No, there is no description of the killer that I’ve heard,’ she was saying.
No, of course, you wouldn’t have heard. Who do you think you are? thought the killer.
‘And if there had been one, then you can bet that one of my customers would have passed it on to me. I get a lot of important police officers coming along for a paper and perhaps a drink before they catch a train across the river.’
The killer ground his teeth in anger. She might be correct, s
ome officers knew how to talk, all right, and over a hot coffee and a sandwich might well do so.
He got on with his work, his mood still sour. Mimsie must have gone and the Father be off eating his bacon sandwiches because all was quiet.
Then once more he could hear a conversation floating in from the street. Two women this time.
‘Oh she’s so lovely.’
Not a voice he recognised.
‘I go see almost every play she’s in. Not the very highbrow or tragic ones. She’s always good, our dear Stella Pinero but to my mind she’s at her best in comedy.’
‘I agree. But I do like her in Shakespeare. But you can’t call Shakespeare highbrow, can you?’
No, you can’t, you cow, he thought, putting his eye to a crack in the door. No one he knew. Middle-aged, both of them. Well dressed, one in a red suit, the other in black, wearing a bit of jewellery, hair seen to by a good hairdresser. Not on the game. But he had known that from the snatch of conversation. There might be a few toms who appreciated the acting of Stella Pinero but in his experience nary a one that liked Shakespeare. Funny that, because they must have done once when the first Globe theatre was building. One of the best places in Tudor London to tout for custom, he wouldn’t mind betting.
Wasn’t that how Nell Gwynne started out?
He heard the name Stella again, and the bubble of anger inside him grew into a great balloon. One that swelled and pulsated.
It had Stella Pinero’s face on it.
There was a red balloon hanging from a string on a hook on the wall on which some unskilled hand had drawn eyes, a nose, and mouth.
He drew his hand up and down the pretend head. ‘Oh Stella, you little know.’ He stood looking at the plastic face. ‘You think you’ve been through it and escaped. That is so, isn’t it?’ He took a deep breath. ‘That was only a rehearsal, Miss Pinero. You know what a rehearsal is, don’t you? A forerunner to the real performance.’
Father McPartlin was quiet, and the street outside was empty.
Coffin Knows the Answer Page 11