‘Forensic tests,’ she said gloomily. ‘God knows why. No, don’t tell me.’
Coffin looked at the carpet which was pale grey and expensive. He had said at the time that they should leave the stairs uncarpeted and stone, but he knew better than to say so now.
Gus, the dog, was fussing around their feet while sniffing at the staircase with the anxious air of a dog who knows that strange goings-on have trespassed in his home, his kennel, his safe place.
Also he could smell both cat and blood. This was worrying.
The only sensible thing to do was to attach himself firmly to one member of his family; he chose Coffin whom he always regarded as his protector.
The glass in the broken window had already been restored. One thing about being a high-ranking police officer was that people jumped to your orders.
Stella broke into this comfortable reflection. ‘Of course, Jimmy Jones did the window at once because it was me. He’s devoted to me, runs my fan club, or one of them.’
Stella’s mobile telephone trilled away in her handbag.
‘You answer it,’ Coffin said quickly, ‘while I get us something to eat.’
They had a quiet dinner which Coffin put together, he had learnt a few domestic skills when Stella was off on one of her trips and had discovered that made-up soup and a sandwich was not beyond his skills. He could open the packet in which both foods were sold with the best.
The important thing, he said to himself as he heated the soup and drank some wine, is to know where to buy the best pre-cooked foods.
He carried it to the sitting room on a tray. There was still a lot of things unsaid between them but now was not the time to start. Stella had finished her telephone call, but she was still clutching the telephone.
‘I think the battery is running down,’ she said absently. ‘The sound was poor.’
‘Have some food and a glass of wine.’
Thank you.’ Stella took the wine, drank the soup and ate whatever it was, Coffin could hardly remember himself, as he stared at his wife. She was pale and pensive.
‘Anything wrong?’
‘You mean more than we’ve had already?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
Stella didn’t answer. She held out her glass. ‘I think I need another glass of wine, and if I end up tipsy that is probably what I need too. It has been a lousy day.’ She drank some wine. ‘Has it been just one day? It feels longer.’
‘What was the phone call?’
‘You don’t usually ask who I speak to.’
‘You seem upset,’ he said simply.
‘It was Robbie Gilchrist, he wants to talk to you.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, ah. He thinks you want to talk to him.’
‘I do.’
There was a short pause. Then Stella said, almost humbly, as if she was asking to be forgiven: ‘Do you think he is the killer?’
‘I think he might know who it is.’ A pause
‘How much does he matter to you, Stella?’
She looked surprised. ‘Only as a business partner, nothing personal. I’m not sure if I even like him. He’s better than Freedom, though.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Coffin gravely. ‘When does he want to come?’
‘Tonight. Now.’
He stood up and held out his hand to her. ‘Let’s hope we have a quiet night.’
Stella smiled at him. Perhaps not too quiet.
Coffin said: ‘Gilchrist can wait till tomorrow. We might know more by then.’
The torso, for instance. Dug out of a potato patch.
It was a quiet night around the St Luke’s Theatre. The big theatre and the Workshop Theatre were soon to be dark, part of the reason that made Stella anxious to work with Freedom and Gilchrist. But she had a new big show coming in, a singing and dancing comedy, things would look up.
It was noisier in the city centre as homecomers returned from a visit to the shops and theatres of the old West End in the old city beyond the Tower of London, flooding in on the tube as midnight approached. Mimsie Marker’s paper stall was boarded up, but the club in the basement behind her was crowded, while the all-night coffee shop down the road (famous for a lot more than coffee) was full of light and movement.
One of the couples on the last tube train back from Leicester Square was Evelyn and her husband Peter Jones. Then they walked towards the block of flats where they had a top-floor apartment. Bodichon Street was close to Drossers Market where Evelyn had caught a glimpse of Etta Duval.
Drossers Street Market was just folding itself away for the night. One or two stalls were still operating.
‘Good film, wasn’t it?’ said Peter to Evelyn. They were comfortable together. They both agreed that you had to get out of the Second City occasionally. This had been their night out. ‘Cup of coffee? Tiger’s Stall is still serving.’
‘We’re nearly home.’
‘Let’s live dangerously.’
They lined up at Tiger’s counter to get a mug of his coffee, which was hot and strong.
‘We your last customers?’ asked Peter, as he paid for the coffee.
‘Not quite.’ Tim, such was Tiger’s given name, nodded to the end of the stall. There in the shadows, leaning against the corner of the counter, back towards them, was a tall, thin girl, her hair falling over her shoulders. ‘She’s been there too long and I wish she’d move off.’
Peter stared at the girl, then turned to his wife. ‘You know who that is?’
Evelyn stopped him. ‘Leave this to me.’ She walked up to the girl, and touched her gently. ‘Alice, you don’t know me, but I know you.’ She got no response at first, so even more gently she said it again. ‘Alice?’
When Alice turned round it was to show a great blue bruise down the side of her face.
Evelyn put her arm round the girl’s shoulders and led her away. ‘Come along, Alice, I know where to take you, my dear.’ Over the girl’s head she looked at her husband. ‘This kid’s in trouble.’
‘The refuge always opens its doors to those in distress,’ said Mary Arden philosophically to Evelyn, but taking care not to let the girl hear. ‘But why me?’
‘There’s no room in our flat, and I couldn’t leave her on the streets. I know there’s room here.’
Several families had moved out, as Evelyn knew, so yes, there was room.
‘We’re meant to help with family trouble, and I’d call her troubles family.’
Mary looked at her. ‘Reckon so?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, she can’t stay. Not for long. Just for a night.’
‘While we work things out,’ said Evelyn, who now felt responsible for the silent, weeping girl with Peter in the small waiting room.
‘Did she say where she’d been?’
‘Haven’t asked,’ said Evelyn.
‘No clothes or anything with her?’ said the knowledgeable Mary.
‘She seems to have a small bag with her.’
‘That’ll have her make-up. They always bring their makeup,’ said Mary. ‘So she’s not so bad, the really worst cases don’t do that, can’t stop for lipstick, but the medium-bad, the let’s-get-out-of-here-and-take-over-my-own-life, they do. She’ll probably have a nightdress and some money. That doesn’t mean she didn’t need an exit. You go. See you in the morning.’
When Evelyn had gone, Mary attended to Alice. She was kinder to the distraught girl than her brisk manner to Evelyn had suggested. She took her to the small bedroom which was free, and showed her the bathroom. The girl looked grubby, but it was late.
‘Would you like a bath?’
Alice shook her head.
‘In the morning then.’ Mary was busy unpacking the small bag which did hold make-up and also a light cotton nightdress. Mary noticed that a thin band of blood ran along the hemline. She considered offering the girl a clean nightdress but decided to say nothing about it. ‘I’m glad you are back.’
‘I was coming back,’ said Alice. ‘
I had to think about things . . .’
Mary looked at the bruise on her cheek. ‘I bet you did.’
Family or boyfriend, either could be the problem. Sex was there too, somehow, sex gone wrong, you didn’t get a blow that large out of love.
Coffin heard of her return the next morning; he knew before Phoebe Astley and Tony Davley.
Peter telephoned Stella to tell her. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘He was right,’ said Coffin.
‘She worked with him in the theatre, part time while she waited for a part.’ Stella looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure if she was ever going to make it, not clever, you see, although with her connection she had a head start. Peter liked her, I think, probably a lot more than he wanted to admit. I have wondered if that’s what she ran away from.’
‘In part,’ said Coffin. ‘I shall want to talk to her.’
‘No bullying.’
‘Do I ever?’
Stella shook her head. ‘You call it getting the right answers.’
‘It’s the job, the wrong answers are killers,’ he said absently.
‘We must tell Robbie the girl is safe.’ As far as she can be, Stella thought with some cynicism.
‘I will be seeing Gilchrist and Freedom this morning. They will both be told then.’ At the moment and in the way that suits me best.
Stella looked worried. ‘I think George was going to the airport, Robbie said something about New York.’
‘I’ll get him,’ said Coffin, with conviction.
He finished his morning coffee, avoided food, because when there was any digging up to do he preferred not to eat, and told Stella that she must have Gus for the day. His reasoning here was the same. He had no desire to see a white Pekingese help dig up a body. Or what was left of it.
‘Shall I tell Robbie you will be in touch?’
‘Leave it strictly to me.’
‘And if he rings here?’
‘Tell him . . .’ Coffin considered. ‘Tell him nothing. Just say he will hear from me.’ And he can sweat it out.
In the car, his mobile rang. He drew into a lay-by. ‘Hello.’
‘Phoebe Astley here, sir.’ Her voice was tense. ‘We’re digging up the potato patch . . . I think you’d better come, sir. We think we’ve got something.’
‘Hold on till I get there.’
Phoebe turned back to the small patch where Mr Jones had grown a few potatoes.
There was a brick wall with a door into the lane beyond, which was dominated by the blank wall of an old factory no longer in use but not yet turned into luxury apartments which was the fate of most of the early-nineteenth-century buildings in the Second City.
A narrow lane, one person wide, ran between this building and the next, equally tall and dead-looking. The map of the Second City which Coffin carried in his head told him that this lane must run out somewhere in the middle of the Drossers Lane Market.
If you wanted to bury a body then the garden was easy of access and at night would be quiet and dark.
And Mr Jones and dog had been away for over a month.
Phoebe Astley came up to him. She was one of the group standing by the patch of bare earth. He could see where the digging had begun.
‘The spade hit something,’ explained Phoebe, ‘which is why they are using those small spades and sieving the soil.’
He nodded. ‘Let’s get on then.’
Two men were digging, doing so slowly, and carefully watched by one of the forensic team. Every so often this man would ask them to stop while he got down to examine the soil they were moving. He was on his knees when he held up his hand.
‘Here we are.’
Mr Jones appeared at his back door, plus dog. The thin rangy mongrel, the dog who had started it all, lifted his head and began to howl.
‘Get that dog inside,’ snapped Phoebe. Mr Jones made a minimal movement of pushing the dog inside, but they both stayed where they were. However, the dog stopped howling.
Coffin moved nearer to the excavation, as did Phoebe. The diggers stopped, they all stood looking down at the small, plastic-wrapped object.
Must be the head, thought Coffin. He felt both excited and depressed at the same time.
Phoebe nodded at the photographer who came forward to take his careful pictures, then he stepped back and the forensic man slowly and meticulously undid the layers of plastic.
What was inside was looking smaller and smaller.
Not the head, must be the cat.
One last layer of plastic came away.
It was not the head. Not the cat. It was a baby, a small, very small bloodied foetus.
‘About twenty-two to twenty-three weeks, I’d guess,’ said the forensic man. ‘Born dead, probably. Not viable anyway.’ He got up from his knees. ‘Not been out in this hard cold world long . . . twenty-four hours, thirty-six . . . Postmortem will tell.’
The dog no longer howled but started up a melodious whine almost like singing.
From the door, Mr Jones was shouting: ‘This has nothing to do with me.’
Coffin looked at Phoebe Astley. ‘Nothing to do with us either, do you think?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
‘The Gilchrist girl is back . . . you do know that?’
‘Mary Arden phoned me just before I came out. She is worried about her.’
Coffin stood in thought. He could be all wrong about this, it was just guesswork.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where it all fits in. If it does, I’m doing one of those mad leaps that come occasionally.’ Then as he turned away to his car: ‘Get the girl into hospital. I think she may be in urgent need of medical attention . . . that’s how they put it, isn’t it?’
Phoebe said doubtfully that she would try.
‘But do it as a friend.’
‘And get Gilchrist and Freedom in. We will run a few things over them.’
10
The household at the Serena Seddon Refuge rose early, and there was already movement when Mary made a pot of tea and some toast to take up to Alice. Poor child, she thought, poor child.
On the stairs she met the boy Billy and realized that the quality in his eyes she and Evelyn had so meanly called evil was really sharp intelligence.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘And look after yourself. That quality you have got there is dangerous.’
The lad put his head on one side and grinned. ‘Dunno what you mean, Mrs Arden. We’re moving out.’
‘I know.’ Mary had been instrumental in finding the new home. ‘And it’s Miss Arden.’
‘Mum says we’ve got a bit of luck at last.’ He grinned. ‘Miss.’
‘Hang on to it then,’ said Mary as she passed on up the stairs.
Without knowing it, she was about to do what the Chief Commander had asked. Not telepathy or anything such, each faced a question and found the right answer.
The nearest hospital to the Serena Seddon was the University Hospital. One way and another, Mary Arden had come to know it well. It was, alas, true that some of the women who came to her also needed medical help.
The Emergency and Accident Department respected and liked her because of the gentle and good-mannered way she dealt with her hurt and angry visitors. On occasion she had been the victim herself. Not all the scars she had come by showed on her skin.
Now she showed all the kindness and tact she had learned.
Alice sat up in bed as she came in. She looked better.
Mary planted the tray on her knees. ‘I’ve brought you breakfast.’
She sat down by the bed and watched Alice and saw a little more colour come into her face.
‘Come on, Alice, we have to go and get you looked at. I could get a doctor here, but I fancy the hospital would be best. You are bleeding too much, and don’t tell me it’s your usual heavy period.’ She touched the girl’s hand. ‘I’ve had a child.’
‘What happened to it?’
Mary looked towards th
e window, towards light and air, and the living world. ‘She died.’ It was not something she talked about, although forgetting never.
‘So did mine,’ and Alice began to cry. Mary put her arms round her.
Evelyn arrived by the time they were ready to go to the hospital. Mary told her where she was going.
Evelyn nodded. ‘I’ll get on with things here. Anything to report?’
‘No, all quiet.’
‘That’s because we are almost empty. It’ll fill up again,’ she said philosophically. After all, she wouldn’t have a job if it didn’t and she needed to earn.
‘Any minute now,’ agreed Mary. ‘Goes in patches, doesn’t it? If anyone rings like the police or such, say I am at the hospital.’
Phoebe Astley got the message when she rang. ‘Right.’ She was relieved because it meant she could get back to some of the more routine problems of the day, like checking that the poor little scrap they had dug up was on her way to the pathology laboratory, that the reports on the search for the head and torso were coming in as they should do, and that no one but no one took any more time off than was strictly necessary. And what was necessary she would decide.
On the telephone, she despatched DC Geoff Little and WDC Eleanor Brand to call on George Freedom and Robbie Gilchrist and bring them both in.
Politely mind.
She anticipated no trouble in this quest.
After a moment’s thought, she decided to call at the hospital herself. A good career move, she thought. Coffin liked you to be hands on.
She went into the University Hospital just as the small body was being received in the pathology department, and while Alice Gilchrist was telling the story of her birth and death.
She was counted as an emergency and was being attended to by a young nurse and an equally young registrar. Mary Arden had not intruded but had left Alice to tell her own story.
Dr Martin had listened and examined Alice and then said that he would like her to see Dr Edith Brent who was the gynaecologist who would give her another thorough examination. His own examination was more superficial, he explained.
He did not explain that he found Alice puzzling. He could see she was a girl who would find the world puzzling, a girl who would accept the things that happened to her. But even so, he shook his head.
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