A Grave Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  Push such thoughts aside. ‘Tony,’ she called. ‘Over here.’

  The sergeant approached with his own slow, loping stride that yet covered the ground quickly.

  ‘The forensic team are here, and the photographer is doing his bit.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Kilpatrick has cleared off. He looked a bit sick. I think he likes his bodies freshly killed. Which she wasn’t, poor girl. Still, she’s not our problem.’

  ‘She is for the time being. And to help us I am going to put DC Harden on it, and she can establish identity as the first thing.’

  ‘Right, well. Harden is a bright girl.’

  ‘Yes, and don’t make too much of a play for her, I don’t want her mind taken off the job.’

  ‘As if I would.’

  One of the white-uniformed forensic team walked towards Devlin. ‘The handbag has been photographed in situ, no hope of fingerprints because of exposure, but you can open it now if you want to look in. Or wait till we get it back to the lab, but I thought you might like a quick look.’

  ‘You think right.’ She followed the scientist back to where the body lay, now protected by a small tent.

  ‘Looks as though it’s got plenty of stuff in it … one of those big satchel bags, but loaded.’

  ‘I noticed.’ The bag had rested on the ground by the girl’s head liked a pushed-aside pillow. It was brown leather, or had been before staining, and shaped like a knapsack to hang from the shoulders. Now the bag was on a sheet by itself with Sergeant Tittleton staring down at it. He looked up and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t see how this is going to help us with nailing the killer of the boys,’ said Tittleton.

  ‘I don’t either, but it’s connected, it connected itself.’

  ‘The leg, you mean? But if it’s hers an animal could have carried it there.’

  ‘And buried it?’ Devlin was crouching by the bag, gloves on her hands, preparing to open it. ‘I might need some photographs here.’

  The clasp of the bag was gummed up with earth and dead leaves but Devlin forced it open. A wodge of stained tissues lay on top, stained with lipstick and coffee and something darker and stickier … It might have been blood.

  ‘Could be vomit,’ said Devlin. She picked out a small bottle. ‘Aspirin, empty. Might be what she took.’

  Also in the bag was a small bottle that had contained brandy.

  ‘And she took it with this … meant to do the job, and do it here.’

  ‘We can’t know for sure before the PM,’ Tittleton reminded her.

  ‘Likely, though. She took the aspirin, washed it down with brandy and then was sick … but she’d taken enough to become comatose and then die. That’s why she was here, so that no one would find her and bring her round.’

  ‘Do you think she’d tried before?’

  ‘I do.’

  A small diary was tucked into one corner of the bag; Devlin drew it out carefully to flip the pages over.

  ‘No name, no address and no telephone number. Not a girl who confides much in her diary.’

  ‘It’s a university diary, though,’ pointed out Tittleton. ‘There’s the university coat of arms on the cover. That ought to be a help.’

  ‘You’re right. Aren’t we lucky to be educated? She’s a student.’

  ‘Or college lecturer.’

  ‘No, I guess she’s too young.’ But once again, they could not be sure until the postmortem. She was ageless as well as nameless at the moment, this young woman.

  There was a handkerchief, and a spare pair of tights as well as the diary inside the bag. There was even a paperback book, a copy of Jane Eyre.

  ‘She covered some eventualities,’ said the sergeant. ‘No contraceptives, though.’

  ‘You’ve been mixing in the wrong circles,’ said Devlin.

  ‘Since I joined this job.’

  A leather wallet with some money, but no credit cards, was at the bottom of the bag.

  Tittleton sorted through the wallet. ‘No driving licence, no cheque book, no identification … I reckon she cleared such things out before she came here … she wanted to make things hard for us.’

  ‘I don’t think it was anything personal, she just wanted to die anonymous.’

  Behind the wallet was yet another division in the bag, it seemed empty except for a tissue stained with lipstick. The lipstick was at the bottom of the bag. Devlin fished in to draw it out. Her fingers felt paper.

  ‘Aha. A letter.’

  She straightened it out. ‘No address here either.’

  Dear Ally,

  Cheer up, don’t go down that dark tunnel as you called it last time. And don’t do anything silly, you know what I mean, I don’t want to hear someone found you in bed, doped out, and had to rush you to hospital. It won’t be me this time because I am off on the field trip and won’t be back till Christmas. So there.

  But seriously, Al darling, and when am I ever anything else, there is no need to be this way. You will pass your finals, get a good degree and go out into the world. If you let yourself, that is.

  And don’t fall in love with your professor, that’s a cliché, dear, a classic mistake, especially with that one, he has a new girl every intake. New boy too, I’ve heard.

  Totty.

  Devlin read the letter once, then read it again more slowly before handing it over to the sergeant. He handed it back quickly.

  ‘With friends like that, who needs enemies?’

  Paddy put the letter back in the bag. ‘Have to get this fingerprinted … It is a bit tough, but I reckon Totty, sex obscure, had had enough.’

  ‘Also didn’t believe “Ally” was really serious in heading for death.’

  ‘That too … Well, you were right about one thing: she’s at university, probably in the Second City, and I was right in saying she was a student.’

  Devlin peeled off the protective gloves, wishing she could peel away the uncomfortable feeling this death gave her. ‘The letter has helped us with the girl: suicide of an unknown student, and pretty soon we will know who she is. Universities keep records, but I don’t see we are any further forward in finding the abuser and killer of the boys.’

  She rubbed her hands together as if cleaning them. ‘Better get hold of DC Harden and send her out to both the universities in the Second City to find out if they have a student called Ally who hasn’t been turning up for lectures.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s a Second City university.’

  ‘Well, we will start here. I don’t fancy going nationwide just yet. She must have some connection with the Second City. She may already have been reported missing.’

  Coffin was driven back to St Luke’s in a patrol car. He heard Augustus barking a welcome as he put his key in the door, and Stella running down the stairs.

  ‘So? What was it?’

  ‘A dead girl, probably a suicide.’

  ‘Not Jeff Diver? That was what you feared?’

  Coffin nodded. ‘This body has one connection with the dead boys – it was her left leg, poor girl, that was buried with the Chinner lad. I don’t know why, perhaps there isn’t a reason, or not one I can understand, at all. I daresay I will find out when it all winds to a conclusion, if it ever does.’ He bent down to pat Gus’s head. ‘Have you fed him? Good. Let’s go to Max’s to eat. I haven’t booked a table, but he will take us in.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Would you mind if I asked Phoebe Astley to join us?’

  Stella shook her head. ‘No, in fact, I will ring her myself. You look as if you need a hot shower, a change of clothes … I hate that shirt you are wearing … and a strong drink. I’ll get you the drink.’

  Stella had to use her powers of persuasion. ‘Oh come on, Phoebe.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve got to do a mass of work …’ Although she admired Stella, she wasn’t sure if she liked her. A touch jealous, perhaps?

  ‘Oh do, Phoebe, think of it: Max’s food and some good wine. Put something delicious on and come.’


  Phoebe ground her teeth, she would wear old jeans and a shirt. ‘I suppose it’s work,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘I don’t know, truly not, but come.’

  Phoebe made the sort of noise that meant yes, then felt ashamed of herself because a meal at Max’s was a treat, so she said: ‘I’ll look forward to it, thank you for the call, Stella.’

  Stella knew that Phoebe was not one of her true admirers, she had long ago accepted it. After all, you couldn’t get good reviews all the time.

  ‘She’s coming,’ she called from her bedside phone.

  ‘Oh, I knew she would, you can rely on Phoebe,’ called a confident masculine voice from the shower.

  Stella shook her head.

  Max was pleased to see them both since they were important customers. He advised them firmly on what he recommended tonight: the lamb was good, as was the salmon, the chef had done something very good with potatoes and salad, of course. The wine he would leave to them, but he would always be ready with advice; a little bow followed while he waited for the order.

  Phoebe stood at the door, studying them: Coffin looked tired, Stella cheerful and well groomed, you couldn’t beat an actress for putting on the public face, she might be wretched inside, but it would not show.

  Phoebe herself had put aside the pleasure of wearing old jeans and baggy sweater, and had put on a plain, dark-blue dress that had been chosen for her by her friend Eden, who had once kept a dress shop and knew about clothes but had never learned about men or money. Consequently, she now worked in the wardrobe room at the Pinero Theatre and was a great admirer of Stella. Phoebe was never sure if this pleased her or annoyed her.

  She had dropped into the murder room on her way to dinner to hear if there had been any developments. It was always as well when seeing the Chief Commander to be up to date with the latest.

  She had found Devlin and Tittleton drinking coffee while the rest of the team studied files or sat at computer screens. At intervals, a telephone would ring, and be answered, apparently to no great moment, and then to ring again. Phoebe had worked in such incident rooms herself and knew it was how things went. Hard, monotonous work requiring concentration and persistence. Perhaps persistence, just keeping on till a pattern emerged from the welter of details was the most important quality of all.

  ‘I heard about a body. No good?’

  ‘Yes and no … It wasn’t Jeff Diver.’

  ‘I heard.’ News such as that travelled fast. ‘I’m glad about that, though.’

  ‘Yes, he’s probably dead, though. Topped himself. Or in the river.’

  ‘I agree. You think he is the killer of the boys?’

  Devlin hesitated. ‘The general opinion is that he confessed and that’s that. I believe his wife thinks he is the killer. I don’t know. People do confess to crimes they have not committed. I want hard, solid evidence. We’ve been all over his house, nothing, no sign of anything connected with any one of the boys …’

  ‘Garage? Car?’

  ‘I agree he would have needed transport, but he didn’t use his own car because he didn’t have one … He had a motorbike and his wife can’t drive. Nothing in the garage, which was used as a general dump for things not needed in the house … Of course, he may have had a lock-up or a shed somewhere else, we are working on that, but so far nothing.’

  ‘If he did have one, then he could be hiding out in it.’

  ‘True. Or be dead in it.’

  There was a moment of silence, then Devlin went on: ‘You can understand why we turned out in force to see the body.’

  ‘But it’s the wrong body.’

  Devlin nodded. ‘What we’ve got is the body of a young woman … probably suicide, but nothing is for sure yet.’

  ‘Not one for you, then.’ But Devlin sounded interested, so there was something.

  ‘Except that it was probably her leg that was buried with Archie Chinner.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Phoebe thoughtfully.

  ‘We don’t know why or how yet, but the Chief Commander thinks it is important … connects the girl with the dead boys, and I suppose it does.’ Devlin sounded tired. ‘And is important. Just an idea he has, one of his ideas.’

  Coffin was famous for them in the Second City detective force. Some people cursed him for them, others were grateful, no one laughed at them.

  ‘He is often right.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? Anyway, we have to establish identity, and I have put Amanda Harden to work on it.’

  ‘She’s good.’

  ‘Don’t I know that, too? Do you ever get the feeling that the hungry generations are pressing on you hard?’

  Don’t we all? thought Phoebe as she departed.

  Coffin and Stella were sharing a bottle of the red Sancerre which Max, ever shrewd about a good sale, had assured them was an ‘interesting wine’.

  ‘I didn’t know it came red,’ said Stella. ‘I thought just white.’

  ‘Rosé, as well, I think. Or so Max said. He’s a wily old salesman. Still, I like the wine.’

  ‘Red, white or golden, it’s all the same to me,’ said Stella, happy to see her husband relaxing. Across the room, she saw Phoebe come through the door. She waved a hand. ‘Walk across the room and greet her,’ she said to her husband. ‘She came because you asked her. Perhaps I actually issued the invitation, but you wanted her.’ Phoebe looked straight at her, their eyes met, and then both women smiled.

  It was a moment of friendship, unexpected to both of them and the more to be appreciated. ‘I like her,’ Stella thought, just as Phoebe was acknowledging to herself that she admired this woman, Stella Pinero. ‘Life’s interesting,’ she said to herself, ‘you never know what’s coming up.’

  Oblivious to this sweep of emotion, the man in the middle made welcoming noises and explained he had chosen the meal and the wine.

  ‘Max chose it, in fact,’ said Stella.

  ‘As he always does.’

  Stella laughed. ‘I wonder what he eats himself?’

  ‘I happen to know.’ Phoebe took her seat and accepted some wine. ‘I know his daughter, the Beauty One, and he likes a good hamburger when off duty. He shares this taste with his grandson, Louie.’

  Coffin took a swig of wine. ‘Ah, Louie, what do you make of him?’

  Phoebe did not speak until the waiter had laid plates of Parma ham with slices of some bright-orange fruit in front of them. ‘He’s a clever child, cleverer than his mother. Not so pretty, though, but she has put on fat this last year or two.’ She ate a mouthful of ham, since no one had laughed at her little joke.’ I know what you are getting at though, he’s a kind of witness, isn’t he?’

  ‘Could be, could be. He might be inventing it.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t strike me as that sort. Not much imagination in that family. No, if he said that was what he saw and that was what he thought, then it was how it was. There has been plenty of discussion of it.’

  Coffin drank some wine without answering what Phoebe had said. Stella smiled at Phoebe and shrugged. That’s the way he is at the moment, the shrug said.

  ‘You’re taking a personal interest in this?’ It was more a comment than a question from Phoebe.

  ‘I always take a personal interest,’ said Coffin.

  Phoebe and Stella looked at each other. Stella gave another small shrug. ‘I’ve had cause in the past to be grateful for your personal interest,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the way he is,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘I wish you two wouldn’t talk about me as if I wasn’t here,’ said Coffin.

  ‘You’re snappy this evening.’

  ‘I feel snappy.’ He poured some more wine for the two women, although they had drunk little. ‘I expect you want to know, Phoebe, why I asked you to meet us here tonight.’

  ‘What, not just for the pleasure of my company … No, I had been wondering.’

  ‘I want you to take some leave …’

  Phoebe opened her eyes wider.

  ‘No, don’
t worry, I shall see you get that leave made up to you in some way, because you will be working for me. In a way, you will be me.’

  Phoebe opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She was silenced. ‘Thanks,’ she said after a bit. It was all she could manage.

  ‘I will see you get leave in recompense. You can say you are sent out to set up meetings for me.’

  Thanks again, thought Phoebe, but this time she did not say it aloud. She did not feel particularly grateful.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Stella looked from one to the other. ‘But I suppose I am not meant to. Professional secrets. I hate dark talk.’

  ‘Is it dark?’ asked Coffin.

  ‘Yes, and you know it. Phoebe knows it too. But then it’s her trade as well.’ Stella drank some wine, nodded her head appraisingly. ‘That’s not a bad bit of dialogue. Not quite Pinter, more Graham Greene.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps sub-Graham Greene.’

  But Phoebe and Coffin looked straight at each other and their gaze said the same thing: She’s playing games and you are I are doing it for real.

  Coffin walked Phoebe to her car which was parked in the dark behind the restaurant. ‘Come into my office tomorrow and I will give you names and addresses in Newcastle and Cambridge … Check them, you are looking for evidence of more money than there should be. In fact, keep your eyes, ears and nose out for corruption. Pharmaceuticals,’ he said quickly. ‘Fake drugs.’

  He peered into the darkness. Was there movement in that dark corner? No, probably not. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Over there.’ Phoebe pointed. ‘In that dark bit – I always go there, the kids seem to give it a miss when they fancy a bit of vandalism.’

  They walked across together. ‘Are you driving up?’

  ‘Thought I would do.’ Phoebe had a new car, a red Rover, of which she was proud.

  ‘Don’t always park in the darkest spots.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’ Phoebe was unlocking the car door.

  Before she could do more than get into the driving seat, there was a swishing noise and a shout, and a trio of helmeted figures swooped into the car park, round the car, and out again.

  Startled, Coffin said, as he jumped away, ‘Do those rollerbladers never go to bed?’