‘No, I’ll leave you to it.’ The girl was asleep anyway, but let Young find that out for himself. ‘I have someone else to see.’
After all, he would go and check on Betsy Coleridge. A matter of conscience.
He spoke over his shoulder as he walked away: ‘Let me know how things go.’
Two days later he found out.
He had managed to avoid seeing Stella (not easy since she had left a telephone message several times and rung his doorbell once), still seeing the bruised, swollen face of Betsy Coleridge.
He had sat by her in the side ward where she had been admitted for observation. He had said very little, nothing about her husband, and she had said less. ‘We’ll see you through this,’ he said, not really knowing who ‘we’ was, but somehow meaning Maisie Rolt and Josephine and Rosa Maundy, and possibly even Angela. ‘I’ll be down at Star Court,’ he had said. ‘You’ll see me. But don’t worry, this is just between you and me.’ He wondered for a moment if she even knew who he was, but then, as he was leaving, she said: ‘It’s the job.’
A hammer blow, for it was his job too and even more than Harry Coleridge’s, for he bore the ultimate responsibility inside the Force. What had the job done to him, himself? And what had he done, was doing even now, to Stella?
Two days passed, two committees and the usual run of meetings and letters to answer, and wondering all the time who among them all knew of his own particular problem but well aware how excellently informed most of the men he met were. They knew. As yet, he had not answered Frank’s vital letter, because there was no answer he wanted to make. Answer politely, Mat had said, tighten up your behaviour, find out if Stella’s husband is behind this somewhere, because someone is, and get ready to defend yourself. None of which he wanted to do.
So he sat on all these problems while the routine of two days rolled over him. He passed Harry Coleridge in the lift going to his office and he knew from his face that his enemies were assembling.
Then on the third day Paul Lane asked to see him.
‘Come in, have a drink?’ Friend or enemy, he thought to himself. Lane had been his own recruit to the Force and was as loyal as any, but he probably knew more about Coffin’s past and his relationship with Stella than any of them. Mustn’t be paranoid.
It was late afternoon. His office was full of sun, smelling of autumn bulbs. His secretary had placed a bowl of them on his desk. She too, no doubt, knew everything.
‘Won’t, thank you, although I’d like to. I’m on a diet. Wife’s orders.’
A happy marriage there, then, thought the observer inside Coffin, now checking everyone with an emotional Geiger counter.
‘I’ll smoke if I may, though, sir? If I’m on a diet and not drinking, I have to have something.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I thought I’d come and have a word with you, sir, because the Dean case is getting tricky and Dean is making a nuisance of himself.’
He’d know how to do so, thought Coffin.
‘As things stand at the moment, yes, it looks as though Martin Blackhall is in the clear for the attack on the girl in the shop … She made a statement. It checks out. She says he came into the shop when the two louts were having a go at her and tried to stop them. She knows him, says he buys his socks there … She could be lying, of course.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘I am keeping an open mind.’ Then he said carefully: ‘Meanwhile, the Met have arrested two men who match the description of the attackers, they were trying to rob a similar shop in Piccadilly … We’re going to let the Met see our forensics to see if it matches up with what they’ve got.’
‘Does she know why Martin was soaking wet?’
‘No, she doesn’t know anything about that, can’t remember, and the doctors say it’s pretty remarkable she recalls what she does, short memory being the thing to go as a rule … Still, there it is.’ He sounded regretful, it would have been a nice tidy solution if they could have got one assailant for two crimes. ‘But it doesn’t clear Blackhall from the Amy Dean case.’
‘You think he’s guilty?’
‘I think he’s guilty. Even if he was a hero to the girl in the shop, I think he killed Amy Dean.’
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘His mother has him wrapped up in cotton wool. But of course we shall get to him … I have to say that so far the forensics have been no help. Nothing on the girl or in her car that ties in with him.’
‘What about the bus out to Essex? Anyone who remembers anything?’
‘As yet, no.’
Coffin played with a pencil on his desk. It was silver, with his initials on it, and Stella had given it to him for Christmas. ‘Is that the lot? You can’t blame Jim Dean.’
‘I don’t, but he knows how to play the tune.’
‘Always has.’
Lane said carefully: ‘Apart from anything else, it seems there’s this girl, Angela Kirk, a friend of his daughter’s, that he takes an interest in, and we’ve upset her. Asking her questions. He doesn’t like that.’
‘It was me,’ said Coffin.
‘No doubt you had your reasons, sir,’ said Lane smoothly.
‘One more thing: let me see all you have on that earlier killing, Virginia Scott, wasn’t it? It was never cleared up, and must now be considered in this context.’
‘Of course we’re considering it.’ Lane nodded. ‘It’s all on the computer. You shall have it all.’
Coffin said nothing more. Lane let himself be persuaded to have a drink and they talked for a while, before Paul Lane said he had to go. His wife was singing in the chorus of an amateur production in aid of charity, and he had promised to be home early. She was a Valkyrie.
As he left, he said, fumbling for his driving keys and not looking at John Coffin: ‘By the way, Betsy Coleridge is out of hospital. She’s going off for a short holiday.’
‘Ah.’ Nothing was secret.
‘I think Harry’s planning on taking a bit of sick leave himself.’
No expression in Lane’s eyes or face, he might have been talking of a horse.
‘A good idea.’
‘I thought so.’
At the end of the day, at home at last, Coffin felt a replay of all the events going on inside him. Amy, Angie, Josephine, Mrs Coleridge, Our General. His own problems.
The Blackhalls? An interesting couple. He sat for a moment considering the story as retold by Stella. The death of a husband? A past scandal with surely no relevance to a crime a quarter of a century later? They must get Martin’s own account of events.
But something had been nagging at him all the time, one of those subliminal sensations that might not mean anything at all. He went to his answerphone and ran back the tape to that last anonymous call.
Yes, there in the background, he could just hear a woman’s voice.
CHAPTER 9
The day rolls on
Not a female voice he knew, he thought, playing the tape again, the intonation was not familiar, nor could he hear what it was saying. Just a flash of background noise. Nor could he identify the man sending the message, but the chap was deliberately distorting his voice. Which must mean, Coffin thought, that he knew the speaker.
Well, of course. He knew that what was going on was treachery among friends. The very people you could not trust were the same ones you had trusted most.
Soon now he could expect the call to an informal meeting with the Chairman of the Police Committee. What would be dragged up? His sister Letty and her activities as a property developer?
He poured a drink and pondered whether it had been a mistake to buy this flat from her in St Luke’s? But it hadn’t come cheap, Letty had done him no favours. Letty would make a statement clearing him, if anyone believed it. A check at Companies House would clear him, but by the time they got to doing that, it would be too late, the mud would be stuck all over.
He took the drink to the window to stare out at the view over the rooft
ops to the river which he loved.
Or would they attack him on his relationship with Stella?
That looked likely, and he was more vulnerable there. He was ashamed of himself for minding. He ought to stand and shout to celebrate knowing Stella, for being able to love Stella and claim her love back. Unluckily life wasn’t always like that.
It was raining and the slates were shiny. The sky was darkening. He turned back into the room to switch on a lamp. This room, with the carefully chosen small carpet with its touches of deep coral, the two pictures which had been bought first and which had, in a sense, dictated the carpet, and the big brown leather sofa which was there for comfort, here was his hideaway. A shell into which he retired from the world outside. He had put it together consciously. One or two books he could crawl into, one or two pieces of music, but mainly it was this room in which he hid for comfort.
Not Stella?
The answer was no. The years, the pattern of life, had forced him to be solitary and now it was too late to change.
He sat down on the leather sofa to finish his drink. Whisky. He had hidden that way once, but mercifully not for long, and seen it in time as no true saviour.
But tonight his sanctuary seemed empty. Even Tiddles, that occasionally baleful companion, was not home. Poor Tiddles, neglected like Stella.
There still was no food in the place. He had a picture of the inside of his refrigerator as containing a heel of cheese which might once have been Brie and a bottle of mineral water.
Suddenly he was hungry. A hunger that could only be satisfied by fish and chips. The nearest eating place was Max’s establishment round the corner where fish and chips, as a dish, was not to be had.
He dragged himself upright. He might persuade Max to grill a sole.
Outside, he met Stella, Tiddles and Bob; the trio looked jaunty and cheerful, even aggressive, not like waifs and strays, objects of sympathy at all.
Suddenly, Coffin realized that guilty feelings were just as much a self-indulgence as drink. Stella didn’t need his sympathy, she had been fighting her own battles and celebrating her own victories for a long time now, nor Tiddles (God, certainly not Tiddles who was sound in tooth and claw), nor Bob who knew where to put his feet with the best.
Equally suddenly, he realized that the boot was on the other foot and that Stella was studying him with sympathy.
‘You look dead beat.’ She patted the bag she was carrying. ‘Come on in and have some supper. I’ve got fish and chips in here, that’s why this pair are with me, they can smell it.’
‘Just what I was fancying,’ he said.
‘Got enough for two.’ She looked down at the cat and dog. ‘For four, if you and I aren’t greedy.’
He unlocked her door for her in the small flat which was her share of the old church. Across the cloister St Luke’s Theatre had at last been created out of the main body of the kirk. The entrance to this was on the other side, opposite the Theatre Workshop from which strains of Wagner could be heard.
‘How are the Valkyries doing?’
‘All tickets sold out.’ The performance of the Choral Society and the Friends of St Luke’s Dramatic Group were always a sell-out, since the relations and friends of the performers formed a conscript audience. ‘Mind you, it won’t win any prizes, but they enjoy it. I look in at the odd rehearsal to see how they’re doing and they’ve a whale of a time. Amateurs always do, bless ’em.’
Stella went into her kitchen, followed by the other three. She produced paper plates and plastic knives and forks, then distributed carefully adjusted shares of fish and chips to the eaters. More fish for Tiddles than for Bob, but no chips; lots of chips for Bob but not too much fish. What was left, she divided equally between Coffin and herself.
‘I got cod because Tiddles prefers it.’
She was wearing jeans and a checked shirt, but the jeans were suede and the shirt of the finest cotton. Her eyes were bright and she was humming as she put glasses on the table.
To Coffin’s experienced eye, this meant a man. He was shocked at the sharp arrow of jealousy that went through him. There always would be someone in Stella’s life, that was how it went.
‘How are things, Stella?’ The fish was good, the batter crisp and hot.
‘You might well ask.’ She poured some wine, still humming. ‘But fine, fine. The TV part is still dicey, and I’m up for a part at the National, but I don’t think I’ll get it, they don’t like me there, I’m too commercial.’
Definitely a man, Coffin thought sourly.
‘What’s the part?’
‘A Pinter. You wouldn’t think I was a Pinter woman, would you, but it turns out I am. A non-heroine, of course, but I have some lovely lines, and some beautiful pauses.’
They went into a beautiful pause themselves then, which silence Stella broke.
‘I shouldn’t ask, but I’m going to …’
‘Don’t bother to finish: No, we haven’t got anyone for Amy Dean’s death.’
‘The clever money round here is on Martin Blackhall.’
Coffin was silent.
‘You might talk about it.’
He had on his desk at the moment an account written by Chief Inspector Young of his interview with Martin Blackhall. Archie Young was not as a rule much of a writer but he had got across the feeling of this meeting. Perhaps because he had been an irritated man.
This is a short memo which was asked for, it began.
Coffin hadn’t remembered that he had asked, but he took this as a measure of Archie Young’s repressed irritation at the way the interview had gone.
I asked the questions. I had with me Sergeant Mary Dover, who has had nursing training. Martin Blackhall was sitting up in bed. Present also were Sir Thomas Blackhall and Bryan Pettifer, Blackhall’s solicitor. No medical staff were present but were outside the door. A nurse came in twice.
We requested and were refused permission to tape the interview. Sergeant Dover took notes.
There had followed a summary of the question and answer session, spiced by Young’s own comments.
I must begin by saying that Blackhall did not look as ill as I had expected him to do; Sergeant Dover agreed, and I came to the conclusion he was being protected by his parents. His mother was not present but she’s a well-known and much loved figure in this hospital. I think they would do a lot for her.
Blackhall said he’d like to make a statement: he said he had nothing to do with the attack on the girl in the Stocking Shop in Spinnergate, but that he had come back to Spinnergate on the subway, on his way home after what he called a ‘time out’, had passed the shop and seen what was going on and waded in. He knew the girl. He says he had hauled off the raiders, one of whom had fled when he was attacked himself. He remembers being hit on the chin, and falling. Thinks he hit his head when he went down.
Coffin could understand Lane’s sourness at this point since it would go some way to letting Rosa Maundy off the hook. An accident, I didn’t mean to damage him, would be her plea.
He did not know who hit him, but thinks it was one of the female gang that hang out on the Planter Estate. He seems to know about them.
Part of the mythology of the area, thought Coffin.
Wouldn’t know her face, wore goggles, but might know her smell. Petrol and sweat. (This sounds like Rosa Maundy to me; she’s got an HGV licence and drives for her father. We questioned her once about an assault on her father. He hit her once too often and she broke his jaw.) I don’t think Martin Blackhall will identify his attacker, seems to like the gang.
I questioned him about the death of Amy Dean. He denied all knowledge. In answer to my questions he said he knew nothing of her death and disappearance until told by his mother in hospital when he came round. The words he used to his mother about ‘not meaning to hurt her’ referred to the Stocking Shop incident. He was confused and had meant to say: I was protecting her.
On my further questioning him, he answered that he had quarrelled with Amy
Dean and left her sitting in her car in a car park near the Dockland Light Railway. He thinks he must have left his wallet in the car then.
He said the quarrel was ‘about nothing special’. Pressed, he said he became aware that there was an affair going on with another man. He didn’t approve, this was the cause of the argument.
He did not harm her and did not see her again. He got drunk and went for a walk by the river, he fell into the river while taking this walk, and that was how he got wet and damaged his hands climbing out. It sobered him up and he decided to go back to the university.
Unspoken but there between the lines, was Young’s bitter comment: Believe that if you can.
He concluded by saying: I was not allowed any more questions. But to my mind he’s the one.
Chief Superintendent Lane had added a note: I concur. Think we should press Martin Blackhall. P.L.
The impression this report had made on Coffin was still strong as he faced Stella, and a flicker of irritation stirred inside him. He turned the fish over with his fork.
Stella eyed him accusingly. ‘You don’t like it, you don’t like cod.’
‘It’s fine, fine … You know I can’t say much. I can tell you he is not under suspicion for attacking the girl in the shop at Spinnergate, and it looks as though he was the innocent victim there. One of Rosa Maundy’s girls beat him up. We don’t know which one, but it was probably Rosa herself.’
Stella raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, you lot. You ought to be looking for the robbers.’
His irritation increased. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s been done. But I want this other attack cleared up. I won’t have it. We’ll get someone for it. Tomfool behaviour. Totally unnecessary, caused a lot of confusion, apart from nearly killing Blackhall. I want the gang broken up. They’re dangerous.’
‘That’s not how they see it down at Star Court.’
‘I keep the peace here.’ He could feel himself getting more and more assertive.
Cracking Open a Coffin Page 14