I was pleased. I liked Miss Jones. And what’s more the Club needed her. She wasn’t easy to fool. She had her hopes like the rest of them. She wanted to see a UFO sighting definitely established before she died, but she wouldn’t settle for an easy proof. I wondered if there’d been any chance of getting anything while in hospital. This is contrary to what you’d expect; you’d expect concentrations of people, like hospitals or barracks, to get a higher average of sightings than normal. But it doesn’t seem to work out that way. I suppose because in both institutions people have their heads bent towards their feet. The other suggestion is that the UFO vehicles are shy and don’t want to be seen by lots of people. I favour this latter view myself.
John Plowman’s wife brought round cups of peppermint tea and slices of oatcake. She gave me a slightly wry look as she passed me. I often wondered what she thought of it all. She never spoke, but stayed in the room with a detached look. I suppose this was why Cy Read said she was a dark soul. I think she worked as a nurse.
I read the minutes of the last meeting which were nothing, absolutely nothing at all and never were. I took care to keep the record as brief as possible.
John Plowman didn’t make any little speech but asked should he sign these minutes as correct. He never did, as a rule, and usually it didn’t matter. But this time it was different. Cy Read spoke up.
‘You can sign them if you like, John. I wouldn’t call them accurate but it makes no difference.’
‘Well, thank you, Cyrus,’ said John mildly. ‘But I wouldn’t like to do anything wrong. It’s always as well to keep things straight. What’s troubling you?’
Cy stood up. He walked over to place his cup on the table and then took up his position by it. I saw him catch Esther Glasgow’s eye. Obviously they had it all arranged. I used to wonder sometimes if they had a great big thing going between them, but no, I don’t think so. I doubt if he and Esther were even really friendly. They were just one of those temporary alliances that struggles for power always throw up.
I looked at my ally, John Plowman, and saw that he wasn’t at all surprised and that he had seen it coming.
‘You let the boy have too much of his own way,’ said Cy, glaring at me.
I let the word “boy” go, because to someone who had Dave Edmondstone in the family a man in my age group may seem like a boy. But I took exception to the phrase about own way. I was an administrator. I didn’t have a way of my own. I just carried out what they wanted.
‘I just do what the Club wishes,’ I said coldly. ‘There’s nothing personal about it.’ Cy ignored me. That was going to be his tactics, of course. Pretend I wasn’t there. Concentrate on John Plowman. Split us up.
‘It was better in the old days,’ went on Cy. ‘When we were just a little informal group of enthusiasts. That was the way I started it.’
He put an emphasis on the phrase “I started”.
‘No one started it, Cy,’ said John mildly. ‘What we are investigating is life itself.’
‘The first person in this area to try to get in touch with other workers in the field was me,’ said Cy. ‘At the time, if I remember, you were holding prayer meetings with that woman from Finsbury in the hope of getting in touch with astral bodies.’
‘I’ve always maintained an interest in paranormal cognition,’ said John, with a gentle smile. ‘She seemed an interesting case of it.’
‘She was an awful liar, that woman,’ said his wife suddenly.
‘My interest has always been strictly scientific,’ said Cy in a loud voice, his face getting pink. ‘That’s how it ought to be. It’s the only approach.’
‘We have to keep our minds wide open,’ said John, still smiling his sweet gentle smile.
‘Otherwise people will think we’re lunatics,’ said Cy pressing right on. The flush on his cheeks had settled into an angry red patch on each cheek. His hair was wild.
I glanced round the room. Esther Glasgow was sitting there, looking fierce. Malcolm Raguzzi, who I used to think was her boy friend and now didn’t, was crouching by the window wearing his crash helmet as usual. He rode a motor bike and was our scout who always went out first to check on a sighting. He usually wore his helmet; he had once spent a whole night out in the open and was afraid of frost-bite. John was wearing his green jersey suit. He always maintained that green was the universal colour and that in order to reassure any visitor from space who might arrive he ought to be dressed in green. He had found it difficult to get the exact shade he favoured in tweed, so his wife had run him up this one; it was a mite baggy round the seat. I think we looked about as normal as we ever did.
‘I agree,’ said Esther, her voice giving a squeak of excitement. She put on her big blue spectacles as if the light worried her. ‘We’re not taken seriously.’
‘I think you’re a very serious girl, Esther,’ I said.
‘Well, I say we should abandon meeting in your house,’ said Cy. ‘It’s got too many associations in people’s minds, John. No offence, of course.’
‘Oh no,’ said John.
‘And take a room in a building Esther knows about and make it really impersonal and businesslike.’
‘We couldn’t afford it. We run on a shoe string.’
‘Really it would cost very little,’ said Esther, giving an apologetic little cough. ‘I’ve found out.’
‘It would put us on a very firm footing,’ said Cy.
– And put him effectively in charge and free him from Plowman and me. I didn’t see Esther Glasgow playing much of a part once the move was over, somehow. I had never thought of Cy as a power maniac before but he was certainly showing strong signs of jealousy, possessiveness and acquisitiveness now. He was getting worse all round.
‘Well now, friend Cy,’ said John, putting on his most bland face, ‘as you say it’s a good idea, but it needs thinking about.’
He caught his wife’s eye and she at once got up and came round with more peppermint tea. It was like drinking hot cough drops.
‘Now,’ said John, as soon as we were drinking, ‘I have a report from Alvings Farm near Basingstoke (I have a very good contact there, as you may remember) of a suspected landing of a UFO one night last week in a field there. My contact gives us first news of it.’
The meeting was on. For the moment John had glossed over the rebellion. It had happened, though. We were likely to be split into two. I felt quite cheerful. I like a bit of power politics.
I wondered what would happen if I went and took my turn on the rug by the fireplace and said: And I’m watching every one of you, friends, to see if you are guilty of murder.
Afterwards, Judith was waiting for me in the car and she drove me home. I hadn’t expected her, but I wasn’t surprised to see her, either.
‘How’s your girl friend?’ said Jean, as soon as I got in. She didn’t miss much. She even knew what the man next door had paid for his car, which was five hundred pounds; it was a bargain.
‘We’re back on terms.’
‘Ha!’
‘No, she’s a nice girl.’
‘You’re home early tonight.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t much of a meeting.’
‘Breaking up?’ asked Jean.
‘Yes, could be. You must have second sight.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve been watching you proceed for some years now, remember. I know how things go and how long they last. I remember when you abandoned Yoga and took up Judo. Weren’t you going to be a Black Belt? I gave you twelve weeks; you lasted eleven. You may not know it, but your life is predictable. It has a pattern.’
It’s at moments like this that I know why my dear Jean hasn’t married yet. Any normal man would be terrified of her.
I sighed. ‘Well, predict what’s coming for me next.’
I was sorry as soon as I’d said this, because then I remembered my tape. Sometimes what’s coming is what you don’t want and don’t expect.
Chapter Six
What you didn’t want and what
you didn’t expect were so inextricably a part of John Coffin’s life that he had long since taken them for granted.
But even he was sometimes, it was inevitable, taken by surprise. He was surprised that morning when Dove came in and said he’d got his car back. Not because he’d got the car back – stolen cars were often retrieved – but because it was back unharmed.
‘Yes, not even scratched either,’ Dove said.
‘Where was it?’
‘Parked in the road just beyond the Blue Anchor. No one saw it parked there, but the man on his beat next morning recognized it. I’ve had a good look over it and I’d say it had even been polished.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘I’d like to know who’d had it though,’ said Dove. ‘Know what they left inside? A rubber duck. A kid’s rubber duck.’
‘A family man,’ said Coffin. ‘You can keep the duck.’
‘Yes.’ Dove looked awkward, then he said, ‘At first I thought it might be someone having some sort of joke on my name. You know, Dove, Duck. But no, I don’t think so. It’s an old duck. You can see the child loved this duck – there’s a ring of dirt round the neck where it was hugged. So now I feel sorry for the kid that’s lost the duck.’
‘Someone’s lost a duck and we’ve found a knife.’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come about. It’s definitely Butt’s. As well as the initials, the fingerprints checked with those on the case in his room at the hostel.’
‘Yes. Oh I remember the case. I thought you’d find a print there. He obviously kept everything he had in that case.’
‘It was about the only place you could keep anything in.’
They were both silent, remembering their inspection of the room where Tom Butt had lived. When they had gone round it was already obvious he was never going to come back to it. His few possessions were still scattered about it, but already they looked forlorn. A case had been under the bed, locked. Inside was little except a few cheap clothes, a bundle of letters and a soft grey felt hat of a type no longer worn.
‘I think he inherited it,’ said Dove, taking it out and looking at it. ‘I can remember my uncle wearing hats like this, but it’s a long, long while since I’ve seen one close to. Someone gave it to him and it was too good to throw away so he kept it.’
‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’ Coffin was walking round the room, which was tiny and contained little except a bed and a small locker painted white, but in this Tom seemed to have kept nothing at all.
‘He didn’t like the locker,’ said the housekeeper, who was with them. ‘I don’t think he trusted it. Or anyone really.’
‘And how right he was,’ said Coffin.
‘You don’t think he’ll come back?’
Coffin shook his head. He didn’t think so. ‘A pity he didn’t have friends. Or someone to talk to. No one seemed to talk to him. Have you noticed that?’
‘He was a bit locked up inside. Not his fault, of course. He wasn’t the sort that was going to settle down and be happy. He wasn’t happy.’
As long as that’s all, thought Coffin. Because now that Tom’s knife had turned up with the missing Katherine Gable’s possessions, he had to ask himself if Tom hadn’t known something about the disappearance of the girl.
‘How long has he been living here?’
‘Not long. About three months. Since March.’
Two of the missing girls had disappeared since March. Of course, another had disappeared the year previously, but it had always been a possibility that this case was separate from the other two.
‘In that case we have two abductors to look for,’ pointed out Dove sadly.
‘That’s always been on the cards.’
The room was shut and locked and presently it would be photographed and searched for fingerprints.
The result of this fingerprinting they now had before them.
‘Well, I always did think the knife was his,’ said Coffin, looking now at the matched prints in a photograph in front of him. ‘But a lot of what we make of it depends on when he last had it on him.’
Because if Tom Butt had lost it then the link between him and Katherine Gable was broken.
‘All his mates have been questioned about the knife. No one remembers if he had it the day he went.’
‘It was a strange business, the day he went,’ said Coffin suddenly. ‘You know, I don’t quite believe in it.’
‘I never have. But try finding something to put in its place.’
Coffin considered. ‘And what about the girl’s bag and scarf? Nothing to help there?’
‘They are hers, of course. I had to get the mother to identify them.’ He blinked, not enjoying the memory.
‘You know what,’ said Coffin, getting up. ‘I’m going to see the men on the building site again.’ He looked out of the window.
‘They won’t be pleased,’ said Dove. ‘They work on a type of piece rate system round there. Bonuses and so on. Every minute spent talking to you and me is worth money to them.’
But the boy who had heard the original call for help and to whom they spoke first was quite willing to talk at length. He found his work there boring and was considering leaving it.
‘Start from the beginning,’ said Coffin.
‘Well, the buzzer went and I picked up the telephone and I heard Tom asking for help. I didn’t catch the first few words, in fact I didn’t know what he was saying. It’s not good, that line. Then it came loud and clear. I can’t remember the exact words now, but it was what I told you the first time.’
‘I can read it to you: he called out “Help me, help me, they’re getting me.” Then he said “the power’s gone” and then he called “Help Help,” again.’
‘Yes, that was how it was.’
‘But he never said who he was, never named himself,’ pointed out Coffin.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Did you recognize his voice?’
‘That line’s bad. Still, it was Tom, wasn’t it? We found his clothes.’
‘That was a funny thing too,’ said Coffin.
‘Well, I suppose he must have been up there.’
‘You convinced about that?’ said Coffin.
The boy looked at him and muttered something inaudible. They let him go. Then they saw the foreman and the two other men who had been in the forefront of the group that night. Each man repeated the story he had told before. But at each telling the effect seemed to shrink more and more and Tom’s figure to become fainter.
They had the boy back again.
‘After you’d taken the call and were getting help and had come back to look at the cage, could you then see Tom Butt standing up there?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘But you couldn’t really see much, could you?’
‘You’re muddling me,’ said the boy. ‘What do you want me to say? I’m doing the best I can.’
‘What’s your best?’ said Coffin to Dove when the boy had left.
‘That Tom wasn’t there at all.’
‘Yes, that’s mine too. There was a woman too, wasn’t there? Where is she? Not disappeared too?’
‘No.’ Dove consulted a list. ‘She’s called Mrs Nancy Rogers and lives in Peel Terrace. But she wouldn’t be there now, she works in the school, helps serve the lunches. She’ll be there now.’
Mrs Rogers was laying a long trestle table with a set of knives and forks and spoons. Down the row she went, knife, fork, spoon, gap, then knife, fork and spoon again. She was along one side and had started up the other before they could stop her.
In fact, they didn’t stop her. ‘Yes, what is it now?’ she said, still moving. ‘I suppose I know, though.’
Now that Coffin looked at her properly he saw that she had a pleasant, good-humoured face.
‘This is the slow table I’m doing,’ she informed them.
‘Slow eaters?’
She gave a hoot of laughter. ‘No. Slow at everything else. Slow readers, slow worke
rs, slow minds. They can eat as fast as anyone else, though. Well, go on, tell me what you want.’
For a moment she stood still and waited for them, her eyes vague and unfocused.
‘When you stood below the cage and looked up, what could you see?’
‘He was standing there in one corner.’
Coffin nodded. ‘And you heard him call out?’
‘I thought I did then. I’m not so sure now. Things fade.’
‘Of course they do.’
‘And is that all you wanted?’ she said ironically.
‘For the moment.’
‘Two of you to ask that! I’ll get back to work, then.’
‘I think you’ve left a gap down there at the bottom,’ said Coffin nodding towards the end of the table.
‘What?’ She peered forward, and was halfway down the room before she stopped. ‘No. No, all complete. You want your eyes tested.’
‘She never really saw much at all, did she?’ asked Dove, as they left.
‘No. She can hardly see to the end of the room, let alone halfway up a building.’
‘She didn’t see anything; we didn’t see anything; they didn’t see anything.’
‘He wasn’t there,’ said Coffin. ‘He worked some trick with the phone. For some reason he wanted out.’
‘What a way to go.’
‘Not if he’d kidnapped and murdered two children already. It might be quite a good idea.’
‘Yes.’
They walked slowly back to the station.
‘Funny, he didn’t sound that sort,’ said Dove.
‘Oh well, it’s never quite how you think it is,’ said Coffin. ‘Let’s try and get him. Get the machine rolling. And it might be worth going to see that girl again. The one who came back.’
So the machine started rolling and descriptions of Tom Butt were sent out to all stations. No one had a photograph of him so they made up a composite picture of him, which was not very like, but which appeared in the press and on the television screen.
Coffin's Dark Number Page 6