‘There’s a place for a woman who’s not a beauty; probably a good place but you have to convince, not be hangdog about it.’
‘Is she?’ Coffin put the dog down as they reached the kitchen. ‘Positive sort of character, I’d say.’
‘Perhaps I see a different side of her.’ Stella was reaching for the telephone. ‘Pour me a drink, while I ring Max’s.’
Coffin poured out some claret. ‘I meant to be across to collect you earlier, but I got held up in the office.’
‘You always do.’
‘True.’ Somehow he always did. Tonight, there was a report from London to skim through and yet another savage crime in the Second City about which he must be alerted: a double killing, the murder of a wife and child by the husband, who then tried to burn the bodies but only succeeded in giving himself third-degree burns. This terrible event might make the national press but would probably not figure on the television news, even locally. Coffin had noticed that the media liked an extra bizarre twist that they could get their teeth into, a domestic murder, even a vicious one, could be passed over.
‘Let’s not talk about what’s going on until we’ve eaten,’ said Stella. ‘I know Maisie was up to something, I’ve caught that much today in the theatre. Stupid of me not to have noticed before. I thought when I threw myself into her house after being shut up in Linton House that she was … not exactly reluctant to take me in, but hesitant in a way I would never have expected of her. I didn’t mean to stay, after all, just tidy up and settle my nerves.’
‘We might as well get it over.’ Coffin wondered whether brandy wouldn’t be better than wine, or strong tea as good as anything. You could never tell with Stella: wine for celebrating, she had said once, and tea for support. ‘Maisie was involved with Pip Eton, probably over a long period. He may have been blackmailing her. I suspect that her life was not unspotted.’
Stella nodded. ‘Yes … plenty in her life, I daresay. Oh, how sad.’
‘She must have taken money from him. She may have let him have the bag and the clothes that Francesco di Rimini wore, she may have been the voice you heard in the flat.’ I say ‘may’, he thought. ‘Or she might have sold your things elsewhere. The good clothes probably did not see a charity shop.’
Stella frowned. ‘Could be.’
‘She didn’t kill Pip; not clear yet where he was killed.’
‘And he couldn’t have killed her; he was already dead,’ Stella said quickly.
‘No, nor did he kill Francesco di Rimini, although he might have wanted to.’
‘He was violent.’
‘I believe you there. You certainly had a struggle. Can you remember more now? Your arm, for instance, how did that happen?’
Stella looked down at her arm, and ran her hand down it. In a hesitant voice, she said: ‘You know, I think the idea of biting was a fantasy … I was hurt or I hurt myself, I seem to remember something, but it is too much of a blur now, and getting more so with every day that passes, like a nightmare, so clear at first, then fading. I think I picked up a knife … I remember a serrated edge, like a bread knife.’
‘That would explain something of the nature of the wound.’
‘He got it off me …’ She shook her head. ‘I am sorry. It’s gone again.’
‘OK, so he didn’t kill Maisie, he was dead himself then. I don’t think he killed Franceso di Rimini either. Eton wasn’t an irrational killer, he was a terrorist. These deaths bear another mark.’ He was talking half to himself.
But Stella was listening. ‘I bet there is a school of thought, and not so far away either, that thinks it must be me.’
‘You can rule out Phoebe Astley. She told me that forensic had found traces of a sedative in a glass at the flat, and she thinks this was given to you. Which would explain why you didn’t notice the passage of time.’ He was not going to let her know how much this had troubled him. ‘And also how confused you were.’
For a while there was silence. Stella got up, went to the window to look out. It was a fine, bright evening with a clear sky and a full moon. A cloud passed across the moon as she stared out. The cloud was long and angular, with what could be a tail. Sometimes I see a cloud that’s dragonish, she thought … was that Shakespeare? Was it even true? That cloud looked more like a bird. Or Superman, she thought, with a hint of a giggle. She was coming to life again, she could tell.
‘You said you would be apologizing to me,’ she said, still looking at the moon.
Coffin said nothing for a while. ‘That will come,’ he said, at last.
I wonder if I could tell her, he was asking himself. Dare I do so? He poured her a strong brandy, and as he handed it to her, he said: ‘Piece of advice, don’t go into the theatre tomorrow.’
Can’t she see that there is a strong personal element of hatred for her in this?
For once the telephone did not ring. Max’s van delivered a hot meal of chicken and salad which they ate together, with Augustus receiving his share. They chatted idly of this and that: whether they should get another cat and what would Augustus make of it, whether Stella should get her hair cut. It was quiet and peaceful.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said.
‘Don’t bother.’ He held out hand to stop her. Standing, she smiled down at him, then they walked up the staircase together.
Augustus hesitated at the kitchen door, then made a decision. He turned back to his basket.
Bed was indicated.
The delayed pleasures of the afternoon were performed, perfected even, in the night. They were almost silent, pleasured and friendly as only lovers who have been together for years can be.
‘I expect those kids in the theatre think we are too old for this.’ Stella rolled back upon her pillow.
‘I’m quite sure Paul Masters does, I can see the look in his eyes.’ Phoebe Astley did not, she knew better; a slight touch of guilt there, quickly repressed. After all, their relationship, if you could dignify it by that name, had been over before Stella came back into his life.
‘I miss you terribly when you are away,’ he said sleepily.
‘So do I. Let’s retire and live on a desert island.’
‘Why not.’ Sleep was deliciously close.
Except, thought Stella, I have had an absolutely marvellous offer of a thirteen-week contract from the BBC – these things have to be considered.
She raised herself on one elbow to look down at her sleeping husband with affection. He wouldn’t come either, there would always be another crime, another crisis before he could leave, and he never would leave.
He was lying on his back, with his mouth slightly open.
Any minute now, you are going to snore, my darling, she thought. Now that is something that the crew down at Spinnergate Central HQ would never think of you.
Only I know that.
In the morning, they breakfasted quietly in the kitchen, drinking strong coffee and eating toast which Stella had burnt, then scraped clear. ‘Still, it’s crisp,’ she said. ‘And I expect the carbon is good for you.’
‘True.’ Coffin slid a bit down to Augustus, who liked charcoal.
‘I’m going in to work,’ said Stella. ‘I heard what you said last night, but I want to go.’
Coffin nodded. ‘Take the dog with you, will you? He may not have very big legs –’ Augustus looked up and wagged his tail – ‘but he’s good little fighter.’
Stella did not believe in any threat to her, so she prepared for work without concern.
Coffin, anxious for Stella, was not worried about himself because he had not seen where the real threat was directed.
As they set off, Augustus was just happy to be going out with the two people he loved most.
At the door of the big theatre, a stone’s throw from their own front door, they said goodbye with a kiss. Coffin patted Augustus and walked away.
Stella sailed into the foyer, followed by Augustus, tethered by a lead. She checked all was as it should be, she hated it w
hen the theatre looked untidy, as if last night’s audience had only just moved out.
But no, she was proud of it. Her office was tucked away in a corner of the building, strategically placed near the new young woman installed by Letty to manage money and accounts, but equally near the backstage citadels of costume and props.
There was a neat pile of letters on her desk prepared for her by her secretary-cum-assistant, a middle-aged, stage-struck local matron who worked for the minimum wage because she loved drama. Mrs Brighton was an ally and a friend, the more so because she never intruded. The spirit of Letty Bingham hung over them all.
Indeed, there was a fax from Letty on Stella’s desk, with the message, threat even, that she would be back next week. Stella worked on, referring at intervals to her six-month schedule in which forthcoming productions were pencilled in, possibly more firmly than she allowed the democracy of the theatre to see.
In mid morning she needed to check the properties of the last production but one, some of which had been rented and should have been returned. She walked down the short corridor; Augustus, freed from his lead, came with her. He had the swaggering roll of a peke in good condition and fine humour. Together they entered the room where Mr Gibbs, he was always called this, was talking with Alice and an assistant. Working, too, Stella hoped, but she noticed long ago that work in the theatre involved much conversation. Coffin said it was the same with the police.
While she discussed the problem of the missing props with Mr Gibbs, the other two wandered off to the far end of the room and Augustus strolled around investigating. Had the missing items – one small chair and a pretty desk – gone back but not been recorded? If so, why not? Or were they still here, hidden behind other furniture?
Augustus was at the other end of the room, sniffing at a double door behind which was a large, walk-in cupboard. He was making a noise which attracted Stella’s attention. Then he began to scratch at the door. Stella walked over to stop him. This made him go at it even harder, looking at her as he did so.
‘Probably got a rat,’ said Mr Gibb.
‘I hope not.’ Stella opened the door, switching on the light as she walked in. ‘Bit stuffy in here.’
She took several paces into what was really a small room lined with shelves.
In the bright light hanging from the ceiling, she could see that the floor was stained.
For a moment, she hesitated, looking back at Mr Gibb, but Augustus pushed forward and snuffled at the floor, his body shaking with excitement.
An old brown stain of blood. A big old brown stain of blood. Perhaps someone had tried to wash it away, there were signs, but this blood was there to stay.
Augustus raised his head and began to howl.
Chapter 15
Coffin sat at his desk staring at the assembled mass of letters and reports all demanding his attention. He did not find this side of his work boring or something to be deplored, he liked a tidy desk. He liked the feeling that he was in charge. If he could have run the whole Second City Force from one great computer, he might have been tempted to try.
Paul Masters came in with the internal mail which he had already read and initialled, making his usual sharp comments here and there.
‘Sir Fred’s been on the line.’ He kept his voice neutral.
‘Thought he might be. He’s our action man.’ He raised his head. ‘And what did Sir Fred want?’
‘He’s coming down to see you.’
‘Not today, keep him away from me today.’
Paul Masters considered the possibility of keeping out that commanding figure before deciding that it could not have been meant seriously. ‘I’ll try.’
Coffin laughed. ‘We’ll set Phoebe Astley on him, shall we? I think he is frightened of her.’ And Inspector Lodge certainly is. But he did not say this aloud; one does not make too many jokes about a colleague. Or Coffin didn’t. ‘Take these reports with you, will you? Cast your eye over them and let me know what you think.’
Paul Masters took a brief look. ‘About recruitment, is it?’
‘That’s right, we will have to talk it over.’
As Masters left the room, he looked around for that small figure he knew so well, and whose white hairs he had so often brushed off the edge of his trousers.
‘Not got Augustus with you today?’
‘No, he’s with Stella.’
There was nothing in Coffin’s tone to breed alarm, but for some reason, Masters felt uneasy. He closed the door behind him with extra care.
Once on his own, Coffin let his mind run over the picture he had formed of the three deaths.
Pictures were coming up, clear and sharp, in his mind.
The first one, the body in a bombed house in Percy Street. The dead body of a man who was dressed as a woman, and that woman, his wife, Stella Pinero.
No accident there, he told himself, Stella had been selected with deliberation, as had the victim, di Rimini – or Bates, to give him his proper name. They were both victims.
Stella was meant to be involved. Her jeans, her handbag with a few possessions in it. Coffin felt he could say now that all these had been appropriated, stolen, by Maisie, certainly with no idea what they were going to be used for, but either sold or given to some person who had a hold over her.
Pip Eton might have been that person. His figure was there in the story, but his own murder suggested to Coffin that there was a shadow behind him.
Coffin found himself pacing the room. You know who the killer is, he told himself, you have known for some time. Well, guessed, and you did not want to face it.
A colleague, investigating a terrible death, had once said: ‘Don’t you hate the human race?’ At the time, Coffin had been able to say, no, there was always hope. But now, he felt a black depression. Guilt, you could say, because he had the idea that he could have prevented these deaths.
Hubris, perhaps, that dangerous pride to which we all, except the genuinely humble – and not many of them around in the police, he thought – succumb at times.
All my fault, you say, and quite enjoy the self-flagellation.
After Francesco, that shady character (though not without his attractions, if Dennis Garden was any judge), was the murder of Pip Eton himself. A lot still to uncover there.
Coffin paused in his perambulations: Why did I say ‘himself ‘ like that, as if he was the fulcrum on which all balanced? As far as my poor wife is concerned, he certainly was that central figure. She knew him, she had a relationship with him, and she gave him a key to the place in Fish Alley.
He gritted his teeth at the thought of the flat in Linton House. Stella could be a fool sometimes, in a way that only the theatre, and possibly politics, added a cynical undertone, seemed to bring out.
The first victim had been killed, without too much blood loss, by a deep stab wound. Then his face had been beaten to bits. The received opinion was that he had died where he was found, that he had walked there, prettily dressed, to meet his killer. You could see his walk on the video.
Right, that was murder one.
Murder two: Pip Eton. Stabbed.
He was not killed where he was found, obscenely dressed in a kilt and hat made of back issues of The Stage. He was dead when he was propped up there.
Coffin moved to the window. From where he stood he could make out the roof of St Luke’s Theatre. If he turned his head he could study the roofs of Spinnergate near to Fish Alley, but he could not pick out one house from another. A bird might do, or possibly a wandering cat with a good knowledge of the rooftops, but he could not.
Anyway, Pip Eton had not been killed there, either. In Coffin’s opinion, the bloodstained clothes were a plant. Where had he been killed?
It was probably crucial to finding his killer. Location was important here. Because a dead man is heavy, no easy object to transport into a public place.
You are telling yourself where he was killed, said Coffin, moving away from the window. Obvious. In or near the theatre
.
Once again Stella Pinero walked the stage.
He moved away from the window while his assessment moved on to the next death.
Murder three: Maisie.
No doubt where she had been killed: at home. Murdered by someone she knew, whom she had let into the house, and to whom she had spoken on the telephone. You might say she had summoned her own killer.
Which suggested the motive: she was about to name that person to the police.
Coffin wished he had either Phoebe Astley or Archie with him to hold a dialogue, but he had his own reasons for talking to himself.
He was still a player in his secret game, as Sir Fred, no doubt carrying Inspector Thomas Lodge in his train, would be arriving to remind him.
He put his head round the door to ask Paul Masters if Sir Fred had said exactly when he would come.
‘No, he left it open. He said he would ring when he was on the way.’
‘And he hasn’t rung?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Not yet. I would have been straight on to you.’
‘Good.’ Coffin went back to his desk where he drew towards him the file on the death in Percy Street.
He took from it the shot from the video of the dressed-up figure of di Rimini walking down Jamaica Street towards his death. His killer, it was thought, was there before him.
But Coffin’s eye was drawn to the blurred figure on the edge of the picture. He laid a magnifying glass over it to bring out what detail he could.
It seemed to be a man. A man dressed in dark trousers and a loose jacket.
He took it to the window to study it in the best possible light. Yes, swinging round the corner of Jamaica Street was the killer. He was following his victim, not waiting for him.
Those clothes, dark and neutral, reminded him of something.
Coffin put out his hand to the telephone, then withdrew it. No, he would take himself down to the Production Room where he would look for himself.
‘I’m nipping out for a minute or two, Paul. You don’t know where I’ve gone.’
‘Just as you say.’
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