Coffin's Ghost

by Gwendoline Butler

  Of course, experience had taught him that you never knew what was going on underneath the surface, and nothing could make the Second City a completely peaceful place. Just as well, or I’d be out of a job. He had been a police officer all his working life, except for a short period in the army, starting at the bottom and climbing up. No further to go, he said to himself, with a smile, unless he wanted to become one of HM’s Inspectors of Constabulary.

  Stella smiled back at him, not one of her professional smiles that meant she wasn’t really seeing him at all, but a real smile that said I am glad you are here.

  I don’t know all about you, because we never do, you have your secrets and I am not going to dig for them, but I know I love you.

  ‘Now I have a little time, I might arrange a dinner for us all. Even cook it . . . No, perhaps not.’ Stella was not interested in cooking and always said that it ruined the hands. An actress could not have bad hands. She would take a table at Max’s and perhaps Coffin’s sister Letty who was so rich and so well, and so often married, would join them. She might put money in a film for her sister-in-law; film makers were always hungry, and rich people, for Letty was rich again, always wanted investments.

  She looked across the room to where her husband sat, surrounded by papers and with his laptop on a small table by his side. At last, the long preparation of his mother’s diary and his editing of her letters, more amusing than anyone had expected, was near publication. A young Edinburgh publisher, urged on by Coffin’s half-brother, who was a Writer to the Signet and lived in Old Edinburgh, had offered a contract. The book was ready for the world.

  ‘George and Robbie are coming in for a meal tonight,’ Stella said, breaking into Coffin’s concentration.

  Eventually, he responded. ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘They’re not too bad if you get them in a good mood. I quite like them really.’ And they are powerful figures in my theatrical world. This she did not say aloud but it was understood by her husband who gave a cheerful grin in return.

  ‘As long as it’s business.’

  The two men had moved into similar apartments in a renovated and restored warehouse in Spinnergate. The building now called The Argosy, was in Rickards Passage and had once housed imports from the East. It still smelt of spices, so George and Robbie claimed. Friends (or enemies, it was sometimes not easy to be sure which) for decades, they were also business associates who worked together in the theatre: George Freedom was the money man and Robbie Gilchrist was on the artistic side, choosing the plays, and then supervising the production. They had had a string of successes. Likewise failures. They had both married the same woman, she had left Gilchrist for Freedom. Coffin wondered about their relationship.

  ‘Well, good luck to you. Shall I stay home and eat with you or clear off and eat at Max’s?’

  It would be the same style of food anyway as Stella had almost certainly ordered the meal from Max’s since this was their local restaurant. Max always did his best for Stella, whom he admired.

  ‘Oh stay, darling, and give me support. I want to try to launch a Festival of Spinnergate and if they will help it would be an enormous boost. I have already spoken to Robbie and he sounded keen.’

  ‘If I won’t be in the way.’ He was aware that his presence, what he was and his position, made some people self-conscious, ill at ease in his company. ‘I don’t think they like me much.’

  Stella shook her head. ‘That’s their professional look: No like, no trust. I think that’s better than the pros who are all over you, all jovial and friendly, and you know it’s all an act. At least with George and Robbie what you see is what you get.’

  Coffin said he would probably enjoy it. ‘Remind me which is which, I get them confused.’

  This was not strictly true: he possessed a pretty good idea of George Freedom. They had met. He did not like him. Mutual.

  Stella was ready. ‘Freedom is the small, stout one, with a quiff of dark hair. Not a grey hair to be seen.’

  ‘Dyed?’

  ‘Probably. But well done. And Robbie is the tall thin one, bald as could be, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He tried a wig once but said it was too hot and itched. That was when he was married to Mariette, it was to please her. Didn’t work, she went off anyway.’

  ‘He was lucky there,’ said Coffin, who recalled Mariette vividly. Mariette you did not forget.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Stella was silent for a moment, then she said: ‘You heard about Georgie’s problem?’ But of course, he had.

  Coffin said, Yes, he had heard.

  She said hesitantly: ‘It was when you were ill, so I wondered.’

  ‘I heard about it, though. I wasn’t ill, just an operation.’ Did he say that aloud? Yes, he obviously did because she answered.

  ‘Yes, just an operation.’ They opened you up with a sharp knife, saw what the damage was, tidied up a bit of this and that, then closed you up again. A picnic. You enjoyed it.

  The operation was made necessary by an attack, but she did not mention this: Coffin was touchy about it.

  She was never ill herself. Performers never were. Provided she still had a voice, Stella knew she would crawl on to the stage and do her bit. Voice? Even when that went she would mime her part.

  Slowly, she said: ‘George knows he was lucky not to go to prison for much longer.’

  Coffin said he had had a good lawyer.

  ‘Not the end of it, of course. There’s going to be an appeal. Damages, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t think of him as violent, would you? Of course, he isn’t really, he was just unlucky, an accident, a terrible accident, a little push and . . .’ Stella shrugged. ‘She had a thin skull.’

  Still has, Coffin pointed out, she wasn’t dead, was she?

  ‘No, not dead,’ said Stella, ‘but her mind – they call it brain damage . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Then there’s his stepdaughter too. That’s another problem, taken herself off. You know his second wife was Robbie’s wife? Or one of them. So Robbie was her stepfather too and fond of her. It’s complicated. I’m always surprised that Robbie and George still work together. Money, I suppose. Anyway, the stepdaughter took off about the time George got out from his spell in prison. The girl who was hurt was a friend of hers.’

  ‘She might come back of her own accord, it can happen. Pretty kid, nice long fair hair.’ Not clever, though. Simple.

  ‘You do know all about it,’ said Stella. Of course you do, you always do, whatever you pretend. Your job.

  ‘Just heard about it, probably from Mimsie Marker, or someone, and saw a photograph somewhere.’ He looked at Stella. ‘Perhaps I’d better take myself out.’

  ‘No, don’t.’ She knew, and she understood now that he too knew, that the ‘problem’ which had been mentioned was not what happened to the stepdaughter but what had gone before.

  The other accident. Another girl who worked for him.

  And the one before that. No official complaint there but all in the dossier.

  Freedom was a man to whom accidents happened.

  Stella looked at her legs. It was funny about flesh, some days bits of you looked saggy and tired, and other days, they looked good. Today her legs looked trim and neat. Might be the new tights she was wearing from the place in Bond Street. Cost the earth but worth it.

  ‘I’ll go and put something sleek and flashy on, that’s what they like, those two.’

  ‘I’ll behave.’ Coffin gave her a wary smile.

  Coffin got back to his literary labours which he was enjoying. Nice to be free of crime for a bit. Not that the Second City was ever truly crime-free, any more than any other big city, only at the moment it appeared free from murder, rape, drugs and pornography. Someone’s put the lid on it all for a bit, he told himself cheerfully.

  And all the time, he had waiting for him on the doorstep of a battered women’s refuge, four limbs: two legs and two arms.

  George arrived first, but late (and he was usually punctual), to be re
ceived by Stella in her new Vivienne Westwood trouser suit of satin with a fringe. The soft golden colour became her, as she was well aware – she hoped George noticed, but he seemed abstracted. He accepted a strong whisky and was sipping it when Robbie turned up full of apologies for being late.

  ‘My wife would talk to me on the phone.’ He was divorced from wife number two (Mariette had been number three), but husband and wife kept in touch, more closely than he cared for at times. ‘I thought she’d never get off the line. She’s worried sick about her eldest daughter, Alice; my stepdaughter, but I’m fond of her.’ He looked at George. ‘His stepdaughter too, for that matter, we married the same woman. A beauty but a bitch. Alice is seventeen, not a kid, really. She’s gone off with her boyfriend, that’s my opinion.’ He did not go into it because he did not quite believe it.

  ‘It happens,’ said Stella. ‘Did it myself once.’

  Coffin gave her a wry look. Wasn’t with me, he thought.

  ‘She was in your outfit, Stella, for a bit. In the stage manager’s team.’

  ‘I remember her, very pretty girl. Kind of innocent, really. She’ll turn up.’

  Robbie nodded. He hoped so. ‘Her mother is worried, they had a quarrel before she left.’

  ‘She’s always been a trouble, that girl,’ said George over his whisky. He had no children himself, although several times married. ‘And you know it.’

  ‘It’s all money,’ said Robbie gloomily. ‘Always about money. Her mother says she spends too much, I say they both do. But the girl’s not bright.’

  ‘Money,’ said George. ‘Don’t mention it. We all have our worries. How do you manage all this theatre complex, Stella?’

  He really wanted to know. It was one of the reasons he had accepted to come to dinner. Apart from the fact that he liked the grub and liked to look at Stella. More than look if he got the chance, but it didn’t seem likely with her husband there.

  Stella said she got support from the local university who used the small theatre for their Drama Department, and that the Second City Arts Council had been generous, but that it was a squeeze. ‘We’ve been lucky, we’ve had a couple of good commercial successes which we have sent on to the West End, and in one case to New York. It all helps.’

  Stella led them in to dinner. Max had sent an assistant to set out the table.

  Coffin saw that Stella had laid out the best silver, chosen by and paid for by her out of film earnings. He picked up a fork and balanced it in his hand. He liked the stuff, good style, as you would expect from Stella, but not the sort of thing that a copper could afford. Like, yes; pay for, no.

  The china was old Minton, apricot and gold. They did not have a complete set, never had had, bought it at an auction, but enough to use for a small dinner.

  George turned one plate over to examine the back. ‘About 1880, I’d say, the colours are right. Nice stuff.’

  Stella was pleased. ‘You are clever, George, they come from a house in Shropshire. Not a complete set, of course. Let me give you some wine. Claret or hock?’

  The soup was vichyssoise and the toast that was served with it was crisp and hot. Cold soup, hot toast – Max’s idea.

  George took hock.

  She doesn’t know, thought Coffin, that it is possible that a few years ago he killed a woman.

  And later yet another.

  Something I know, and she doesn’t. (Or does she?)

  And all the time, he had waiting for him on the doorstep of a battered women’s refuge, four limbs: two legs and two arms.

  The remains were wrapped in brown paper. There was no torso and no head.

  ‘Delicious soup,’ said George, crunching toast.

  Stella took advantage of the good mood of both men to start a delicate introduction to what she had in mind for them. They worked together as a team so regularly that when asked to dinner as a pair by someone like Stella Pinero they knew it was business.

  An interesting story, Coffin thought, studying George’s face. Did George guess that he knew? And did George care?

  After all, it was only what the police, at the time, thought. Never got outside publicity. Oh, the deaths, yes, but not George’s connection.

  He was a bit of a comedian, Coffin decided, watching George with Stella.

  Of course, it was all a soap on TV. Coffin had watched a lot of television in his private room after his operation, and enjoyed it more than he had told Stella. She had been in some of the shows.

  Not the deadly, killing-off-the-ladies one, that George had produced and, some said, written.

  Only TV, just a bit of script, but it told you something about a man.

  When they left (rather later than Coffin cared for, that was the theatre for you), George Freedom suggested to Robbie that they walk home rather than go to the cab rank by the theatre.

  ‘I’d like a stroll, take a look around.’

  Gilchrist yawned, said he was tired, but why not. The air might wake him and he had work to do.

  ‘I used to live round here once,’ said Freedom. ‘I was working on a local newspaper. That was before I decided there was more money to be made on television.’

  ‘If you can do it.’

  ‘But we can . . . Place has changed a bit. I had a grotty little flat over Drossers Lane Market. Let’s go that way, it’s on the way home.’

  Of course, it was all changed now. Behind Drossers Lane was the new Pepys Estate, an area of small terraced houses with one block of flats. Central to it was Pepys Park, an attempt at urban prettification, although the spirit of Drossers Lane seemed to hang around it still and resisted prettiness. Even the grass looked sad and the shrubs and small trees did not flourish. It was much loved, however, by the small gangs of roving boys that were also part of Drossers Lane, indeed of East Hythe itself. The police were always being called to Pepys Park.

  ‘Changed now,’ said Robbie Gilchrist.

  ‘Don’t suppose Drossers Lane has changed, still full of pushers and pimps and policemen looking for a catch,’ said Freedom. ‘You could eat well there, though, greasy spoons maybe, those cafés, but they turned out good grub for not much cash. Bet they still do.’

  Freedom stepped forward confidently and Gilchrist saw he did indeed know the way. They stepped out together through the night, walking off Stella’s good wine. Freedom stopped at the head of one dark road.

  ‘Knew a girl who lived around here. Bit of a bitch but a real goer.’

  He stared into the darkness.

  ‘There it is, Barrow Street . . . Never liked the place.’

  ‘You know it then?’

  ‘Said so, didn’t I? Once.’ He turned away. ‘We don’t have to go down it. There’s a better way home.’

  Gilchrist yawned again. ‘How’s Mariette?’

  Mariette was the moveable wife that they had had in common.

  ‘Fine,’ said Freedom. ‘Don’t see much of her these days.’

  ‘Who’s she with then?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Gilchrist changed the subject. ‘How did you think our host looked?’

  ‘All right,’ said Freedom, who never noticed anyone but himself. ‘Lucky to have her.’

  Chief Inspector Phoebe Astley said: ‘He looks better, doesn’t he? More himself.’

  The two of them were standing in the car park of Police Headquarters after a long day, ending in a meeting of the officers dealing with the latest crime.

  Murder, it looked like.

  She admired the Chief Commander although he could be the devil to work with. She was talking to her immediate boss, Archie Young, whom she also admired, but differently. There was, she had to admit it, a strong sexual element in her feeling for John Coffin (sternly held in check these days, of course, but still there), but not so with the chief superintendent.

  ‘Thinner,’ said Archie Young. ‘Thinner,’ he said again, a shade enviously. He gave his own waistband a tug. He was losing his hair and putting on weight and envied the Chief Commander’s ap
parent power to resist both processes. Didn’t diet either, nor take much exercise. There was the dog, of course. Coffin did walk the dog.

  No, you’re not thinner, thought Phoebe. She was solidly, but attractively, built herself, and after a threat of a nasty illness a year or two ago, rather welcomed her solidity as a sign of health. She wore her usual working garb of a well-cut dark jacket with jeans. She admired the way Stella dressed, but clocked the price and did not seek to emulate her. ‘Suits him.’

  ‘He’s never been ill before. Not that I remember.’

  Coffin had been ill before, of course; Phoebe did not know everything.

  ‘Doesn’t like it talked about. Prefers to pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘I was really glad when he came back to life,’ she said seriously. ‘Resurrected.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘I thought he was gone.’ Then she laughed. ‘Well, only for about a minute. But remember I was walking to the car with him when the chap dug the knife in. It was the Chief Commander or me, and the Chief saw to it that it wasn’t me.’

  ‘You got the man though.’

  Phoebe nodded. ‘Ten years inside. Wish I could have got the knife into him.’

  Then she said: ‘We haven’t told the Chief about the legs and arms?’

  ‘He’s got to know. I am preparing a report which he will see in the ordinary way of things. Since he reads everything.’ And remembers it, he had a phenomenal memory. ‘He will know.’

  ‘On his doorstep too.’

  ‘Not his present doorstep,’ corrected Chief Superintendent Archie Young. ‘He didn’t live there at first, when he came to the Second City. St Luke’s was just being converted and he was on his own. Her ladyship was working in the States.’ He frowned. In fact, he was not sure what exactly had been the state of the marriage at that time. He had heard rumours. On and off. Happy enough now, though, it appeared.

  Lovely woman, and talented, no doubt about that, but he personally always handled her with care.

  ‘Miss Pinero wasn’t there?’