‘She had a flat here, top floor, but she worked in inner London. I called here myself just after the killing.’
‘I thought you knew the way.’ Coffin was staring up at the plain faced brick house. ‘She lived alone? Or so the notes said.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘Most of the time. The odd boyfriend. No one there when she died.’
‘There’s someone there now. I saw a curtain move.’
Coffin rang the doorbell and a man toiled up from the basement. He recognised Phoebe and nodded. ‘That poor girl’s place? Right, you go on up. I won’t offer to come, my chest is bad today.’ He was breathing noisily. Behind him came a rangy terrier dog who studied them with aggressive eyes. ‘It’s all right, he doesn’t bite.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Phoebe as they climbed the stairs. ‘He looked keen for a nip.’
‘Or even a big bite. Did you see his teeth? Kept well sharpened.’
There was one door at the top of the stairs, where a card said: Miss Rice. Please ring the bell.
They did not have to ring the bell. The door was opened for them by a sturdy lady wearing denim trousers and a long apron.
‘Thank you,’ said Coffin.
‘Knew you were on the way up. Fred rang from below to tell me. Security, you see, he looks after us.’
I don’t know about Fred, thought Coffin, but I bet the dog could do a good job.
‘He knew who you were, of course, he wouldn’t just send anyone up.’
‘And you?’ Coffin was polite.
‘You don’t know me? I’m Mrs Rice, Mary’s mother. I’ve come round here to tidy things up. You have to do that, don’t you, when someone dies?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Especially if they go so sharp and soon and unexpected as my poor girl did.’
‘Yes,’ said Coffin gently.
They all went to the small sitting room which already looked empty. Clearly, Mrs Rice was a fast worker. Several large black plastic sacks showed where she had stowed objects away. Books and clothes seemed to be most of what was there.
‘Your lot came in and took away everything they wanted,’ she said to Coffin.
‘Of course,’ Coffin was soothing this time.
‘Gave me a list of what they took … nothing much really, not that Mary had much, bless her, and she’d only been in this place a few months. I wanted her to stay with me but no, she wanted her own place. Of course, I knew why she wanted it, I don’t live such a sheltered life that I didn’t realise she liked to have a boyfriend around sometimes. So, did we in my day, but we mostly did it in the old car or in the shed behind the gas works. Now they want a bed and breakfast after these days and good luck to them, I say, and why not?’
It was quite a speech.
While Coffin was listening, Phoebe had been walking round the room, trying to assess what she saw.
Not much, was the answer.
She couldn’t get much of an impression of the sort of person that Mary had been but that might be because Mrs Rice’s cleaning and effacing hand had already passed over the room.
Liked a bit of sex, according to her mum, but was not looking for a long term partner, enjoyed the company of her friends, and was keen on her work. Good at it, Phoebe judged, since she could not see how you could enjoy working on computers if you were not good at it. She had a small portable and a printer on a desk in the corner of the room.
No pictures of the boyfriends, so either Mary had not collected pictures of past lovers or the police teams had taken them away.
Mrs Rice did not seem to be the type to edit them away: a cleaner, yes, a censor, no. In fact, there had been a gleam in her eye that suggested otherwise.
‘It’s a bit bare, I know, but I’ve cleared out a lot of the clutter. Mary did like her odds and ends. I haven’t thrown them away, of course.’ She looked at the plastic sack, ‘but I’ve put them away. Till later.’
‘I understand,’ said Phoebe. ‘Later, you might really want to look over the things that you’ve packed away.’
Mrs Rice nodded. ‘Superintendent Miller understood too when he came.’
‘Did he? When was that?’
‘Day before last. Just a sympathy call.’
On the wall was a theatrical poster, large, old and yellowing. It advertised a pantomime. A tiny girl, dressed as a fairy, was shown dancing, dancing, dancing.
Lorry Love.
‘That was her,’ said Mrs Rice. ‘Mary was Lorry Love.’
Another poster, more recent, was close to it.
‘She looked a dear,’ said Phoebe.
‘Yes,’ said Coffin. ‘And she had talent too, I remember.’
‘Her dancing career didn’t last once she got bigger … too tall, you see. After about ten, no one wanted her. She minded a bit at first, but she got used to it. Did other things. Clever girl.’
‘A shame,’ said Coffin.
‘She never got a big part, often in work though,’ said her mother, her voice proud, ‘You know she was once in a pantomime as a child with Stella Pinero.’
Coffin hadn’t known this, nor could he visualise his Stella as either Cinderella or the Fairy Godmother. She might have made a splendid Wicked Fairy, though.
They were granted a tour of the apartment which revealed something of the young woman who had lived there: she kept it tidy, she was her mother’s daughter after all, she had some possessions but not many to judge by the few that her mother had assembled, her real life was lived elsewhere.
‘No pictures of the men she knew.’
‘I expect her mother cleared them away,’ said Phoebe.
‘No, I don’t think so, she did it herself. Tidied each one away when his time was up.’
‘Cold.’
‘No, just someone who knew how to run her life.’
‘While she had one,’ Phoebe said, with some bitterness.
Mrs Rice appeared to ask if they would like a cup of tea. ‘Got the kettle on the boil. You both look as though you could do with something. Not a very jolly business, what you’ve got to do.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Coffin. ‘Yes, thanks for the offer. We’d like it, wouldn’t we, Phoebe?’
Surprised, Phoebe agreed they would.
‘Not Mary’s tea or sugar,’ said Mrs Rice, ‘just some of me own I brought round. Wouldn’t use Mary’s, wouldn’t seem right somehow. Call me fanciful, but that’s how I feel.’
‘I know how you feel.’
She wasn’t sure if she did, but it seemed the right thing to say.
‘I wish I had some idea who killed the girls … I’d tell you if I did.’
‘I know you would. If anything comes to you that might be helpful let me know.’
‘She makes a good cup of tea,’ said Phoebe, as they left. ‘I didn’t know what to make of her quite. I thinks she knows more about her daughter’s life than she lets on, protecting her, I suppose.’
‘Bit late for that. But you might ask her. Call again and see what you can get out of her,’ suggested Coffin.
‘OK, I will. If I can. She might be covering up for her daughter. It’s what mothers do.’
‘Some mothers,’ said Coffin, thinking of his own mother and her disappearing act. ‘Actually, go back in now and see if she will talk to you. I think I alarm her.’
‘What? More than me?’
‘I think so. I’ll sit in the car and wait.’
Phoebe was longer than Coffin had expected. When she got back she quietly tucked herself in the driving seat and drove off without saying a word.
Then she said: ‘She thinks her daughter may have known the serial killer.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently Mary said something like ‘Oh it’s him,’ when they were talking about the serial killer one day.’
‘Is that all? she didn’t give a name or a clue as to who she was talking about?’
‘No.’
‘You’d think her mother would have asked for a bit more detail.’
‘She also thou
ght he had help. She said that much.’
‘Damn lot of use that is to us.’
‘She didn’t know her daughter was going to be killed. But we agree, don’t we? About the helper?’
‘Possibly,’ said Coffin, who did not feel like agreeing with anything until he had spoken with all the forensic and scientific experts to see what they had to say. Not that he would necessarily agree with them either.
‘Where’s the next address?’ he asked.
Phoebe fumbled with her papers; she did not usually fumble but her boss was making her nervous.
‘In order of killing then that is Phillida Jessup although I don’t know if it’s the nearest address.’
‘Let’s go and have a cappuccino and think things over,’ said Coffin.
Phoebe was surprised at this offer by her usually austere chief. ‘Is there anywhere near where we can get one?’
‘We can go to Mimsie Marker’s. Her stall is not far away.’ He began to drive away. ‘She’s spreading too, she’ll soon have an empire.’
Mimsie watched them approach. ‘Not seen you two together recently,’ she said, folding her arms on her ample waist. Fashionably dressed, though, Mimsie always dressed well.
‘Work,’ said Coffin. ‘And now we need some coffee, good and strong but with some cream.’
‘Treating yourself, eh?’ asked Mimsie, starting the preparation.
‘A case like this you need it.’
‘Then I bet I know the case it is.’ As she spoke she was pouring out the coffee and getting ready to carry it over to them.
A curving bench ran round one side of her stall with a shade over it to keep off sun and rain. Mimsie herself was well protected from the elements.
Coffin went up to get the coffee and to pay for it. The cappuccino looked good and strong, creamy on top and dark brown underneath. If anything could make Mimsie talk as you wished on the topic you wished (for talk she always would) it was praising her coffee.
‘This is powerful coffee, Mimsie, just what I need today.’
‘It’s that serial killer,’ she declared, ‘Knew it was soon as I saw you both. Written in your faces. Rotten business.’
Coffin did not deny it.
‘Take my advice, check the girls, find out what they had in common. You’ll find the reason they were killed there. I know the theory is that these multiple killers strike at random … well some may, but I believe they go to each victim for a particular reason … find it and you are almost there.’
As Coffin began to make an acerbic response, a clutch of business men came up to get some lunch and a cup of coffee so the conversation had to stop.
Phoebe and Coffin enjoyed their coffee together with the piece of special shortcake that Mimsie had added.
‘Now where is it that Jessup lived?’
Thought you never forgot anything, said Phoebe to herself, as she consulted her list. ‘Six, Murt Terrace.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Thought you’d know, it’s the road behind the old hall that the theatre uses for one of its rehearsal rooms. Lady Coffin would know it.’ And I bet you do, she said to herself, but for some reason you don’t want to say so.
‘Murt Terrace? We’d better go there then.’
‘Know the way, sir?’
‘I can find it.’ As of course, he could, it was the place where he and Stella had once parted forever.
Well, for twenty-four hours. And it had been Stella who had given way and rushed to come back to him.
But the pain while he wondered if he would see her again had been real enough, It came back sharply as they drove down Murt Terrace, a row of neat little houses like much of this part of the Second City.
Mrs Jessup, for she had been married once, lived on her own with no sister or mother to check on her empty home. Someone would in the end, but they had not done so far. It looked neglected.
‘We can get in,’ said Phoebe. ‘I came here originally myself.’
‘I didn’t know she was one of yours.’
‘She wasn’t. I came with Les.’
‘Let us in then, Phoebe.’
Phillida Jessup had lived in the whole little house which she had kept neat and tidy. Now it just felt empty, the owner was dead and the house knew it.
Coffin and Phoebe stood on the threshold. ‘She hasn’t left much around,’ complained Phoebe. ‘I thought that when I came with Les. He was quite put out, he likes things to sort over.’
‘Let’s go in,’ said Coffin, leading the way.
There was an entrance hall, narrow and neatly carpeted with a sitting room on one side, the kitchen next to it and the bedroom and bedroom facing each other across the corridor upstairs. The classic two up, two down, now back in fashion.
‘That’s it,’ said Phoebe. ‘Of course, the forensic boys have been in but even they haven’t made much of a mess for once.’
‘Look in the wastepaper bins again,’ said the knowledgeable Coffin. ‘I know you looked once but things get passed over sometimes as you just discovered at Amy Buckly’s. And the odds and ends can tell you a lot about a person’s character.’
Phoebe frowned at him. ‘I knew what I was doing,’ she allowed herself.
‘Of course you did,’ said Coffin soothingly. ‘But it’s worth a look.’ He was taking one himself. ‘Only torn up paper here,’ he said of the basket in the kitchen. He was examining them, confident that Phoebe had done so already. Just small bills, mostly for food.
He went on into the bedroom. The basket by the bed table was a pretty blue to match the wallpaper.
Phoebe watched him from the door. ‘Only a bundle of used theatre tickets in there.’
‘So I see, a play my wife was in.’ He looked at Phoebe without speaking.’
‘She has a lot of fans,’ Phoebe said.
They went on to the bathroom, finding nothing there. It was tidy, bare, with the towels neatly arranged.
‘Do you think she knew she wouldn’t be back?’ said Coffin.
‘No,’ said Phoebe vehemently. ‘Do we go on?’
‘Yes.’ Coffin was clear. ‘Angela Dover next, then the body in Pepper Alley … Lotty Brister, wasn’t it?’
Angela Dover had her own house in Greenwich not far from where she worked. She shared it with another woman, Hester Carter. Miss Carter did not seem pleased to see them.
‘You lot back again? What is it this time? You couldn’t stop Angie getting killed.’
‘We can find out who did though,’ said Coffin.
‘Oh, do you think so? Then you must be cleverer than you look.’
Coffin thought about it for a minute. ‘We are,’ he said. ‘Can we walk round the rooms that Angela used?’
‘If you must. Get on with it. Five minutes.’
Coffin went into Angela’s sitting room and then her bedroom. Phoebe, rightly interpreting Coffin’s look, stayed behind to keep Hester Carter in talk.
Coffin went round the bedroom and sitting room, they were tidy, as if Hester had already been in there. A pile of theatre programmes on a desk interested him. They were all recent, so perforce featured his wife.
Where did Stella come in all this?
He thanked Hester as he emerged. She gave him a small nod, not unfriendly but not especially warm either.
‘You’ll miss her,’ he said.
‘We didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but yes, of course I will.’
‘It’s good to have company for the theatre or any outing,’ said Coffin.
Hester did not answer but politely showed him to the door. ‘Seen all you want? I hope you catch him.’
Didn’t like her much,’ said Phoebe as they left.
‘She was more polite towards the end. I think she was very fond of Angela.’
‘Did you get anything useful?’
Coffin didn’t answer and Phoebe knew from experience you did not push him.
Finally there was the home of Lotty Brister to go to. Lotty was so far the last body. She
was the oldest of all the victims.
She had been cast aside in her working clothes her body was dropped in the gutter.
The two stood outside her house. Not a smart address, but there were window boxes full of geraniums, red and white, while a tabby cat sat on the doorstep.
‘I don’t think I need to go in,’ said Coffin. ‘Lotty is one on her own, she isn’t part of the series. I feel sure of that. She doesn’t match.’ As they turned back to their car, he said he hoped someone was looking after the cat, but even as he spoke the front door was opened and the cat went in. Vaguely cheered, Coffin started the car. Someone was living there.
‘Three more dead,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘We haven’t talked about the bodies just found, or poor Charlie Fisher.’ He added: ‘The three found at the theatre were the first to die, you know. I had the pathologist’s report this morning. I’d been told verbally, of course.’
‘You think these earlier deaths are connected with the serial killings?’
‘They are all part of the crime pattern somehow. The lad’s death could be suicide, after killing the girl and the child - he had failed to get the prize of best young actor. Everyone agrees he was depressed. So he killed the girl and their child.’
‘And then killed himself?’
‘He was preparing to, I think, but someone else may have done it for him. Then buried him. And just where Stella was preparing to build … I don’t like it.’
Phoebe was silent. Coffin was not a man to let his imagination run away with him, although the said imagination was a powerful machine inside him which had helped him as a detective. She was more limited herself and she knew it.
‘And today. You noticed I’m sure, although you didn’t say anything, that somehow Stella and the theatre crept into the background of every girl except the last, and there might have been something there if we’d really looked … It’s like a terrible ballet with all dancing to the same music and all in pain.’
‘Now that really is over the top,’ said Phoebe.
To her relief, Coffin grinned at her. ‘Yes, you’re right. I must be more rational.’
He drove Phoebe back to the Headquarters. On the way they passed the big teaching hospital. He saw a familiar figure swing past him towards the entrance.
‘There’s Joe Jones. Going to the hospital. I hope he’s not ill.’
Coffin Knows the Answer Page 16
