‘Yes, sir, visiting the address we have for Mary Andrews.’ Sergeant Downey added hastily: ‘But not cutting across the Second City’s investigation, they’ve been kept fully in touch.’
He feels as awkward as I do, thought Coffin, and probably not too pleased to run across me in Phœbe’s room. Coffin saw he would have to ask the questions; in spite of his air of amiable cooperation, it was clear that Downey would not volunteer anything and had probably been told not to. Chief Superintendent Watson might be a friend but he guarded his territory like a tom cat.
‘You’ve been to the address? It checked out?’
‘Yes, oh yes, she lived there all right.’
That’s it then? ‘So who else lives there?’
‘That’s just it, sir. No one does. The place is empty. Not cleared of furniture, that’s still there although it must be getting pretty damp, but the owner is an old, sick man.’
It was the usual getting-blood-out-of-a-stone task, the Met would never change. What was theirs was theirs and theirs only. He decided to pull rank.
‘Come on, Sergeant, what’s the name of the old, sick man? What did he have to do with Mary and where is he now?’
Like a well-trained dog, Sergeant Downey responded to the touch of the leash. ‘Edward French, sir, he’s in hospital, and he’s Mary’s maternal grandfather. She lived with him.’
I suppose I will find out which hospital, Coffin thought. ‘You talked to him?’ What I mean is, what did you get?
Sergeant Downey said regretfully: ‘He can’t talk, sir. Dying, out of this world, far away.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the table. ‘That’s the hospital and the ward, but he’s no help.’
A touch irritable, Coffin said: ‘What about the neighbours? Any help there?’
‘No neighbours, they’ve all moved out, the whole area is due for redevelopment.’
Lovely, lovely, thought Coffin, we have an address only no one lives there any more. Poor Mary, poor child, she really was Miss Nobody.
Sergeant Downey tried to read his expression. ‘One of those promising leads that come to nothing,’ he said regretfully. Quite clearly he was already thinking of his journey back, the roads would be getting busy, he had made good time up here, but he might be slower back.
Phœbe returned, nodded at Coffin, a nod which said: Your business is under way. ‘Had your talk, you two?’ she said jovially.
‘Yes,’ said Downey quickly. That was it. Over.
Phœbe turned to John Coffin. ‘I think Inspector Evans, he’s the man in charge of the squad, would be glad to have a word with you. Get your impression of the situation, anything you may have observed, that sort of thing.’
‘Right, I’ll go.’
‘Third door on the left … Want me to come?’
‘I’ll find the way.’
As soon as the door closed behind him, the Sergeant said: ‘What’s up with him?’
‘He’s got worries.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Downey thought about his wife, and the meal she had planned because this was one of their anniversaries, and for which he was going to be late.
‘Did you tell him?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘But you’re going to.’ It wasn’t a question. A statement of what must be, or she’d know the reason why and the Sergeant responded.
‘Yes.’
I know you hate to share, thought Phœbe, you’ll hang on to a bit of information like some precious pearl.
In a room down the corridor, Coffin met Inspector Evans, a neat, square Welshman. Evans held out his hand and gave Coffin a warm, hard shake. He was a man who liked to get a grip on things. He knew about John Coffin, Chief Commander of the Second City Force, but he was in no way intimidated.
‘It’s the usual routine, sir, you know how it goes. The telephone lines to the hotel are covered already and after that it’s what you might call ad hoc, we have to respond to the situation as it develops.’
‘Have you got anyone in the hotel itself?’
‘That’s more difficult in case the kidnapper has someone planted on the staff, but they employ contract cleaners and I think we can put a woman in that way. One of my best WDs, she’s middle-aged and just right. She hates housework but never mind that.’
Coffin could tell that Evans was being deliberately cheerful and talkative. Or perhaps he was always easy with the conversation.
‘Have you been in touch with my sister?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a message to her about the telephone tap—’ he didn’t say how—‘but we haven’t told her about Sergeant Miller in the cleaning department, we thought it better not.’
‘I’m glad she’s got a woman around. Letty’s not as tough as she acts.’
‘Do you want to talk to your sister? There’s a protected line that is safe.’
‘Yes, I would like to talk to Letty.’
The Inspector spoke down the telephone on his desk, issued a few instructions, and then handed the instrument to Coffin. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He went out of the room, closing the door silently behind him.
The room seemed suddenly quiet.
Letty’s voice, when he spoke to her, sounded faint and strained. Yes, she was all right, coping, and waiting for the next order from the kidnapper.
No, he couldn’t do anything else for her, just leave her to go through what lay ahead, she had to bear it on her own.
‘I just wanted to say, about those killings in Spinnergate, the two girls …’ No one had told her about the third body, for her there were just the two. ‘I just wanted to tell you that the box has something different inside …’
‘You’re not making sense, Letty.’
But that was it, she had cut the line. She left him with a few words he could not understand. What box?
When he rejoined Phœbe and Sergeant Downey, they were both standing by the window, obviously waiting for him. He was surprised to see Downey still there.
‘Was that all right?’ asked Phœbe.
‘Fine.’ He turned to Downey. ‘I thought you’d be off.’
‘I am just going, but I had something to tell you. The library ticket found with the girl … the forensic brought up a fingerprint on the plastic. Not the girl’s, so the chances are, or could be, that it belongs to the killer.’
No use now but if we pick up a suspect … well, it would come in handy.
‘I’ll stay around,’ Coffin said to Phœbe, ‘get a room somewhere. There are things I want to do.’
‘Really?’ Phœbe leaned back in her chair and studied him. ‘And here was me thinking you came here to find your sister or possibly just to see me.’
‘Now, Phœbe.’
‘And all this time you really had other things to do.’
‘You’re a devil, Phœbe.’
‘Yes, but I’m a clever devil.’ She laughed. ‘And I saw your face when Downey was talking … You’re not letting go, are you?’
‘Just a feeling that Downey may not have got all he could out of his visit here.’
‘I can recommend several places to stay. Or you could stay with me.’
‘I think I’ll be better on my own.’
Phœbe laughed again, tolerantly and affectionately. ‘I never thought otherwise. And as it happens I’ve got two kids, a large dog and a larger husband cluttering up the place. But I expect we could have tucked you in.’
He wasn’t sure if he believed a word of all that, but Phœbe had always known how to deliver a parting line.
He got himself a room in a dim lodging-house on the Edgbaston Road. He took a small room from which an even smaller bathroom had been gouged, but it had a telephone by the bed, if it worked, and the water was hot. He felt anonymous here, which was what he wanted.
From this lodging he telephoned Stella.
‘I’m staying on one night, you don’t mind? I’ll keep in touch. Yes, I’ve seen Letty, I can’t talk too much but it’s trouble with her daughter but I’m getting it sorted. You don�
�t mind? Sure, my darling?’
‘Dearest, no,’ said Stella, staring down at Phœbe’s invitation which was now in her possession.
CHAPTER 17
The river lets go some of its burden
Stella, left alone with only the cat and dog for company, found herself worrying more and more about St Luke’s Theatre and its finances which now looked shaky in the extreme. She called a meeting of her trusted lieutenants: Alison, Rebecca, and Albert, Frederico (who was not Italian but liked the name), Celia and Joseph. Stage manager, assistant stage manager, lighting supremo, wardrobe head, the exploitation manager and front of house manager. They were all young, all keen, all in their first jobs pretty well, all on short contracts, and all would leave to go on to better jobs if they could get them when they had been trained. Stella paid very little but she was a good trainer.
She would hold a separate meeting with the teachers and the Administrator of the fledgling Drama School because this involved different problems.
The meeting was quiet and serious; they had picked up rumours of financial stringency. Almost all managements ran into problems of this sort these days but they had trusted Stella Pinero and Letty Bingham. No one mentioned the word bankruptcy so they avoided each other’s worried faces.
And what could she say to them? My partner in this enterprise, Letty Bingham, has skipped off with most of the money in our joint theatre account. We are in trouble.
The murders didn’t help. They had all known Didi, who had hung around both the main theatre and the Theatre Workshop picking up odd pieces of employment as she could, all temporary and all poorly paid, but it hadn’t mattered to Didi, what had counted to her was to be in contact with the theatre world she loved. And that chance of getting a place at the Drama School.
Alison had seen most of her, since stage managers always need extra help especially if they get it for almost no pay. ‘The sad thing is she would never have been a success, she had no talent.’
‘You can’t be sure about that,’ said Frederico, who had a kind heart. ‘She was so young, people do develop, you know.’ He was all of twenty-one himself.
‘She was so naïve,’ said Rebecca. ‘She would take up with anyone who offered an opportunity to act or work in the theatre.’
There was a mutter of assent from round the table. Stella felt both sad and amused, this bunch was not as sophisticated as they thought. Oh, granted there was a surface slickness, but every one of them would do almost anything to hang on to work in the theatre. They had as many illusions and dreams as Didi ever had, their worldliness was one thin layer deep; if it had not been they would never have entered a profession where their chances of being unemployed were infinitely greater than their chances of being a star.
Take her own life. Stella was a success, could call herself a star figure, was a household name, but she had known the feeling that came to every out of work performer and would come to all those in the room in their turn: that this was the end and they would never get another part, and would join the ranks of the permanently, terminally resting.
Every one of the group now sitting round the table and drinking Coke had been questioned by the police and not found it enjoyable. ‘Not like a Miss Marple movie,’ Rebecca had said. ‘Great fat man who smoked all the time.’ Rebecca was very Clean Air and Stella could see that Sergeant Fish, who had also questioned her while still smoking, had not made a good impression. ‘Sharp, too, acted as if he didn’t believe a word I said.’
‘That’s just manner,’ said Frederico. ‘You know, being professional.’ He was the only one who had enjoyed the experience; he had mingled with the police team, spoken to uniformed as well plain clothes men and had, as he said, ‘picked up a new mate’. Frederico picked up mates rather often, probably too often for his own safety, and was a worry to them all.
‘Who?’ said Rebecca quickly; she had constituted herself his guardian, or, as Frederico put it, his Maiden Aunt.
‘Ask no questions,’ he said.
Although the group had had no connection with the amateur production of Witness for the Prosecution, they knew most of the ladies of Feather Street who made up the Friends of St Luke’s Theatre and they had seen a lot of what was going on. They knew the crucial part that it was meant to play in the birth of the Drama School. There was a general feeling that the murder of Didi could be blamed for a lot of their financial troubles, and that the amateur production could be blamed for the murder.
‘It did bring in a lot of weirdies,’ said Rebecca. ‘Look at some of those who auditioned. The Creeley man, for one. I mean, he comes from a family of killers, I suppose he thought that gave him a chance. He couldn’t act, couldn’t even speak a line, I don’t suppose.’
‘He was in love with Didi, that’s why he came,’ said Alison. ‘But she wasn’t in love with him.’ She frowned. ‘I sat in on some of the auditions, just for the experience.’ She hoped to get into producing, she knew she was not ace at acting. ‘And I agree with you, I certainly saw some unexpected faces, the people who turned up.’
‘Perhaps you saw the murderer,’ said Frederico.
‘I hope they catch him,’ said someone. ‘Or her. Or them. Might be a group.’
‘No, this is a serial murderer and that’s always singular.’
For a moment it looked as though the meeting would descend into an argument about semantics or capital punishment but Stella called it to order.
‘That’s enough now. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen.’ They turned attentive faces towards her. Stella put the facts to them, suitably edited, and gave them her usual pep talk. She did not say: I have the money to pay wages for this week and next but nothing beyond.
The group drifted away, talking among themselves in half way to cheerful voices because Stella hadn’t made it sound too bad.
Afterwards Alison, who had more financial savvy than the others, came up. ‘It’s tight, isn’t it? Tighter than you said.’ Although Alison never talked about it, Stella knew that her father was a distinguished economist.
She looked with trust at Alison with whom she had a good working relationship, without being close. She liked Alison, who was large, strong and reliable, all of which a stage manager needs to be.
Stella said: ‘Well, you know how it is, I didn’t want to cast gloom on the others.’ Or not too much.
‘I think they know, really … I might get my father to put some money in.’
‘Let’s see how things go.’ It was not wise to accept investment from one of the company even if their father was a wealthy man. If it came off and you pulled through, then you might be saddled with that person for life; she had seen it happen. She liked Alison, but she would not want to work with her forever.
‘Of course, he wouldn’t expect a profit.’ Or even to get his money back. Alison repressed her father’s expressed opinion that the theatre was a financial Titanic. It would be her money anyway, out of her trust fund.
Stella laughed. No other comment was necessary. She didn’t even have to make it a bitter or a noisy laugh, one short hoot was enough.
‘Yes, well,’ said Alison. ‘Have we got a future?’ Has the company, has the Drama School (in which a lot of her own hopes for future work rested) got a life to come, was what she meant.
‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Stella. She would see they had somehow. Alison nodded. ‘Good, I hoped you would say that … It’s not why I hung back, though.’ She dug into the huge soft bag which hung from her shoulder and which looked as though it could carry her to New York and back with several changes of clothes and make-up. All the girls had such bags and Stella had, on occasion, seen hair dryers, cats and even one baby extracted from them.
‘You know Didi did odd jobs for me? She was a great one for leaving her possessions about, and she left this behind among other things. It’s not a diary, in a way more personal than that, a book, but full of private things, I meant to remind her when we met again …’ Alison stopped, then went on: ‘But we neve
r did, she never came back.’
Alison put on the table in front of Stella a notebook which seemed thick with odd papers and letters, all bound up with an elastic band.
‘She used to make notes in it and that sort of thing … I haven’t looked … Well, I have,’ she added honestly, ‘but I didn’t read it, I could see it was personal stuff. The letters are from boyfriends, all ages old. I didn’t know what to do with it.’
‘Perhaps you should give it to the police. Or to her sister.’
‘I wondered if you would?’
Stella hesitated, and Alison hurried on: ‘Or if it was necessary to do anything with it at all … I mean, I know she’s dead but it was private to Didi.’
‘I thought you said there was nothing much in it?’
‘No, but it’s about dates, and notes about dates and letters from boyfriends … It’s the sort of thing I would hate to go public if I was dead.’
But the murdered have no privacy.
Stella stretched out her hand for the book. ‘All right, I’ll do something with it.’
Stella carried the notebook round with her in her handbag for the rest of the day, not looking at it.
Her husband had telephoned her to say that he was still in Birmingham. ‘I’ve found Letty,’ he had said. ‘It was not very hard to do. I think she wanted me to find her.’
Beyond that he had not said very much. She had no telephone number to reach him, from which she supposed he did not want a call. ‘How is Letty? Anything I can do?’
‘She’s all right and being looked after. Leave it at that for the moment, Stella.’
Stella liked her sister-in-law, whom she admired and respected, but she had reservations about Elissa. Too beautiful, too spoilt, and most dangerous of all, not so clever as her brilliant mother. Poor Letty.
Finally, at the end of the day, she took the notebook which Alison had produced, opened the book and let the bundle of letters and photographs fall on to the table. Should she take what she had to Annie?
She avoided reading the letters but could not help seeing the signatures on one or two. Eddie Creeley, of course, several times, complaining about Didi seeing other men. Stella did read that bit: Call him a man, Eddie had written. It sounded more like a threat than a question.
A Coffin for Charley Page 19