Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  They fell silent as the landlady returned, with a fresh glass of wine for Steffanie.

  “Don’t usually do table service here,” the old lady said. “Customers usually come to the bar and order their drinks there.”

  “I appreciate you taking the trouble to accommodate me,” Steffanie replied.

  The landlady left, the look on her face saying she still wasn’t sure she had made her point.

  “My editor’s getting itchy,” Emma said. “If we’re going ahead with this story, we need to get moving. Which means it’s down to you, telling us your story, bringing us the evidence. Who pulled the trigger, Steffanie?”

  “We haven’t discussed payment yet.”

  “Are you kidding me? We’ve done nothing but discuss the fucking money! Who pulled the trigger?”

  Steffanie said nothing, holding Emma in her cool, level gaze.

  “Seriously, Steffanie, I’m about ready to call this whole thing off. You need to give us something before we take it any further.” Emma leaned forward, staring at Steffanie. “Who pulled the fucking trigger?”

  Steffanie sighed. “It was Joe.”

  “Joe Coffin? Your fucking husband?”

  Michael let out a cry, and Steffanie bent down to see to him, pushing more sweets into his fumbling hands.

  Emma sat back in her chair. Joe Coffin murdered Terry Wu. A low flicker of excitement burst to life in the pit of her stomach. Finally, she was on the cusp of that big, career making story. She’d have to be careful how she handled this, especially with Nick. Maybe take the evidence to the police the morning the story was due to break in the newspaper. Of course she had to give them a heads up, but not too much. This was her story, and she would break it how she wanted.

  “All right, let’s talk money,” she said.

  Steffanie raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And, Karl says we can go up to £250,000, dependent on you giving us what you’ve promised.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Holy fuck, Steffanie, get a grip. That kind of money, a national newspaper pays for a celebrity to dish the dirt. You’re hardly big news outside of the Midlands, and even here you’re more in the notorious class than the celebrity status.”

  “With what I’ve got, you’ll be bringing down the biggest extortion and drug running gang in the country. I would have thought—”

  “Nobody gives a shit what you think,” Emma snapped. “What everybody else will be thinking is, if that high-class hooker’s so concerned with bringing down the Slaughterhouse Mob, why the fuck didn’t she go straight to the police?”

  Anger flared briefly across Steffanie’s face, and for a moment that childhood fear filled Emma’s chest again.

  I’ve gone too far, she thought.

  The mask slipped back into place, Steffanie’s face regaining its perfect composure. “I suppose that payment will have to do then.”

  Emma sat back and took a deep breath. “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  She picked up her cup and took a sip of the coffee. She grimaced. As much as she loved coffee, she hated cold coffee.

  “Next time we meet,” Emma said, “you bring all the evidence you have. Everything. And you tell me the whole story, too. We can’t dick about like this anymore. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it gets.”

  Steffanie smiled and sipped her wine. The smile wasn’t warm, or comforting, or pleasant. It was cold and cruel, and patronising. “You have no idea how much danger I am in. And you, too.”

  “Like I said, the sooner we get this done, the better. How are you going to get the video of Terry Wu’s murder to us?”

  “Everything I have, including the footage of the murder, and rock solid evidence linking Craggs to extortion, drug dealing, the smuggling of illegal immigrants into the country, everything, is on a USB stick. I’ll give it to you soon, but we still need to discuss the terms of the payment.”

  Steffanie stood up, started gathering the toys and baby paraphernalia together.

  “What are you doing?” Emma said.

  Steffanie picked up her glass and drained the rest of the wine. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”

  She wheeled the buggy around and pushed it through the pub. Emma watched as she manoeuvred the buggy outside, the door slamming shut behind her.

  “Don’t mention it,” Emma said, to the empty chair. “I’m perfectly happy to pick up the bill. No need to thank me, no need at all. Fuck!”

  * * *

  Three days later, Emma got the news that Steffanie and Michael had been murdered. A numb dismay had been her only emotion.

  The following morning, she climbed out of bed, made herself a coffee, and then sat in her kitchen the rest of the day, crying. The guilt had been overpowering, debilitating. It had taken several calls from her editor, and a personal visit, before she started the process of coming to terms with what had happened, and her possible role in it.

  It was the little boy’s death that hit her most. Steffanie had lived the life, she was going out one way or another. Maybe lung cancer, or her liver packing up, or maybe a good beating from her husband, or a lover. But that little boy, how old had he been? Two, three maybe?

  The BMX boy had long since disappeared from her line of view, but still Emma stared after him, lost in her thoughts.

  She had a feeling that Michael Coffin would haunt her waking, and sleeping hours for many years to come.

  Emma opened the boot of her car and grabbed a camera, hooking the strap over her shoulder. Jonny, the young, long haired staff photographer, had been called out on another job. That was fine with Emma, she could take a photograph just as well as the staff photographers, as far as she was concerned. The D4 might be bigger, shinier and have more buttons and dials than her own compact camera, but what was the difference? You pointed the lens at your subject and pushed a button.

  What was the big deal?

  Emma rested her backside against her car and looked at the house. An interview with Laura Mills wasn’t going to be easy, even though she had agreed to it. Another story about her missing child, keeping him alive in the public consciousness, couldn’t hurt, and might even do some good. Laura knew that. She was a mother, she wanted her boy home, and would do anything to achieve that.

  But still, it was going to be an emotionally difficult interview.

  And what was with the car parked on the driveway? Or, rather, the car parked at an angle, half on the drive and half on the lawn, with the long scratch running down the driver’s side. Looked like someone had been trying to park it and then abandoned the job. At some point in the process of trying to park, whoever had been driving had hit the second car parked on the same drive. The passenger door was crumpled in, just at the point where the other car was facing it. Looked like someone had been having a bad day.

  Or night.

  Emma walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Laura answered almost immediately.

  Her eyes were red, and her face blotchy. Had she been crying? Had she even managed to get any sleep since Jacob and Peter disappeared?

  Emma stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma from the Birmingham Herald, we spoke on the phone yesterday.”

  Laura looked at Emma’s hand as though it might bite her. Eventually she shook, briefly, before snatching her hand back. Her movements were jerky, quick, like she was operated by tightly coiled springs.

  “I suppose you want to come in,” she said, her voice flat, like she had made a statement, rather than asked a question.

  “I think it would be easier on you if we talked inside, yes,” Emma said.

  Laura made no move to let her in the house. “What’s the camera for?”

  “Oh, well, if you don’t mind, of course, we thought, my editor and I thought, that it might be a good idea if we got a photograph of you, and maybe your husband as well, if he’s at home right now, that is, to go with the interview.”

  Fuck! Emma thought. Get a grip on yourself, you sound like a giddy tee
nager asking a girl out on a date.

  “Yes, Tom is at home,” Laura replied, her voice a monotone. “He came home late last night, he’s having a bath right now.”

  “Oh good, he’ll look nice for the photograph, then.”

  Shit, did I just say that? Emma cringed inwardly.

  Laura regarded Emma for a few seconds more, her eyes dull and puffy with crying, until she finally stepped back and let Emma inside.

  Emma had expected the house to be in a state of chaos, the demands of normal life, such as tidying and cleaning, put on hold for the moment. All of Laura’s energy would be focused on finding her missing son, surely? Emma had half expected Laura to be out when she called, scouring the streets, knocking on doors, pinning missing persons posters up all over town.

  But no, here Laura stood, like an estate agent in a brand new house, ready to give Emma the tour. The air smelt of polish, the hall carpet looked freshly vacuumed, the house just seemed to radiate cleanliness and order.

  And, come to think of it, despite the red-rimmed eyes, Laura looked smart and well presented, too. Was this all for Emma’s benefit? Or was this her way of coping with the stress?

  “Would you like a coffee?” Laura said.

  “Yes, please,” Emma replied.

  She followed Laura into the kitchen. The smell of cleaning spray hung in the air. The hob sparkled, looking like they had just had it installed, and all the surfaces were clean and free of clutter.

  “You have a lovely house,” Emma said, and mentally kicked herself. Was now the right time to be making small talk?

  “It’s all right,” Laura said, switching the kettle on.

  Emma put the camera down on the table and pulled out her notebook. Maybe a coffee had been a bad idea. Best just to get the interview and the photograph and then go. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to hang around until Tom Mills had finished having a bath. From what she’d heard so far, he hadn’t been that bothered about his missing son.

  “Do you mind if I take some photos of you?” Emma said. “The natural ones sometimes work so much better than posed shots.”

  “Whatever you think’s best,” Laura replied.

  Emma switched the camera on.

  It’s like she’s given up. Jacob’s been missing three days now, and she’s started reconciling herself to the fact she’s never going to see him again. Like she’s decided he’s already dead.

  Emma lifted the camera and composed a shot through the viewfinder. Laura stared vacantly into the camera.

  This is good, Emma thought. Karl might run with this one on the front page.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Emma lowered the camera.

  Tom Mills had walked into the kitchen, wearing a dressing gown, hair damp and mussed up, skin red from sitting too long in a hot bath.

  Emma stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma from the Birmingham Herald, I’m here to do a story on Jacob.”

  “Fuck off,” Tom growled.

  He pushed past her and opened a cupboard, rifling through it until he found a box of matches.

  “What did you say?” Emma said.

  “You heard me.” Tom pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his dressing gown pocket and ripped the cellophane off. His hands were shaking. “I told you to fuck off, we don’t need no fucking reporters round here.”

  He finally extricated a cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth. His hands were shaking so bad he used up two matches lighting the cigarette. Emma noticed his dirty fingernails, wondered why he hadn’t scrubbed them clean while he was sitting in the bath.

  But they were more than just dirty, they were black. What had he been doing that got his hands so filthy, it left black crescents of dirt along the ends of his nails even after a bath?

  “What are you fucking staring at?” he snapped, blowing a cloud of smoke towards her.

  “Sorry,” Emma said. “I’ll leave.”

  “Good fucking riddance.” Tom pushed past her again, and out of the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Laura said, her voice slow, and quiet. “He’s worried about Jacob.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” Emma replied. “Maybe if we went somewhere, I could buy you a coffee, and we could talk?”

  Laura shook her head. “No, I need to stay here. I’ll see you to the door.”

  They stepped back into the hall and Emma glanced up the stairs. On the left-hand side, about a quarter of the way up, was a black hand print. Further up the stairs was another one, slightly smudged, but just as filthy as the last.

  Emma smiled bashfully. “Um, I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind if I used your toilet? I need to pee, and I don’t think I’ll make it back to the office, if I’m honest.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Laura replied.

  Emma walked up the stairs. There was another hand print at the top, and then more along the landing wall, until they reached a bedroom door. Up here there was a trail of dirty footprints on the carpet, too. The vacuum cleaner sat on the landing.

  Emma glanced back. Laura had gone back into the kitchen. The stairs carpet was clean. Laura had been vacuuming when Emma knocked on the door.

  Covering up for something, maybe? Or someone, more likely.

  Emma followed the trail of hand prints to the bedroom and gently pushed the door open. The bed was a tangle of bedsheets, looked like somebody had been thrashing around in their sleep, having some terrible nightmares. The sheets and the covers looked filthy, too.

  Emma pulled the door to and followed the dirty footprints to the bathroom. She opened the door, and was met by moist, warm air. There were more hand prints on the bathroom wall, on the toilet bowl and flush, on the edge of the bath. The inside of the bath was streaked with dirty water marks, and a pile of clothes had been dumped in a corner.

  What the hell had Tom been up to last night?

  Emma caught her breath. She could hear footsteps on the stairs.

  “Hey, you, I thought I told you to get the hell out of my house!”

  Emma closed the bathroom door and snapped the lock shut. Whatever had happened last night, she was sure Tom wouldn’t be happy that Emma had seen the mess he’d made.

  But what was he prepared to do to keep her quiet? He’d never been convicted of anything, but from what she’d heard, Tom Mills was a nasty character. When he found her in here, amongst all these hand prints and the filthy streaks in the bath, would he be ready with an innocent explanation?

  Or would it be easier all round if he found a way of keeping her quiet?

  Emma flinched as he pounded on the door. “I said I want you out!”

  She flushed the toilet and turned on a tap, began washing her hands. “Just a minute, I’m almost done!”

  “What are you doing in there?” he shouted. “Come on out, now!”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to fucking kill you, unless you think of something, quick!

  She glanced around the bathroom, looking for a weapon.

  Shampoo, soap, shower gel, a pumice stone, a toilet brush.

  Fuck, maybe I could tickle him with the toilet brush, and get out whilst he’s still lying on the floor giggling helplessly.

  More pounding, the door quivering in its frame. “Do I have to kick this door in, and drag you out of there?”

  “No, just a sec, I’m almost done, I just need to…wait, I think I need to pee again!”

  The bathroom window! If she climbed on the bath, hoisted herself up, maybe she could squeeze through the gap.

  Emma screamed as the door crashed open. Tom stood in the ruined doorway, fists clenched by his sides, the tendons on his scrawny neck standing out, a pulse throbbing just under his left jaw.

  “You stupid bitch,” he hissed.

  niiinnuuuhh!

  It just didn’t make sense, no matter how he looked at it. When he’d been in their scuzzy apartment, stinking of unwashed bodies and sex, it had all seemed so obvious. In the heat of the moment, the need for revenge coursing throu
gh his body like electricity, Joe Coffin had been ready to pull the trigger, without asking any more questions.

  Hell, even if the police had walked in right then, he couldn’t have stopped himself. His wife and his son were dead, and their killers needed to pay the price. Blowing that kid’s brains out had been the right thing to do.

  That’s how it had seemed at the time.

  But now? Now, Coffin had more questions than answers. Yesterday he had executed his family’s murderers. This morning, less than twenty-four hours later, there had been another ‘vampire’ killing.

  How could that be possible?

  A copycat murder?

  Not likely. People killed other people in the heat of the moment, with their fists, or a gun, or a knife, or whatever came to hand. And mostly they killed family members, not strangers. Or the murder was sexually motivated.

  But ripping somebody’s throat out with their teeth?

  Coffin pulled his jacket collar up as the rain started falling. A blanket of wet leaves covered the pavement, slowly turning to mush. Another month or two and it would be much colder, might even start snowing.

  That was when Coffin regretted not driving. He should learn how to drive, get himself a custom-built car. Or at the very least get his Fat Boy out of the garage. All this walking from place to place was a pain in the arse.

  The thing with those kids, Coffin hadn’t been thinking clearly when he took them out. But now he was, and he could see, plain as day, that those two scrawny pieces of shit had been maybe just about capable of picking their noses.

  But murder?

  No. Absolutely not.

  Tom, in his eagerness to give Coffin a get out of jail and welcome home present, had found a likely pair for the killers, but not done his homework.

  Coffin should talk to him again, find out where he got his information from. He had to have picked up their names from somewhere. Tom should have waited, let Coffin deal with it himself, when he got out.

  Coffin trudged on, deep in his thoughts, and oblivious to the rain pouring down his head and under his turned-up collar.

  * * *