‘May only be a letter-drop. Postal address but no actual meetings,’ said Jenkins.
‘Yes, I wondered about that. But my informant thought it was for real. Actual bodies meeting.’
‘Is he reliable?’
‘It’s a she. And yes, I think so.’
‘Work on it,’ said Coffin.
The meeting ended on this note, and Coffin took himself off. The others went off to the Ripper and Victim for a drink. He would have gone himself, but there were certain things protocol demanded.
He returned to his office, dictated some letters, and in the car on the way to his meeting allowed himself to think about Nell Casey and Nell’s child. There was something deeply disturbing in that set-up. What was going on was irrational and abnormal. A good thing Stella was there. Stella could be maddening, but she was a very sane lady.
Also drinking in the Ripping Vic (his own special nickname for the Ripper and Victim) was a young journalist. He sat in the bar and sipped his lager, making it last, while he thought out what to do.
Jim Lollard was dead.
He knew something about Lollard.
Should he tell the police? Or write it up first? A scoop, as they used to say, and in his private mythology still did.
It was only wise to keep in with the police. It was also wise to keep in with his editor.
He went back over his talk with old Lollard. He remembered the words and could recall the angry voice. ‘There’s going to be a multiple crime, I see the signs. I tried to tell the police but they wouldn’t listen. Cocky chap, that sergeant. Well, he’ll find out I was right. I can see a roomful of people. All with their eyes closed. Flopped about anyhow.’
The young man sipped his lager. ‘You got second sight?’ he had asked.
Lollard hadn’t answered directly. ‘Oh yes, death there all right,’ he’d said with some satisfaction.
So there had been, admitted the young man. Lollard’s own death, as it turned out.
Lollard had probably been mad, living there on Murder Street. There, where so many people had met violent ends over the years … He’d lived there for so long, thought about it too much, let it get on his mind. Gone off his rocker.
Or had he known something?
He put down his lager to make a few notes. Across the room, he saw the police group come in. He recognized them, of course. He had attended enough Crown Courts, had hung around the police headquarters in Spinnergate often enough to know their faces and put a name to them. It was his job.
He watched them talking and laughing. He knew already that Young was working on the coach hi-jacking. (That was the headline in his own paper although he knew and the chief news editor knew that hi-jacking it was not. Or not precisely. Something both more and less.)
He drank slowly, considering the little nugget of information he had inside him. Lollard had probably told him the tale so it would be in his newspaper. So in a way he was letting him down by not rushing it in. Get his byline on it. Our reporter writes … A special insight from our reporter. Sounded good. He was tempted.
But a certain wise caution held him back.
In the first place, his news editor played golf with DI Young and was said to belong to the same Masonic Lodge as Superintendent Lane. There was a channel of communication between all three and you could never tell what messages about him might pass down it.
That was one thing. Secondly, like a stray dog left outside in the street, he felt a strong, elemental desire to insert himself into that cosy group.
He stood up, unwinding his thin length, took his drink with him and went over.
‘I know something,’ he announced. ‘Old Lollard knew there was going to be a scene of mass murder.’ It hadn’t quite worked out like that, but Lollard had talked about death. He thought there might be more than one. As it happened there hadn’t been, only his own, but it might not be for want of trying. ‘Call it precognition if you like, but he knew.’
They looked at him as if he was mad, but they were certainly taking it in.
‘Sit down, sonny,’ said Lane, ‘and tell us all.’
Pompous bastard, thought that young man. But he sat down. He was in. The stray dog was inside and wagging his tail.
The other straying dog, the first Bonzo, had yielded up a little information on the forensic laboratory bench.
Twenty-four hours after listening to the interview with driver Tremble, and having heard about the tale from the young journalist, having inspected several other departments and presided at several committees and tactfully refused to be interviewed on the lunch-time radio news programme about the criticisms from the MP, Coffin remembered about the dog and telephoned to ask for progress. He was working alone in his room, but every so often he thought about Tom and about Nell Casey. Stella had telephoned him about the episode of the bloody shirt, and he had read Mary Barclay’s résumé of her interview with Sylvie and the boy. Which in turn had been sent to Superintendent Paul Lane and Alison Jenkins, both of whom were approaching the affair from another angle.
Nothing the boy or Sylvie had to say was either helpful or pointed positively to Duerden, but it all made Coffin’s nerves twitch. Yes, he wanted to see that report.
The report was duly delivered to him on the evening of Thursday, March 8, rushed through at his urgent request, to the accompaniment of various jokes by the cynical and wary scientists who worked in the police laboratory. Still, it made a change from their usual investigations.
There were no fingerprints, the nature of the furry skin made this impossible.
Nevertheless, his attacker had not worn gloves, so there were traces of sweat on the fur. This would be helpful if they ever had a suspect under investigation when his or her DNA profile could be offered up for matching.
More helpful was the information that there were traces of make-up on the animal. On the inside of the skin, so these traces were unlikely to have been left there by anyone other than the hand with the knife.
A woman, then?
Or stage make-up?
Coffin raised his head from the report. But what about the plaster hand of a child, stained with blood? Anything in the report about that?
No, nothing. That was still pending.
Likewise the bloody shirt, which had come into the laboratory too recently to have been worked on yet. It was still sitting in its plastic bag, waiting.
A kindly hand had stitched up Bonzo so that he looked decent in case he was handed back to his owner, but he was still locked up in his sterile envelope, so he was not due to go home yet awhile. If ever.
Coffin went back home to prepare himself for a read through of The Circle, which was going to be held in the house of one of the Friends of St Luke’s Theatre. She was Chairperson of the committee and also a power in the Dramatic Society. In addition, she was playing Lady Kitty. Melanie Milkington Strange was a powerful lady. She was known locally as Milly M.S. and was both feared and admired. Stella Pinero liked her very much, but then she and Stella fought at equal weights. They did fight, as Coffin well knew having observed one or two dust-ups, both ladies having clear strong views on matters such as the choice of the plays for the Theatre Festival season, the casting of such, and the erection of a marquee in the ground behind St Luke’s for the serving of a buffet supper after the performance. Milly M.S. was also, ex officio, on the committee of the Festival. She had a hand in everything, and had contributed money generously to all funds. In short, she could not be ignored, although Stella would override her when she had to do so, shouting loudly that all policy decisions were hers and hers alone.
Milly gave good supper parties, but after an evening of being Lady Kitty Champion-Cheney was apt to put on a few airs and graces, as acting Lady Kitty went to her head. She was also inclined to forget that John Coffin was not a butler but only playing one. He had got bored last time, buttling for Milly and ministering to the miseries of Sybil Deansly, the pale blonde whose acting ability was severely taxed by the small amount of it she
was required to display as the young wife, Elizabeth. There was a sense in which Elizabeth was the heroine of The Circle, but everyone knew that Lady Kitty was the best part. Milly knew this too.
So he thought he would give her party a miss and take Stella off for a light supper at Max’s. Max’s Delicatessen had recently equipped itself with a small supper parlour where you could eat after the theatre. Max never seemed to go to bed. He had put in his bid to supply the marquee food for the Festival and this was another bone of contention between Stella, who was on Max’s side, and Milly who wanted the food to be provided by a new caterer from Covent Garden. Stella was sticking out for using the local firm.
She was on stage that night, as she liked to take an occasional small part, but he left a message on her answering machine, suggesting a meeting at Max’s.
Then he went off to his own session. It was without the book tonight. Well, no trouble to him. He had nothing much to say, but it might be tricky for poor Sybil. He smiled, feeling no mercy. He rather enjoyed watching Sybil act badly, she was so deliciously distracted, half miserable, half pleased with herself, that it offered a pleasure peculiarly its own.
The rehearsal was round the corner in the Scouts’ Hut. He would mark out the stage himself, and set out such small props as they needed. It was his other world at the moment, far away from child murderers and dead men who could foretell the future. He stepped out cheerfully, hoping the hall was unlocked and that the caretaker had put the heating on.
He never got there. Before he was half way round the corner, he met Nell Casey herself.
She was in a hurry, almost running. She threw herself towards Coffin.
‘Thank God I’ve found you. I was looking for you. Tom is missing.’
He took her arm. ‘Steady on. How long has he been gone?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nell cried. ‘I was out. Working. Lunch.’ The words came in small bursts. ‘I had a meeting with my agent and then an audition. He was home with Sylvie as usual.’ She took a deep gasping breath.
‘And?’
‘When I got back they weren’t there. No sign of them. And they haven’t reappeared. And it’s long past Tom’s bedtime.’
He steadied her. ‘There’s no reason as yet to believe he’s come to harm. Calm down.’
She turned her face towards him, there were tears on it.
But how extraordinary, he thought, one eye has tears in it and the other is quite dry.
She’s an actress, he told himself, she can achieve effects. Even force tears if she wants.
Something strange about this girl, he thought as they hurried towards The Albion.
All right, she loves the boy … I think she loves the boy. She’s the mother. If he is her child, and not a prop she has arranged for the occasion. But there’s something extremely odd going on.
The root of the mystery is in this woman. It all stems from her.
CHAPTER 7
Still March 8
The little apartment was empty but showed signs of Nell Casey’s anxieties. Her coat, with an umbrella and small handbag, were thrown on the floor in the hall. A pile of letters and a newspaper were scattered near them, as if she had picked them up and dropped them when she realized the place was empty.
‘I stood at the door and called,’ she said. ‘But there was no one here. I rang the theatre, but Stella was not around. The matinée had ended late and she had gone off for a discussion with the director. I spoke to the stage manager but he hadn’t seen them. Sylvia and Tom wouldn’t go there, anyway. Then I ran outside looking for them. I looked in the garden.’
‘And there was no sign of them?’
She shook her head. ‘No sign they had ever been there. I waited. You know how one does, hesitating, thinking what to do. I hung around, wondering, trying to damp down my fears. But then I started to panic. Where were they? What had happened. Then I came looking for you.’
It was amazing, he thought, how good she appeared, even in her distress. Her hair looked untidy, but it was fashionable to have wild dishevelled curls, she had bitten off her lipstick, but pale lips were in vogue. He saw her beautifully manicured hands, with the long strong fingers. Well cared for, he thought, slightly tanned (might be make-up?) but elegant. She had lost one earring, but anyone might do that. And it was even fashionable just to wear one solitary jewel (hers were of pearl, pink and gleaming), so she might have started out that way. She was beautifully dressed in a pale tweed suit. A tall girl, with a strong bone structure, she looked well in tailored clothes. She had had an audition, he recalled and a meeting with her agent. Did you dress like that for an audition? Had she dressed herself with something else in mind?
He could smell her scent, strong and sweet and synthetic, and mixed with it the sweat of sudden emotion. She was wound up all right, but what was she really feeling?
He pushed her into a chair. ‘Let’s sit down and talk this over. Where does it start? Tell me about today.’
The day had started well.
Yes, she had gone for her audition, a reading, nothing much to it, difficult to read cold, Ayckbourne always was, she didn’t know if she had got the part. She had dressed up for the part because she was nervous. Her fingers had flexed anxiously as she spoke of this. Yes, in an office off Bond Street. Then she had walked round the corner to see her agent, not stayed too long, and then walked to Piccadilly.
A message left at her agent’s had invited her to lunch at the Ritz with Ellice Eden. Lunch with Ellice was both a ritual and a threat in the profession. No one refused, he was too powerful for that, but you went at your peril.
It was so easy to fall into trouble with him (and she had done, in the past), if he was in a rotten mood and then there would be bad notices for your next play and probably the one after that. So it was as well to read the signs, the significance of which was handed on by word of mouth from survivors of such lunches. If you were offered a champagne cocktail, accept, it was a good sign. You were in favour. If offered a second before lunch, refuse. At lunch, let Ellice choose the wine (if he went for mineral water only, forget it, you might as well get up and go home, things could only go from bad to worse) and do not eat red meat. Never ask for soup.
Nell had arrived, feeling nervous but hopeful, because she knew he liked her as far as he liked any woman, and been offered a champagne cocktail before she even sat down beneath a tree in a pot.
‘I’ve been looking forward to you coming back to London.’ Ellice Eden sat in a chair opposite, bright-eyed and alert. ‘That stuff you were doing on TV over there was not worthy of you.’
‘No?’ Nell was cautious. ‘Earned well, though. The money was good.’ She had been grateful for the income.
‘Money isn’t everything, especially at your age. I know what I’m talking about, don’t think I don’t. I’ve been poor. But talent has to be served too. You have talent.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Another drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
He rose. Let’s eat then, shall we?’
The Ritz and lunch, Nell knew, was for those on the way up. When you had really arrived it was dinner at the Savoy.
Just as well it was lunch, she told herself as she sat down, and not dinner anywhere. She had clothes for a smart lunch but not for a dinner, except somewhere casual like Max’s Deli.
‘Soup? Or something else?’ He put on gold-rimmed spectacles to read the menu. ‘Oeuf en gêlée, perhaps?’ His eyes glittered behind the spectacles.
Nell took a risk. ‘I think smoked salmon.’
She had chosen well. ‘Splendid. Plain, straightforward, a wise choice. I’ll join you. Then we’ll both have venison.’
She hated venison, but venison it would be, and she would look happy with every substantial mouthful.
‘They hang it very well here. Just the right length of time. Nice and high.’
Malevolent beast, she thought, he’s doing it on purpose, he knows I hate meat.
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked y
ou to lunch?’
Oh well …’ What a question. ‘You do ask people to lunch.’
‘I’m known for it.’ He nodded to an acquaintance across the room. She longed to turn and look, it was bound to be someone celebrated, someone she wouldn’t mind meeting. ‘It’s my way of working.’
So this is work. Nell silently absorbed the idea. I’m work. Lunch at the Ritz is work, dinner at the Savoy more work. Well, good for you, old boy.
He was independently wealthy, she knew that. Lavatory fittings from Grandpa, so she’d heard. The statement that he knew what it was to be poor was not true and never had been. Or not poor by most people’s standards. A lot of his power lay in this financial independence. That, and an innate, instinctive, unlearnable taste: he knew what was good. He had a palate for the theatre as some have for wine. And he had a passion for it, which was perhaps what mattered most.
Here he and Nell met on common ground; she too had that passion.
‘Talking of work,’ he went on over the venison. ‘I’m glad you’re back this side of the Atlantic. How did today’s audition go?’
‘Oh, you know about it?’ Nell was surprised.
He nodded. ‘Of course. When Charles told me he was casting the new Ayckbourne, he thought of you at once.’
Nell doubted this. In her opinion there were several strong contenders for the role of the doughty, sharp-tongued heroine, from Maggie Smith downwards, but she was glad to be in the running.
‘I’d like to get it,’ she admitted. ‘Marvellous play, marvellous part.’
‘It would make you.’
Nell thought she had been made already, by her own exertions, but to star in the West End, and Her Majesty’s Theatre had been hinted at, would be a big step up. No mention had been made of salary but she would take that up when the time came. If it came. She wanted to believe in all this but a sense of unreality pervaded her. She hadn’t slept much lately, she had so much on her mind.
‘How’s the boy?’ asked Ellice over coffee.
‘Oh yes, did you meet him at St Luke’s?’Had he?
‘Saw his picture. Nice-looking lad.’
Coffin on Murder Street Page 8