A Cold Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  Stella saw him looking. ‘Good for you to chew your vegetables.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Coffin, helping himself. ‘As long as they don’t bite back. I broke a tooth on that parsnip last week.’

  ‘Does it taste good, that’s what counts?’

  ‘Who cooked it?’

  ‘Max, or his kitchens in the Experimental Theatre.’

  Experimental food too, was what Coffin thought, as he chewed on a thick slice of baked tuna.

  ‘What are you giving your godson as a christening present? It’s only days away, you know.’ The question was malice to a degree, since Stella knew that Coffin had chosen no present nor even thought of one.

  But Coffin was a quick thinker. ‘Oh, money. A cheque to his mother to be banked until he is old enough to want it.’

  ‘That won’t be long,’ said Stella. ‘They start needing spending money as soon as they can toddle.’

  Coffin got his revenge. ‘I’ll add a little toy, one of those soft ones; you can shop for that, if you will, please.’

  ‘I don’t like you when you are in one of these hard, clever-clever moods, and I can hear one coming along,’ said Stella thoughtfully. ‘I was only trying to jolly you along, cheer you up.’

  ‘I wasn’t being clever, just worried. This threat business. How did anyone get our number? Did you give it to anyone?’

  ‘Not since the last time it was changed,’ said Stella. This was true, but it was also true that she scribbled the number on numerous pads and odd bits of paper for her own convenience. I can’t remember everything, she told herself.

  ‘Things do get about,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Oh, Stella.’ It was a reproach, but the telephone number could soon be dealt with. ‘I can get you a walker with dog. Just to see you through the next few days, while we see how things go.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said with decision. ‘I suppose we ought to have another dog, if Gus should die, but I can’t bear to think of replacing darling Gus when he isn’t dead.’ Ill, but not dead.

  ‘I’d run behind you if I could,’ said Coffin with mournful savagery.

  Stella was still defending herself. ‘If someone is hating us, it’s better to know. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t understand how the process works,’ said Coffin gloomily. ‘A successful call like that this morning may be just his need to turn fantasy . . . because a lot of such calls are fantasy . . . into reality. Make it something hard that the caller can visualize.’

  Stella removed the plates, noticing that her husband had, after all, made a good meal, and placed cheese and fruit on the table.

  ‘When we go to the christening, you’ll see Archie Young again.’

  ‘Archie and Gus, both gone,’ said Coffin sadly.

  ‘Archie is not dead, and neither is Gus,’ reminded Stella with some sharpness, ‘and this is a christening, my love, not a funeral.’ She took some cheese. ‘You get champagne at a christening. Drink a lot of it, it’ll take your mind off your troubles. And don’t worry about drinking and driving. I shall hire a car: Sid Gubbins.’

  Sid did all her driving in the district; in London she used the tube and cabs.

  Sid Gubbins accepted the date, wrote it in his work diary, and told his wife.

  ‘You can come too, make a day out of it. Miss Pinero will say yes, she never minds that sort of thing, you’ve been before. Be nice to see the Chief Super again – Chief Commander now.’

  Sid was a retired policeman who had known Archie Young when he was a young sergeant. Mrs Gubbins, May Ann Gubbins, was a nurse, who went into the hospital when they needing extra nursing help. She was just coming to the end of her stint; a day out would be welcome.

  I’ll get my hair done, she told herself.

  * * *

  Next day CI Phoebe Astley made her report to the Chief Commander. Nothing much to say, nothing fresh, in fact she had the feeling the team was making very little progress on the three sets of deaths, Mrs Jackson and her daughters, Dr Murray, and Black Jack, that were connected by the gun. She covered this up, of course; no need to tell the Chief Commander what he would soon think for himself. In due course there would be inquests that would be adjourned to allow the police teams to work on.

  Phoebe had worked closely with Archie Young and taken an interest in his son and even more in the son’s wife, a talented young officer. She had been invited to the christening, but had pleaded another engagement. The truth was that she was at the age when she found christenings painful: she could still have had a child, but who was to be the father? So she had chosen a small teddy bear as a present instead.

  Sergeant Tony Davley had worked with Sally Young; they had been rivals. She hadn’t been asked to the christening, but she too had sent a present. A bit of silver, a christening mug of the early nineteenth century.

  Tony Davley was gloomy about the chances of solving the several murders. It’ll be one of those cases that runs and runs, she thought. The CI has got this pegged as a case of serial murders – she likes to put things in neat packets – but I don’t see this case that way. Something else. I can sense it.

  Tony sat in the canteen drinking coffee while she told the motherly figure of WPC Winifred Darby of her disquiet. She wrinkled her nose, ‘I smell blood.’ She drank some coffee. ‘We’re getting nowhere, but the CI doesn’t see it.’

  ‘Astley’s not got much imagination,’ said Winifred Darby. She looked at her watch. Her small son would be out of school soon, but her mother would collect him, and then her husband, it was his turn, would later take Benjy home. They divided the care of their son between them.

  ‘Minus, minus,’ agreed Tony.

  In this they were both unfair to their superior officer, since Phoebe was uneasy. She too smelt blood.

  * * *

  On the late afternoon of the following Monday, Winifred was walking her dog. They enjoyed this walk, he in the gutters and at the street corners, and Winifred observing the life on the streets. She did not always take the same route, but varied them to match her mood. Spinnergate High Street was stocking up for Christmas. Had done so since October, well ahead of time as usual. Still, she found herself admiring some of the windows, gay, full of colour, even beautiful. It reminded her of her youth; unlike many, she had enjoyed being a child. Another butcher had closed. People still ate meat, though they didn’t buy it in butchers’ shops any more but in supermarkets or in Marks and Spencer, where the butchers wore white hats. Very dignified, but not what you expected when you were looking for a pair of tights.

  Winifred did a lot of her personal shopping in such big stores, but she did not wish to be exposed to the smell of meat or fish as she did so.

  She looked around for the dog who, as so often, had taken himself off. ‘Tim, Tim, where are you?’

  There he was at the end of the road, sniffing around the wheels of a small bus that she recognized as the Happy Days Nursery school bus. She knew Happy Days since her son had been a pupil there.

  ‘One of their late-afternoon outings,’ she pronounced as she walked towards it. The infants, some no more than three years, were taken swimming, to concerts and even to the theatre, where Stella Pinero put on special shows for children in the Experimental Theatre. Tickets were free. Get ‘em young, was Stella’s maxim.

  The driver was out of the bus and standing in the road, studying the windows. Shattered, as Winifred could see as she came closer. Badly cracked, anyway; it was specially strengthened glass.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Pomeroy?’ she knew the driver, Betty Pomeroy, who had been a nurse once, and also the other teacher, Nancy, who was inside the coach calming the children. As she spoke, she reached down to grab Tim’s collar, who gave her a resentful stare in return.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Win. Some lout threw a stone as we passed and broke that window.’

  Win frowned, pulling hard at Tim’s collar. ‘Did you see him? I suppose it was a boy?’

  ‘No, I did not see him,’ said Be
tty with emphasis. ‘I had my mind on keeping the bus straight on the road and not crashing it.’

  ‘You’ll have to report it,’ said Win, her official face on.

  ‘I will, you can count on that, but right now I have the kids to get back to the school, where the parents are wailing. None of the infants was hurt, thank goodness, but what an ending to an afternoon with the fairies.’

  Win blinked.

  ‘Not the sort you’re thinking,’ said Betty, climbing back into the driving seat. ‘Although they may have been, this lot were dressed in blue and with wings. It was a nice little play though, with music; they all sang, audience and all. Not me, though.’

  ‘Look for that pebble,’ called Win. ‘Would you like me to look? No?’ She could see Betty shaking her head. ‘Be sure you do it.’

  ‘Oh, we will,’ shouted Betty over her shoulder. ‘You can bet. And if it’s got the chap’s name and address on it, then I will go round and kill him.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Winifred under her breath. She released her grip on Tim’s collar, and together they continued on their walk. Sid Gubbins, doing an early-evening job, passed Winifred and Tim. He knew them both. He had worked on several cases with Winifred before his retirement; she was a decent sort, with a good brain and steady nerves. Kind heart too. She had been good to him when his son was missing in the Gulf War.

  He waved his hand and Winifred waved back, as she plodded on with Tim, dragging the dog, who wanted to roam free to investigate, analyse and add to all the interesting smells. But Winifred wanted to get home to her husband, Harry, a CID sergeant working at Headquarters. He was an easy-going professional. He listened to her recount what had happened to the nursery school bus.

  ‘You tell a good story,’ Harry said. ‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m not sure why. Result of talking with Tony Davley, I dare say. She’s practically in tears over the lack of progress in the murders of the Jacksons and Dr Murray . . . she sees them as one.’

  ‘Well, they are, aren’t they?’ said her husband, in a matter-of-fact way. He collected facts, old and new, since he was with one helper in charge of the registry of records. ‘But I would like to know what the victims have in common, apart from the way they were killed.’

  ‘Yes, I think that was worrying Tony, but she says she can’t make out what Phoebe Astley thinks about it.’

  ‘Astley keeps her thoughts to herself,’ observed Sergeant Darby. ‘But yes, I reckon there is a connection; there always is, you know, when you look hard enough, something that pulls the killer towards the victims. The way they smell perhaps . . .’

  ‘In that case, Tim will be the one to consult, he’s great on smells . . .’ He had certainly been smelling the school bus.

  Tim looked up as she spoke and gave a small growl. Surely suppertime was corning up?

  ‘You know the niece or cousin or whatever, the girl they call Nat, don’t you? Why don’t you ring her up and have a talk with her?’

  ‘I didn’t know her well . . . we went to ante-natal classes together. I don’t know what happened to the baby; I think it died.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish ours had.’ He raised a loving eyebrow at the noise of the six-year-old in the next room.

  Win shook her head. She had had a miscarriage or two herself and knew the pain they had both felt. Jokes were out.

  He reached out, squeezed her hand, even as a tremendous crash came from the next room. He got up. ‘My turn to see what he’s broken this time.’

  It had been his idea that they should divide looking after the child between them. He hadn’t wanted Win to give up her career, even if it meant they saw less of each other because he was on duty while she was babysitting. And vice versa. But it had worked, and was working still. ‘You belonged to that club, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Win smiled. ‘The Walkers Club . . . Remember, we were going to walk the kids in their prams . . . for company; we did it for a bit before the kids came, although I was the size of the elephant’s grandmother, as you may recall. Afterwards I was so sore I could hardly walk, let alone push a pram. The club sort of folded.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘My stitches hurt like hell.’

  ‘No need to tell me. I couldn’t make love to you for weeks. More efficient than the pill.’ The noise from the next room had quietened, and they could him singing. So, no one was dead. You always had to make sure. ‘Small group, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but not just me and Nat; there were Sheila Fish and Letty Brown . . . Lia Boston . . . can’t remember any more. For a little while I used to see those two shopping, and we’d have a laugh about the Walkers Club. Goes back to before we all discovered that there was more to looking after a baby than pushing a pram. Sheila had twins, so she found out first. All gone now. I’m too busy, life moves on and connections break.’

  But connections are not so easily broken as Win supposed. Even though she herself never saw the Walkers, some of them kept up with each other.

  Sheila Fish and Letty Brown (now remarried and Letty Onslow, but still Brown to her friends) met almost every week in the local supermarket that they patronized, where they would be joined in its coffee-shop by Lia Boston. Lia had been very unmemorable in those days, skinny and shy, but she had changed since then, dyed her hair, shortened her skirts, and developed expensive tastes. Her husband had become one of the most well-known petty criminals in the Second City.

  The store where they met was broad-minded and commercially hard-headed enough to have a kind of car park for prams and a nursery where babies could be left for an hour – longer than that and you were in big trouble and might never get in again. Lia had tried once, so she knew.

  Over coffee, the trio joked and gossiped.

  ‘More Pushers than Walkers now,’ commented Letty.

  ‘You can do a deal of walking behind a pram,’ pointed out Sheila.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Lia. ‘Soon outgrowing prams. My eldest goes to that nice little nursery school every day now.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Going out on an outing by bus to the theatre. Billy Boy loves it.’

  ‘Crime must pay’, was in the look exchanged between the other two as they observed her watch and clocked up the fees at that ‘nice little nursery school’.

  They started with the missing Mrs Lumsden, where the verdict was that any woman had a right to walk out on her husband if she chose, with Lia contributing the comment: especially if he was a policeman, she did wonder. They hushed her at this point, moving on to the murders in Spinnergate, where they had a personal interest.

  ‘Mrs Jackson delivered my baby,’ said Letty. ‘Kind, kind lady.’

  ‘I went to her ante-natal class,’ said Sheila. ‘I found the exercise real tough, and she helped me. I can’t bear to think of her being shot. Who would do it? And why?’

  ‘Horrible,’ said Lia, with a shudder. ‘My Tom thinks there’s more behind it than we know. A cover-up. Look at the police, he says.’

  ‘Your Tom always blames the police,’ pointed out Letty. ‘But they can’t cover up all the time.’

  ‘Always Mrs Lumsden,’ muttered Lia, determined and dogged. ‘Makes me nervous . . . my Tom says he has a good idea who did Mrs Jackson in, but I’m not to say anything in case it gets me into trouble too.’ Trouble being death. She didn’t quite believe him, Tom talked that way. ‘I’ve kept up with the hospital because I go to the clinic and you don’t. Joe Bottom is very nice, and so is his wife. I’ve got to be a friend of his daughter too.’ So I am well informed. ‘Don’t need telling, I’ve got an independent mind, always have had, I remember my mum saying, “You always know your own mind, Lia, and good luck to you.”’

  ‘Your Tom told you though?’ Letty persisted.

  ‘Tells me everything. He had to go away and he wanted me to be on my guard.’

  ‘How would he know?’

  ‘Knows people, like Jack Jackson . . .’

  ‘Who doesn’t? So, where’s your husband off to?’ asked Letty,
who always wanted to know the detail.

  ‘America,’ said Lia proudly.

  Her mobile phone rang in her bag; she fished it out and listened, exclaiming as she did so.

  ‘Must dash,’ she said to her friends. ‘Some lout has thrown a stone at the school bus and my Billy Boy needs his mum.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lia,’ they called after her. ‘No one will ever kill you and your kids.’

  Laughing, they returned to their coffee.

  Coffin and Stella set off early for the christening of Archie Young’s grandson the following Thursday.

  Sid was driving, his wife in the front next to him, while Coffin sat in the back beside Stella reading various documents and letters, part of the workload that always seemed to go everywhere with him.

  ‘How are things going?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Not a lot of progress yet. Goes like that.’ This was the voice of experience. ‘Days, weeks sometimes, of nothing much, then it comes with a rush.’ He added: ‘Any likely names have been checked.’ Joe Bottom had been prime suspect for one of the murders, just because he had found Dr Murray’s body – ‘Always check on the finder of a corpse, ten to one the finder is the killer’ was written on all crime officers’ hearts. He had been looked over and found clean. No blood on him, and with other people at the time when Dr Murray had been killed. No motive, either, although with this killer, did that count? Jack Jackson would have been a prime suspect of the first murders of Mrs Jackson and her daughters if he had not been attacked himself. A puzzle, that attempt, Coffin frowned, then pushed the worry aside. For the time being.

  ‘Off the leash for a day,’ he said happily, while reflecting that it would not be difficult to know where they were going: he always had to leave the address behind him. Same for Stella, probably. She too always had a crisis on the boil. He seemed to remember notes with her whereabouts floating around or pinned on boards. So they were never really lost.

  Stella reached out and put her left hand on his wrist. ‘Easy ride?’