But trouble was what he lived by and it paid his wages.
Nell Casey had taken her son home, first borrowing a pint of milk from Stella Pinero.
‘I’d forgotten what London was like for shopping,’ she apologized. ‘Shops all closing at six o’clock sharp.’
‘Not quite that bad any longer, not round here, anyway. Mr Khan down the road by the Spinnergate Tube stays open till midnight, and Max’s Deli about the same.’
‘Not all night, though.’
‘Not all night.’ Stella handed over the pint of milk. She hardly drank milk herself, but the dog loved it and in spite of what her neighbour John Coffin believed, the cat Tiddles spent a lot of time eating and drinking in Stella’s establishment. The dog, of course, was a privileged animal, having once saved Stella’s life. Or from a fate worse than death. The story as Stella recounted it never lost drama in the telling. Still, it had been a bad enough episode in truth.
‘I’ll pay you …’
‘Don’t bother, love.’ Stella repressed a yawn, and pressed Nell’s hand gently. ‘Off you go, I’m dropping where I stand, even if that kid’s wide awake.’
A pair of bright bird-sharp eyes met hers as he leaned over his mother’s shoulder.
‘What was the matter with him, by the way?’
‘His dog. Seems to have got lost.’
‘Bonzo,’ said the child lovingly.
‘You brought a dog from the States? Did you smuggle it in?’
‘It’s not a real dog, a toy dog, stuffed.’
‘Bonzo, Bonzo.’ Now it was beginning to be a shout. Very soon there would be tears.
‘He doesn’t look tired at all,’ said Stella. ‘I admire stamina in a man. You’ll have to put him on the stage, Nell.’
‘Heaven forbid, I’m going to make him a stockbroker who’ll earn lots of money.’
‘Isn’t he a bit heavy for you to carry?’ If he is Gus’s son, Stella speculated, then he would be. That man has heavy bones. Any one who had been on a stage with him knows that. It shakes.
‘Yes,’ said Nell shortly. ‘Come on, Tommy, shut up and find your feet. You can walk.’ She stood him on the ground. ‘We’re still on New York time, you see,’ she said turning back to Stella. ‘That five hours doesn’t seem so late to us.’
‘You wait till morning.’
Nell and Tom walked slowly, hand in hand, round the corner to The Albion. It was March but not cold and there was a moon. If they made a strange couple, mother and small son walking through the empty streets, Nell was not aware of it.
Presently she looked up at the church tower where, high up, a light still shone. A figure could be seen in profile.
‘Look, a man eating,’ said Tom.
‘Yes, a man, still up. Just like us. I don’t suppose he’s eating.’
‘Eating,’ said Tom firmly. He was a child of one idea at a time.
In the flat, Nell said to her French au pair: ‘I think he’s hungry. Give him something to eat.’ She handed over the milk. ‘How did he manage to lose the dog?’ Considering that Bonzo had come with them on all her tours, surviving overnight stays in motels, plane trips across the American continent as well as two flights across the Atlantic, it was strange he should go missing now.
‘Tom says that after the journey Bonzo needs to go into the garden,’ said Sylvie simply. ‘So I put him in the garden.’
One of the things that Nell Casey liked about the girl was that she took Tom seriously. She took the boy seriously herself, but she could see that a slavish adherence to Tom’s dictates could have its drawbacks. She sighed. ‘You’ve looked all over the garden?’
There was a communal garden for The Albion, nicely laid out but not large.
‘Everywhere in the garden,’ said Sylvie firmly. ‘And Tom helped. Bonzo is not there.’
Tom, busy drinking a mug of milk, a feat which demanded all his attention, did not set up a wail for Bonzo, but his eyes staring at them over the mug were unrelenting. Bonzo or else, they said.
Nell knew what that meant: a child who would stay awake, who would not cry but would keep up a constant low keening sound, more painful to listen to than deep sobs.
It’s all an act, she said to herself. He’s a performer, can’t blame him for that, but I don’t feel strong enough for one of his performances tonight. Seeing Gus again had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t want to give Tom a smart slap, not what a good mother did, but it had worked on occasion.
She struck a bargain. ‘Let Sylvie put you to bed and I will go down and look in the garden myself.’
Sylvie protested that it was too late, too wet, too cold, but a judicial nod from Tom let her know she could go ahead.
‘Oh, Miss Casey, someone tried to call while you were out earlier this evening, but by the time I got to the door, whoever it was had gone.’
‘Oh? Well, they might have waited.’
‘I was slow,’ apologized Sylvie, ‘I am afraid I was. I called out Please wait. But Tom was-on his pot and I must stay with him.’
Nell nodded. She knew the importance of Tom and his pot and the rituals that went with it. Heaven forbid you should omit them or tamper with them in any way, or the worst happened.
‘Not important,’ she said.
Who knew she was here? A small card stuck by the bell said CASEY. In Los Angeles and even more in New York, people had seemed happier to call her Casey. She liked it. Casey felt free and vibrant and, although very female and attractive, sexless in an interesting kind of way. Not one to be put down. An achiever, that was Casey, and Tom was a bit of her equipment like a Gucci handbag or a bottle of Giorgio. But now she was in London, she couldn’t help noticing that the English air was converting her back to Nell. Nell would lower her voice a decibel or two, would probably drop that scent and wear another (the new Guerlain, say?) and admit freely that Tom was the person she adored.
‘I didn’t expect anyone,’ she said.
‘It was a man, I think.’ Sylvie picked up Tom and stood there with him straddled on her hip.
‘Oh, why?’
‘Heavy feet,’ said Sylvie thoughtfully. ‘On the stairs. I opened the door and heard the feet. Then the front door shut. That was heavy too.’
As the two disappeared towards bed, Nell went to get a raincoat. The flat was small but conveniently arranged, she had a bed with what amounted to a bathroom and dressing-room attached. They had been here over twenty-four hours but not all her clothes were unpacked yet; however, she knew where to find her raincoat.
She took a quick look round the room before she left it. A wide bed, pale wood for the dressing-table … Not bad for a furnished place, she had known worse. Many worse in her upward career. It was nice to have a bit of money to burn, the TV series had done that for her. But now she was back, to do some serious theatre work, starting with the play for the Festival. Her agent had already sent some scripts for her to read. It was a beginning. This flat would make a very good base from which to operate.
Stella Pinero had been so encouraging and helpful, she really liked Stella, admired her as a performer, respected her as a person. Stella had been through the mill and knew what it was like.
She felt optimistic and happy, lovely to have things to look forward to, lovely to be back in London.
If only Gus wouldn’t mess things up. There was no love left between them, surely there wasn’t, but Gus was a powerful and disturbing force in her life. She had great regard for his talent, which was huge and still growing, but as a man he could be frightening. The guy that had died in Sydney had been torn in two by Gus, destroyed as a person and as an artist by Gus’s criticisms in class, never mind any sexual element that might have come in, through her or Gus. And she didn’t think Gus knew what he had done. The memory troubled her. Almost everything about Gus troubled her.
I didn’t like the way he looked at Tom. She went down the stairs, unlocked the heavy front door to let herself out into the garden. I ought to have brought a torc
h. But there was light coming from a street lamp.
She could see the garden walls where a strong cotoneaster grew, and the edging of flowerbeds of daffodils and tiny irises. A conifer stood up in the middle of a patch of lawn. The garden ran round the corner of the house before terminating in a high brick wall. This corner garden was nothing but a strip of grass. The street light barely reached it but light came down from lighted windows in the flats above. They were the windows in her own dwelling.
A bit too eager, she said to herself. Gus definitely looked a bit too eager. I hate that look on his face. She wished he hadn’t seen Tom. Why was she frightened of Gus? He couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t hurt Tom. I can look after Tom and myself. She had been independent and self-supporting for a long while now. It had been a hard slog but she had done it. The two of them could afford a reasonable way of life now. Which included Sylvie, who was responsible for the loss of the valued Bonzo.
He wasn’t in the garden. She had searched and the Bonz was not there. Since he could not walk, someone or something had taken him. An urban fox or a rat? But would any creature of right mind want an aged stuffed dog?
If it was hungry enough, perhaps.
The thought of there being animals around here hungry enough to eat Bonzo made her shiver. She hadn’t cared for Bonzo, he had been too much trouble to her, the constant focus of alarm and crisis, nor did she care for his black and white spotted coat and his bold and leering eyes. Eye, one lost. Still he had deserved better than being a London meal. But if so, wouldn’t there be a bit of Bonzo left around? A calico ear and bit of tail, a scrap of stuffing?
She looked around again. Nothing.
But under the oak tree was a small mound with a piece of wood stuck into it.
If I didn’t know that it couldn’t be, she told herself, I would say that was a grave.
A small grave with a tiny inscribed wooden stake.
She knelt down on the damp earth and in the light from the street lamp tried to read what was written. On one side was the faded name: Rosa alba. Just plucked from the garden here, she thought, but this is no rose and she was not reassured.
On the other side was one word, fresher, and unfaded, it appeared to have been written in black pencil and it said:
TOM.
CHAPTER 4
March 5 to March 6
Nell drew out the little wooden slip, she couldn’t bear to leave it there in the mud with Tom’s name on it, and crept up the stairs. The flat was quiet. Tom’s room was dark but with the door left open, as he liked. Sylvie was locked behind her own door, she was playing a pop record but very, very faintly.
Must get her a Walkman, thought Nell as she moved past, keep her happy. If you have a Tom in your life, then you also need someone like Sylvie, that is, if you are a working mother. There had been a period when Nell had been a solo parent and it had been tough. Either way it was tough: if you were working, then you paid someone an arm and a leg to look after the beloved offspring, which left you penniless, and if you were unemployed (and that happened frequently in the theatre world) then you did it yourself and were still broke. But to have a child, that counted.
Nell stood by the child’s bed. He was deep in sleep already, on his back, arms flung wide, his face flushed with the comfort of his slumber.
‘You all right?’ she whispered, touching his warm cheek gently. Yes, he was well and happy. He had been abused by the misuse of his name, but he personally was not touched.
But Nell felt the threat. Inside that tomb was Bonzo, but it could have been Tom.
She went back to the sitting-room where she dialled Stella Pinero’s number. For a time there was no answer, still she hung on, praying that Stella was home, alone and not entertaining anyone. The chances were good. Stella hadn’t looked in that sort of mood.
‘Hello?’ Stella’s sleepy voice.
‘It’s Casey. Nell Casey.’
‘You still on New York time?’ said an aggrieved Stella. ‘I was asleep. What is it?’ She was awake now and beginning to be alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve found Bonzo.’ Stumbling in her speech, Nell told her. ‘In a grave.’
Oh, come on now, Nell.’ Stella fumbled on the bedtable for her spectacles and put them on. She thought she could feel more awake and sensible if she had them on. She listened while Nell described what she had found. ‘You don’t know that the dog is in there.’
‘No, all I could think about was getting back to Tom.’
‘He’s safe?’
‘Oh yes, asleep.’ In a desolate, small voice, Nell said: ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘You stay with him. I’ll come round.’
Stella dressed herself, considered waking the sleeping mongrel Bob to come with her as protection, then dismissed the idea. He was apt to be too enthusiastic and thorough as a guardian.
But she took a torch and the trowel she used for her window-boxes. Bonzo was unlikely to be buried too deep.
As she walked round the corner to The Albion, she glanced up at the tower where John Coffin lived. A yellow light shone.
‘Oh good, he’s still up.’ It was reassuring. The two had many brisk disagreements, eveh quarrels, usually but not always her fault, but he was a strong, comfortable presence in her life. A good deal more than that, indeed, but she wouldn’t dwell on that now.
Strengthened by this thought, Stella went into the garden. The moon was up now and she could see about her without difficulty, although the moon lengthened and darkened shadows.
No one seemed about, which was just as well since she desired no audience for what she was going to do. There was the oak tree, and yes, there underneath was a small mound of newly turned earth.
So Nell had not been imagining things. Never thought she was for a minute, Stella assured herself stoutly. Not a scrap of imagination in Nell Casey, one of her drawbacks as an actress, feet too firmly planted on the ground. Big feet, of course, it was one of the things you noticed about Nell, her hands and feet were on the large side.
Her own feet in their light slippers felt damp and cold on the grass. She was muttering under her breath to keep her courage up. ‘Wish I’d brought some gloves, I’m getting earth all over my hands.’
A worm moved sluggishly away from the trowel, a brown and pink creature not wanting to be disturbed.
Stella took scoops out of the earth, it was soft, and easy to move. The trowel struck something, not hard like wood or stone, but softer. She stopped digging for a moment and sat back on her heels. ‘Oh dear, I don’t believe I’m going to like this.’
Dropping the trowel, she brushed the earth aside with her hands. There was a cardboard box about twelve inches long and six wide; the sort of box shoes come packed in. In fact she could see the lid said Armstrong Shoes.
She lifted the box out of the earth, laid it on the grass beside her and lifted the lid.
Bonzo was there but he had been strangled. His head had been twisted round so it rested on his back. Something odd had happened to his feet, they had been extended and twisted too.
As far as you could murder a stuffed dog, Bonzo had been murdered.
Stella stood up. Only lightly buried, she thought. Buried but meant to be found.
How on earth could she show this to Nell Casey? On the other hand, Nell was up there waiting for her, she would expect to hear what Stella had found. How could she not tell her?
After some thought, Stella knelt down on the grass again, put Bonzo back in his box, and reburied him. She pressed the earth down with a firm hand, making all as tidy as she could. If you looked hard, you could see signs of disturbance, but probably no one would look.
Then she rang the bell for Flat No. 3 and when the answerphone spoke, announced herself.
‘It’s Stella.’
‘Come on up.’ The door opened for her and she made her way up to Nell Casey’s temporary abode. Nell had the door open and was waiting for her.
She drew Stella in. ‘So? What did you find
?’
‘It’s Bonzo, all right. He’s in a box and just under the soil. Not deep.’ She had left the trowel behind. Damn, must remember to collect it on the way home. ‘Before you ask: I left him there. He didn’t look too good, poor Bonzo. I don’t think you’d like him.’
‘No.’ Nell put her hand to her head. ‘What am I going to say to Tom? I promised him I’d find Bonzo.’
‘Well, you have done. But you can’t give him that particular Bonzo. Can’t you get another one?’
‘Tom wouldn’t stand for it,’ said Nell, all mother figure. ‘He’d know. Probably throw it at me.’
‘You’ll have to tough it out, Nell.’ No child would want to play with the Bonzo down below.
‘Couldn’t we tidy him up?’
‘You can make up your own mind in the morning when you’ve had a look. But there’s something else. Think about it, Nell. It’s not good what’s happened. It looks like a threat to me, one directed at Tom.’
‘I know,’ said Nell unhappily. ‘Not Tom now, Tom next time. So what do I do?’
‘You know that or you wouldn’t ask. You tell the police, see what they can do.’
‘Yes.’ Nell accepted it. ‘Tomorrow. But Tom? What about Tom? Shall I send him away? Hide him? And Bonzo, how on earth will I handle that?’ Nell Casey sounded distracted.
‘Hell, I don’t know what you’re going to do about that. But my advice on the dog is a straight cash offer.’ She had formed her own opinion of Tom, and she thought money would speak.
‘Yes,’ said Nell thoughtfully. ‘I believe that would work with Tom.’
‘Never known it fail,’ said Stella briskly. Her own daughter always took a rake-off in either disaster money or triumph money, it sweetened the world remarkably. It was known either as incentive or bribery, according to how you looked at the world. She called it comfort money, herself.
She kissed Nell and gave her a consoling hug. ‘Go to bed, get some sleep. I won’t say it’ll seem better in the morning but at least you will have the strength to face it. I’m off.’ Must pick up the trowel, she told herself.
Coffin on Murder Street Page 4