A Grave Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. The sergeant on duty took it, got the man’s name and address and checked it was OK on the computer.’

  ‘So what do we know?’

  ‘He is Arthur Henry Killen, aged fifty-two, he lives at twelve, Dimsey Gardens, East Hythe. No sort of record. Oh, and brought the dog.’

  ‘Did he say why he went off?’

  ‘Said he felt sick … and has since been away, came as soon as he got back.’

  ‘Right.’ Then he asked: ‘Have you spoken again to the young couple?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Foster? No, sir, not yet. After the inquest and funeral they went off again for the rest of their honeymoon. Expected back soon.’

  ‘Let me know what there is.’ If anything, he thought.

  Coffin sat in quiet reflection. ‘The man was there at the front desk when I went through. I saw him. If I hadn’t been in such a rotten mood I might have stopped and spoken to him myself.’

  Inspector Devlin put the telephone down, before turning back to Tony Tittleton. She grimaced at him.

  ‘The Big Man breathing down your neck again?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Bear with him. He’s great at seeing through a problem.’

  So am I, thought Devlin. Just give me space. I am not clear where I am going at the moment, I admit it, but I will get there.

  Tittleton looked at her with sympathy and amusement. You’ll get there, but the Big Man will be holding your hand. Won’t he?

  But he did not say this out loud.

  13

  Time for thought was rare in Coffin’s working life, although when Stella was off on one of her trips he found plenty of time for it in his private life. Did Stella think about him when they were apart? Sometimes he wondered.

  Ed Saxon was still sulking in his cage, he would have to be dug out, a problem for the future, but for the moment Coffin was thinking about the deaths of the four boys.

  The same questions were going round and round in his mind. He wished he had spoken to the man – what was he called … Arthur Killen? – himself. He looked at the address scribbled on a pad in front of him: 12, Dimsey Gardens. He knew where that was; the row of little dwellings had housed a serious arsonist, now dead, whose house he had inspected himself. The arsonist had died of smoke inhalation while trapped at one of his own fires, which was justice enough.

  Might go round to the Killen house himself. With Inspector Devlin, he added quickly, must not step too briskly and heavily into her territory, although he was seriously tempted.

  Where would that get him if he did go there? Well, it was just possible the man had seen someone and something that might help. No doubt Devlin had already considered it.

  Then there was the young couple who had actually got in touch with the police. They might have more information tucked away without knowing it. They were away on their interrupted honeymoon, but Paddy Devlin would be round there too.

  He was drawing circles round and round on the pad.

  There was a neat forensic aid in the form of the blood test loaded with painkiller, but you first had to find the owner of the blood.

  He had noticed that the bus driver, Peter Perry had limped away. What about suggesting to Devlin that he be asked for a blood sample?

  Once again, she might have thought of it, but if so, she had not said anything about it. On the other hand, would you have done so, he asked himself, at her age? This was another occasion on which a Dr Watson figure would be useful, he could be sent round asking questions.

  He finished reading a report, signed it, then picked up another. You had to be a quick reader in this job, a skill he had learnt.

  A knock at the door and Paul Masters came in. ‘Inspector Davenport rang while you were out at lunch, I took the call myself.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘No, but he will ring back this afternoon.’

  Masters looked round the room. ‘No dog?’

  ‘He’s home in disgrace … he ate a leg of chicken and couldn’t digest it.’

  ‘A bone might have got stuck, sir. Don’t you think he ought to see a vet?’

  Coffin summoned up the picture of what had happened in Felicity Street. ‘I don’t think anything got stuck in Gus,’ he said dryly. ‘I think he dealt with it himself.’

  ‘I like the little fellow,’ said Masters by way of apology.

  ‘We all do, we all do. But he can be a pain.’ Coffin looked at his watch. ‘I hope Davenport rings soon, I might have to go out again.’

  The phone on his desk rang, as if prompted.

  ‘That’ll be him, sir,’ said Inspector Masters, taking himself off. Beyond the door, he thought, pity about the dog. I hope he is all right. He often looked after Gus when the Chief Commander had to be away for some hours, and felt that the dog needed more from life than following around an abstracted Coffin.

  Davenport never wasted any time. ‘I thought you would like to know that we’ve got a man for the murder of Harry Seton. A known criminal, one George Hopkins, known to us, Georgy is, never done anything big before, this is a first. And last, I trust.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Case isn’t quite tied up; he denies it’s him, and claims an alibi. But there is solid forensic evidence on his clothes, on the van he used for transport and,’ he added, ‘in his bank account, where there is over a thousand that shouldn’t be there by rights.’

  ‘Foolish of him not to take cash.’

  ‘Oh, he did, but then he went and opened a bank account.’ Davenport gave a snort of laughter. ‘Not a bright boy. I’ll break that alibi.’

  ‘And do you know who is behind it?’

  Davenport was silent for a second. ‘I will have to go careful there. Can’t say for sure. I did suspect the wife, as you know … I’ll get it out of Georgy boy, don’t worry about that. Few hours of questioning and he will talk.’ Davenport added speedily: ‘And then, of course, I will let you know, sir.’

  ‘Superintendent Saxon will want to know too,’ Coffin reminded him.

  ‘And he shall do, of course.’

  ‘Tell him first,’ said Coffin. ‘That’s the right way round.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do it any other way, sir,’ said Inspector Davenport with satisfaction. There’s a job there for me, he thought, if I don’t get promotion here and I fancy a move.

  Paul Masters waited until he heard the telephone replaced before coming in with a batch of letters to sign.

  ‘All well, sir?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a competent but slippery bugger, Davenport, but I think he’s done well here.’

  Coffin signed the letters quickly, before looking at his watch.

  ‘Can I bring you a cup of tea, sir?’ Masters spoke from the door.

  ‘No, I will be out for about an hour.’

  He went down in the lift. This time there was a plump elderly woman at the desk. She was in tears.

  ‘Lost her dog, sir,’ said the constable at the door.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Coffin went over to speak to her. ‘I am sorry, madam. Has he been gone long.’

  ‘She. She’s a bitch, a mongrel terrier. I just left her outside a shop … dogs aren’t allowed in our post office, which I think is wrong, not like a food shop where I would never take Freda.’ Her tears had dried as anger took its place.

  From behind his protective glass panel, the constable on duty said he was sure the dog would come back.

  ‘She’s been stolen,’ said the woman with conviction. ‘Freda would never leave me.’

  ‘Has she got her name and address on her collar?’ asked Coffin.

  The constable said he had asked and she had. ‘I reckon she’ll be back under her own steam, Mrs Darby. She was last time, remember?’

  ‘That time she was frightened, she ran …’

  Coffin thought it time to go himself. Mrs Darby did not notice his departure, engaged as she was in defending Freda’s virtue. ‘The puppies wer
e planned,’ he heard her say with emphasis.

  Coffin drove this time to Felicity Street, his desire for a walk having been quenched. He parked on a double yellow line outside H. Pennyfeather, Chemist.

  Mr Barley was behind the shop counter, while the white-coated assistant arranged boxes of tissues on the shelves by the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  “Afternoon, Mr Barley,’ said Coffin casually, as if he was a frequent customer.

  ‘What is it you need, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got a headache, so aspirin, I think.’

  Mr Barley nodded. ‘Oh, I can give you something better than that.’ He reached underneath the counter and produced a white and blue packet. ‘Codeine … more powerful, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t think you could buy that now,’ said Coffin, feeling for money. The price on the packet was high.

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, sir. I always keep a little. Just take what it says and don’t overdo it.’

  Coffin was reading the packet, which seemed to be in German on one side with English on the other. English, of a kind, not perhaps as she was spoken. The trade name seemed to be Felixacan.

  ‘No, I certainly won’t do that …’ He touched his head. ‘I think I have an infection … a sort of flu, I think.’

  ‘Any other symptoms, sir? Throat? Cough?’

  ‘A bit of a throat, no cough, but a general all-over ache.’

  Mr Barley nodded appraisingly. ‘Well, you’d better take this.’ He produced a bottle of yellow capsules. ‘Two, three times a day, and no alcohol. Just for three days. Don’t let it run on. Come back if it hasn’t worked.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ promised Coffin. He paid for the antibiotics, which was what he assumed the capsules to be. Antiveron was the name, and like the painkiller, they seemed to be bilingual. This time they were not expensive if they did what Mr Barley said they did.

  He stood on the other side of the counter, grey-white hair, neatly combed, respectable, and confident.

  He’s mad, Coffin thought, I could probably arrest him on the spot and close the shop, but I shan’t – I want more.

  ‘You have a good stock,’ he said, to start the conversation going.

  ‘Haven’t I, indeed?’ There was a kind of innocent pride in Mr Barley’s tone, like the parent of a particularly promising infant.

  ‘And reasonable prices too.’

  ‘It is, it is. But this is a poorish neighbourhood, sometimes people cannot afford what the doctor prescribes … So I fill a need, sir.’ The old man nodded his head like an ancient, well-meaning sage, not at all like a man who is selling counterfeit medicines. ‘Yes, I fill a need.’

  Coffin would have liked to ask him who supplied him, and devoted a second to thinking how to put it. But Mr Barley spared him the trouble.

  ‘My son,’ he said, ‘my son understands how I feel about the poorer people and is a great help to me. He is a chemist, you see, and a very good one. He works in the university, the one down in Spinnergate; there is at least one other now,’ he said, his voice suddenly going vague, as if universities now grew like trees and might sprout anywhere.

  Mr Barley looked around him with pride: ‘He built this shop for me, or rebuilt it, would be fairer. I remembered how chemist shops looked when I was young. Beautiful in their way with the bottles of liquid medicines and great china urns of pills and powders … some chemist’s still made their own pills.’

  How old is he? Coffin asked himself. Surely not so old as that? He is dreaming of a world he did not live in, never had lived in.

  Coffin looked round the shop with its gleaming mahogany shelves, the rows of drawers beneath with the name of the drugs they contained painted in gold in a flowing hand. The shelves were lined with bottles and white pots, all carefully labelled by hand.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ he said, with truth. Some of the preparations looked pretty lethal. What did you do with Mordpearl or Shellaura? Did you eat them, swallow them with water, or bury them in the garden and say a prayer?

  ‘Old-fashioned, but my customers enjoy it.’

  I daresay, Coffin thought, if they are getting cut-price drugs. ‘It’s got a nice atmosphere,’ he said, and meant it. It was very clear that a lot of intelligent research had gone into this recreation of an apothecary’s shop from the past.

  ‘I knew what I wanted, I had a picture in my mind, I didn’t just take the money.’ He shook his head gently, smiling. ‘You could call it rent from a son. Or in this case, he did all this in lieu of rent. My vision, and he paid.’

  ‘A good idea.’ Coffin had no idea what Mr Barley was talking about.

  ‘Come through to the back, and I will show you something. I can see you are interested.’ He led the way through a door to a back room. Over his shoulder, he called to his assistant: ‘Lock up, Isobel, dear.’

  ‘Mr Barley …’ she called after him.

  ‘Just lock up, dear.’ He nodded to Coffin. ‘I sometimes close early, as it suits me.’

  He drew Coffin into the room, it was part sitting room, part office, not particularly tidy but with comfort as the key everywhere. A big soft sofa by the fire, an armchair facing it. The window curtains were thick, heavy, dark-red velvet. Coffin thought it was quite likely that the room had not been dusted or swept for weeks, perhaps even longer. On a table by the fireplace there was a tray with a teapot and a used cup.

  ‘I look after myself,’ said Mr Barley, ‘as you can see. The girl is good but she works only in the shop.’ He looked round the room, his expression vague. ‘There was a woman who used to come in to clean but she got ill and I have never seen her again. She may have died; people do not always tell you.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Coffin.

  Mr Barley led him to the window which overlooked not a garden, as he might have expected, but a cemented slope which led down to a large low shed-like building. Beyond the shed was the glint of water.

  ‘Minger’s Canal,’ said Mr Barley, seeing Coffin’s surprise. ‘Minger had a factory here in about eighteen eighty; he made tin baths and tin trunks … Minger went on till about nineteen forty, bombed out then. You need to know the history of this part of Spinnergate to understand what you see.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Coffin. ‘What’s the building there now?’

  ‘My son works there,’ said Mr Barley proudly. ‘He lectures in the university but this is his private enterprise. He is very successful, which is why he could afford to help me create my shop. I was not a success, myself, you see.’

  Behind every successful son is an unsuccessful father, Coffin thought.

  ‘What does he do there?’

  ‘Not make tin baths,’ said Mr Barley with a touch of humour. ‘He tries for new drugs, when they are good, he can sell the recipe for them to big drug companies … he has the copyright, you might say.’

  ‘I am glad to see it. It interests me,’ said Coffin with truth. ‘How is it inside?’

  ‘Never seen it.’ Mr Barley was regretful. ‘Visitors not allowed. Hygiene, you know. Mustn’t take dirt in, or bacteria.’

  In the shop outside, there were sounds of the assistant closing up.

  Mr Barley showed Coffin out. ‘I always like a visitor, but a man of education such as yourself does not come often.’

  He ushered Coffin through the shop and bowed him to the door. ‘Thank you for showing me round,’ said Coffin politely. He thought he would be back.

  The door was locked and bolted behind him with some ceremony, as Mr Barley explained that vandals and villains were rife in Felicity Street. ‘My son has very good security which protects me a little. By the way, Felicity Street, we are in Felicity Street, you notice. I believe the original Felicity was one of the Minger daughters.’

  Out in the street, absorbing the information thrust at him, Coffin stood drawing breath. He had enjoyed Mr Barley.

  A few yards away, her hands on her bicycle, the girl Isobel was waiting for him. She held out a hand. ‘Isobel Dutton.’

 
Coffin shook her hand.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you. I could see you looking around … he’s all right, you know. Lives in the past, but quite happily. I run the shop, I am the qualified pharmacist there and make up the prescriptions from the doctors. I saw you were thinking about it all … I know nothing about the cheap drugs.’

  Coffin nodded.

  ‘If it hadn’t been that someone must look after Mr Barley, I would have been gone long ago, but he was kind to me as a child, I owe him something. He wasn’t always like this, you know.’

  ‘So I supposed. He was talking to me about his son,’ said Coffin. ‘Seems to rely on him a lot.’

  Isobel Dutton looked straight at Coffin. ‘Ah yes, his son. Sometimes, you know, he says he hasn’t got a son. Sometimes that his son was killed in the Falklands. He works in the university with Sir Jessimond’s son.’ She did not say more with her tongue, but her eyes said that he was the one running the scam. Clever lad, but greedy.

  Then she got on her bike and pedalled off, fast.

  14

  Coffin went straight back to his office. He thought one of his puzzles was on the point of being explained.

  When he had first been asked to aid in the matter of the counterfeit drugs by a higher official than Ed Saxon, he had been told because it was believed that the centre for the drug production was in the Second City.

  He thought he now knew where it was. Or at least where the formulas for the drugs to be copied were worked out and, as Mr Barley had said, given a ‘copyright’. It was his opinion that there were many centres, and moveable. But it might be that the Second City had the honour of being the home of the mother of them all.

  He walked from the car park to the office; walking cleared the mind and promoted the imagination. It also made you hungry: for various reasons, a dinner at Max’s tonight seemed a good idea.

  As he walked into the forecourt, he saw the sturdy, tweed-coated figure of the owner of the lost dog walking away. But the dog was not lost, she was trotting by her side at the end of her lead. She too looked a familiar figure – it was amazing how one mongrel terrier resembled another.

  He spoke to the constable on duty. ‘I see she’s got her dog back.’