‘You’re not under any suspicion, Tom.’
‘I bet they wish they could pin it on me.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Why did you?’
Tom Boston leant across the desk. ‘Sympathy minute over, is it? No, I came because I had something to say to you. One of Lia’s friends told me that Lia said I knew something about this serial gunman. Perhaps that’s why Lia was killed, she said, looking at me as if it was my fault. What I want to say is that I don’t know anything, never did and never said anything to Lia. She was making it up, like she did sometimes.’
‘She must have had something to go on,’ said Coffin.
‘That group of friends of hers . . . I never liked them.’ He shook his head. ‘Got it from them.’
Coffin studied Boston’s face, probably not lying, but he was a professional, you couldn’t tell. He was on the fidget though.
‘You didn’t come just to tell me that.’
Boston swallowed and began to mutter something.
‘Speak up.’
It was more a case of spit it out. As well as Lia, Tom had a wife across the Channel, in Germany. He had married Sophy first, so the marriage to Lea was bigamous. Tom could see that this was illegal, but he was inclined to sniff at it. ‘Don’t know why we married, we could have lived together, everyone does, and then no bother. But now . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders; one was slightly out of kilter with the other, Coffin noticed, which perhaps explained the expensive tailoring.
‘It gave you a motive for killing Lia,’ filled in Coffin.
‘Only to you lot. Not to anyone in the real world.’ He had tears in his eyes. ‘And you know what? I had to identify my wife and children. Well, I knew them all right, blood and torn-apart faces and all.’
‘Before you go, can you give me the names of the friends of your wife?’
Tom looked vague. ‘One is called Letty, and another Sheila, I don’t know more.’ He pursed his lips. ‘She talked about the Walkers . . . had a capital letter, the word did, I could feel it. She was good with words, my Lia.’ The tears ran down his nose.
‘What did you make of that?’ Coffin asked Paul Masters when Tom Boston had taken himself off.
Coffin was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Those women must be interviewed.’
‘Done so already, sir.’
‘Again. They may be important.’
They could be at the heart of something. He knew not what, but it had death in it.
The Walkers, he thought. Well, let’s have a go, let’s try walking with them.
Larry Lavender arrived in time, early in fact, because he wanted to have a few probing words with Paul Masters on the state of the Chief Commander’s morale. Not that he expected to get much out of Masters, whom he classed as a high-grade Chief Commander supporter, but he had known Masters a long while. They had worked together once and he had long fancied Masters’s wife, who had proved to be one of those who make beckoning noises but are untakeable. He had suspected Masters of having put her up to it.
With all this behind him, he thought he would be able to read Masters.
‘How’s the CC?’ this being how he spoke of Coffin, although not how he thought of him. A hiatus there. He liked him, admired him even, but sometimes felt he could kill him. Someone would kill Coffin one day, he was convinced, and it might be his wife. Now Stella Pinero . . . she was something else again. Lavender would not want her dead. He wanted her to die of old age. Something that his own wife – they were apart now, and might remain that way as far as he was concerned – had cattily remarked was approaching fast. Horrible woman, his wife, not the adorable Stella, and he could not now remember why he had married her, except for feeling it had to do with male lust.
‘The Chief Commander’s in a good mood,’ said Masters, which was more or less true.
‘Be the better for seeing me.’
‘Of course, Larry.’
‘Knock and go in?’
‘Just go in. He is expecting you. No need to knock, he’s very democratic.’ Masters smiled.
Lavender smiled back, straightened his back and marched in. ‘Hello, sir.’
‘No need for sir,’ said Coffin, standing up. ‘We’ve worked together in the past.’
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
He’s nervous, thought Coffin. Never thought I’d see Larry Lavender nervous.
‘Thought I ought to come and talk things over.’ He waited for the Chief Commander to speak, but since he did not, Lavender went on, ‘Explain what happened and why.’
‘I think I know.’
‘I don’t think you do, sir.’ He was determined to get that ‘sir’ in again. ‘I’m good at what I do, I think you’d give me that, sir, I get results. But do they get noticed? Yes, in the records and in the convictions, but the big crimes, the ones that get in the papers . . . the big murders: the Rugely murder, the Fraser Dean kidnapping, the Service strangler, my great-uncle’s case . . . they are yours, or they get your name on them. Yes, right, you were the one, sir, who saw through any deceit or camouflage to the right killer, but I was on the team of at least one of those cases, and we would have got there . . .’
He’s definitely nervous. Coffin summed up. Why?
Then an illumination lit up his mind: he knows something I don’t, and it’s for me. In my favour. Very much in my favour, or he wouldn’t be so edgy.
Not the newspapers, they’d had their say. TV, that’s it. What was that programme called? This Week in the World. Always got good ratings.
‘Did you pick up anything about a group called the Walkers?’ he asked.
‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘Just wondered. I heard them mentioned.’
Larry Lavender shook his head. ‘That’s your style, sir, you pick up something and run with it.’
‘Is that how it looks?’
‘You were like a cancer, sir, growing inside us.’
Real, bitter feeling there. Coffin took in his face. ‘Are you all right, Larry?’ he said gently. ‘No, I can see you’re not.’
He went to the drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky.
‘Come on, have some of this.’
‘I’m not allowed,’ groaned Lavender.
Stella, too, came across the Walkers. The name came up in one of her meetings with Letty and Sheila. The word just came in to their conversation. Not exactly a club, nor an institution, more of an occasion. Not like the Royal Garden Party, more like all getting on the right train together.
There was certainly a feeling of movement there. After all, the Walkers presumably walked.
Stella walked herself; she did not have to walk to work because her theatre and her home were part of the same Victorian complex of buildings, but sometimes she crossed the road to the ancient churchyard, older by far than the church, and now a peaceful small park. You walked over the dead, and Stella for one knew it, although not everyone did, but the grass was thick over their bones and to her it never seemed sacrilege. Sometimes she took Gus, but he was never allowed to pollute the grass; for that purpose she led him down the road to a large patch of rough ground by the old canal. And she took a little trowel and plastic bag. In the old churchyard Gus had been known to look longingly at one of the monuments that survived but he had been trained to do no more than look, tempting as they must seem to him and his back leg. She had already done the shopping for him, as required, and when she got home this evening there Gus would be. It was to be hoped he would like the cat. Tolerate, maybe; perhaps like was expecting too much.
She took a deep, happy breath. At times, as this morning, she walked round it. The Second City was not overly full of grassy open spaces. Especially one that was almost your own space with no one else there.
But today there was someone, a young woman sitting on the bench by the tree. She had a lovely face, half hidden by dark spectacles. There was a bruise down one side of her face.
‘Natty? It is Natasha, isn’t it?’
&
nbsp; The girl looked up. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice was low and hoarse. ‘Miss Pinero.’
‘Are you all right? Can I do anything.’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
She certainly didn’t look it.
That’s a nasty bruise on your cheek.’
Natasha touched her cheek with a forefinger. ‘I banged into something.’
So you did, thought Stella, what was it? A tree or a fist? Gently, she said, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to sit out here in the cold.’ There was a damp wind too.
‘I was just having a rest . . . I’ve been for a walk.’ Natasha stood up, straightening her back in way that made it clear she didn’t want sympathy. It was obvious that she was not going to respond to Stella’s implied questions on the lines of: What’s up? And who hit your face?
‘Right. Well, take care. It’s really cold today.’ Her coat and dress looked too thin for the day.
Indifferently, Natasha said, ‘I didn’t notice. It’s peaceful here in the park. And they’re all dead, aren’t they?’
‘Long dead,’ agreed Stella.
Stella hesitated. It was not her business to act as Sister Samaritan to anyone, least of all to a girl who was pushing her away. Besides, she had a bundle of work waiting for her in the theatres. So she walked on to get into her own world again, not this chilly, achingly strange one in which Natasha seemed stuck.
But her kind heart, which for professional reasons she kept hidden, made her turn round.
Natasha was still standing where she had left her. Stella took one pace towards her.
‘Have you ever seen the theatre backstage?’
Natasha shook her head silently.
‘Come with me now. I’ll give you a look round, and we can have a cup of coffee. No need to worry – I’ve trained them to make a decent cup.’
Natasha stood looking at Stella. Suddenly, she said, ‘Yes, please.’ Like a schoolgirl offered a treat.
She looked like a schoolgirl too, so thin and young. On impulse Stella put an arm round the thin shoulders and gave a friendly hug. As she did so she felt a shiver run through Nat’s body.
Stella let her arm drop away, and said nothing more until they were in her office with the coffee ordered. It was a small room, crowded with all the impedimenta of an active theatrical life: programmes, scripts, books and photographs, many photographs.
The coffee came, hot and strong, as Stella had promised. Why was she taking this trouble with the girl? Not her usual way of managing things at all. Cool detachment at work, with all sensility and emotion reserved for home.
But this girl worried her.
‘It was all the heads,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s all been wrong since the Neanderthal heads were found in the pit. Babies’ heads.’
‘You saw them?’
‘No, but cousin Margaret did. And she saw one head was not so old. That worried her, I think.’
‘Why would it do that?’
Natasha shrugged. ‘Don’t know . . . But she was clever. Sensitive, picked things up.’ She raised up her cup and began to drink the coffee. ‘I think she was checking if that other skull had come from the museum.’
‘And had it?’
‘I don’t know. You must ask your husband that. It was the babies’ skulls that she didn’t like. Don’t blame her, poor little souls. Babies can have a thin time if they aren’t lucky.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ said Stella. She remembered the child of one of the singers in a musical she had starred in; the kid used to come to rehearsals and performances in a box turned into a cradle. That child usually looked well fed and loved, but she knew of others that were not, while at times even that infant had a pinched, anxious look out of order with its age. Some animals had that look too.
‘If she hadn’t gone looking in that museum, she wouldn’t have been killed.’
‘You think so?’
‘She was seen by the wrong person. Or maybe she said something that alerted that person.’
‘Could have been something like that . . . but these killings seem arbitrary, as if the killer just went after anyone.’
‘Oh no, there’s always children involved.’
Stella was silenced.
‘Hadn’t you noticed? And then she was laid out with all those children’s skulls around her.’
‘Did you see her?’ Stella was surprised.
‘No, but I’ve been around the hospital enough to know one or two people.’
‘Yes, I know one or two, just casual friends.’
‘Oh, friends . . . who knows who’s a friend? Friends can be just as murderous as enemies, if they feel like that. I dare say Margaret thought he was a friend . . . always so helpful, lifting and carrying, opening the doors, keeping order . . . till he killed her.’
Stella looked at her quietly. ‘Who are you talking about?’ A picture came into her mind. A figure politely opening doors, moving trolleys, mopping floors. ‘Are you talking about Joe? Are you calling him the killer?’
‘Oh, Joe, poor Joe, how did he get dragged in?’ She shook her head. ‘I may not be the killer, but I am the murderer. There, I am confessing.’
‘She said she was confessing, that she was the murderer.’ Stella stroked the cat who was on her lap while keeping an eye on Gus who was watching her and the cat.
‘That’s very unlikely,’ said Coffin.
Hesitantly, Stella said, ‘I think she was accusing Joe.’
‘He was checked over for the murder of Dr Murray and cleared.’
‘And you think it is one man for all the killings?’
‘Not just me,’ observed Coffin mildly. ‘The judgement of the whole Crime Forum.’
Stella put the cat on Coffin’s knee. ‘You have a go. I’ll soften up Gus.’
Coffin checked Gus with keen, policemanly eye. ‘He looks calm enough.’
‘I wouldn’t like to leave them alone together.’ She patted Gus. ‘I think you ought to see Natasha. Interview her.’
‘Why me? Phoebe Astley could do it. Another woman. If it’s really necessary at all.’
‘I think she’d trust you.’
Coffin said slowly, ‘She might be unwise to trust a copper. Yes, I’ll see her, but she’ll have to wait her turn, I’m busy tomorrow.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘It’ll be your turn to take Gus for his morning walk.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
The next morning was misty and chill. Gus showed only a moderate enthusiasm for his morning exercise (recommended by the vet, no friend of Gus who had given his leg a nip), but he consented to be dragged forward on his leash. He became more interested as he realized that several new scents had been added to various trees and lamp-posts during his absence. One smell in particular was promising: near ovulation it said, and soon ready to mate. He must keep a look-out.
‘All right, Gus,’ said Stella, pulling on the lead. ‘We all know you are keen to perpetuate your genes, but not here and not with that lamp-post.’
They moved on, with Gus now taking the lead. He had remembered a walk from the past. He began to smell water. He liked a swim. It was an occasion of innocent pleasure causing your mistress the utmost alarm and disorder, since there is nothing more difficult to handle than a wet dog.
Stella did not resist; he was on the leash, and even Gus could not get in for a swim when tethered. A visit to the canal was a quick and easy walk, so she could soon be home and back at work. She too liked the canal. There was a certain romance to it; neglected and unused now, it belonged to the Second City’s industrial past.
The mist began to lift as they came along the canal, which curved out of sight in the distance. Two people were standing on the bank, just on the curve. To her surprise, she recognized Natasha. She was wearing trousers and a long dark coat, while her companion was a man, more lightly dressed. They seemed to be arguing, and he had his hand on Natasha’s arm.
Then, to Stella’s alarm, she saw Natasha jump into the canal, followed at once by th
e man. She recognized Natty’s husband, Jason. Grabbing her mobile phone she dialled 999 and shouted, ‘Man in the canal,’ as she ran.
The man’s head appeared on the surface, then disappeared again. Natasha did not show.
Stella wrenched off her shoes, disentangled herself from Gus, then jumped into the water, striking out towards the spot where they had gone down with the thought: I wish I was a stronger swimmer.
She heard a splash as Gus came too.
Ahead of her she saw the man’s head surface. He was struggling, no swimmer he, to remain afloat, but something was pulling him down.
‘Natasha,’ she gasped. ‘Hang on, I’ll do what I can.’ Peering through the water, she thought she could see the girl, but even as she looked she slid away, dragging the man with her.
But so it would have been if Gus had not got hold of the man’s collar. No lifesaver, just a dog grabbing something that floated. An extra large fish, maybe.
Stella came level with the man just as Gus was considering dropping this awkward catch; he changed his mind, puzzled but willing, as his mistress said, ‘Stay, Stay,’ loudly while getting her arms round his catch.
Stella could hear the police arriving, in the distance but getting closer. She had just enough mirth and breath left in her to wonder what the police would make of their Chief’s wife in the water with dog and man.
She had no idea how she looked with hair streaming, weeds on her face and mascara spreading round her eyes.
‘There’s a girl still in there,’ Stella managed to get out as, struggling and choking, the three of them – dog, Natty and Jason – were dragged out of the water by the police.
‘Did she jump or was she pushed?’
Stella managed to put the question at last to the Chief Commander as he drove her home from the hospital where she and Gus had had to stay until passed fit and well.
‘They separated us,’ said Stella with some indignation.
‘Dogs aren’t allowed in hospitals, you know that,’ said Coffin patiently. ‘Even heroic rescue dogs.’
Gus had spent an hour in the nurses’ sitting room, before a fire, having been praised, dried and given some biscuits. He was glad to be praised since he had often known grumbles when he returned from total immersions, dripping and smelling. He smelt now.
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