A Grave Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  He couldn’t prove it, but he knew, and was suspected of knowing. Hence the attack on Phoebe.

  ‘I felt danger but let her go anyway,’ he said to himself.

  Ahead, down the slope, he saw Gus going towards the canal. He liked to swim and the muddier the water the better he liked it.

  ‘Come back, Gus.’

  Gus trotted on, usually he disregarded a command that did not fit in with his plans. At the moment, the idea was for a lovely, squishy dip. He was a good swimmer and he knew from experience that he could climb up the bank or even leap on to the old wooden wharf where the barges had unloaded. Afterwards, he would need someone to dry his coat and comb it out, but someone always came forward.

  Coffin saw Gus moving on fast, he marvelled at the speed those short legs could manage. Then Gus stopped. He was sniffing the ground.

  Oh, please, God, not a dead child here.

  He quickened his pace towards the dog who was still snuffling around. Then the dog slid forward, his belly on the ground, a sure sign of intense interest combined with fear.

  Coffin went after him. Then he stopped, and stood there smelling the air.

  That smell, the smell of the man who had hung about in St Luke’s, he who had terrified Stella. The sickly yet sour, stale smell. It was a soiled, dirty smell.

  Gus crawled forward, a low noise in the back of his throat. He was taking himself into the old wharf building, a decaying wooden structure.

  Coffin shone his torch inside. Gus was silent now, but standing up, baring his teeth.

  There was a figure crouched just inside the door. Gus leapt forward, but Coffin grabbed his collar.

  ‘Get up, whoever you are.’

  If you are alive and have limbs that can move.

  The figure stumbled to its feet. A muddy, bloodstained face with a great bruise down the side, clothes dirty with leaves and earth spattered here and there. And the smell, there and present in good force.

  A length of rope hung round the neck, still knotted but torn in two. Not cut, torn apart.

  ‘Thank God it’s you, sir. It’s you I was looking for.’ A hand came out to steady himself against the wall. ‘Don’t you know me, sir? It’s Jeff Diver.’

  Coffin stared.

  ‘I knew you would understand, sir.’

  Coffin wasn’t sure if he did understand.

  ‘I tried to hang myself, but the rope broke and the branch with it. And I pissed myself and soiled myself. You do that when you are hanged, sir, did you know that?’

  ‘I know,’ Coffin admitted.

  Diver was crying. ‘And I can’t get the rope off.’

  He’s still on the tree, Coffin thought, looking at the figure leaning against the wall, in the wood. Out of his mind.

  ‘I thought it would be easier for my wife, that she’d forgive me if I was dead.’

  And you are and she hasn’t. But it’s my job to bring you back to life.

  Gus had retreated behind his master’s legs, which seemed a safer area. He looked up as the telephone rang in Coffin’s pocket.

  Cursing, Coffin answered it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ demanded Stella.

  ‘Not far away, I’ll tell you later. Sorry.’ And he rang off.

  Jeff Diver was muttering: ‘I knew it was wrong what I did, but I thought if I was dead, my evil would be wiped out.’ He slid to the ground.

  ‘Get up, man,’ ordered Coffin sharply. Was he listening to a confession of the murder of the boys?

  ‘Sins of the flesh.’ Diver’s lips were dry. He dragged himself to his feet, staggering forward. Gus growled in a low, menacing rumble

  ‘Shut up, dog.’ The man was sick, in mind and body.

  Coffin rang for an ambulance, gave the directions and waited.

  ‘Where have you been all the time?’

  ‘Here, the old wharf. My dad used to work here. But I was going to kill myself. I thought drown first …’ His voice tailed away. ‘Came looking for you.’

  ‘I know … What have you been living on?’

  Diver looked vague. ‘Crisps, chocolate …’

  ‘Did you bring that with you?’ It cast doubt on the idea of suicide. You don’t take a bag of crisps on a suicide trip.

  ‘No … Found them. Here.’

  A kind of Robinson Crusoe, thought Coffin.

  ‘Thirsty, though.’ Diver licked his lips. ‘Could do with a drink.’

  Coffin shook his head. He was still up the tree with the birds. ‘We’ll get you something.’ He could see the lights of the ambulance and the police car with it. If the Chief Commander telephones for help, you come with all force. ‘Come on,’ he held out a steadying hand, flinching from the smell. Not the smell of death, after all, the smell of Dachau and Belsen. Death was there, but degradation first. He made his voice gentle: ‘Walk with me to the road.’

  Slowly, the little procession – Diver first, then Coffin, and behind them the dog – made their way through the old churchyard.

  The ambulance drew up to the kerb, the road was very narrow just there, the crew jumping out ready for action as Coffin led his captive up.

  From the police car behind came Inspector Devlin. She came running. ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘I didn’t expect you,’ said Coffin.

  ‘I happened to be around when your call came through.’ In fact, she had been with Sergeant Tittleton, talking over the death of Phoebe Astley. Archie Young, who had been there, had been called away by an urgent call, something to do with Astley, they suspected. ‘Thought I might be needed.’ Her eyes flicked towards Jeff Diver, who was muttering about confessing in a monotone. ‘My, my, what have you got there?’ There was a triumphalism in her voice that Coffin knocked away at once.

  ‘He’s confessing to something, but I don’t think to the murders of the boys. Or anything to do with them. I think he is confessing to sexual relations with men.’

  Paddy Devlin raised a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘I think he had a strict mother and father,’ said Coffin dryly.

  As they talked, the ambulance men were dealing with Diver, who had slumped to the ground; he was helped on to a stretcher while the rope was cut from his throat.

  ‘Suicide attempt?’ queried Devlin.

  ‘He is half starved, dehydrated, and in the middle of a breakdown. Yes, he did try to kill himself. He tried to hang himself, only the rope broke. And the branch of the tree.’

  The mobile telephone in his pocket started to ring again; he reached in to turn it off. Not even Stella could be talked to just at the moment.

  ‘Follow him to the hospital, will you? He might have something useful to say, although I doubt it.’

  Devlin nodded and turned back to her car, saying that the air was fresher there, and why did he stink like a sewer?

  Coffin shook his head. ‘You’ll find out, and remember, if you are ever trying to hang yourself, choose a tree with branches that aren’t rotten. Oh, and a good bit of rope.’

  Some joke, said Devlin to herself as she got in her car.

  Coffin called her back: ‘You’ll have a man sitting by him in hospital, when he starts to be a bit more rational, ask him where he got the food – crisps and chocolate – that he ate. I want to know.’

  Important, is it? Devlin asked herself. Well, the Big Man thinks so. She sprayed the inside of the car with air-freshener, lemon-scented; she seemed to have brought the stink of poor Diver with her.

  The ambulance men were muttering something about a bath being needed, but were doing their job with skill and kindness. ‘Come on, mate,’ Coffin heard, ‘relax a bit and we will be on our way.’

  They drove off, Devlin behind again, and Coffin went back to his own home.

  Stella was walking up and down the sitting room when he arrived.

  ‘My God, where have you been?’

  ‘Was that you on the mobile just now?’

  She stared as if she didn’t take in what he said, then shook her head. ‘No, only
the once.’

  ‘Someone rang.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘It might have been … it probably was-’ She was interrupted by the phone in the room. ‘You take it,’ she said to Coffin. ‘It’ll be for you. I told her to keep ringing.’

  Coffin picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Phoebe here.’

  12

  ‘My God, you gave me a fright.’ Coffin gripped the telephone hard, while his hand reached out for the whisky that Stella had poured for him.

  ‘What do you think it did for me? Being called dead, I had a job to convince the hotel I was alive. Go off for a quiet evening with an old college friend and come back to find you are dead,’ Phoebe said savagely. ‘Not to mention the poor innocent who went to put an extra pillow on the bed and got her head blown off.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You let me know it was dangerous but you didn’t mention explosives …’

  Stella came up to study her husband’s face; there was a question in her eyes, but it was Phoebe who put the query direct to him.

  ‘Do you think you know who did it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure … In fact, what happened to you confirms it.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody am.’ Phoebe was still in a state of shock. ‘This very night.’

  ‘I want to see you as soon as you get back.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Phoebe briskly, but with an edge.

  Stella came up to confront her husband. ‘I heard enough of that conversation to know you won’t tell me any more.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not ever unless I make you.’

  ‘I’m not as bad as that.’ He put his arm round her and led her back to the sofa. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘If you tell me I look exhausted, I shall probably bite. But you can tell me why you were so long on that walk. Gus is all muddy, too.’ Hearing his name, Gus wagged his tail, which was festooned in a necklace of dead leaves stuck together with mud. It looked like a tiara or a crown worn on the wrong end. It fell to the ground as he wagged.

  ‘Down to the canal …’ He stopped. The warmth of the room had brought a faint whiff from Gus’s tail, reminiscent of he knew what.

  Stella gave a sniff. ‘I know that smell …’ She looked from the dog to her husband. ‘You both smell.’

  ‘Oh God, me too?’ said Coffin in alarm. He raised his arm to sniff the tweed. Yes, there it was, faint but pervasive. He groaned. ‘I found our intruder of last night … well, Gus found him first.’ Gus wagged his tail again and the scent was stronger … he would have to be bathed and soon. ‘It was Jeff Diver … he had tried to hang himself. He was living rough.’

  And apparently longing to unburden himself of his guilt to the Chief Commander.

  ‘Is he-?’ Stella stopped, holding her handkerchief to her nose with one hand and pushing Gus away with the other.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not the murderer of the boys. But I can’t be certain. I think he tried to die, but really wants to live.’

  He moved closer to Stella. ‘Can I have a whiff of l’Heure Bleu to clear my nose. And yes, you needn’t say it, I will have a bath before I come to bed.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to let you anywhere near the bed.’

  ‘Yes, you will, we both need comfort tonight.’ He had been too near death twice that night, what with Phoebe and Jeff Diver; he needed to feel alive, and there was a very good way of achieving that end.

  Gus slid under the sofa, he had no intention of having a bath tonight. Besides, he liked his smell, it was interesting.

  The Chief Commander was early in his office next morning. He worked fast, talking to Paul Masters about the engagements in his diary, and signing letters already prepared for him. There was also a report, provisionally drafted, to read through and check.

  He was halfway through the morning’s work when Ed Saxon phoned.

  ‘Wondered when you would,’ he said.

  ‘Thought you might phone me.’

  ‘Two minds with but a single thought.’ But Coffin had to admit he rather thought not. What he was thinking, he trusted Ed Saxon was not.

  Ed Saxon picked up something, but was unsure what it was. ‘What’s the matter with you? I didn’t like what happened to Phoebe Astley.’

  ‘Who does? You know all about it?’

  ‘Yes, sure. As soon as I got wind of it, and word got around soon, John, I checked up. I’m relieved she’s all right. But it shouldn’t have been her. It should have been you.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, Ed. But I don’t suppose you mean to put it quite like that.’

  ‘What? No, of course not. Don’t misunderstand me.’

  ‘I don’t, Ed. It should have been me, I know that.’

  ‘You’re a difficult cuss when you like, John.’

  ‘I didn’t save my life on purpose to spite you.’

  Saxon changed gear. ‘Are you getting anywhere on the main question?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so, yes. I really think so, Ed.’

  ‘Oh?’ The query was there and Coffin got some satisfaction in spurning it.

  ‘You won’t mind if I don’t go into it now, Ed? But I’d like a chance to talk things over later.’

  There was a pause, during which Coffin could hear Ed Saxon breathing. Perhaps he had a cold. ‘Give me a ring,’ he said at last.

  ‘I will do. Of course I will,’ Coffin said cheerily. He found himself feeling more pleased than all the morning so far. ‘Oh, and Ed, any progress on Harry’s death?’

  Slowly and as if reluctantly, Ed said: ‘Davenport says it was a contract killing.’

  ‘I’ve heard that.’

  ‘He’s putting forward a few names.’

  ‘What about the name behind the contract?’

  ‘He did fancy the wife.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Coffin was impatient. ‘I should think he has given up that notion, hasn’t he?’ It was an interesting idea which he had explored himself, but unacceptable.

  ‘Yes … so he says. Never had much cred. Don’t know who is on the new list … he’s keeping very quiet. Someone from the pharmaceutical world, I guess.’ Saxon sounded more hopeful than convinced. ‘May be a crime that is never solved.’

  ‘You mean we will know the answer but never get a conviction?’

  Reluctantly, Ed Saxon admitted that he supposed he did mean that.

  They promised each other to keep in touch, which was a halfway house to promising nothing.

  ‘Don’t think Ed likes me,’ said Coffin to himself, ‘but then he never did.’ He wondered what Mary Seton made of it all.

  He did not have long to wait. He had written two letters and read half a report when she was on the telephone. Within the hour he had spoken to Ed Saxon and was now talking to Mary Seton.

  Coincidence? Or they did communicate?

  She had rung with a complaint. ‘I thought you might have rung to let me know how you were getting on. I can’t get anything out of Davenport or Ed Saxon, but I thought you were the sort of person who told one things.’

  All right, she did not communicate with Ed Saxon. If she was telling the truth.

  ‘I don’t know anything that you won’t know about Harry’s death,’ he said mildly. He could make some guesses though, which he would not pass on.

  ‘I bet you know that I was prime suspect for a bit. Vicious, wasn’t it?’

  Coffin kept quiet.

  ‘Anyway, I am finding out things about Ed Saxon, and it might be me that tells you things.’

  Coffin expressed interest.

  ‘No, it’s a trade; you have something for me first.’

  She put the telephone down with a bang.

  For a second, Coffin sat considering. He realized he had been stupid not to consider Mary Seton as a source.

  Voices in the anteroom, louder than normal, attracted his attention. Paul Masters and a woman.

  Coffi
n stood up. Phoebe: she was there.

  She was defiantly, strongly and definitely there. She came in as if at the head of an army. Paul Masters, a tall man, looked diminished behind her by the strength of her entry.

  Coffin held out his hand. ‘Phoebe, there you are.’

  ‘Yes, here I am.’

  Paul Masters melted away in tactful retreat.

  Coffin took command of the situation. He knew from experience, that it did not do to let Phoebe take command of the scene. ‘Have a drink, then we can talk.’ He went to the cabinet against the wall where he kept some whisky.

  ‘You’re glad to see me back?’ demanded Phoebe with some irony. ‘I must admit there was a moment when I thought you wanted me dead.’ But she accepted the whisky. Coffin was not known for being liberal with his whisky, saying that he preferred his officers sober rather than drunk. You had to be very successful, or very ill, or about to get the boot, to be offered strong drink.

  ‘Now tell me about last night. I only know the bare outline.’ In fact, he knew a bit more than that, having been fully informed by his counterpart in Newcastle, but he wanted to hear what Phoebe had to say.

  ‘I booked in to the room. I told them that it had been reserved in your name but it was really for me. They may have thought it odd, but they did not question it. After all, here was a paying customer checking in and signing the register … in my own name, of course. I unpacked, not that I had much, then I went out to dinner with a friend.’

  Coffin did not ask her who the friend was. He might ask later.

  ‘Well, couldn’t do much that night,’ she said defensively.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘So I went out. Before I went, I asked for another pillow for my room and was told one would be taken up. Then I went out to dinner with Albie … we were at police college together … he is very clever, on the scientific side. I thought he might be helpful, know people and places. So I told him a bit about what brought me to Newcastle.’

  ‘And was he helpful?’

  ‘Not then, but I think he will be. It turned out he knew about it.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘Oh, Albie always knows everything. He is definitely not one of your scientists working in an ivory tower. Albie is plugged in.’