A Cold Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  Down below the bell rang on the front door, a loud but delicate chime.

  Coffin looked up. ‘Oh, I forgot to say that I ordered a meal from the restaurant. I knew you were busy, and I knew I was, but we must eat.’

  ‘Do you order it, or did Phoebe?’

  ‘I didn’t even hear that.’

  Stella folded the script and threw it at him, just missing.

  Coffin picked up the script, smoothed it straight. ‘Well named,’ he said. ‘I think the wife did do it . . . I will go to collect the meal.’

  He took in the tray; the meal had been arranged on it by Alfredo, who was running the restaurants (there were three now) while his father was in Italy. In spite of their Italian names and pride in their Milanese ancestry, they were South Londoners from generations back.

  ‘Thanks.’ He passed over payment plus a good tip. ‘How’s your dad?’

  ‘He’s having a good holiday and trying to learn Italian.’

  Coffin raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, I know he always pretends we speak nothing else at home. Not true. We speak English.’

  Alfredo spoke beautiful English; he was clever and in his final year at one of the better local universities. His chosen subject, as Coffin knew, was mathematics. ‘That’s my language,’ he had said.

  Stella knows about faces, he thought, as they ate the chicken and salad. I’ll ask her. ‘Stella, if you could spare the time, would you look at some photographs with me?’

  She reached out and took one. ‘That’s one of the Jackson girls.’ Her face was pale and her eyes puckered. ‘I know it is one of them, but I can’t recognize which one. The face is changed.’

  ‘Violent death does that to the face,’ said Coffin. And the girl had been dead some time when this photograph was taken, but he thought he wouldn’t tell Stella. The dead girl was Alice Jackson. He had an idea that Stella had liked Alice a good deal; he also thought that Stella was looking at Alice’s battered and slightly decayed face with fear but could not admit it.

  He did not let her see the photograph of her twin Amy because it was, on the whole, worse. He did not care to dwell on it himself. There was something that disturbed and worried him.

  The picture of Mrs Jackson herself showed her face down, as if she had been hit from behind, which was thought to be the case. The girls had looked at their killer, known what was coming.

  The rolled-up overall that Mrs Jackson had worn at work in the hospital was by her side and caught some of the blood. It seemed as though she had just come in from work when she was attacked. She might even have let her killer into the house, innocently walking in front of him. If it was a him.

  ‘I’ll do my best for you, Mrs Jackson,’ Coffin heard himself mutter under his breath, so that Stella looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I’ll take my things upstairs to work.’

  Once it had been the favoured hidey-hole of dear, sick Gus, always crouching on the window sill, ready to bark at the passing cat on the roof. Coffin missed his bark, and often felt like doing his own barking up there. He felt he could do with Gus’s astringent but soothing company; he didn’t like the affair he was into.

  He took the file of Jack Jackson next because of the relationship with the rest of the family, although Dr Murray had been the next victim. He didn’t expect to get much there, nor did he. The file held no revelation. From the angle at which he had been shot, it was probable he had seen his killer, whom he might have known.

  ‘I bet he did know him,’ said Coffin to himself. ‘Got that feeling.’ Still, he had been in the Force long enough to distrust feelings.

  Dr Murray came next. There were several photographs here of that strange and gruesome death. He spread the photographs in a circle on the table in front of him.

  There was the body of Dr Murray with the tiny infant skulls arranged above her. Hard to see the point of this, but there had to be one. It aroused memories in his mind of the pit where the Neanderthal skulls had been found.

  Did this mean that the killer of Dr Murray had also seen those skulls? The killer had certainly seen Dr Murray’s interest in these skulls in the museum, of this Coffin was certain. Had the gold ring come from there? Coffin knew enough about the Neanderthals, who co-existed with modern man for some time, to know that they were not ape men, and could work metal, possibly gold. So Dr Murray might have extracted it from the museum to investigate it. There were no modern markings on it.

  The killer knew about the Neanderthals, Coffin decided, even if he had not seen them. Or she had not seen them; about the sex of the killer he was still keeping an open mind. He sensed a female presence, somehow. Now why was that?

  Because of the children’s heads, he supposed. Babies, mothers, they came together. Reminded him of the Walkers Club.

  Blood too, a lot of blood in childbirth. With his forefinger he traced the shape of the big bloodstain in the photograph. It was a lot of blood, and you had to remember that there were two lots of blood: Dr Murray’s and one other, which was HIV positive. Was this sickness powering the killer’s fury? There was anger here.

  Coffin studied one of the larger photographs, which took in the circle of skulls, the display of bones and skulls in the cupboards behind, as well as the window, which seemed to give on to an interior corridor. A few onlookers seemed to have collected there too, pressing against the glass to see what they could see.

  Coffin walked to the window of his own room to look out at the dark sky, which he found soothing.

  What was Dr Murray doing in the museum anyway? he asked himself as he walked back to his desk. To look at the heads, came the answer. They were all deformed, as was the single more modern head found in the Neanderthal pit.

  Did the killer follow her there, or find her there, or did she take the killer in with her?

  Chance or planning, he went for planning every time.

  There was no photograph of dead or maimed children from the school bus, because none had been harmed. Thank God for that, he thought. No one was hurt.

  He heard a creak and for a moment he thought it was Gus. Gus back home from the clinic, the only dog with a triple bypass. Could be triple hearts, he thought, with the bills he was paying. Come home soon, Gus. He had a bell on his collar and Coffin thought he could hear that bell distantly now. Certainly something.

  It was the new cat, pushing open the door. She had come on a lot with good food and a happy life. She was happy, you could see it in her eyes.

  ‘You’d better like Gus,’ he said stroking her head. ‘And make him like you, because Gus was mighty fond of the old moggie.’

  The next set of photographs was of Lia and her children. No heads, no connection with Neanderthals. He knew the name of her husband, though; his criminal past had long been known to him.

  ‘I never nicked him,’ Coffin said to himself. ‘Not what a Chief Commander does, but I certainly knew his name.’

  Stella came to the bottom of the stairs to call up. ‘Want some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Shall I come down?’

  ‘No, I’ll come up.’ She was already on the way. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Painful, is it?’

  ‘Not more than usually,’ he said with a sigh. He accepted the coffee, which was hot and strong. ‘This ought to keep my mind ticking over.’

  ‘My idea.’

  He gave her a shrewd look. ‘You didn’t just come up with the coffee to make me happy?’

  ‘No, Phoebe rang . . . You didn’t answer the phone so I took the call.’

  ‘I didn’t hear it, must be getting deaf.’

  ‘No, just concentrating . . . I’ve noticed it.’

  Coffin groaned. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘It’s the Lumsdens.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s happened there?’

  ‘Lumsden himself rang in. Said they were together. Apologized for going off as he had. He will be taking a bit of leave so they can have a second honeymoon.’
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  ‘I suppose that’s good news,’ said Coffin doubtfully.

  ‘Do you believe it? I wasn’t sure if Phoebe did.’

  ‘Phoebe’s not one for the romantic ending.’

  ‘No,’ said Stella thoughtfully. ‘She wouldn’t be.’

  ‘Time will tell. . . Either they will both come back or two bodies will turn up.’

  Coffin went back to Lia Boston. The photographs here were an unpleasant testimony to the ruthlessness of the killer: Lia had tried to protect her children with her own body and failed. The forensic scientist whose report was attached suggested that Lia had thrown herself across the children and been dragged aside.

  She was killed first. What was the evidence for this? Firstly the tears on the sleeves of her dress, as if they been grabbed and wrenched, and secondly the bruises on her shoulders and neck. She had died first. At least one of the children, a boy, had taken some time to die.

  He didn’t want to look into the faces of the dead children, but he forced himself to do so. The killer had spared the childish features by shooting through the neck so that one lay with eyes closed apparently in peaceful sleep, provided you could ignore a great tear in the throat. Next to the sleeper, the boy with curly hair had his eyes and mouth open, caught in terror. The face of the other child was so covered in blood from Lia, which had dripped all over the place, that there was no chance for any expression to be seen.

  Last of all, but as yet no photographs for him to look at, was his very own incident. The shooting at the christening.

  Coffin leant back in his chair, shuffling through the photographs. An idea was beginning to take shape, but dimly, only dimly.

  He picked up the file of notes to begin studying them. He began, as seemed right, with Mrs Jackson.

  She was a nurse, in charge of a team working in the maternity block, and the mother of two beautiful daughters, both of whom Stella Pinero knew.

  Jack Jackson was the son, much older than the two girls, and a different character altogether: a handsome rogue, a devilish crook, a killer in the making . . . it all depended how you felt about him. Trust him you couldn’t, like him you sometimes found yourself doing, willy-nilly. A clever man, Jack, and Coffin thought he had been attacked because he guessed who had killed his mother. He had survived for some time, just about alive, with a police guard, only to die wordlessly.

  Since Coffin was beginning to make a guess himself, he had to hope he would not be killed.

  Then he thought: but someone did have a pop at me. Or did they? Perhaps the bullet was meant for Marie Rudkin.

  Considering the Jackson file, he thought the later killings had made Inspector Lavender’s idea that someone just walked in and did the job less likely.

  He moved on to the killing of Dr Murray. Phoebe Astley herself, assisted by Inspector Dover, had been investigating here. She was always careful and meticulous.

  The circle of children’s heads had interested her. There had to be some point, she argued. Following Sergeant Ash’s initial interview, Phoebe had re-interviewed the husband, cousin and cousin’s husband. ‘They are in a bad way there,’ she had written on the report. ‘Don’t know why. I think another look might be useful.’

  Coffin thought he would go himself.

  He opened the file on Lia Boston. Some more coffee would be useful here. Inspector Dover was famous for his dull reports. He was, however, as meticulous as Phoebe Astley, although without her flair.

  The husband, a well-known local criminal, was being met at Heathrow. Lia’s mother lived in Newcastle; they were not close and she would not be coming south. Lia had no siblings.

  Careful as ever, Dover had identified and interviewed a couple of her friends: Letty Brown and Sheila Fish. Lia had hinted to them that she had knowledge – as did her husband – about the run of murders by shooting. Both young women were adamant that they themselves knew nothing. In fact, they had not believed that Lia herself did.

  ‘She could tell a tale,’ Sheila had said. ‘And we weren’t that close. We just knew each other because we had babies at the same time in the same hospital. But we used to go for walks together, pushing the babies in the prams, because it can be boring walking on your own. Then once a week or so we would meet for coffee. The Walkers Club, we called it.’

  DI Dover had enclosed a transcript of his questioning of the two women.

  He would be questioning the husband.

  A possible breakthrough, thought Coffin, closing his eyes so he could think the better. He had made up his mind that he would be interviewing all the families concerned.

  ‘I’m better at asking the right questions,’ he said aloud.

  Children, babies, seemed to crop up all the time. That’s the motif, he said to himself dreamily, like a repeated decorative phrase in a piece of music.

  The cat slid down from its perch near the window to settle in comfort on the desk. The file of papers made a good nest, if you moved them round a bit, which she did not hesitate to do. She had known for some time now that she was an established figure and no longer on sufferance. The cat of the house.

  * * *

  Stella finished reading the script, made her notes on it, then put the work away. She climbed the stairs to Coffin’s workroom.

  She stood at the door, looking at him. He had fallen asleep at the desk, his head on the folder he had been using last, almost nose to nose with the cat. They breathed in unison.

  ‘You’re worn out, you poor darling.’ Her voice was soft. ‘You’ve had a tough day. It’s a rough old world.’ She touched his head, smoothing the dark hair. ‘Tomorrow will be better.’

  Neither of them knew of the critical forces then massing for the attack on Coffin.

  11

  Not a day Coffin wants to remember.

  Inspector Larry Lavender looked around the room at the back of the bar in the Leaping Lady pub with some satisfaction. He thought he had arranged things well: in the first place he always liked the Leaping Lady, which went alliteratively with his own name and pleased him, and in the second place this back room was cosy. Comfortable, cheerful and clean. There it was again, that pleasing alliteration.

  ‘Come in, Ken,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got the drinks in.’

  DS Ken Ireland nodded without speaking. He had already worked out that this was a time to keep quiet and say little. A swift look round the room to check if they would be taped left the question open.

  Larry Lavender wore his usual dark unobtrusive suit with the tie that had a vaguely military air, dark with a stripe, as if he had been in the Guards and marched up and down outside Windsor Castle. The rest of the room were following the latest fashion of no tie and unbuttoned neck in a sporty-looking shirt.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Jim.’ D S Jim Ward admitted he was there, his eye on the table, which was loaded in a hospitable way with bottles. Too much to hope for a whisky.

  Others were filing in behind him, all pretty punctual. Somehow Larry Lavender was not someone you kept waiting. He knew most of the faces, Geoff Little, Grahame Godley, and there was D S Annie Bertram. Ward edged towards her; he was hoping to make his way with her. Probably not, she was said to be canny and cautious, but on the other hand there was something about her bottom and the way she walked that attracted him mightily.

  Annie Bertram had seen him looking at her, and knew exactly which bit of her he fancied and what he hoped to do about it. He had told D S Eric Foster, strictly in confidence, of course, who had told D C Lenny Armstrong, who had passed it on as a strictly private bit of news to WDC Flip Armitage, who had at once told Annie. For that matter, Annie had heard a joke about it in the canteen. Ward’s chances with her were minimal . . . On the other hand, there was something about him.

  She brushed past him as she moved towards the table to take a beer. Yes, good hair and nice cologne, but he’d have to work harder to get anywhere with her. And learn not to have too many best friends to talk to.

  The room was filling up. She did not recogniz
e all the faces but she could see that they represented a good selection of the more successful serving CID officers of the Second City.

  ‘Well, I’m a lucky girl to be here then,’ she told herself. On the other hand she could see that Paul Masters was not here, nor CI Phoebe Astley, nor, although lower down the scale, was Tony Davley, whom she counted as a friend.

  There were warning signs in that list.

  Larry Lavender was skilful at organizing a party, and now he drew them all into a group. Fairly close in, because he did not wish to shout.

  ‘You must all be wondering what this is all about.’

  ‘Larry,’ said a voice from the back, ‘we are detectives . . . grant us that much.’ It was Geoff Little, drinking his beer but keeping his eye on the door. He wanted to know who came in and went out. The early departures might carry their own message . . . like a vote in the House of Commons. His cousin had just got into Parliament for a marginal seat at the last general election, and he felt he knew how politics worked.

  That’s what this is about: every man,’ he cast a quick look round, ‘and woman too, is a highly professional detective. We are at good at what we do. Forgive me if I am talking at you like a doctor or a college lecturer . . .’

  ‘No,’ said a voice, not Geoff Little this time, but a detective sergeant from the outer limits of the Second City. ‘Get on with it, Larry, I’ve got a date to keep.’

  ‘Right, this is it: we’ve each of us been doing a damn good job on this serial gunman we’ve got. All right, we haven’t caught him yet.’

  ‘But we will.’ This time it was Frank Fielder, working on the Jackson case. One of the Jackson cases. ‘If we don’t get too much help from above . . .’

  ‘You call it help?’ There was a murmur, no more than an echo in the room.

  ‘It’s better too, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Larry, ‘but what I know is I want to be allowed to do my job in my own way.’