Coffin Knows the Answer

by Gwendoline Butler

  Beyond that, what do we know?

  They must have family, they didn’t spring from Zeus’s forehead.

  ‘Dangerous things, families,’ said Coffin, when Phoebe said this to him. ‘Never had much of a one myself till Stella took me on.’

  Or else he had too much. Abandoned by his mother as a infant, he had been brought up by a ‘relation’ who turned out to be no relation at all, but his mother’s dresser … they had loved each other very much.

  Then later, after his own unsuccessful marriage and the death of a son, he had discovered that mother had survived and married several times. Sensibly to rich men.

  Very wise of her, Coffin had said to himself. I might have done the same. But although it was all right for women to look for a rich husband, indeed it was almost expected of them, there was a prejudice about a man marrying for money.

  He’d married Stella who could spend money faster than she could earn it, but whom he loved.

  Or, as he sometimes suspected, Stella had married him and all he had to do was to say Yes. As Stella had once observed: ‘It’s such a comfort being married to a top policeman if you are trying to run a theatre, it irons out so many little problems.’

  Coffin had been left with a stiff, lawyer half-brother in Edinburgh (his father probably a Scottish Law Lord), and a delicious American half-sister called Laetitia Bingham who was a banker, very rich, but occasionally bankrupt.

  The stuffy half-brother was now keeping his distance on account of the serial murders, but Letty had sent an email to say she was coming over and this murder saga must make a film. Stella was to see it did. They could use dummies for the dead ladies. At which Coffin winced.

  ‘My family is all right,’ said Phoebe to him. ‘My sister and her kids.’ Not that she wanted kids herself, but she liked her sisters’. Family life at secondhand was probably safest for a police officer.

  ‘So what have we got?’ Coffin ignored Phoebe’s family reminiscences: he knew she quarrelled with her sister if they were together for longer than a day. ‘All we have is his name. If it was his name,’

  ‘Yes, probably his stage name, and his real name was Fisher or Brown.’

  ‘Look it up in THEATRE BOOK, all names and variations are there.’

  ‘I have done. Nothing. Or nothing I could get a handle on.’

  Coffin frowned. He never looked disagreeable when he frowned, just thin, thoughtful and anxious.

  ‘I could positively like him when he looks like that,’ thought Phoebe.‘But I won’t because it would be dangerous.’ Aloud, she said: ‘Superintendent Miller has called another meeting of all for us investigating the serial killings, tomorrow morning, 9am sharp.’ Since she had started working on the paedophile case, murders and investigations had clustered around her. Not that she’d got far. ‘And I think he’s asked Joe Jones if he feels up to it.’

  ‘He called it because I told him to … Stella will be there.’

  Phoebe let her surprise show.

  ‘She’s going to see photographs of all the dead women to see if she knew them.’

  Brave of her, thought Phoebe, she won’t enjoy it. Then she saw from the expression Coffin’s face that Stella had not volunteered, but had been ordered to attend.

  Not all bliss being the Chief Commander’s wife.

  When she got back to work Mercy had both an email and a telephone message telling her of the big meeting so she knew it was serious. She also got one from Phoebe Astley complaining she was hard to track down. She returned to her office, sending an email back to Phoebe Astley. ‘Migraine, migraine,’ she said in apology, ‘you know how it is, you just want to be on your own. Brain pain.’

  Brain pain. ‘Who wants a hot brain?’ she asked herself, ‘but sometimes you just get it.’ The serial murders of women had done this for her. Superintendent Miller had added to it by sending out the invitation to a big meeting, but she guessed that John Coffin was behind it.

  Mercy tried once more to get in touch with Joe. As usual Inspector Joe Jones, who always sheltered behind his wife on the telephone, let Josie speak first. She admitted she had had some time off from the hospital but was on her way back to work.

  ‘And how’s Joe?’

  ‘He can talk to you himself.’

  He started at once, so Mercy guessed he had been listening to the telephone call. Any good detective would. And Joe was a very good detective but with a style all his own. He had trained young Mercy so she respected it.

  ‘I heard about the bodies that were found. So I knew to be ready for a call in.’

  Josie called out; ‘Remember to take your tablets with you.’

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ said Joe, a sardonic humour in his voice. ‘She thinks I might drop dead.’

  ‘It’s working in a hospital,’ said Mercy. ‘Do it to me, I expect.’ Her doctor friend was a bit strange sometimes. Stress. She had been worried over Joe herself but was not about to say so.

  ‘Oh a casualty of life,’ said Joe. ‘How’s Dr Whatever-he’s-called?’

  Mercy avoided the question. That was a subject to steer clear of.

  ‘I wish I found it easier to work with the Chief Commander, but I don’t. Everyone likes him, I like him myself, but I find him hard to work with. Perhaps hard isn’t the word, but I feel he expects more than I deliver.’ This was about the third meeting that had been called in which they were told how all the recent murders were linked. Were they? And if so, how? Nothing seemed to fit.

  ‘He is a clever man,’ said Joe.

  ‘So are you, Joe and you’re OK to work with.’

  ‘You know what this summons to a meeting means? The boss is taking over.’

  Distantly, through the telephone line, Mercy heard Josie saying; if Lady Pinero’s going to be there, then I ought to be too.

  ‘Why?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘Because I work in the University Hospital … I see lots of faces. I might recognise one or two.’ Josephine sounded emphatic.

  ‘Lady Coffin or Miss Pinero,’ said Joe, he put the receiver down with a clink.

  The meeting was held in a large room in an old part of the police building. Stories said that this area had been a school and the big room had been the school hall. On this morning it had had a brush up and polish which a first arrival claimed was for the benefit of the Chief Commander. If Coffin had heard the rumour about the school he would have been able to deny it: he had seen the room when he first took on his job and it was full of old police uniforms and boots with not a smell of food. Besides, there was no kitchen. No kitchen, no food.

  He was punctual as were all the summoned detectives. Phoebe Astley was sitting next to Winnie Ardet while Sergeant Les Henderson had tucked himself away behind them. Winnie Ardet was a good-sized girl and he didn’t want to be noticed. He had tried to tone down his bright red hair with cream which partly succeeded in flattening it down while not touching the colour. He enjoyed coming to these meetings although had they helped? Yes, probably, at least you could talk things over with your colleagues.

  Les looked around at the people who had been working on these serial killings and he was bound to say that they all looked tired and anxious which was how he felt. Everyone had been advised by Miller, always a perfectionist, to bring a short precis of their thoughts and conclusions so they would be fluent and well briefed in case they wanted speak out. Les had his in a blue folder on his knees.

  Inspector Joe Jones who had been away ill now looked better than any of them. Les grinned at him and got a grin in return.

  On a big screen in front of them, pictures of the murdered women were appearing.

  Amy Buckly, with her long hair, falling across her face. An early photograph, Les decided, taken as soon as the police photographer got there. Nothing of the morgue about it. She had not been tidied up.

  Mary Rice. Spectacles pushed away. Yes, that had been a nasty one. Not one that he had been working on himself, but he had gone to see the body in case it helped with Phillida Jessup
.

  Yes, there was Phillida on the screen. Really chewed up, poor Phillida. She had been one of the cases he had concentrated on which had not been easy. Nor successful, he had got nowhere.

  Angela Dover. Had they called her Angela or Angie when she was alive? He had gone to the inquest on Angela, then he had been diverted back to work on Phillida. He had had the mournful feeling that he would have liked Angela if he had seen her alive. She wasn’t that young, but then neither was he, but maybe in a different time or place they could have gone a long way together. Sometimes he felt this way about cases he was involved in.

  Finally, the last body, so far. Must remember to say that because there could be another any minute. Lotty Brister was older than the other girls although she could have been younger, her body discovered in Peppard Alley, thrown into the gutter, almost as if she had been a mistake. In the working clothes for her elegant shop - Prada suit, Wolford tights - she had looked extremely youthful.

  There was little comment as the pictures came up and settled into position on the screen. The audience watched in virtual silence. It meant that there was hardly any progress. This show would not be put on if the police had a suspect.

  ‘Clever chap, this killer,’ murmured Phoebe. ‘Curse him.’

  ‘We’ll get him in the end,’ said Winnie Ardet.

  ‘Think so?’ Disillusionment was starting to show.

  Winnie did not answer.

  ‘No, you don’t really think so,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘In time. Give us time, we’ll get there in the end.’

  Phoebe shook her head. ‘I feel as though he’s watching us, this chap.’

  ‘Have you had this feeling with other murders?’ asked Winnie.

  Phoebe shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I have. Once, and in fact that killer was watching me. But he was caught.’

  There was a pause, then Phoebe said: ‘You don’t think he could be a doctor, do you?’ Phoebe knew that Mercy was having a tough time with doctors at the moment. But she kept silent.

  All the pictures of the victims were now lined up on the screen.

  ‘My wife has looked at all these faces,’ said John Coffin. ‘And she is sure that she knows several of them. She feels it is most likely that she saw them in one of the theatres.’

  A voice called out: ‘Performers?’

  Stella put her head down and did not answer. Coffin did so for her.

  ‘No, she thinks not, but she feels she saw the victims in or around the theatre.’

  ‘Does this mean the killer is …’ the speaker fumbled for words ‘ …close to the theatre?’

  Coffin shrugged. He did not answer.

  Superintendent Miller intervened with the sort of bland no-answer response that could madden his colleagues.

  ‘All the teams are, of course, going into the background of the victims. Lady Coffin’s help will not be forgotten.’

  Inspector Ardet muttered audibly; ‘As if we haven’t been doing that already.’

  And this is where the Chief Commander ought to admit that he is going to do a lot of it himself, was the Superintendent’s quiet internal comment. He was one of those who, while admiring John Coffin’s skill as a detective, could not help resisting or resenting his equal skill at inserting himself into an investigation. Miller felt that circumstances somehow helped him into it.

  In as commanding a voice as he could manage, not easy with both the Chief Commander and Stella Pinero present, Miller asked if anyone had anything further to say.

  There was a short silence. Then Les Henderson stood up. ‘Sergeant Henderson, sir. I think we can make a good guess at the age and workings of the killer.

  ‘He is not a young person. Middle-aged.

  ‘He has help.’

  There was still silence.

  ‘All right: it may not seem much, but I think it is: I reckon we have a shape and an age and a companion. That is something.’

  Five homes to visit, five mourning families to talk with. The investigating teams thought about this as they filed out.

  There had been some discussion about Les’s description of the killer. To his surprise, it was accepted by most of those who spoke. Yes, it seemed reasonable that the killer was a middle-aged man with a helper. ‘Not a youngster’s crime,’ one officer said. ‘Too bloody organised,’ was another comment. ‘All have the same sort of look, those women … I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. It’s why they were chosen.’

  ‘It’s because they’re dead,’ said one cynic, ‘and because we know they were chosen.’

  The Chief Commander heard this floating on the air as the cynic marched out.

  ‘Good comment. But no future in acting on it.’

  Coffin and Stella were the last to leave in company with Superintendent Miller.

  ‘That do any good, do you think, sir?’

  ‘Might have stirred up some ideas. All the women, except possibly the last victim, looked as if they came from the same sort of background.’

  ‘Middle class, you mean, sir.’ The Superintendent was well known to be a man of highly conservative views although surprisingly he always voted Labour.

  ‘I suppose I do.’ Coffin added: ‘Bit of background’s useful sometimes, I think, don’t you?’ It wasn’t quite a question but Miller knew he had to give the right answer.

  ‘I suppose it is.’ He added: ‘Sir’ after a pause.

  ‘You had a look at the homes and houses, I suppose.’

  ‘Only the victim I was working on, sir.’

  Stella knew her place on most occasions. This was one in which to keep quiet. In fact, she wanted to get back to the theatre. Sometimes John seemed to think the theatres, all three of them, ran themselves. Far from the truth. There was a minor crisis on at the moment as the news got around about the three dead bodies. For herself, she had been more disturbed by the deaths than she found it easy to admit.

  This mood had been deepened by an excited and emotional call from her sister-in-law, Laeticia Bingham. Letty was coming to the Second City. Expect her, was the message.

  She looked at her husband whom she had not yet told of the impending arrival of his explosively powerful sister. She thought when he found out he would not be best pleased.

  ‘I’d like to take a look around myself,’ he was saying.

  Oh yes, thought Miller, saw that coming. You want in, Sir John? Well, you’re welcome. ‘Do you want me to come with you, sir?’

  ‘A couple of men, do you think?’ Coffin was thoughtful.

  ‘Taking a woman officer with you, might be wiser,’ volunteered the Super.

  You always jump the way he wants, he thought, and that must be why he has the position he has and you are where you are.

  ‘Chief Inspector Phoebe Astley might be a good choice.’

  But before John Coffin had a chance to do anything, another woman came onto the scene.

  She was not alive. Nor, for that matter, was she dead. She had never been alive. She was the model woman that had been deposited in no very friendly way in the tower of St Luke’s. She was not exactly a murder victim herself but she was a preamble to, an announcement of, violence. She was hate personified.

  Or that was how she had seemed to John Coffin.

  Her origin, who had bought her, for she was not a woman who had come free, had not been discovered.

  But DC Peter Gittings, young and eager, had now found out where she came from and been eager to pass on the news.

  Direct access to the Chief Commander himself was, of course, denied him, but he got as close as he could by telling Paul Masters. He was sitting in the canteen, drinking a big cup of coffee with milk and biting on a hot bacon sandwich, considering the good luck that had fallen upon him, when Paul took the only seat in the room which was next to Peter.

  A friendly soul and never one to stand on ceremony, Paul said he could quite fancy a bacon sandwich himself now he smelt that one. He was rewarded (if that was what it was) by the prompt appearanc
e of one accompanied by Peter’s triumphant saga.

  ‘Chief Inspector Astley told me to find out where the dummy came from and get a description of the buyer if I could. I tried everywhere: sport shops, dress shops, health outfits, sex shops,’ a delicate pink blush spread over his youthful cheeks. ‘No go.’

  ‘So?’ Paul swallowed his mouthful of bacon butty which he was enjoying more than he had expected because he had already had a full breakfast. He’d have to buy a lad a drink or another bacon sandwich, couldn’t sponge off him.

  ‘Well, I hadn’t much to go on, you see … just a rough guess at the date it might have been bought and that it was probably a man buying. Then I remembered the little junk shop in Ship Street … they sell everything there … it’s quite respectable …’ There was a faint note of doubt in his voice.

  Not so very respectable then, thought Paul.

  ‘And they had sold one. Within the right period, the right type. They showed me one like it … back up stock, I suppose. But …’ and his eyes went wide, ‘they sold it to a woman.’ Paul Masters thought about it. ‘Did she take it with her? Naked or wrapped up?’

  ‘The assistant packaged it up. Not the first one she’d sold, she knew what to do. But it was bulky and heavy.’

  ‘How did the woman manage?’

  ‘She managed all right, she was a big woman and she had a car waiting for her, or so the assistant thought. It’s not the sort of shop where you ask questions or rush out to give a hand to the customer.’

  ‘Would she know the woman again?’

  Peter shrugged, a little of his confidence falling away. ‘She says she thinks she might; But it’s if we find the woman first. Can’t go combing the streets of London for all women nearly six feet tall.’

  ‘Is that the description?’

  Peter nodded. ‘I wish I could add more.’ His bacon butty was beginning to weigh heavily in his stomach. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open …’

  ‘I think you’ve done well. You’ve put your report in? Good, I’ll see the Chief Commander knows.’ He stood up.