Coffin Knows the Answer

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Oh thank you, sir.’

  Peter felt so happy that he was hungry again. He went up to the counter to order another bacon sandwich.

  ‘What, another one?’ said Edith, the girl on duty, a bonny creature whom Peter secretly fancied. Perhaps not so secretly from the smile she always gave him. ‘That’s three.’

  ‘Only two for me.’

  ‘Have to give you an extra bit of sauce then.’

  He grinned. ‘Like always?’

  ‘Cheeky you.’

  He dropped his grin and became serious. ‘I could get tickets for this Saturday then at the Palladium … if you’d like to come.’

  She looked thoughtful.

  ‘See you home, of course.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘And meet you to take you there … can’t be too careful.’

  ‘No, right. You’re on.’

  John Coffin got the news about the model from Paul Masters very promptly. He knew the shop too.

  ‘See the news gets to the Incident Room.’

  ‘Have done, sir.’

  ‘Not that it’s worth much.’ Coffin was thoughtful. ‘Not on its own. Need a bit more detail … In fact, all the details.’

  Paul grinned. ‘Pete Gittings is a good lad, but he needs a bit more experience in winkling things out of witnesses. Usually the crucial things. That which they wish to hide.’

  ‘Dare I suggest you go yourself and take a look round?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s really part of Phoebe Astley’s case but we could settle it between us, I guess.’ In fact, there was no guessing, he knew already, such was the speed with which information about their colleagues passed around HQ that Phoebe Astley was due to do some work with the Chief. Did he mind? A little, he had always worked closely with the Chief while Phoebe moved around.

  But it didn’t matter, he had his own ambitions and was marking a path out according to them. Keeping on good terms with John Coffin was certainly part of it, but not working with him forever, much as he liked the man. As he did. Impossible not to.

  ‘Actually I might look in myself.’ Coffin considered. ‘I knew the proprietor in my younger South London days. I was surprised when the splendid old cockney turned up here.’

  ‘We’re all cockney’s here, sir.’ Masters spoke with the polite amusement of ex-Public school and Oxford.

  ‘So we are.’ Coffin knew he was by ancestry and upbringing but life (and Stella) had put a gloss on him. His musings were interrupted by a telephone call from Stella herself.

  ‘This is just to tell you that Letty is flying in today. Heathrow this evening.’

  His beloved but somewhat feared sister. Coffin groaned. ‘Is she staying with us?’

  ‘No, Claridges, says she doesn’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘She will be though, she always is.’

  Stella laughed. ‘She says she’s coming over to help you with this murder business … I think she probably plans a film or TV show.’

  Coffin groaned again.

  ‘And she hopes we will recognise her, she’s had facial surgery. And this trip to us is her treat for being a good patient.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘She’ll look lovely, never fear. She’ll have gone to the best cosmetic surgeon in New York.’

  ‘I hope you’ll never do the same.’

  What I do with my face is my own business, thought Stella. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll ever have the money.’ Then she added thoughtfully, ‘Although, of course, as a performer it would be tax deductable … I must speak to my accountant.’

  ‘Now I know you’re joking.’

  Over the telephone line, he heard the sound of barking.

  ‘You’ve got Gus with you.’

  ‘I wanted company.’

  ‘Would you like to come shopping with me?’

  ‘If it’s the sort of shopping I think it is, then the answer is no.’

  Coffin laughed, but gently. ‘You can read my mind. I suppose it’s why I love you.’

  ‘Not all husbands would feel the same.’ Her voice softened. ‘Don’t get into trouble, my love, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not. Why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s the way you operate. It’s known as sailing close to the wind.’

  ‘Not me, never.’ But he knew he did, especially if as now, Stella was involved. As she was, somehow. How and why, he did not know, but by God, he would find out.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ Stella said, no laughter now in her voice.

  ‘You do the same.’

  ‘You’ve given me a minder again, haven’t you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

  Coffin kept silent. But not for long: ‘I won’t go on my own. Phoebe Astley will be with me.’

  But this was a lie. He was going alone. He knew the owner and eminence gris of the shop in question, remembered him from the old days in Deptford, recalled enough to know that he would never talk in front of a third party, let alone a woman. With Coffin on his own he might let something interesting out.

  Wearing carefully chosen, unobtrusive clothes, Coffin strolled into the shop, pushing aside a large stuffed cat, several boxes full of what looked like old clothes, and a big, old-fashioned, crocodile skin trunk (which he tripped against, causing a confused noise), to be greeted by his old acquaintance. You couldn’t say friend, since Coffin had been active in sending him to prison once, if not twice, years ago. As far as he knew, though, there had been no reason for imprisonment since the move to the Second City.

  ‘Hello, Johnny boy. Long time no see … ‘course, I knew you were in the Second City, top of the heap too.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Coffin, rubbing his ankle.

  ‘Lovely object, isn’t it? Can’t you just imagine it, travelling on the old Queen Mary to New York, or being put on the train in Paris by your maidservant to go to the South of France while you chatted to Noel Coward.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Bert,’ said Coffin, still rubbing his ankle.

  ‘At heart, Johnny, at heart. Always was. Not a side of me you saw, Johnny.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Prison for fraud, then robbery with some violence - a girlfriend with a badly fractured cheekbone did not readily call up a picture of a romantic man.

  ‘I kept it hidden. Had to, you know what it was like living in John Evelyn Street.’ Bert smiled radiantly. ‘But now it can come out.’

  ‘That must be nice for you.’

  ‘Better than you think … look around and see what I’ve collected, some things to keep forever, like the trunk, and others to sell.’

  ‘Like the model of a naked woman.’

  There was moment of silence.

  ‘Ah.’ Bert did not cease to smile but perhaps his eyes hardened. ‘I knew you didn’t come in just to say Hello and How are you.’

  ‘You sold a model recently. I need to know more about the sale: to whom, for instance?’

  ‘We always keep a modest stock of these ladies, not always on show, but those who want one know where to come. Sometimes they are needed for …’ he coughed tactfully, ‘ … for medical reasons, sometimes for artistic reasons …’ He gave up at this point and was silent.

  Coffin waited in silence.

  ‘That lady was one of my favourites, she’d been with us for some time and I’d got to like her. You might think there’s no difference between one and another, but there is if you live with them long enough.’

  ‘All right,’ said Coffin impatiently, ‘after you have lived long enough with one of these models to get attached to her, then you do sell it. It is a matter of business, after all.’

  ‘Well, yes, Johnny, yes, a profit must come. We insist on cash.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so I daresay you know most of your customers?’

  ‘Not by name.’ said Bert with decision. ‘Couldn’t expect it. I didn’t sell the model, I might not have let her go, I like to think of them going to a good home. Like a dog, you know. My wife sold her.’

>   ‘I’d like to speak to her.’

  Bert nodded. He went to the back door to shout. ‘Myrtle, Myrtle. Here with you.’

  A memory stirred inside Coffin. Myrtle? Surely that had been the name of the very young and pretty girl whose cheekbone had been cracked? They’d married, had they? What a courtship.

  In through the door came one of the thinnest women that Coffin had ever seen, so tall that she had to bend her head to get through the door.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mirt.’

  Mirt, Myrtle … this was what the slender, pretty girl had turned into: a figure of length and no breadth with the pretty features pointed and sharp. A bit bruised as well, so Bert had not changed.

  ‘This copper wants to ask you about the dummy you sold.’

  Mirt did not recognise him.

  ‘Who did you sell it to?’

  She shrugged. ‘Some tall thin bird in trousers.’

  ‘Lesbian?’ asked Bert. He sounded unsurprised.

  She shrugged again. ‘Could be.’

  Bert looked at Coffin: ‘We get birds going both ways. You should see some of them. Some don’t even know for sure themselves.’

  ‘Would you know her again?’ asked Coffin.

  Mirt shook her head. ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Why are you so worried?’ asked Bert.

  Coffin did not answer. What could he say? That it was left as a present for my wife and I wouldn’t mind killing whoever it was?

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Myrtle.‘I remember you now: you’re John Coffin, and you’re a big boss figure now. You arrested my Bert once.’

  ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘Course he did. And more.’

  ‘Here,’ protested Bert.

  His wife ignored him, while she studied Coffin’s face. What she saw there seemed to interest her.

  ‘These questions you’re asking. Got anything to do with all these murders?’

  ‘Why? What makes you say that?’ said Coffin alertly. For the first time he saw that there was a sharp, observant face imbedded in that flesh and bone.

  There was a moment when no one spoke. Coffin waited, determined not to be the first to break the silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Myrtle. ‘It’s just the sort of thing you coppers do.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  She walked towards the back door. At the door, she said vaguely over her shoulder, as if she might mean something or she might not, just talking. ‘Oh don’t know. Just if I saw himher walking around the Second City, then I might give you a ring.’

  Chapter 15

  Phoebe told Joe Jones and Sergeant Les Henderson, both of whom were having drinks with her, that tomorrow she was going round the houses where each victim had lived with the Chief Commander.

  ‘We know that,’ said Les.

  ‘And it behoves me to look out for myself.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I do, he’s a great man, I’ve known him a long while, and worked with him, but you have to watch yourself with his lordship, he is tough.’

  They were drinking in the Golden Fleece, a bar popular with the Second City CID. It was early evening so the place was not crowded.

  ‘You’re nervous,’ said Les, surprised. She’s in love with him, he thought, or she was once. Is now, said a realistic voice inside him. He’s a bloody attractive man, damn him. Les had always fancied Phoebe himself. Not in love with her, he wasn’t ready for a big emotion like that, but one or two pegs short of it, maybe.

  ‘Never seen Phoebe nervous,’ said Joe.

  ‘Not nervous, just anxious,’ Phoebe replied quickly.

  ‘Keep us in touch, tell us everything and Les and I will help, won’t we, Les?’ Joe offered with a grin.

  Les had worked with both Joe and Phoebe in his time and he thought that Phoebe was the one who saw further into the wood. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Oh come on,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’m not buying you a drink to make me miserable but to cheer me up.’

  Joe was a good detective but not one it was easy to find relaxing, not “jollity country” as Les had put it once. But he had somehow joined the party with Les. Les was a friend, Phoebe suspected it was because he reminded her of a much younger John Coffin, but better perhaps not to go into that.

  ‘I’m just a sort of chaperone, going round the homes, a woman better than a man.’

  ‘Interesting thought,’ said Les. ‘I wish he’d asked me.’

  ‘Oh it had to be a woman … expendable when not needed,’ said Phoebe with some bitterness.

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ said Les.

  ‘No, perhaps not. Anyway, we start tomorrow. His lordship could not manage earlier, an important meeting in London … the other London, the bigger and richer one.’

  ‘I think you are just very slightly drunk,’ said Les kindly.

  ‘Never.’

  Phoebe had received a telephone call from Paul Masters setting out the arrangements late that afternoon while working on records in her new office. She had been on her own and with an aching head. No doubt, as a later sober reflection would point out to her, this had added to the irritation that Paul Masters had told her what she was to do and not the Chief Commander himself.

  ‘I suppose they’ve already had the forensic teams round there?’ she had enquired.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Cheerfully, Masters added: ‘I’ll see you get them all.’

  ‘Reckon I’ve got them,’ she looked at her overburdened desk. She knew as Masters did that reports surged in on investigations such as this one and were read quickly. Then sometimes forgotten. There was only just so much you could take in, retain and use. This was the weakness of criminal investigations: you needed a polyheaded detective.

  She had read them, though, and had now packed them away to take home to read again. Just in case. She knew from experience how sharp Coffin was on detail.

  ‘Better get home,’ she said now to Les and Joe. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

  ‘She won’t solve the murders,’ said Joe, watching her go. ‘Not in that mood.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. She’s good. And she’ll have the Chief with her and he can be more than good.’

  Joe shrugged. ‘He’s had luck, I grant you that.’

  ‘He’s got talent … look at his history. Came up from nothing, mother left him behind and moved on …’ He paused as he knew enough about Coffin to know that his mother had moved on to fresher and more profitable fields. Coffin must, in some ways, be like his mother.

  Joe smiled, he had a good smile, Les thought, but with hidden mirth behind it. He must get to know him better and find out what the mirth was about. All detective work should start at home. His motto.

  Phoebe waved at them from the door, Les waved back. ‘Good luck, girl.’

  ‘So you think she needs it?’ Joe probed.

  ‘Everyone does, don’t they? Now and again, or all the time some cases. Like another drink?’

  ‘I’ll get them. My shout.’

  Les watched him return carrying two glasses. ‘Glad to see you back, Joe. It was rotten luck being ill. Are you feeling up to it?’

  ‘Oh yes, sure. Bit of a false alarm I’m glad to say. But when you have a wife who’s a power in the local hospital, you tend to get taken seriously when you fancy any symptoms.’

  Les gave a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t call you the imaginative sort, Joe.’

  ‘Everyone can be on occasion … even my wife. You married?’

  ‘No,’ Les managed to sound regretful although a spouse would have severely cut into his love life. ‘Those I fancied didn’t seem to fancy me. I will marry hopefully. I’d like a kid. You got any?’

  ‘Stepson.’

  ‘You can love him just as much.’

  ‘Sure.’ Joe finished his drink, and stood up. ‘Better get home.’

  Les had one more drink and a sandwich before departing himself. He lived in a small flat on the ground floor of a block in Spinnergate. Contrary to what might have
been expected of him as a male officer in the CID, he kept it immaculate. The bed was made before he left for work, the breakfast dishes washed and dried, the furniture was dusted and sometimes polished - but that was because he liked the smell of the polish. He even ironed his own shirts. He had one black cat who had befriended him but who knew to keep the rules: home early, stay in at night, and don’t bring in a mouse. (Or if you must, don’t let master see.)

  He had asked Phoebe Astley round for a drink once and seen her looking at the polished wood and concluding he had a cleaner to do the work. He had been in her flat once too and knew that not only did she not have a help but did very little herself. His housewifely fingers had itched to dust a rather good table she had.

  Phoebe had noticed the dust but the table had still remained unpolished as she walked in that evening. She opened her bag and tipped out the papers she needed to work on. She wished she knew what Coffin would be looking out for as they went round where the victims lived.

  She fell asleep with the papers all around her, then woke up, to shower, drink some coffee and drive to the station.

  Coffin was ready for her. ‘Stella wanted to come on this tour with me,’ he said cheerfully.

  Phoebe was startled. ‘Why?’ She could not believe that Stella wearing casual (but couture) clothes would be a fit figure to go on this particular trail. Up stairs and down stairs, in and out, and probably without point in the end.

  ‘I think because she felt she was an early victim but one that got away.’

  A nasty feeling, thought Phoebe, could be true as well. ‘Did she want to come instead of me or as well as?’ she asked.

  ‘She didn’t make that clear. As well as, I expect.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ Phoebe said. ‘She would have added her own way of looking at things. Might have been valuable.’

  Coffin did not answer. The truth was that he did not want Stella more mixed up with this affair than she already was.

  ‘It’s a task for the professional,’ was all he said. And then: ‘I’ll drive.’

  It was going to be a quiet, gentle entrance, not the police cars and supporters the Chief could command - and did so, when it suited him.