Coffin's Game

by Gwendoline Butler

  Even before he and Stella got to St Luke’s, while they were still walking towards it, a police patrol car stopped and hailed him with relief.

  ‘Sir, sir, they’re trying to get you. I was told to look out for you … thought you might be walking the dog,’ here the driver saw Stella and gave her something between a bow and a salute. ‘Afternoon, ma’am.’

  Stella smiled and took a step aside. It so happened she knew the driver because his wife worked in the theatre box office and he was a regular attender with surprisingly highbrow tastes.

  He held out his phone. ‘Do you want to use it, sir?’

  Coffin looked at Stella with a smile and shrug, before picking up the phone. Paul Masters answered at once, relief in his voice.

  ‘Glad to get you, sir.’

  ‘I wasn’t out with the dog.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not, the dog’s here, you left him with me, lying on my feet this minute.’ In fact, he had had the pleasure of the dog’s company all the morning. Briskly, he went on to report that there was a riot down at the Spinnergate Docks.

  ‘Well …’ began Coffin.

  Of course, it’s being handled by Inspector Dover of B unit, but I knew you would want to know.’

  ‘How big a riot?’

  ‘Mini, sir. However, the media are there.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it’s not why I wanted to make contact.’ Paul Masters drew breath. Distantly, Coffin could hear him politely requesting Augustus to get off his feet, please. ‘Sir Fred is on his way for a meeting with you, he will be here in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sir Frederick Mantle was a prominent figure on the secret committee on which Coffin served. In fact, Coffin had the idea that Sir Fred was a member of the even smaller committee which controlled the larger one. There were always rings within rings, in his experience.

  Paul Masters was not privy to all the secrets of Coffin’s life, but he certainly knew something of the part played in life and circumstances by Sir Fred.

  ‘What about Inspector Lodge?’

  ‘On his way too, sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Coffin assured Paul. ‘Keep Sir Fred happy if he gets there before I do.’ A last thought: ‘Get hold of Chief Inspector Astley and tell her I want a word.’

  ‘Will do. She was asking for you earlier, sir.’

  Was she? Coffin thought. What had she got about the death of Pip Eton or possibly the earlier victim, the one with fingers cut off and no name?

  Coffin refused a lift in the patrol car, and turned back to Stella.

  ‘Crisis?’ she asked.

  ‘A small one. Nothing to worry about.’ Or so he hoped, although one never knew with Sir Fred. ‘But I shall have go straight back. Can’t linger.’ And he gave her the smile she loved most: gentle, full of humour and self-knowledge.

  She slid her arm through his. ‘Let’s enjoy the walk back.’ She asked no questions, she had been his wife long enough to know that was something you did not do. ‘Tell you what: I’ll try and have a word with Maisie. Find out what she knows about the clothes under the bed. Can’t believe there is any harm in her, she’s such a good old thing.’

  ‘I won’t forget what you say about hearing a woman … If we get the chance, I will ask you to identify a voice. But think about it … as a professional used to the nuances.’

  ‘I shall. I think it was a woman.’

  Coffin nodded and kept quiet his conviction that good old things like Maisie could get up to a surprising number of little wickednesses if they felt like it.

  They parted at the corner of Madely Street near to the police headquarters and within easy distance of St Luke’s.

  ‘I won’t come any further with you,’ said Coffin to his wife.

  Under the interested eyes of several of his colleagues driving past in a van – on their way, he supposed, to the small riot – he gave her a brief kiss, then followed this up with a much longer kiss. A relieved and happy Stella responded with an enthusiasm that further delighted the happy band en route to subdue their fellow citizens of Spinnergate. Stella, of course, knew exactly what she was doing. While not always acting, she was never quite not acting. She waved her hand to him and strolled away, making a good exit.

  She thought to herself: I will have a straight talk with Maisie and sort things out. She had never yet been in a situation where she could not ‘sort things out’ and it had not occurred to her that this time perhaps she would not be able to. She would telephone and let Maisie know she was coming. Yes, that would be wise.

  She looked ahead to St Luke’s and the theatre complex which lay just around the corner.

  Coffin called first into the viewing room where banks of screens showed the live pictures from the cameras set on the tops of roofs over the Second City. They commanded all the main streets and street corners. He looked at one street corner which was crowded with moving figures, on their way to the riot, no doubt. A van was turning the corner, the cameras were swivelling to follow.

  The sergeant in charge of the room said that they had been asked to keep a check on that van.

  Coffin watched for a while, then went away to the meeting in front of him.

  Coffin found Inspector Lodge already waiting for him in the outer office, with Phoebe Astley lounging in a chair by the window. Phoebe was in jeans and a tweed jacket – as Stella had once said, ‘She has the legs for it’ – while Inspector Lodge was darkly clothed in anthracite grey. Both of them stood up as he came in.

  He acknowledged them with a nod and a wave towards his own room. ‘Go through, I’ll be with you.’ Then he turned towards Paul Masters. ‘How’s the riot going?’

  ‘Pretty nearly tidied up, sir, But you can see for yourself on the TV.’ He pointed to one of the screens across the room, where, the sound off, a figure could be seen against a background of men and women waving flags demanding ACTION AGAINST THE ENEMY.

  Coffin winced. ‘No, thank you. And Sir Fred?’

  ‘Telephoned through. His car is held up in the traffic – the riot, you know, but he will be here shortly.’

  It was always the way with Sir Fred. He was always arriving shortly and leaving shortly after that. A man of high motives and much mobility.

  ‘Buzz when Sir Fred touches ground here.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Paul Masters was wearing one of his brighter suits that day, he was never one for the dark outfit, his spell in the uniformed branch must have been a severe trial to him, and today he was in cream and tan. Coffin had named it his defiant suit and wondered whom his efficient, ambitious, but aggressive young assistant was battling with today. Probably Coffin himself, he thought, as went into the other room.

  He sat down quickly at his desk, tidy as usual, with all papers neatly stowed away. The problems to be dealt with were there, though, even if hidden in the drawers or in files.

  ‘Phoebe, glad you are here. I want you to do something for me.’ He sat down and scribbled an address. Linton House, Fish Alley. ‘Check over this place. Take a team in – forensic, the lot – and see what you get. Come back to me. Quietly.’

  Phoebe stood up. ‘Right, I’m off. Can I have a bit more information?’

  ‘When you discover the name of the owner you will understand.’

  She looked at him, frowning. ‘You know.’

  ‘I know.’

  He’s dumping me into something, Phoebe decided, he’s done it before. But fear not, friend, I will fight my way out.

  ‘I want you to come at it cold, form your own impression. You may get a surprise.’

  ‘Shock is the word that comes to mind,’ said Phoebe. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  Phoebe considered. ‘You know I’ve been working on the copies of The Stage that were used to wrap up the corpse? They match with those left behind in the theatre. The fingerprints on those found on the corpse were very smudged. But one or two were clearer … they matched with those of Miss Pine
ro.’

  Silence. Inspector Lodge kept his face expressionless.

  Coffin did not quite manage this, but he was calm.

  ‘How did you get her fingerprints?’

  ‘She supplied me with them yesterday.’

  ‘Very sensible of her.’

  ‘Not surprising to find them on the newspapers, they were from her office.’

  Coffin sat in silence for a second, then he said: ‘You have the address. Go to the flat on the second floor.’

  Phoebe nodded. ‘I’ll be off then. Sounds like work. Don’t tell me you’ve got a body waiting for me.’

  ‘No body, but there may have been one there. I’m not sure about that.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Our boy dressed up in paper clothes?’

  ‘Could be. Find out for me. And nothing, as yet, for the media.’

  So it has to be Stella Pinero again, Phoebe decided. ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  She slid through the door as a buzz and a noise in the outer office announced the arrival of Sir Fred.

  Grey-suited, small, plump, almost smiling all the time but never quite making it a broad grin. Stella, on meeting him once, had said that she would cast him as Dracula any day.

  ‘Apologies for being late.’ Sir Fred set great store on being punctual. ‘Came through a bit of trouble on the way here,’ he announced with satisfaction.

  ‘Under control,’ said Coffin.

  Sir Fred continued looking at him, eyebrow raised.

  ‘Two rival football teams, basically.’ With added elements from all over the Second City, but he was not going to mention that. Coffin was reluctant to explain at all.

  ‘Bad, bad.’

  Coffin could feel his teeth grinding together as he bit back his irritation. He understood that the ability to create this irritation at will and thus weaken a protagonist was a valuable skill of Sir Fred’s, but he did not relish being the victim.

  So he smiled. ‘Let me give you a drink. Whisky?’

  Sir Fred was well known to like a certain malt whisky, so his answer would be revealing. If he said no, then that would be a very bad sign indeed.

  There was a pause. It was ended by Sir Fred: ‘Thank you, Jack.’ No one called Coffin Jack. ‘A little, thank you.’

  Coffin got up to go to the armoire which Stella had picked up on a tour of France and brought back (at vast expense) for him.

  ‘Neat,’ said Sir Fred. ‘Never water malt. Ice yes, water no.’

  ‘I haven’t any ice. But I could send for some.’

  ‘No matter, no matter.’

  Coffin turned to Inspector Lodge: ‘The same for you?’ Lodge did not refuse. Finally Coffin poured himself a drink, making it a careful, small one; he needed all his wits about him with this pair.

  Then he sat down to study the two men; he was pretty sure that they had been discussing him already. It would be in character for Sir Fred to do this and for Lodge to listen, nodding sagely. Coffin found he was getting crosser with every minute that passed. He ranked much higher than Lodge, but it seemed that in the different world of security, Lodge had the pull.

  So Coffin drank, kept a still tongue and waited for Sir Fred to utter. That gentleman was taking his time, which again irritated the Chief Commander, who was thinking of Stella.

  Sir Fred put down his glass. ‘I have admired you, Coffin, you know that.’

  Do I? Coffin asked himself silently. I hadn’t noticed it. Aloud, he said: ‘Thank you.’

  Obviously Sir Fred was getting ready to add a rider to his last remark of praise.

  ‘But,’ he began, ‘you are too close to all this … your wife, you know. I think you should step back.’

  Coffin did not answer. He was not surprised, but even angrier. He took a drink, offered some more to Sir Fred who accepted and to the Inspector who refused. Coffin leant across to fill the glass. If he trod on Sir Fred’s toe to do so, he did not care.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Coffin paused in pouring the whisky. He saw with pleasure that Sir Fred was sweating. Lodge looked cool enough, damn him. ‘But I don’t think I can, and for the very reason you suggest that I should: my wife.’

  He put down his own drink, largely untouched, and stood up. It was a spontaneous movement of protest, no threat intended, but Sir Fred pushed his chair backwards quickly. Lodge coughed.

  ‘Now, now,’ Sir Fred said. ‘Don’t take it amiss what I say. It’s in your own interest, my dear fellow. And Stella’s. Keep out. Let others take over.’

  Coffin looked straight at Lodge.

  ‘No, no, not necessarily our friend here.’

  ‘Inspector Lodge is involved too,’ Coffin pointed out coldly. ‘He has Peter Corner. Missing.’

  ‘He’s been in touch.’ Lodge spoke up quickly.

  Coffin decided it was his turn to stand on his dignity. ‘Has he now? I was not informed.’

  ‘You would have been. I tried to contact you today, this very afternoon, but you were out of touch.’

  Coffin briefly admitted the truth of this to himself while still not forgiving Lodge. Then he saw a flash of expression on Lodge’s usually impassive face … He cares for that man, Coffin told himself. God, how could I not have seen that about Lodge? He and Corner, not a relationship, almost certainly not, but he is attracted. Well, I never.

  Lodge swivelled in his chair, then took out a handkerchief to blow his nose. He had given himself away, and he knew it. Sir Fred was watching, no surprise there. So he knew. There were no secrets in the world they both moved in. No doubt this side of Lodge was used.

  ‘We will talk about this later,’ said Coffin, in a voice that offered no promises.

  He turned to Sir Fred. ‘I think there is something else, sir, isn’t there?’

  Sir Fred finished his drink, carefully setting down the glass so that it should not mark the polish of the table at his elbow. ‘Clever of you to see it. Always knew you were a clever chap.’

  Coffin waited.

  ‘It concerns the first dead body. Di Rimini, or Bates as he was rightly called. By this time, did you or did you not know that he was a police snout?’ Coffin nodded, unwilling to reveal what he knew or did not know. Keep Sir Fred guessing. ‘No doubt you are surprised about my part in this, but I am obliged to have contacts here and there.’ He did not glance towards Lodge, who was sitting still. ‘Even if it flushes out people like Bates, the snout. Not much used and not much use either, as far as can be ascertained. He was not a man over-blessed with friends who confided in him, but he was a drinker. Mostly, I believe, he drank on his own.’ Sir Fred looked a little sly, as if he knew that Dennis Garden counted as a friend. ‘But he picked people up, or sometimes was picked up himself.’

  Come on, Coffin muttered, get on with it. Don’t swither.

  ‘You know we can’t choose the contacts we work with.’ Sir Fred gave a seraphic smile.

  ‘What are you working round to?’

  ‘A person who drinks in the sewers of Spinnergate – joke, dear boy, one of our contacts, but we can’t use the best people – informed us that di Rimini, also known as Eddy, had said he knew that a terrorist was at home in Spinnergate and was very close to the top man himself. I quote.’

  Coffin said: ‘Who is this man who passes all this on?’

  ‘Did I say man?’ said Sir Fred smoothly.

  ‘From all I have learnt of Bates or di Rimini, call him what you like, he was not the sort to confide in a woman.’

  ‘Well, frankly, our contact seems to fit either sex.’

  ‘Two drunks talking together,’ said Coffin. ‘What reliance can you put on that?’

  Sir Fred stood up. ‘Look, it’s no good us quarrelling, we won’t get anywhere that way. I pass it on to you to think about what it suggests.’

  Coffin stood up, too. ‘Oh, I see all right: that di Rimini – I prefer that name, I think – was not just picked up off the street as someone who could be killed, dragging in my wife, but was killed because he had dangerous k
nowledge.’

  Sir Fred nodded. ‘It’s worth thinking about.’

  ‘Did he have names to offer as well?’

  ‘No names.’

  Coffin turned to Lodge, who had risen also. ‘And what about your man? Has he got this story too?’

  ‘No, or if he has then he hasn’t reported it. He simply says he is working on a good lead.’ Lodge sounded uneasy, which Coffin noted. Everyone was uneasy in this bloody case.

  He turned to Sir Fred. ‘Thanks for coming, thanks for telling me, but as you can see I am not going on holiday to the South of France. I am not getting out.’

  ‘Never thought you would.’

  ‘It may be taken out of my hands, of course. I see that. But the story about my wife knowing a suspected terrorist was passed on to me some time ago, so I have had time to think about it. Stella did not kill either di Rimini or Pip Eton. And for that matter, neither did I.’

  ‘Never thought it for a moment.’

  ‘Or had him killed.’ Which is what you might have done yourself, you old sod, in a similar position … Except that Sir Fred would never get into any position of personal peril. That you could count on.

  Sir Fred was actually smiling, although Lodge was as grave as ever, the perfect secret servant.

  Coffin suddenly felt good. I got the better of that round, he thought.

  Such moments can be dangerous, because that is ofen when life wipes out the joke.

  As he got himself through the door, Sir Fred said: ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think Miss Pinero was meant as the contact.’

  ‘Message from Miss Pinero, sir,’ said Paul Masters, through the open door. ‘She can’t talk to her dresser, Maisie, the woman isn’t there.’

  Coffin sat at his desk, silent, troubled. You’re never where you think you are, he thought to himself. The ground moves beneath your feet.

  Because he had his secret, he had his own game, one he had entered into – what was the word? – obligingly.

  He thought about it with sadness.

  Get back to thinking about Stella, he told himself. Poor Stella was part of the game and she did not know it. He had used her, which was one of the reasons he must forgive her for Pip Eton.