Little Billy was aware of this fact and had considered dressing and going out himself, but he knew from past experience that his parents could be relied on to appear and be awkward if he did anything of the sort. It was not that they planned it or had telepathy or had him bugged, it was just the way life was. Not that he had anything special to do, but there was something about the streets at night that fascinated him. He had done a little night wandering himself on occasion, and been caught at it and heavily punished by his parents. Financially punished, by a docking of his ample pocket money, the worst sort of punishment for a chap with commitments and a standard of living to maintain.
So it looked like an evening at home tonight.
Now, as he read the play, Major Barbara, and assigned himself the part of Andrew Undershaft, he was thinking about the head he had found. He did not, of course, know of the latest developments in the case, nor that the head had been identified by the police as that of Peter Tiler. For that matter, he had not known the man by name, but he had recognized the late caretaker of St Luke’s. So he knew that much.
He thought he knew something else as well, a piece of knowledge culled from one of those night walks, not such a very late night once, but a little evening trawl through the Theatre Workshop when they had been rehearsing the play before Hedda Gabler. He agreed with Stella Pinero that the caretaker had not been a nice man. He had heard him whispering to Bridie and Will.
Coffin looked up at those lighted windows and walked on. He thought it might be the boy behind them, lying there, reading into the small hours. He had been a boy like that himself once. He knew he would have to talk with Little Billy.
He took a right turn towards Pavlov Street and back to St Luke’s Mansions. Now he was passing the house in which Rosie Ascot had lived. Although he did not know it as yet, Bridie and Will still did live there.
At that moment, as he passed below, they were lying in the darkness on Bridie’s bed. On it, not in it, and they were both fully clothed.
Bridie said: ‘It was a terrible thing we did.’
Will put a hand across her mouth, silencing her. ‘Don’t even say it.’
Both of them were tall, blue-eyed and blessed with curly blonde hair. They looked, as someone had remarked, very much alike.
In the street below, Coffin continued his nocturnal walk. Presently he turned westwards into Pavlov Street. Here Ted Lupus had the premises for his building firm: a yard with storage sheds and offices. He was an efficient man, so that the gates into the yard were trim and neatly painted and the surrounding brick wall newly pointed.
Coffin barely glanced at it as he passed, he was feeling weary now and thinking of bed. His sitting-room still bore evidence of the party but he ignored the litter and went straight to bed.
Tired by his walk, he slept well, and awoke in a cheerful mood. After all, life was good. The day ahead would be busy, because as well as two committees which he must chair, he intended to take an active interest in the murder of Peter Tiler. If it had been murder. Even that was an assumption until they found the rest of his body.
So some questions had to be asked.
How had he died?
Why had his head been cut off and one hand deposited in the urn with the head while the other was left in a refrigerator?
Where was the rest of the body? (Although he had a notion it would soon turn up. It must.)
And who had killed him, and why?
Find the motive and the killer would emerge from the shadows. Or was that the wrong way round and the fact was that the murderer would be flushed out and then would tell them why they had done it?
He usually took his breakfast at ‘the deli round the corner’ where there were a few tables for those desiring coffee and a brioche. It wasn’t perhaps the breakfast you expected a copper to start the day on, but these days it suited him.
Suddenly it occurred to him that the source of this new happiness was Stella. Yes, it was Stella. Not founded on a rock, then. But somehow he did not mind.
He took his usual table at the back of the shop and read the newspaper he had picked up on the way round. Come the winter, he would have to get into the way of making his own breakfast. But the truth was he enjoyed the company and friendliness of Max, the proprietor, and his plump wife and their three young daughters. The girls helped behind the counter when they were not at school.
Max gave him his coffee and a brioche and honey. ‘Got some rye bread if you’d rather.’
‘No, I’ll stick with this.’
Max was of Czech origin but his wife was Italian, while the children were totally little Londoners. It seemed to make for a very happy mix, judging by the way they joked and chattered together.
He sipped his coffee while he watched the coming and going in the shop. There was usually a flow of early customers, which Mrs Max (no one ever called her anything else as far as he knew) customarily dealt with, smiling and cheerful whatever the weather. Max seemed to be coping on his own this morning, however, although the three girls were milling around the shop, helping or hindering their father.
‘More coffee?’ Max wiped the table with an immaculately white cloth. He was careful about cleanliness.
Coffin held out his cup. ‘And another brioche.’
‘They are good this morning. Nice and fresh. I make them myself. Clara, a brioche for Mr Coffin. And pick it up with the tongs, not with your fingers, as I often tell you.’
Clara was the largest and pinkest of cheek of his children, but they were all healthy, as why should they not be, as Max had remarked only the other day, with all the immunizations and injections the school health authorities handed out.
‘And was the food good?’
Coffin ceased buttering his brioche and looked up inquiringly. ‘Food?’
‘At the party in the Black Museum. We did the food,’ Max said reproachfully. ‘It came from here. It was good?’
‘Excellent,’ said Coffin, who had not eaten any.
Max looked proud. ‘Our first big job. We have hopes of many more. This district is changing, Mr Coffin, prospering. When we first came here it was a poor district. Now rich people live here. More come every day. And they eat well. They have money to spend. They enjoy spending. There is a fine chance for a shop like mine.’
As he paid his bill, Coffin amiably agreed there was. And well deserved, he thought, as he walked to his office, Max and his wife worked hard.
He walked briskly and cheerfully. For someone who had often in the past approached his day with caution and even distrust, he now found himself looking forward to it. He was changing all right. Was it Stella? Or life itself that was causing the change?
He was sorting through his letters when his telephone rang. His secretary looked at him.
‘DI Young was trying to get you. I think he has something on the Tiler case.’
News about the body was what he hoped to hear. Finding it had to come next.
‘I’ll take it then, Celia. Hello?’
He expected to hear Archie Young, but he knew that dark and lugubrious tone: Tom Cowley in a bad mood. ‘Thought you were off on holiday, Tom.’
‘Put it off for a few days.’
‘You all right?’ He was fond of his old friend, although sometimes groaning beneath the burden.
‘Oh, nothing wrong with me. That’s not it. Dr Schlauffer is ill.’
This was the policeman known to Coffin as Herr Hamburg, all top German policemen seemed to be called Doctor, he was not sure why or how. Maybe they all got honorary degrees with the rank. Dr Schlauffer was the one who had eyed Stella Pinero.
‘I’m sorry. What is it?’
‘Oh—’ Tom was vague—‘nothing much. Got a bit of a fever. Better soon, I expect, but he doesn’t feel up to flying.’
Nor to going out with Stella, Coffin thought hopefully. Tom muttered something about keeping him in touch, and put the receiver down before Coffin had a chance to tell him about the other hand of Peter Tiler, for the rest of w
hose body they were now looking.
Coffin went back to work without thinking too much about Dr Schlauffer. But the edge of brightness had gone off his day.
The first sickening had begun.
Or at least, the first he heard of.
He looked down at his blotting-pad. Celia was scrupulous about presenting him each day with a clean surface. But he was a great doodler. He found he had drawn a man’s head.
‘Get Young in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘As soon as maybe.’ Then he remembered himself at that age, always rushing, never time to eat, nearly always tired. Young had a wife who was a police officer too, as he remembered, so that made two of them. ‘No, make it a couple of hours’ time, and order us some coffee and sandwiches.’
CHAPTER 4
Detective-Inspector Young was a tall, slender man, youthful for his rank, handling himself carefully because he was talking to the man in command of the whole force but aware that he was lucky to have the chance of a direct face-to-face. He hoped his luck held.
‘Superintendent Lane said I was to keep you in touch, sir.’
‘I do have a personal interest,’ agreed Coffin mildly. He knew what Paul Lane was up to, he was acting patron to the younger man. He had done the same himself to Paul Lane in his day. Saw he got into the right company, talked to the right people, showed his form.
You needed a patron in this business. He had had one himself in the past. A man called Charlie Dander, now dead, almost forgotten, but a good detective in his day, in a style now unpopular.
In fact, one you would not dare to follow, breaking rules, going beyond the law, flowing effortlessly into dangerous waters in pursuit of chummy, no holds barred. Probably be in prison himself now. But he had certainly made his score.
Coffin himself had always preferred a cooler way, although he would be the first to admit that he had had his wilder moments. This chap was of the new breed. Because he had cast his eye over the curriculum vitæ of all the new appointments to his staff, he knew that Young had a good second-class degree from Cambridge, where he had been at Queen’s College and where he had been a keen supporter of the dramatic society.
‘So how’s it going?’
Young hesitated. ‘The hand found in the freezer by Miss Pinero—’ he used the name reverently, as became one who had admired her from afar—‘certainly matches the one packed in with the head. They make a pair, so the pathologists tell us.’
‘And they go with the head?’
Young nodded. ‘They do, sir.’
‘So?’
‘But we are having problems with identification.’
Coffin raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh yes, sir, I know that we had a provisional identification from a man who claimed to recognize him. A chap in Superintendent Lane’s office, been on the manor for years. Knew the face and the hair.’ Young looked thoughtful. ‘Bit of a miracle, really, he wasn’t easy to know. But I’m not doubting it, either. He is Peter Tiler, all right. But we do need a next of kin identification.’
It would be nice, Coffin thought, but it was not essential. An employer would do. He wondered about Stella Pinero. She was a tough lady and could certainly stand the sight if she had to.
‘Well, who is there?’
‘He has a wife, sir.’
But then Young produced what was really worrying him. ‘We have his address, we know where he lived. His wife still lives there.’
Coffin waited, he could see that Young was getting to it, the real problem.
‘Or so we are told. The neighbours say so. But we can’t seem to find his wife.’
Coffin looked at him.
‘We want to go in.’ Young leaned forward eagerly, he was forgetting to go slow and letting his natural exuberance show. ‘I’ve been there myself. Looked around the house. I’m sure she’s there. I just get the feel she is.’
On a side table a silver tray bore a dish of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. Coffin strolled across. ‘Come and help yourself
Young relaxed a little, enough to take several ham sandwiches and a cup of black coffee. He looked regretfully at the cream jug but knew better than to take any. He remained standing.
‘What’s your wife doing now?’
‘She’s got six months’ study leave.’
‘Spending it where?’
‘Back to Cambridge, sir.’
So that was where they had met. Had they made a joint decision to join the police? And what was she studying? Something feminine like child delinquents or women offenders?
No.
‘She’s working on urban guerrilla tactics.’
Young did not sound surprised, regretful or even proud. Just matter of fact. Obviously a thoroughly modern husband. Coffin decided he must meet WD Alice Young. Of the two of them she might be the high flyer. He liked the idea, he always liked ambitious, clever women.
‘About the house,’ said Coffin.
‘Yes, sir?’ Archie Young was instantly alert.
‘I’m coming too.’
Archie Young swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee quickly. Now he knew what Superintendent Paul Lane had meant when he said: Watch for it when the Old Man bowls you a fast one.
The quiet arrival, the even quieter prowl round the Tiler house, the unobtrusive entry in company only with his Sergeant and possibly a WPC which Archie Young had planned, inevitably turned, now John Coffin was part of it, into more of a circus.
Three cars parked in the road, several uniformed officers, and all the neighbours watching from the window.
The sun was shining on Hillington Crescent, a cul-de-sac on the edge of a large council estate built twenty unloved years ago in an older part of his district where gentrification had not yet started. But when you said unloved, you had to recognize that here and there some people had developed an affection for their houses. In such houses, the gardens had neat hedges, tidy lawns around which roses bloomed.
But not the Tiler house. It had a patch of yellowing grass flowering with scraps of paper, empty plastic bags and the odd tin can. An elderly and cynical-looking black cat sat on the wall, observing the new arrivals with bored yellow eyes. Too worldly-wise to run away, it let them walk past with no more than a flick of its tail.
‘Hello, Tiddles,’ said Young, trying to make good blood, he liked cats. ‘He was here before. He may be the Tilers’ cat.’
‘What did you do when you came before?’
‘Rang the bell. Got no answer. Walked round the house. Looked in the windows. Couldn’t see much. Spoke to the neighbours.’
‘And what did they say?’
Young shrugged. ‘Didn’t say much. They hadn’t seen her for some days, but they hadn’t seen her go away either. Of course, they might not.’
‘I shouldn’t think they miss much,’ said Coffin, conscious of the observation from several windows.
‘Nothing crucial, no.’ Young added: ‘They don’t know about Tiler yet, but they have heard about the head that was found in the urn, and they are getting very, very curious.’
‘And Mrs Tiler? What do they say about her?’
‘That she’s had mental trouble and been under treatment for it.’
Coffin considered. ‘Let’s take a walk around the house.’
A narrow path ran round the house to the garden behind.
‘Shall I knock on the door?’ queried Young.
‘No, leave it. If she comes out to confront us, well and good.’
Coffin went first. He looked at the upper windows, the curtains were undrawn. There was one small window open at the side of the house. ‘Seems quiet enough.’
‘I just have the feeling there is someone inside,’ said Young.
The garden at the back was as neglected as the front one, with overgrown grass, not deserving the name lawn, and dried-out flowerbeds. Some tenant, some time, had made a brave attempt to create a garden but it had not been kept up.
‘You think she’s there?’
‘I just don’t think this
is an empty house,’ said Young obstinately. ‘It doesn’t feel like one.’
Coffin accepted this. Policemen had such perceptions occasionally, he had had them himself, and, strangely enough, he had one now: the house was occupied.
‘Let’s take a walk down the garden.’ He led the way forward.
‘Not much to see,’ said Young, but he followed.
The grass was bumpy and uncut, as if it had grown over objects left out from seasons past. A tall lilac tree bent against a side fence where a rambler rose and a honeysuckle bush struggled for life against a rampant Virginia creeper. Convolvulus twined everywhere and was clearly getting the upper hand. It had nearly covered the roof of an old wooden shed at the end of the garden.
‘Not much work done here lately,’ said Coffin. ‘I think someone had a go once, but they gave up.’ He wasn’t much of a gardener himself, but he had a respect for living things. A person had had one here once, but it had been some time ago.
The door of the shed stood open, had rested that way for years by the look of it. He took a look inside the shed, which was full of old jam jars and empty paint pots. A fork and a spade lay on a dirt floor. A potato had somehow managed to root itself there and was growing away vigorously, pushing upwards for the light.
Coffin closed the door. A wind had got up and the door began to bang to and fro till he put a bit of old brick against it to hold it shut. ‘Let’s get back to the house.’
Still no sign of life there.
‘How are you getting in?’
Young produced a big bunch of keys. ‘Got these from the Council Offices. They keep a set of master keys. One of these should fit.’ He added, ‘Didn’t want to break the door down. If Mrs Tiler is in there, as I think she is, then one way and another she’s in a state.’
‘I think the WPC should come in with us.’
Young motioned to the girl, who came galloping over. She was a tall young woman with curly black hair and bright blue eyes.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You’re to come in with us. This is WPC Fisher, sir.’
‘I think you’d better be the first in, Fisher,’ said Coffin with a smile. ‘Just in case Mrs Tiler is behind the front door listening. Go gentle. Don’t want to give her too much of a shock.’
Coffin in the Black Museum Page 6