They would know him, of course. More people knew him than Coffin realised. He’d have to identify himself officially anyway. Phoebe might remain anonymous.
‘What excuse do we use for coming?’ After all, each household had already been interviewed and inspected.
‘Do we need one?’ Coffin was negotiating the difficult exit from the parking lot. It was always crowded and desperate souls sneaked in where and how they could.
‘No, I suppose not. Not with you in charge, sir.’
Coffin drove on silently at speed.
‘Where do we start, sir?’
‘With the first victim: Amy Buckly.’
Coffin knew where he was going through the network of narrow streets. They had been constructed by a Victorian builder, solid enough to survive two great wars with two air bombardments, after economic depression and the departure of the big ships from the dock. But now the little houses were bright with paint and small front gardens full of roses and window boxes jolly with geraniums. A smart car was as likely to be jostling for parking along the kerb as once the motorbike might have been. It was the new prosperity, born not of manual labour but expertise in the new technologies. The inhabitants of the docklands had always been open-minded and quick learners and now could do business with their emails with the best. This vitality had brought them through Tudor prosperity, Stuart civil wars, Hanoverian naval wars and Victorian imperial power. Now the residents could be seen trotting up and down the streets, some still cobbled, ears tight to mobile phones.
The smartness was patchy however, some areas acheiving the look before others, but where Amy Buckly had lived was one of the richer streets. A well-dressed man in a silk shirt and a tie of flowing beauty that almost matched his hair was walking past the car as they drove up. He did not look up from his mobile at first but as they edged into a clear spot by the kerb space, he took notice.
‘Hey, that’s my parking space.’
Coffin leaned out of the window. ‘Police.’
‘Oh yes, easy to say that.’
Coffin nodded at Phoebe who produced her card.
‘Fuck you,’ said the telephone holder, still managing to continue his conversation. ‘No, not you, Debby, at least not right now,’ he added wickedly.
Coffin got out of the car, locking it behind him and went up to the door of the house.
‘I don’t think there will be anyone there, unless her family has moved back in. They left after the murder. Couldn’t stand it.’ Phoebe was feeling in her pocket. ‘I’ve got a key.’
‘Who took over the case?’
‘Superintendent Miller. He gave me the key.’
There was a shrill barking from behind the door.
‘Someone’s back.’
‘Yes, she had a dog.’
The door was opened by a tall, pretty young woman. She seemed unsurprised to see them and held the door open wider in a tacit invitation to enter.
‘Let me see now, Sergeant Henderson assisted,’ said Coffin thoughtfully.
‘I knew you were coming.’ She was eyeing Phoebe. ‘Chief Inspector Astley?’
Coffin gave Phoebe a speculative look. So Les Henderson was not the gossip.
Phoebe could see what he was thinking, she hastened to defend herself.
‘No, not through me.And I don’t think I know you, Miss Buckly.’
‘No, but I saw you when you came to the school, Close Street school, about a paedophile case you were working on a year or so ago. You didn’t speak to me nor to Amy as far as I know but of course, we knew who you were.’ The dog was winding itself round her feet but keeping a sharp gaze on the two visitors.
‘One of the kids was a victim. Dragged into a van and kept overnight, then dumped.’ She stared directly at Phoebe, ‘We were all very upset.’
‘We’re still working on it,’ said Phoebe hastily. Although Heaven knew she hadn’t done much lately. The small boy, Victor Passy, as she remembered, had been a poignantly painful case to investigate, brutal indeed, but the interesting thing was that as even she had talked to him, she had seen that he was a resilient kid and was recovering well. ‘We often have to work on more than one case at once.’
There was silence, the girl said thoughtfully: ‘Are you saying that the paedophile cases and the murders are connected?’
Coffin answered for them both: ‘No, we don’t think so.’ The girl said: ‘Yes, I see what you mean: the sort of person who would get sexual pleasure from abusing a child would probably not get it from killing an adult. And the other way round.’
She picked up the dog which licked her cheek. ‘I hope you are right, and telling me the truth.’
Coffin nodded. ‘Yes.’ This was a clever, shrewd girl, not one you lied to. He felt cold dip inside him: he knew that he had not paid enough attention to the paedophile cases because of Stella and the murders. ‘I’m not on speakers with this rotten case,’ he said inside, ‘and I mustn’t blame Stella.’
‘I’m glad because I’d been wondering if Amy’s murder was because she knew Victor. He was in her class.’ Her big blue eyes studied them. ‘See what I mean.’ She patted the dog’s head so that he rolled round to look her in the face.
‘Was he a boy you taught too?’
‘I’m not a teacher … I work in the office. She was Amy, Amabel really but she preferred it short. I’m Deborah.’
Coffin knew where he had to go.
‘Deborah, may we take a look at Amy’s room?’
The girl looked away, then down at her hands.
‘We won’t disturb anything.’
She still said nothing. Coffin had the feeling that unless he kept the conversation going she would disappear.
‘You lived together, didn’t you, Deborah? You shared the house?’
Deborah nodded. Still wordlessly.
‘I promise you we will be careful … we won’t disturb anything. Come with us to watch.’
He had got through at last.
‘You don’t understand … I haven’t been in her room since she died. I couldn’t.’ Phoebe said something under breath. ‘No, truly … I took the two detectives to the door when they came but I stood outside, I didn’t go in … I think they photographed everything … some things they took away … I was told what, but I tried not to listen. When they went, I locked the door and I haven’t been back. I suppose it seems mad to you.’
‘No, not mad,’ Coffin protested gently. He looked at Phoebe.
‘It was sensible,’ she said at once. ‘I might have done the same myself. Do you feel up to going in now?’
Deborah took several deep breaths as she hugged the dog to her, then she nodded. ‘I’ll unlock the door … let you in.’
‘Thank you. If you would.’ In fact, Coffin had a key, handed to him by the original investigating team. Just as well that Deborah did not know how much of the house’s equipment was stowed away in the box in the Record Room, neatly labelled and ready to be used if necessary. In a neat package were the underclothes that Amy had had on when she was killed. He wondered how Deborah would feel if she knew.
The young woman drew the room key from her pocket. ‘I was meaning to open up tonight …’ she said in a matter of fact way.
‘Good for you.’
It was a pretty house with light flowered curtains at the windows to match the white paint and soft blue walls that ran up the staircase.
‘It was time.’ He felt she was keeping her tone deliberately dry. ‘I might not have managed it … I saw her when she was dead. I had to identify her.’
Phoebe put her arm round the girl’s shoulders.
‘Better me than anyone else,’ said Deborah.
They had arrived at the door at the top of the staircase. Deborah put in the key, slowly turned it, then pushed at the door.
‘It smells in here,’ she said.
It did. Any room shut up for more than the odd day takes on its own smells. Here it was a mixture of cosmetics, sweet and a bit sickly and feminine scents coming from the clothes
flung here and there on the bed and chairs.
‘Nothing an open window won’t clear,’ said Coffin cheerfully. He did not offer to open the window. It was Amy’s room still, her presence was strong. ‘Do you want to go? I promise you that we will take care.’
‘No, I must stay.’ I am the protector, her tone said.
Coffin nodded; he accepted this.
The room was tidy in a casual kind of way as if the owner expected to be back to put things in greater order. The bed was made but a dressing gown of pink silk with a matching nightdress lay across the bed ready to be put away.
Coffin heard Deborah draw in her breath as she looked but she did not move forward. Just stood still.
‘OK?’ queried Phoebe.
Deborah nodded slowly, three times as if in exorcism of what she saw.
On the bed table a line of books stood, they were a catholic collection: Rankin, Reginald Hill, Armistead Maupin, and a clearly much loved and often read copy of Bleak House.
‘Almost his best book, I’ve always thought,’ said Coffin, looking at the Dickens.
‘Oh, do you think so?’ She went over to touch the books with a gentle forefinger.
‘For my taste, yes.’
‘Better than David Copperfield? Amy always said so.’
‘I agree.’
For her part, Phoebe was looking at the dressing table on which were tubs of cream for the face, eye make up, lipstick … famous names: Dior, Lancome, Arden. A spray of scent caught her eye: l’Heure Bleu, by Guerlain.
‘Damn it,’ Phoebe said to herself. ‘I would have liked this woman, we used the same scent.’ She couldn’t afford it very often, but when she could, then it was what she bought.
‘I like the Guerlain.’ she said aloud.
Deborah laughed for the first time. ‘Something I didn’t agree with Amy on; I’m a flowers girl. Lavender or rose. Simple, eh?’ Her voice was stronger. She went over to the window which she threw open.‘Amy wouldn’t have wanted the window closed forever. And I think I ought to do a bit of dusting.’
‘Looks all right to me,’ said Phoebe. I’m starting to sound more and more like Les Henderson with his soothing remarks, she told herself.
In fact, the room was dusty, not really dirty, but it looked neglected. And why not? The woman who had slept in this room was dead. Murdered, one of a series of victims.
She knew well what her part was at this moment: it was to keep Deborah diverted from Coffin. He would also, of course, want her intelligent observations on the room, the house and Deborah to add to his own.
What else he was looking for, she did not know.
Then she heard the Chief Commander give a surprised exclamation. ‘Stella, that’s Stella.’
Behind the row of books on the bed table, propped up against the wall was a photograph. Unframed but placed so that Amy lying in bed could see it.
It was certainly Stella. A theatrical photograph, taken, as Phoebe remembered, when she was acting in a Coward play. She looked lovely. And genuine. Although it was a piece of theatrical publicity for Stella dressed for the part in a wisp of satin and pearls, she looked genuine and honest and free.
A marvellous way to look even if you are acting, thought Phoebe.
‘Oh yes,’ said Deborah, ‘that’s Miss Pinero. Amy was such a great admirer of hers. She went to see every play she was in that she could get to. And of course, the theatre here was a great treat to her … I’d forgotten she had that photograph.’ She picked it up. ‘Goodness, it’s lovely, isn’t it?’
Coffin agreed fondly it was a beautiful picture. Also, he remembered but did not mention what Stella had said at the time. ‘He was a lovely man, don’t think I’m saying otherwise, but he said to keep my head as the light was better for me that way … I knew what that meant - sagging, wrinkles …’ Coffin had protested that she had no wrinkles and did not sag. Anywhere. But Stella had burned on, temper hot: ‘And he said he’d loved me since he was at school. School! You can imagine how old that made me feel. I’m not sure he didn’t say nursery school.’ Coffin had muttered something soothing. ‘Well, possibly not nursery school but school. But he did turn in a lovely photograph.’
Deborah held the photograph to her. ‘I must look after this.’ She smiled at Coffin. ‘I know she is really Lady Coffin but to me, and to Amy, she’s Stella Pinero.’
‘Thank you,’ said Coffin humbly. ‘Do you know, she is to me too.’
They did not stay long after that. Deborah seemed glad to see them go. But she was polite.
‘Tell me if there is anything I can do, I want to help any way I can … I told the other nice young woman who came so. She understood … I loved my sister.’
‘Of course you did.’ Coffin hesitated: ‘Did Amy …?’
‘Yes,’ said Deborah. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me, I’ve already been asked by your officers, twice at least. Yes, she did have a boyfriend, in fact more than one, but nothing special … I gave Superintendent Miller their names.’
Both the Chief Commander and Phoebe had read the names with addresses and little character assessments. Nothing much, these reports. Deborah was just putting a little flesh on the bare bones.
Coffin was thoughtful and Phoebe quiet as they left the house. The street outside was quiet too. She wanted to say something but she waited until they were in the car.
‘Did you get anything that helped?’ she asked eventually. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’
‘I might have done, I’m still thinking about it.’
So I was just padding, thought Phoebe. Didn’t matter whether I was there or not. Right, she thought, well, I’m going to give him a bloody big shock.
She reached into her pocket. ‘You saw the photograph of Stella that was on the bed table.’
‘Go on, what are you leading up to, Phoebe?’
‘But you didn’t see this one. Neither did Deborah. It was under the pillow. I just saw the edge, I saw it sticking out. I don’t think the bed has been touched since Amy rushed out that last morning.’ Phoebe handed over what she had to Coffin. ‘Deborah didn’t see me and I thought you ’d rather she didn’t see this.’
Coffin took it. ‘Good Lord,’ he said.
Chapter 16
‘Good Lord,’ said Coffin again. He was looking down at what she had given him. ‘Get in the car.’
‘Shall I drive, sir?’
‘Yes, better maybe.’ He moved from behind the wheel. ‘Just to the end of the road. Find somewhere quiet then stop. I want to think.’ He was looking at a photograph of himself. He couldn’t place where he was, but he must have been leaving a meeting. A snapshot really, but taken by whom?
Amy Buckly herself, perhaps. One thing he did know was that he had had no idea it was being taken. This picture, unlike Stella’s, which was a posed, studio photograph, was a stolen likeness.
‘Good Lord,’ he said again. ‘I’m repeating myself, I don’t usually do that.’
‘It’s shock.’ Phoebe said.
‘It certainly is: you don’t expect to see your own face looking at you when you are investigating a murder.’
‘You weren’t surprised to see Stella.’
‘She’s a public figure.’
‘So are you.’ But she knew what the rub was.
‘This is not a professional photograph,’ he said grimly.
Ah, there it was, thought Phoebe. And it was under the girl’s pillow too.
‘The sister didn’t see, and neither did Miller’s investigation team.’
‘It’s evidence, of a sort. Not to be moved.
‘Well, sir. You are the chief officer of the Police Force investigating the murder, and I am one of the CID officers working on the case. So I reckon if anyone has a right to remove it, then we have.’
‘It must all be recorded, where we found it, when, the lot.’ Then he added: ‘Damn it.’ He was always uncomfortable when evidence was overlooked. How could they have missed this?
‘You don’t have to t
ell Stella.’
Coffin allowed himself a small laugh. ‘She’ll get to know. You know the Second City: breathe a bit of news in one end and it’s coming out the other twice as loud by the end of the day.’
‘Sooner sometimes, ‘agreed Phoebe who had often played her own part in that happy game. ‘Stella won’t mind about her own photograph.’
‘I shall tell her everything in the end.’
‘Of course, you will.’
Phoebe had found a quiet spot near a small park. A large green lawnmower with a man sitting on the top was cutting the grass.
‘He’s making a noise.’ Coffin sounded grumpy.
‘It’s called cutting the grass.’ But she made the joke in a subterranean whisper. There had been times in their relationship when you could make jokes about the Chief Commander aloud but at the moment it behoved her to watch her mouth.
‘Well, push on, it’s Mary Rice’s home next … she died ten days after Amy. I wonder what won her that honour.’
‘Chance. Bad luck.’
Coffin looked at her soberly, as she negotiated a turn in the road away from the park; she seemed to know where she was going.
‘Chance?’ Do you really think that? I am beginning to think that there was not much chance about the killings.
The second part of this statement Coffin suppressed inside himself. Without either side knowing it, he and Phoebe were conducting a silent dialogue.
‘Well, the victims didn’t know it was going to happen to them when they walked down that particular road at that particular time … and the killer just took what was coming to him. That’s what I mean by chance.’
‘A very vivid exposition of it too, Phoebe. You are lucid. It’s one of the things that makes you a good detective. Where are we, by the way, and where are we going?’
‘Tennyson Street, sir. That’s the address.’
‘After the poet, unless he was the local builder.’
‘No, round the corner is Dickens Road and Shakespeare Street next to that. It’s a literary district.’
Tennyson Street was a terrace of late Victorian houses which had been badly bombed, then rebuilt so they were now no period at all, but they looked comfortable and well cared for.
Coffin Knows the Answer Page 15
