The discussion moved back to the murder of Anna Mary. It was at this point that Archie Young made the remark about Anna Mary and Solomon Wild.
As the meeting drew to an end, and the discussion became desultory, Paul Lane quietly turned off the tape-recorder on his desk.
John Coffin, who had played the tape-recording of the meeting as soon as he got it that day, had the two letters from the Paper Man on his desk where he could watch them, almost as if he expected them to burst into active and baleful life. He put a paperweight on them absently while he read the minutes of a meeting on Inner City Crime, which he had chaired, and checked the agenda for yet another on finance. He had an excellent financial adviser but he had learnt from experience that the placing of items on the agenda of a meeting was vital. Near the end, when energy was spent was where to place an item on which opposition could be expected. He had a very aggressive local administration and opposition to the police could be counted on. There were one or two items about police expenditure he was anxious to get through and he did not want any sardonic comments about the cost of riot shields.
It all came back to the division in the community he served that worried him so much. Graffiti on the walls, violence on the streets, a feeling of hate. He loved his London, he didn’t want it to be like this.
Lately, the property owned by his sister where he lived himself in St Luke’s Mansions, as well as the Theatre Workshop and the site for the new theatre, now being dug over, had been the focus for attacks. His own car had been damaged, and the walls of the Theatre Workshop daubed:
Yuppies go home, the message had read, and leave our district to us.
Stella Pinero had caused it to be wiped out, but next day another message took its place.
Give us back our territory, this message had said.
It was gone now, Stella had acted quickly, although she was getting uneasy.
Territory was the heart of it, Coffin thought. Man is a territorial animal. Perhaps even rape was a means of marking his patch.
He put his hand over the letter from the Paper Man. He, and the murderer of Anna Mary Kinver, and people like Solomon Wild, thrown back to community care when the community did not want him and had nowhere to put him, were part of the same problem.
Coffin played the tape of the meeting again, moving it forward to the bit he wanted, and listened to Archie Young’s voice recounting Solomon Wild’s words.
He reflected on Solomon Wild who had reported that Anna Mary had ‘walked towards’ her killer.
He would say that, Coffin thought, if she was walking towards him, and he was the attacker. That is what he would see.
Only the forensic evidence protected him. Another man had been the rapist.
Solomon might have been helping, though. Held the girl down while the rape went on.
It was something to be considered. Ideas sprouted in his mind like weeds after rain, none of them pleasant. He did not live in a pleasant world.
He turned the tape back to the discussion on the letter from the Paper Man. He too had wondered what the phrase Death Number One meant.
He looked at his watch, time had gone fast, the afternoon was drawing to a close, already his secretary had brought in two trays of tea and taken each away untouched. Val Humberstone was due to call on him in St Luke’s Mansions for a drink and a talk later that day.
Was Stella Pinero going to be there? She had set the interview up and would bring Val in, but would probably then tactfully take herself off. That was what he hoped, but you could never be quite sure with Stella, she might feel it her task to stay there and protect Val Humberstone from the wicked police. She said she had no idea what Val wanted to say.
He assumed that it would be something about the death of Anna Mary and the involvement of Timmy Zeman, but it might not be. Val had sat on this communication of hers for some time now, the death of Kay Zeman intervening, but now she wanted to talk.
He took the tape with him, put the letters from the Paper Man (now neatly enclosed in a plastic envelope) in his case, and set out.
He walked home. He was WALKER after all and on foot was a good way to keep an eye on his territory.
There it was, that word again. A good word, a useful word in the right context but dangerous in its content.
He deliberately walked home through Elder Street so that he could see how the Kinver house looked. You could tell sometimes what was going on with the inhabitants from the look of a house.
No. 13 seemed quiet and tidy, the garden needed a thorough weed, but, no gardener himself, this did not worry him. The curtains were drawn back, that was a good sign, the windows all closed, the front door closed. He couldn’t see the back door from the road, but he would take a bet that was closed too. Slight touch of fortress mentality there, but to be expected.
He walked on, realizing that he was both hungry and thirsty. And deeply uneasy.
What about the Kinvers? What about the Zemans? What about Feather Street?
Feather Street was miserable. In Elder Street, unaware that John Coffin had just passed through, things were looking up.
Fred Kinver and his wife were in the kitchen which overlooked the rear garden, thus they had not observed the Chief Commander’s inspection. Here they were eating a cooked high tea of fish and chips, prepared by Mrs Kinver. Fred was eating with appetite at last.
‘I enjoyed the funeral,’ he said, buttering a slice of bread and butter.
‘Oh, Fred, you shouldn’t talk like that.’
‘Why not? I did enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I? One of them is gone.’
‘An old lady, Fred.’
‘They were able to bury the old lady, weren’t they? We haven’t buried Anna Mary yet.’
The police had not yet released for burial their daughter’s body. Mrs Kinver closed her eyes, it did not do to dwell on this fact, nor the reasons for it.
‘Miss Humberstone didn’t look too well,’ observed Fred, not without pleasure. ‘Pass the jam, will you?’
‘Strawberry jam, the make you like, Tiptree. I bought it specially.’ She pushed the jar across. ‘There’s a programme on the Telly tonight you usually watch.’ Not quite true, he had not watched it for days now, but it was worth a try. Normality might never come back, but she knew you must make a play for it. ‘Or there’s that video you enjoy. I like it myself, let’s watch it again.’ She didn’t really like it that much, it was macabre.
Fred’s eyes flicked towards the rack where he kept the videos, those he owned and those he borrowed. ‘Think I’ll pop down the allotment.’ He had a packet of cuttings about John Coffin in his pocket which needed sticking in his album. The library had seen a lot of him lately.
‘Oh.’ She was disappointed. Back to that, she thought; still, he had eaten well and, granted the great misery that still rested on them both, he seemed in better spirits. Not exactly happy, but more positive.
She submitted to being locked in the house if that was a comfort to him, but she had long since provided herself with a key.
If she had to get out, then she would. She always had the fear that some day she would have to rescue Fred from something and that she’d better be ready. He wasn’t the strong one in the family, she was.
The Paper Man was also happy. Things were working the way he wanted, justice was being done all round. He was very well aware that his life was, in its own way, running parallel with that of Fred Kinver.
He too was cutting up pieces of newspaper, pasting what he had cut out on other paper. Making messages.
He too had a spot he called his own in the allotments. Not far from Fred Kinver, very close to Fred Kinver’s.
That same evening, he too was there. Inside Fred’s office, as a matter of fact, although a little later than Fred, and pretty pleased with himself.
He had made up a person, created someone, this person was the Paper Man, and only he knew who the Paper Man was destined to be. Himself and yet not himself.
Almost all would be revealed in
due course. He felt himself to be in charge of the scene. He was pulling the strings and the puppets were moving according to his desires.
When Fred Kinver had finished his office work for the evening, then the Paper Man moved in and completed his own, burying it like a dog with his bone as before.
Soon he would have a second death to write about.
Earlier that same evening, the day of the funeral, Jim and Val Humberstone had met in the kitchen, where Val now held sway. The mongrel dog Bob had had an early walk and was now eating his supper at her feet. He had not noticed the absence of Kay Zeman. Out of sight, out of mind, was how he lived, even though everyone thought he might pine.
‘Thanks, Jim. Behaved all right, did he?’
‘Bob’s always a good boy.’ He patted Bob’s head, Bob went on eating regardless, but he moved his face protectively closer to his food bowl. ‘Wouldn’t mind having him as my dog.’
‘I’ll remember that, Jim.’ She pressed her head. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Are you all right, Miss Val?’ He always called her that, he would have liked her a lot if she had not been so keenly focused on Leonard and Timmy Zeman.
‘Got a bad cold, I’d like to take a drink to bed.’
‘Whisky and lemon is good.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes wandered to the tin of drinking chocolate on the side. Hot milky chocolate was more her style. Soothing, sweet. Some of those chocolate cakes that she loved. ‘But I’ve got to go out, unluckily.’
‘Well, don’t bother then, Miss Val,’ said Jim soothingly. Off to have a drink in St Luke’s Mansions with the policeman. There wasn’t much he didn’t get to know about his employers in Feather Street. They were good talkers and quite often shouted, you only needed sharp ears and an accurate memory. He and the dogs were an essential part of the workings of Feather Street. He told the dogs everything, even Jumbo, who was a bastard but not to be blamed for what was not his fault, and thought more of them than the families. The Annecks, the Darbyshires, the Zemans, what were they but a lot of snobs?
He had picked up the whiff of alienation in the air, knew he did not like the police, nor the government, nor a lot of the people he saw around him, but he was not yet sure on which side of the great divide he stood, except he did not think it was with the Feather Street lot.
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I must go. I owe it to Timmy.’
‘Owe Timmy, Miss Val?’
‘Yes, you wouldn’t understand.’ She sighed again, and it turned into a cough. ‘I must. There are some things we have to do, Jim.’
If she must go, she must, thought Jim. He agreed with her that some things had to be done. Like walking dogs, and delivering the milk. Having babies and dropping dead. He thought he knew about what you had to do as much as most … She didn’t look up to it, though, she’d be better dealing with that cold.
Val said: ‘Do I owe you anything?’ He liked to be paid on time, as, who didn’t?
‘No, you paid me,’ he reminded her. ‘Before … before Mrs Zeman died.’
‘Oh yes, so I did.’ She might so easily have forgotten in the confusions of her aunt’s sudden death and the funeral. What a beautiful face Jim had, she thought, like a Botticelli angel, at once loving, yet intellectual and withdrawn. No doubt, this look would not survive his adolescence, but he had it now. He was a good cook too, had some of her best recipes, it was amazing what people were. ‘But there’s this week. I’ll just get my purse.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Val.’
‘Oh, I will. The weekend is coming, after all. You might be glad of it.’
She got her purse, and paid the boy, who nodded gravely.
‘Goodbye, Jim.’ She dragged herself up the stairs to get ready for her meeting with John Coffin. She had a new dress, but possibly the day of a family funeral was not the time to wear it.
Her bedroom was warm in the late afternoon sun which made pools of light on the dressing-table where the shiny dark mahogany showed up the dust of several days. Val sat down and saw herself in the glass.
‘Poor old thing, look at you.’ She picked up the hairbrush, but it felt too heavy to lift and her arm reluctant to do the service. ‘It’s only a summer cold, they are always the worst, although Leonard says that’s nonsense. I’ll have a hot drink and feel better.’
Not hot chocolate, she would have a cup of tea, and something to eat. With surprise, she realized that she had hardly eaten all day. Felicity had provided drinks and sandwiches after the funeral, but she hadn’t touched a thing. She couldn’t eat Felicity’s food while thinking what she did. Tim hadn’t eaten much either, poor lad, but then he had other worries.
The police had set up another interview, oh, politely, of course, but advised him to bring a solicitor. His father too, if he liked. They would be asking for body specimens. Everyone knew what that meant.
‘I can help you, Tim,’ she said to her reflection, ‘but whether you will be pleased with me for doing it is more than I can say.’
Her reflection frowned back at her. ‘I ought to pluck my eyebrows,’ she told her face. ‘I look heavy and dull today.’ It was one of those days all women know when their faces do not belong to them.
Stella Pinero was in the room and looking good. She was an actress and knew how to manage her face.
Even though he didn’t want her in the room and wished she’d go away, Coffin liked the way she looked.
Of course she was there with a purpose, Stella usually was. She might act casually, but she was really walking in a straight line for what she wanted.
Coffin had got home eventually, after his detour round Elder Street. He had thought about viewing Feather Street but had decided Not Today, after all, Val Humberstone would be calling on him, and he wanted to be there. He sensed it was going to be important. The weekend was approaching, but that didn’t mean much to him, these days.
Before he had the door closed behind him, Stella had rung the bell and was in before he could say Hello.
‘I usually love seeing you, Stella, but tonight I am tired and need a shower and a drink. What is it you want? Haven’t you got a play to produce?’
‘In train. I’ll pour you a drink.’ She was wearing white trousers and a cream shirt. ‘I need one myself.’
‘Give me five minutes.’ He disappeared into the bedroom.
Stella sank back in a chair with her drink. She knew from experience that five minutes could mean anything. Soon she heard water running in the shower.
‘You hungry?’ she called out. ‘I’ve got Harry Beauchamp and Dick coming in for a meal. Max is sending something round. Join us.’
‘Thank you, I would, but you might remember that Val Humberstone is also coming round.’
‘But of course I remember. I’m inviting her too. I’ll just wait till she gets here, say Hello, invite her, and then take Harry and Dick tactfully away to check on the wine, they love thinking about wine, and she can talk. Plenty of food for us all, do her good to get out. I thought she looked terrible at the funeral. You weren’t there, by the way.’
Stella got up and carried his drink in to the shower.
‘Here, wait a minute, Stella,’ he protested. ‘Let me get something on.’
‘I’m theatre, ducky, remember? I don’t notice anything like that.’ Or only when I choose to, she thought happily. Men were such prudes.
She took her drink back to the sitting-room, sipped it, then called out: ‘Don’t you want to know why I came before Val? I’m worried.’
Coffin appeared at the door, dressed and carrying his drink.
‘I think I need police protection,’ she said. ‘Or the theatre does. Both of us, all of us. We’ve had more nasty messages painted on the wall. Threatening to burn us down this time, I think they mean business.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘If they burn us down, then they might burn your flat down too.’
‘Now there is a thought,’ said Coffin, sitting down and finishing his drink. ‘That would upset Letty, her inve
stment going up in smoke.’
‘It wouldn’t do much for me.’ Stella stood up, tall and cross. ‘You’d better take this seriously.’
‘I do, Stella, I do.’
‘You’re not doing anything about it, though.’
‘What I can.’ How could he get across to her the complexities he faced? The hostility and suspicion from various groups, the steady pressure of organized pressure groups, and always, of course, the operations of the dirty tricks brigade. Some of the hostility and suspicion came from his own side, too.
‘Not enough, though, I’ll probably have to get beaten up or raped or something before you lot operate. I nearly caught the nasty lout that painted the last messages on the wall, but he ran off. He turned and showed his teeth at me like a dog. Horrid crooked yellow teeth, too.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I shouted Clean your teeth.’
In spite of himself, Coffin laughed. ‘They’ll never beat you, Stella.’ He remembered something. It might suit him to meet Sir Harry. ‘I’d like to have a word with Harry Beauchamp. He may have some useful photographs of Rope Alley.’
‘Bloody policeman,’ she said. Not entirely amiably. ‘I don’t believe you’d care if I did get raped or killed.’
It got under his skin. He gripped her wrist, hard, tight. ‘Yes, Stella, bloody. Police work is bloody. Literally so quite often. It is bloody, terrible, frightful, frightening and unpleasant. You can feel cut off from the rest of the group you live in. You are cut off. I’ve shielded you from all that, Stella. You think you understand, but you don’t.’
They were standing there, still confronting each other when the sound of Max’s voice could be heard from the stairs. He seemed to be talking about Chicken Maryland.
‘Not nice work, Stella.’ Coffin dropped her arm. ‘And it makes me not a nice man, remember that.’
‘That’s Max,’ said Stella. She withdrew her arm, rubbing her wrist.
‘Yes, that’s Max.’
‘Are you coming to eat?’
Hostility was still bristling between them.
‘I’ve told you: I’ve got Val coming.’
Coffin and the Paper Man Page 8