Cracking Open a Coffin
Page 25
The right girl, the right mood, he had to have those, and then there was the desire for death and violence. He was a periodic serial killer.
‘Yes, you are fastidious, hard to satisfy in your specifications, but get them right and you do your job, Jem. You liked it, it was your pleasure.’
‘You are playing with words, guessing. You’ll never prove it.’
‘No, I may not get you for those other murders, but I will get you for the murder of Josephine Day. Oh, you wore gloves, lovely soft leather gloves such as I see over there, and gloves leave a print too. You left prints.’
‘There was a fire, I believe.’
‘Yes, set up by you to burn any evidence that you might have let lie. But you know yourself that once we start looking, when we know where to look, we find things. That’s what we are good at. And one thing leads to another. You’ll stand trial, Jem.’
‘You’ve already tried and convicted me.’
‘Right, I have.’
‘Very ethical. I’ll get you for this.’
‘Try it … Oh, and don’t destroy the gloves, that would be very silly. Oh, and another thing, I have asked Chief Superintendent Lane to meet me here. I shan’t go till he arrives.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘And Angela won’t be out there. I’ve asked for a policewoman to come and take her away.’
Dean started to fumble in a drawer low in his desk.
Coffin watched without moving. ‘Go ahead, I won’t stop you. Shoot yourself. It’ll be a pleasure to watch you.’
‘I’m not going to shoot myself, I’m getting a drink.’ Dean planked down a bottle of whisky and a glass. ‘I’ll fight you on this.’
They sat staring at each other in bitter hostility until the deep tones of Chief Superintendent Paul Lane could be heard outside.
As he drove away, a kind of film of people, places and events was running through his mind. His city. He knew that somewhere in that city Angela was crying and nursing her bruises, and that Beenie and Mick were saying I told you so to each other. Josephine, Maisie Rolt, Sir Thomas and Victoria Blackhall, Stella, yes, always Stella. His own face was there somewhere.
The university. He slowed down as he passed its buildings, almost minded to stop and say to the security guard: And is it you who have been telephoning me with warnings about watching my back? Your daughter works on the switchboard and probably knows what you’ve been trying to do. It could have been her voice in the background. But he knew he wouldn’t bother. Might take the man out for a drink one day and see what he had to say.
He wasn’t going in the direction of Star Court House, and nowhere near Pickerskill Wood, but he wouldn’t forget it.
He recalled his drive through the tunnel, struggling not to crash into one of Our General’s riders. Her Valkyries.
But all the time underneath, he was thinking of that relationship between Dean and Coleridge.
Coleridge might never be punished. He’d get away with it, retire and grow roses and heaven help his wife.
He felt as though he had lived through his own Götterdämmerung. He avoided his own headquarters, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him professionally, nothing good probably.
He drove straight back to St Luke’s Mansions. Too much to hope to see Stella, but he would find her somewhere.
But there she was, surrounded by the cheerful group of ladies from the Choral Society and the Friends of St Luke’s. She greeted him.
‘Tremendously good rehearsal for the chorus and soloists. Lovely stuff.’
‘I want to speak to you. Come upstairs.’
‘Of course, love to.’ She let herself be led away.
For once they were on their own. No cat, no dog to disturb them. Both animals had been there, however. A letter was sticking out from under the mat, where Tiddles usually hid away his trophies. Goodness knows how long it had been there, Tiddles had chewed it and possibly Bob had sat on it. He put it on the table, he would read it later. Now he wanted to talk to Stella.
‘I’ve really blown it. I shall probably resign. I let personal anger and animosity boil over.’ He clenched his hands into fists. ‘But I was right, I was right.’
‘Calm down. Of course you were.’ It was her turn to be the stronger, the comforter. She put her arms round him. ‘You’ll come through.’
‘I might be a dead loss to you. I’ve still got that bloody Board of Inquiry hanging over me. I’m supposed to be seeing the chairman tomorrow.’ Was that really tomorrow? He felt timeless. ‘He’ll probably suggest I resign quietly. I’m not sure you ought to take me on. I might be a walking disaster for you. You ought to steer clear.’ He looked at her painfully. ‘I have to admit that, inside me, I thought I was the one to choose and that you would be lucky marrying me. I wrapped it up, but it was that way. I know better now. Forgive me for being insufferable, Stella.’
Stella started to laugh. ‘I will say for you that when you have a swing in mood, then you do it thoroughly. I love you and you love me, whatever that means, and I mean to hang on to it. And cheer up, tomorrow’s Friday.’
He stared at her: the day he had the interview with the chairman. What else?
‘Friday, remember Friday. We’re getting married.’
‘Stella, dearest Stella.’ She had cracked some hard carapace inside him, releasing him. He started to laugh. One way or another, Friday was going to be his Big Day.
His eye fell upon the letter which Tiddles had chewed and which Bob had sat upon. How long had it been under the rug in the hall? No stamp, it had been delivered by hand. His eyes still on Stella, he opened it. ‘Let me just read this, love, then I’ll be with you again.’
It was from Josephine, she had signed it clearly and boldly, dated it the day of her death. He read:
When I saw you that first day I had already buried Amy. But I wanted her found and I knew you would find her. I could not leave her where she was. A rat had begun to gnaw her face. I am a little mad on this issue, I know. Why did I not go to the police? Quite simple. I was frightened. I had come very close to being accused of murder before. I had found this body. I knew how the police mind worked. I would be their first suspect. There was so much to incriminate me. I knew her, I had worked with her, I had found her.
Then such guilt swept over me, I decided to confess after all, tell all that I knew about my own child, her life and her death, most of all tell of her relationship with Dean, tell everything I could. I shall let Dean know. You might call this suicidal, perhaps I desire a death. I write this to you, just in case. I judge you an honest man. Help me if you can.
‘What is it?’
‘Read it for yourself.’ He handed the letter over. ‘I didn’t help her, I didn’t help her.’
The telephone began to ring. He picked up the telephone, listened, then turned towards Stella, her head bent over the letter.
‘Betsy Coleridge stuck a knife into her husband this morning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He died on the way to hospital.’
If you enjoyed Cracking Open a Coffin, check out these other great Gwendoline Butler titles.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gwendoline Butler is a Londoner, born in a part of South London for which she still has a tremendous affection. She was educated at one of the Haberdasher’s Schools and then read History at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. After a short period doing research and teaching, she married, and it was while her husband was Professor of Mediaeval History at the University of St Andrews that she first began writing crime fiction.
In the early 1970s she returned to live near London when her husband, Dr Lionel Butler, became Principal of the Royal Holloway College, University of London. She is now a widow and lives in Surrey; she has one daughter.
Gwendoline Butler spends her time travelling and looking at pictures, furniture and buildings.
She has also found time to publish some thirty-odd books - she says she has always been too alarmed to count the exact number.
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Coffin on Murder Street
Coffin and the Paper Man
Coffin in the Black Museum
Coffin Underground
Coffin in Fashion
Coffin on the Water
A Coffin for the Canary
A Coffin for Pandora
A Coffin from the Past
Coffin’s Dark Number
Coffin Following
Coffin in Malta
A Nameless Coffin
Coffin Waiting
A Coffin for Baby
Death Lives Next Door
The Interloper
The Murdering Kind
The Dull Dead
Coffin in Oxford
Receipt for Murder
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