‘What she seemed to hear, or perhaps I should say what she seemed to make of the dying woman’s words, was that she was a stand in or substitute.’
‘Theatrical,’ said Coffin shortly. ‘The understudy.’
So who was the star?
‘I know you think this connects with Miss Pinero somehow.’
‘Not just think,’ said Coffin fiercely. ‘I know.’
Phoebe drove on in silence. Some very strange thoughts were milling around in her head. How could Stella be part of this? And yet Stella already was. She had been attacked, kidnapped, and only escaped by a kind of miracle. Phoebe hardly knew what to say. ‘Straight home, sir,’ was all she managed. ‘Or back to HQ?’
‘I’ll go to the theatre and see Stella.’
‘Right, sir, right.’
‘But take me to the Tower first, I must look in on the cat again. He doesn’t like being left. Not for too long.’
He stepped out of the car quickly. ‘Thanks, Phoebe. You get back to work.’
‘Yes, sir. Anything specially you’d like me to do?’ She didn’t expect much of an answer, but she didn’t want to leave him with that look on his face.
‘Only catch the bugger, Phoebe.’
‘Do my best, sir.’
She drove off, in her own car. There seemed a lot of activity round one side of the theatre … some trouble with the foundation of the new building she supposed, but she didn’ t pay much attention, there was too much else to think about.
Coffin let himself in, his home was quiet, even the cat was asleep, although a flick of the animal’s tail hinted that he might be willing to wake up.
He sank into a chair to think things over. In a little while he would go over to the theatre to find Stella.
‘Have a drink,’ he told himself, but he did not move. Alcohol would not solve his worries. ‘I’m not pushing the teams as I should. Maybe I should call in the Met.’
He stood up and started to walk round the room. ‘God, I’d hate to do that …I know who will come in with all his cohorts: Archy Bledlow. Archy bloody Bledlow. Archie with his Bond Street hair cut and his forensic scientist that he always seems to have in his pocket.’
The thought of how much he would hate it stiffened him. ‘Straighten yourself, Coffin. You can do it.’
Now was the moment for a drink, so he went in search of a bottle that suited his mood. The ginger cat just opened an eye but did not move, waiting to see what would happen, having unconsciously adopted the safe way of life; letting someone else (preferably the dog) take the first step, fall for whatever trouble there was, and wait to see what good for a cat would come of it all.
Coffin poured himself a drink. Red wine, had to be red wine, he felt his blood needed warming. Or thinning.
He needed some strength behind. There was Paul Masters, the supreme administrator, no one better at a filing system, but a well-ordered filing cabinet was not always the answer to everything. There was Phoebe Astley, he could rely on Phoebe. Not too strong on imagination, but that could be a virtue.
Then there was Les Henderson. He liked the lad, a lot of potential there. He meant to bring him on, and this case might offer the opportunity. Might be a good idea to find out a bit more about Henderson. The official record he knew, of course: started with the uniformed branch, did his stint plodding the beat, transferred to the detection arm, rapid promotion at the same time as taking a degree in the Open University (got a good second class), a good Catholic, unmarried, popular with his colleagues.
Must have some faults, Coffin thought. Knowledge of which would certainly come Coffin’s way sooner or later. No doubt Phoebe knew and would tell if asked. ‘Doesn’t fancy me,’ she might say, which would certainly rate as a real sin in Phoebe’s eyes, although no doubt not in that of the young detective’s father confessor. He’d have enjoyed a son like Henderson although he doubted if the lad would have wanted a father like him. His own itinerant mother and absent father had hardly been a good training in parenting.
Coffin went to get another drink, but decided to ring the Incident Room first. It was more than one room, in fact, as was necessary with an investigation of this size. A well-oiled machine, which sometimes in a case he ignored, but which now he felt the need of for the support it offered.
Inspector Peter Beatty who was in charge (in as much as anyone was since officers were moving in and out on their own ploys all the time, sometime speaking, sometimes not), put down his mug of coffee to answer the Chief Commander. Instinct had told him it was the boss figure otherwise he might have let it ring longer whilst he finished the notes he was looking at.
‘No sir, no special developments.’
Across his desk, his second phone was ringing. No news there either, he decided sadly.
Wrongly, as it happened.
Coffin accepted what he said, with a sigh, then went to get his drink. The cat’s ears went up.
‘Hello, you. Woke you up, did I?’
The cat sat up, listening.
Then Coffin too heard something.
A moment later Stella came running up the winding staircase and burst into the room. She flung herself towards her husband. ‘Oh my darling … I’m so glad you are here. Something terrible!’
Chapter 11
Stella threw her arms around her husband.
‘Bless you. What a convenient person you are.’
‘Am I?’ Coffin was surprised, he hoped it was a compliment.
‘Oh yes, always there when you are wanted.’
I suppose that’s a good thing to be, thought Coffin, but he enjoyed the feeling of Stella in his arms and he hugged her.
‘I mean you don’t go pissing around,’ she murmured into his shoulder,‘you’re there, when wanted.’
‘So come on, love. Tell me what is this new horror. Not another murdered woman?’
‘No … well, I don’t know. Dead, but who did what I don’t know … there are three of them, you see. At the theatre.’
Coffin dropped his arms and drew away from her. ‘I’d better come to see for myself.’
‘I haven’t explained very well.’
‘No.’ He voice was still tender, but stern at the same time: this was work.
Stella knew this side of him of old and respected it without enjoying it.
‘I’m going across to see what is happening. You can come with me and tell me what you know. As we walk. Also,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘how you got dragged into it.’
‘It is my theatre,’ said Stella, as she followed him down the stairs. After them came Gus, determined to be part of the team, watched from the top of the staircase by the cat. ‘But it was Robbie Lightsett really …’
Robbie Lightsett (he hated his name but he had never seen any way round it) knew that getting this construction job of the new theatre had been a great triumph. Added to which he was a fan of Stella Pinero. ‘Not so much she’s lovely to look at, but she’s a marvellous actress and such charm,’ he said to his wife, who thankfully was not a jealous woman. ‘Actresses know how to make up,’ observed his wife, who although not jealous was sharp eyed.
Robbie and his team of workers were clearing the ground for the foundations of the building. It meant digging up some ancient gardens which had once run up to the edge of St Luke’s when it had been just a church - now it was a scrubby area used as an extra car park. ‘Waste ground,’ Stella had pronounced it as she showed round the banker who was going to lend her the money to build. Banking was only one of his professions but owning millions deserved a good name. He also loved the theatre and was not, so he said, going to be greedy about interest on the loan. This would be the fourth theatre on the site, possibly dedicated to TV drama; tiny, but very fashionable and popular: as benefactor, he hoped to get a knighthood out of it. Maybe even a peerage?
Robbie had four men working for him clearing the ground and digging, all four were good and trusted workers so he himself did not stay around all day as he had another job on the go in Spin
nergate.
It was quite by chance that he walked on to the site when they found the first body.
Then the second, and finally the third.
He was glad he was there, it was his job to be there, but he could not pretend it had been a good moment.
Startling and alarming, yes.
He knew the minute he saw Alfie Goode’s face that something really bad had happened.
‘What’s up, Alfie?’ he shouted as he moved forward rapidly. Alfie was the one who could put problems into words, make coherent sentences of them, even write a report if he had to which was why he was foreman, although tiny little Mark was the better craftsman. Mark was standing behind Alfie, while behind Mark was Minnie, his wife and fellow worker who could shift a spade-full with anyone. Probably carry Mark off over her shoulder, which rumour had it she had indeed done. On their wedding day too. She spoke rarely when at work, but had a good vocabulary when she did.
‘Sir, sir!’ Alfie was saying, his face a picture of horror. Since he was not a man who showed emotion much, Robbie called out not to worry, he was coming. ‘Could hardly believe it, sir … we were clearing the ground for the men to come in and set the foundations …’ Robby employed subcontractors for certain operations ‘ …and the architect was going to come. She’s there now.’
‘Yes, I can see her,’ said Robbie. Stella felt strongly about the position of professional women so she always employed a woman if she could. Robbie, who felt at heart that women were best in the kitchen and in the bed, had eventually come to accept it. Any man employed by Stella Pinero was bound to come to that conclusion in the end.
Robbie had got to the diggings so that he could stare down into the pit.
Grave was more the word to call it.
‘They’ve been buried here,’ he said incredulously.
‘They sure as hell didn’t crawl into the hole and draw the earth in after them,’ said Alfie. Behind him his silent supporters lined up, staring into the grave.
Robbie got down on his knees for a closer look. There were three figures. Some quality of the earth had mummified the bodies without entirely reducing them to skeletons. Some remnants of clothing clung to each body.
The evidence suggested that here they had a man, a woman, and a child.
‘We’ll have to call the police,’ said Alfie.
‘We can leave that to Miss Pinero, I reckon. We can trust to that with her connections.’
The architect, D.H. Armour, (she always used only her initials, neutral) came over to where they were. D.H. Armour was a tall, beautifully dressed woman, carrying her trademark briefcase.
‘My God, what have you turned up?’
No one answered since all was to be seen at a glance.
‘They look very young,’ she said, her voice suddenly tender.
‘How can you tell?’ asked Robbie.
‘By the clothes, what’s left of them, they’re kids clothes.’
It was at this moment that Stella Pinero arrived. She came over to see what they were all staring at, then drew in her breath sharply.
‘We thought you might tell your husband,’ said Robbie.
Coffin and Stella arrived together, he had his arm round Stella who looked composed. What a handy, calming thing is a husband, Stella was thinking, John really helps me through a crisis. I must do the same for him.
Accordingly, she brushed her cheek against her husband and said: ‘Love you, darling.’
He grinned back. ‘Actress.’
Oh good, she thought, I got it right. Aloud, she said: ‘Actor, dear, we’re all actors these days.’
Thus fortified, they went to look at the dead ones.
Coffin drew in his breath.
‘It certainly looks like murder, anyway, it’s got to be cleared up,’ he said in a sombre voice. ‘I’ll have to summon up a complete investigating team.’ His mind was running over pathologists and forensic scientists.
‘Who will you put in charge?’
‘I’ll have to leave that to the CID outfit. They’re pretty stretched at the moment.’ Chief Superintendent Bart Brewer was in charge there, a man promoted beyond his powers and already showing signs of strain. Not that Coffin could blame him, he was feeling the strain himself. How he wished he still had Archie Young at his side. But his well deserved promotion had taken Archie away then his beloved son who had been working in the Second City Force had been killed.
What misery and anxieties I might have could not compare with yours, Archie, I respect that.
‘These deaths … they can’t have any connections with the serial murders that are happening now, can they?’ asked Stella.
Robbie listened intently, as did Alfie and his acolytes.
‘No,’ said Coffin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so.’
Stella was silent for a bit, listening while Coffin spoke on his mobile phone. She heard the directions he was giving: Press and TV to be kept out.
‘I suppose it won’t be necessary to cancel the evening performance?’
Although her voice was diffident and gentle, Coffin knew it would be a strong anxiety. That was the theatre, he thought: the show must go on.
‘I must leave that decision to the officer in charge, but I think that if the area is roped off and a guard set up, you can go ahead.’
He knew very well that it was his decision that would count and that he would do his best for Stella. She knew it too. He could see it in her eyes. They allowed themselves a faint, very faint smile.
‘Thanks,’ she breathed. ‘Financially, we’re a bit on a knife edge at the moment.’
They always were, of course, but they always carried on one way or another and Stella would see they did now.
‘Won’t do anything you don’t approve,’ she said.
‘Of course you won’t.’
He took another look at the trio of the dead, neatly arranged according to size.
Someone must have known who they were. So they must have been reported missing.
And if not, why not.
Was that a question, he asked himself, or a statement?
‘Who did you call? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘I asked for Phoebe Astley to speak to me. As to whether she handles it or not, we’ll have to see. Bart Brewer may have other ideas …’
But he intended Phoebe should. These deaths meant digging into the past and Phoebe was good at that.
D.H. Armour said: ‘I suppose I might as well get off, Miss Pinero? I guess the building won’t make much progress for a while.’
Robbie and Co. were already packing up while waiting for their dismissal.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Stella said to the architect. ‘I am sorry if your time has been wasted.’
‘Not exactly wasted. It’s not been without interest. They were only kids, you know, and the little one …’ She shook her head. ‘A baby. Killed, poor little soul, just as an extra.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ Stella asked.
D.H. Armour shrugged. She was trying to listen to what Coffin, on his mobile again, was saying. But she couldn’t catch anything. Well, perhaps a word or two.
She thought she caught the word Phoebe, she had met DCI Astley once and though in general a supporter of ambitious professional woman, she had not taken to Phoebe Astley. Jealousy, she told herself honestly, at heart I am a bloody dinosaur.
‘Phoebe, I want you to have this one … I’ll fix it with Bart.’ Coffin had summoned Phoebe to his office and now was meeting her there, with Paul Masters hovering in the background. He had taken in lately that Phoebe Astley was going up in the guvnor’s estimation and was not sure if he liked it. He liked Phoebe herself though, and knew she was clever. Jealousy, he was also admitting to himself, not knowing D.H. Armour had been thinking herself guilty of the same. With a suddenness that was almost pain, he realised that he liked Phoebe a good deal more than he had realised and the feeling was getting stronger. Phoebe, he thought, you and I have a way to go together if you agree.
Phoebe started to say something. She could tell from Coffin’s voice, always under control but whose tones she had learnt to read, that he was anxious. He always was where Stella was concerned and certainly she was a lady who attracted trouble. Perhaps actresses were all like that.
‘You’ve only got the mannequin, haven’t you? I mean with all that goes with it. How are you getting on with that? Any progress?’ The mannequin had been the beginning. Or one of the beginnings, he thought savagely.
‘I’m handling the murders as well and Mercy’s gone sick,’ said Phoebe in a level voice.
Coffin nodded. ‘So I was told.’ Their eyes met, but nothing was said.
‘We could do with Joe back. I’d like to know what he’d make of it all.’
‘So?’ queried Coffin. ‘What do you make of it? The whole set of events? You don’t want to say, do you? Not even about the mannequin?’
‘It’s all a bit intangible,’ she admitted. In fact, the source of the mannequin had not yet been traced. Originally it came from a theatrical supplier in Windsor who manufactured them but they were still tracking where this particular one may have been bought from.
‘I think this case might be described as intangible too,’ said Coffin grimly.
‘I’d like to report more progress, sir. With all this other business going on, the series of killings, it doesn’t seem so important, maybe. It’s only that the dummy seemed to touch Miss Pinero.’
‘This case might too.’
‘That’s a bit tortuous, sir.’ Phoebe was always very careful to call Coffin sir when she was disagreeing with him.
But was she disagreeing with him? The truth was that she had not as yet even visited the scene of the three bodies just uncovered. A vivid description by Coffin was not enough, she thought, until she had had a chance to see them. It is not the sort of murder that I am good at solving, she told herself savagely. What I should like is a straightforward, open-and-shut case where a chap is killed with a hammer to the head by his next door neighbour and you know it’s because he is having an affair with the neighbour’s wife. That’s my sort of murder, you know where you are with one like that. I’m a plain detective, not a fancy one. His lordship there is the fancy one.
Coffin Knows the Answer Page 10
