‘Looks like a piece from a game,’ said Lane. ‘I just hung on to it. You never know.’
‘Her,’ said Coffin. ‘Not it. This is a woman.’
He turned the figurine over. On the back he could just make out some printed words.
TOMBS AND TORTURERS.
And then, horizontally down the spine, so that he had to turn it round to read it in the light of a street lamp.
THE VIRGIN.
‘Tombs and torturers?’ repeated Lane, after him. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Think about it,’ said Coffin, turning the little figure over in his hand.
It was at this point that he began to realize what a very bizarre and difficult case he had fallen into.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning Terry Place died in hospital. He had been swinging in and out of consciousness for several days. During this time he had admitted killing William Egan. Unasked, he had admitted the murder several times.
About the motive for killing him Place seemed less clear. Yes, he had feared Bill Egan. He thought Egan would beat him up when they met. Egan had promised to do him this service. He had also engaged to do the same thing for Chief Superintendent John Coffin and one or two other enemies if he could get round to them, but he had let Place know that he had a prior claim.
‘So you got in first?’
The questioning was being done by an older detective, Sergeant Jimmy Thackeray, who had known Terry Place well at one time. A transcript of the questions and answers would be sent to all interested parties. All in the TAS would receive one. A senior nurse was also present all the time.
No answer.
After a bit, he said, ‘Yes, that would be it.’
‘Why did you kill him with such violence, Terry?’
No answer. He never did answer that one.
When he died his wife was by his side, holding his hand. You could hardly say they had been reconciled, but there seemed no rancour between them. Apparently he felt a minimal comfort in contact with her. And after all, she owed him that much.
One other person was present during this period and this was John Coffin. Paul Lane had alerted him to Terry Place’s imminent death.
‘He’s going. But he can still talk. Or just about. If you want to talk to him, you’d better get down there.’
Coffin said: ‘Terry, what is this with you and Tombs and Torturers?’
There were other questions he might have asked, such as, What do you know about potassium cyanide? or: Did you have any reason to hate the Pitt family? but somehow this popped out first. For a moment he thought that Terry was going to say something important, because his mouth started to form a word, but nothing came out.
I wish I could guess what it was, thought Coffin. You’ve never been much help to anyone all your life, but I think you were trying then.
A doctor, young, female, pretty, appeared at this point, and cleared them all out. Mrs Place was allowed to stay.
John Coffin walked away, marvelling at the strangeness of life which made him now mourn a petty criminal whom he had not liked and whom no one had appeared to love, and who might, just possibly, have also poisoned three people. Now he felt a pang at the closeness of life and death. You never knew what you were in for when you got up in the morning.
Before he went to the hospital, John Coffin had had a telephone call from his current girlfriend. She had started a relationship (as she put it) with someone else. So that was over. He found he did not mind. Still, it was part of the day’s detritus, to be swept into a tidy heap when he had time. ‘You have kept me in the background of your life for too long now; I don’t think you will notice when I am not there,’ she had said. All too true. Being an actress, she was a girl for the foreground.
In addition, he had called at the Fleming house where he had got no reply to his bell-ringing. Sarah would be at the Polytechnic and the children at school, but what about Peter Fleming? He could be out walking, but Coffin was far from sure. He felt there was a face behind the curtains in the front room that was listening and watching.
If necessary, he would send Sergeant Phyllis Henley, who seemed to understand the ways of the family, to sit outside the door in her car until Peter Fleming either came out or came home.
All this had to be fitted in around the other main tasks of the day. He was an administrator now as well as a detective, so that in the morning he had a report to write, two interviews to conduct, while in the afternoon he must drive to central London to attend a committee. Moreover, although there was no longer any question of an inquiry into the shootings on the river, this was by no means the end of the matter. There was a report to write here, too.
Before the end of the day, he had had a short sharp interview with Chief Inspector Chips Salter, who produced the names of the two families he suspected of killing the Pitts, with his reasons for this suspicion, while at the same time letting John Coffin know he thought he was wasting his time looking elsewhere.
‘It’s basically a simple matter,’ he said, banging his hand on the file of testimony he had produced for inspection. ‘And you’re letting it get out of hand.’
He managed to convey some contempt for the TAS and its operations at the same time.
There are these witnesses in the Rosy Crown pub say they heard Tim Cheever say he’d like to clear the Pitts away, and a man who says he heard Flo Coster say, Do it with poison. She’s a hard one.’
‘Just pub talk,’ said Coffin.
‘Oh, I have confirmation.’ Salter was triumphant. ‘Two of the Cheever brothers were seen outside the Pitt house the day they died. A witness says she saw them knock on the door.’
‘And what do they say they were doing?’
‘Selling double glazing.’
‘I suppose they do sell it?’
‘If they can get any mug to buy it.’
‘I don’t think you’ve got enough.’
‘Of course it’s not enough, but it’s a start.’
The trouble with you, my friend, Coffin thought, looking at him, is that you make up your mind first and get the evidence afterwards.
He mustered his own roll-call of suspects: Edward Pitt, Terry Place, possibly the girl, Nona. And you had to consider Christopher Court.
‘What about the MP?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘You can’t consider him seriously.’
Think so? said Coffin to himself, running over his litany of suspects again in his mind.
Chips Salter was an enormous man, at one time the tallest man in the Force, and he took himself seriously. He went on tartly, scenting the unspoken criticism:
‘It’s a start,’ he repeated with every appearance of obstinacy. ‘I’m getting a case together and it’s going in the right direction. I know these families.’ And you don’t, was the implication. ‘They both belong to the National Front and they both were in that tarring and feathering riot down Deptford High Street. One of my men had to have plastic surgery after that little lark. I didn’t get them for that effort.’
So now he would get them for something they might not have done. He had not got a result on the first case because he had not been sharp enough. So sloppy police work would be followed by further sloppy police work.
‘What about the Costers?’
‘More dicey there,’ admitted Salter. ‘But they would be the source of the poison. Rupert Coster is a porter in a wholesale jewellery firm. They use potassium cyanide commercially. He might have access to the poison.’
He had it all worked out, but Coffin did not believe a word of it.
‘Might have access?’ he inquired.
‘I’m working on it,’ Chief Inspector Salter gathered his papers together and stood up.
He disliked the TAS intensely, knew very well he was an object of study for them, knew (through the indiscretions of his old friend Jumbo Jardine) how they were going about it, and meant to defend himself stoutly.
Attack was the be
st method of defence.
‘I’ll get my evidence before you get yours,’ he said.
Did he bang the door? He decided to be subtle and closed it very slowly and carefully.
Coffin sat back in his chair and laughed.
Last laugh of the day.
He hadn’t forgotten Rhoda Brocklebank and his need to talk to her, but he was saving her up. Her time would come, but he had to choose that time. He did not want to bring her in to talk to him, nor did he want to interview her in the presence of her devoted but sharp-eyed husband.
Before he went home that evening, he managed to consult Sergeant Phyllis Henley. He came across her having a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit in the canteen.
She looked up in surprise; she swallowed her mouthful of chocolate digestive, and tried to stand up.
‘Don’t get up, Phyllis.’ He sat down beside her.
‘Let me get you a cup, Chief Superintendent.’
He allowed her to walk across to the counter for a cup of tea because he felt she was flustered, not an emotion one easily associated with Sergeant Henley, and it might settle her down.
‘I was having a chocolate biscuit to celebrate,’ she admitted, when she was sitting down again. ‘Don’t usually indulge.’
‘What are you celebrating?’ He wondered if he ought to know. Promotion? Something to do with her husband? He knew she was married.
‘I’ve written an article on Women in the Force, and it’s going to be published. The editor just rang up, asking for pictures. Do you think I’ll be allowed to use them?’
‘Don’t see why not. What’s it for?’
‘Women Today. They are having a series on professional women at work. I’m one. I’m ever so chuffed.’
‘Congratulations. Well done.’
She smiled modestly, and took another bite of chocolate biscuit. A crumb of chocolate stuck to her lip, where Coffin watched it slowly melt as he spoke to her.
‘I want to talk to Rhoda Brocklebank and Peter Fleming, but I can’t seem to get at them. Can you help?’
Phyllis set down her cup. She did not ask him why he wanted to speak to them. No need. She had her own sources of information. ‘About Mrs Brocklebank, I don’t think I can do much there. About Peter Fleming, I saw him walking down Romney Road as I came here.’ She had a motorcycle herself on which she sped down the roads. ‘And that’s his usual way home. He’ll be there now, I’d say. Sarah will be back to get him his tea. He won’t miss that.’
‘Thanks. I’ll get along.’
‘Can’t help you about the lady, though.’
He stood up. ‘Well, if you think of anything.’
‘Wait a minute … I’ve seen her going along to the library regularly, pretty well every night. She must be quite a reader. I should think you could find her there.’
‘Thanks again.’ He felt doubtful about patrolling the library precincts to accost Mrs Brocklebank on her way to collect an armful of romance.
The sergeant had not finished. ‘And then after that, she pops into the Red Trafalgar.’ The Red Trafalgar was the public house called the Trafalgar Arms with its exterior painted in bright red as opposed to the Green Trafalgar, a pub of the same name, over Deptford Bridge and painted a dark green. ‘Not always,’ went on the sergeant, ‘but often.’
‘Thank you. You’ve given me a lot.’ He knew he had come to the right person. She must go round the district like one of those fishes with a kind of fishing net in their jaws, sucking up all the information as they did the little fish. All the same, he liked her; she was a woman of great strength. ‘See if you can get a word with Rhoda Brocklebank.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier for you?’
‘No, I want to concentrate on the boy, Peter. I think you might get more out of her. Woman to woman, you know.’ The sergeant looked doubtful, but gave a nod. ‘Get her to talk about the girl, Nona Pitt, and about Terry Place.’
Phyllis was surprised. ‘Place? Do you suspect him of being involved in the Pitt poisoning?’
‘He’s always been in my mind.’
He carried with him a memory of the perplexed, thoughtful look on her face.
With the information she had given him, he approached the Fleming house in Queen Charlotte’s Alley in the hope of seeing Peter on his own without the disturbing presence of Sarah.
The boy himself opened the door. He looked taken aback to see the policeman.
‘I thought you were Sal forgotten her key. She often does. Is it about your washing?’ He stared around vaguely. ‘I don’t know where it is. Could you come back later when Sal is here?’
‘It’s you I want to see.’
He was inside by then, having quietly inserted himself while he was talking.
The boy stood where he was, not welcoming, not unwelcoming either, but neutral.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right,’ Peter said briefly. ‘So what is it? I’m not sure I want to talk.’
‘I do have to ask some questions. I left it as long as I could.’
‘Well, you aren’t the first. Another one of you came round. Two in fact. Came together. A big bald man and a little one with a red face.’
Without any difficulty Coffin identified Chief Inspector Salter and one of his inspectors, a man called Stoker, said to have his eye on the main chance. He too was about to figure in Coffin’s confidential TAS report.
They wanted to ask questions about Nona Pitt. Did she have any boyfriends round here. Had there been any trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
Peter gave the shrug that Coffin began to recognize as a family gesture. ‘I don’t know. Fights, jealousy, that sort of thing. That’s what he seemed to mean.’
‘And had there been?’
Again a shrug, this time dismissive. ‘No, not that I know. Nona wasn’t like that. She was private. Quiet. You had to get to know her.’
‘She was a strikingly pretty girl, though.’
‘I suppose she was.’
‘You know she was. You were in love with her, weren’t you? Surely it was her looks that attracted you.’
‘Nona was only a kid when I first knew her. She didn’t turn into what you saw till she came back from New York.’
‘But you were friends even in those early days?’
‘She followed me around.’
‘And when she came back the situation was reversed? You followed her?’
‘We were still friends,’ he said quickly. ‘We’d both grown up a bit, that’s all. Nona’d grown up a lot in New York.’
‘And where does Terry Place come in?’
He was sniffing round, trying to build a picture of the relationship. He was sure there was something.
‘Terry hadn’t met her.’ The response came at once.
‘They met in the tunnel.’
‘Well, yes, there.’
‘Why did you take Nona there?’
‘We were sightseeing. I was showing her places of interest. She liked historical places.’ It was pat, could be true.
‘The tunnel was no place of beauty.’
‘But interesting. That was all.’
Coffin nodded. ‘And you did not know Terry Place was there?’
‘No.’
‘Your sister thinks you did.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t take any notice of Sarah. She doesn’t know anything about it. How could she?’
Coffin did not answer. How could she? It was something she had felt rather than known logically. She had implied as much.
All this time they had been standing by the front door. He closed it. ‘Can we sit down?’
He did not wait for an answer but led the way through to the kitchen. Peter had been sitting at the table on which there was a mug of tea and a brightly coloured magazine.
‘Sit down, Peter. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea. Carry on drinking.’
‘It’s cold now.’ He swept the magazine into a drawer, then carried the tea mug over to th
e sink where he emptied it. He leant against the sink and turned to face Coffin. ‘Take a chair.’
‘Thanks. Your sister says there was some game you played with Terry Place. What was it?’
‘I don’t know what Sarah thinks she’s up to.’
‘And you didn’t play any game with Terry?’
‘We were both interested in things like the Cutty Sark, and the old tunnel and old Greenwich. Terry wasn’t educated, but he was interested in old things.’
‘So it wasn’t a game, just a common interest?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Not at work at the moment, are you?’
‘No, but I’m going back tomorrow.’
That will stop you walking round the streets and put you where I can find you, thought Coffin.
‘Does the name Malcolm Kincaid mean anything to you?’
Peter frowned. ‘Yeah. I do seem to remember the name.’
‘Remember anything about him?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Nona ever talk about him?’
‘Nona? Not to me. Was he a boyfriend? In New York?’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know in that case.’
‘Nothing to do with New York.’
Coffin stood up to leave. He thought he had got all he could for the time being. At the very least, he was beginning to form a picture of the relationship between Peter Fleming, Nona Pitt and Terry Place. In some ways it hardly seemed to exist; in another way, it had almost brought about the death of all three. As it was, Peter was the only survivor. And yet it might be pointless to speculate on it. It could be like the mysterious caller on the telephone to Mr Wallace requesting the visit to Qualtrough Avenue: you just did not know if it existed at all. Or, like the note from a sick friend sent to the about-to-be-murdered Mrs Abby Borden of Fall River, it might mean something or might mean nothing at all.
But for himself he disliked coincidence of any sort and always sought for a logical answer. Even in cases in the past, where he had looked for one and found none, he had always felt if he had searched harder or been luckier, then the answer would have been found. Like the case, some years ago, when two men died in the same way from similar stab wounds on the same day in the same street. He never was able to prove a connection, but he remained convinced that there must have been one. The woman convicted of killing one man always denied killing or even knowing the other.
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