Coffin on Murder Street

by Gwendoline Butler

  What the local mob were calling The Missing Bandwagon had still not turned up. By now the Press had heard about it and were besieging the Headquarters by Spinnergate with requests for information. There were two good pubs there, one a free house and the other with an excellent cuisine (best bangers and mash in London), so it was not a hard beat to walk.

  The coach had been missing for almost twenty-four hours, and the coach-driver’s wife, normally the most permissive and relaxed of women, was anxious. She was used to her husband being away a great deal, it was the job, but he was good about telephoning if he was going to be delayed. This time nothing. Silence.

  She had spoken twice on the telephone herself to her brother-in-law, the other partner in the firm.

  ‘Gert, I know no more than you do: nothing. At first, I didn’t think much of it, I’ve had tours go missing before, temporarily. But never in London, and never for so long. I’m real worried about the coach.’

  ‘I’m worried about my husband.’

  ‘Of course you are, Gert, of course you are,’ he said hastily. ‘So am I.’

  Somehow, he felt this was not quite enough, and the silence at the other end of the telephone reinforced this impression.

  So he added, by way of explanation: ‘But it’s the insurance, you see, if anything’s gone, well—’ he sought for a word—‘what you might call wrong, I have to put in a claim within twenty-four hours. The policy says so … Is Alf insured? Personally, I mean.’

  ‘My God, what a terrible thing to say to me just now. And no, he isn’t. You know him better than that.’

  Unfortunately they both did.

  ‘The police are out looking.’

  ‘He won’t like that, you know he won’t,’ said his wife with conviction.

  They both did.

  All over London, police units were keeping an eye out for any sign of the missing group. Naturally, the search was sharpest in the Second City of London where the tour had last been sighted. The Force commanded by John Coffin had the keenest responsibility.

  Comments among the police ranged from the bawdy, making frank suggestions about where the coachload had gone and with what activity in mind, to the idea that a spaceship had come for them and they had gone off in it, a bunch of elderly ETs.

  But underneath there was worry: it was beginning to look less good with every hour that went by with no sighting. The Force was stretched because of the fire in the Tube, but the blaze was out and so that particular crisis was now over, but it’d taken a lot of men off other duties. But they had the usual patrol cars out.

  One patrol car had paid particular attention to a group of deserted Dockyard buildings, an empty office block and an old warehouse down by the Bingley canal. The canal itself was due to be turned into a marina with a hotel complex beside it, but planning permission was being disputed so that no work had been done.

  The offices were empty and derelict and the rats had moved in. The young uniformed constable swore, kicked a ratling away, and left.

  He returned to his car where his driver, a young WPC, looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You weren’t long. And look at you! Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t like rats. Swarming with them in there.’

  ‘Ah, I’ve heard there was a plague of them. It’s the warm weather and all the rubbish. It suits them.’

  ‘I’m not going back in there.’ Not without a rat-catcher. Did the Force have one? If not, it should have.

  Wordlessly she drove on a few yards. ‘What about the warehouse?’ She nodded to the gaunt building ahead of them. ‘Want me to go? I don’t mind rats. Used to keep white ones when I was a kid.

  ‘These were not white,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Not white and nice at all, believe me.’ He was getting out of the car. ‘No, I’ll go.’

  ‘If you scream, I’ll come across and help,’ she said, settling back into her seat. She thought of having a smoke, but her colleague didn’t smoke and was against breathing in someone else’s fumes. Enclosed in the car she could hear nothing, but she could see him.

  Suddenly he started to run. Someone was banging on the great double doors leading into the old warehouse. He could hear a voice, a woman’s voice. ‘Let me out, let us out.’ The voice was hoarse, as if she had been shouting and shouting. ‘Open the doors, damn you.’ There was hysteria in the voice.

  He waved towards his colleague in the car. ‘Come and help me open these bloody doors.’ But she was already out and running towards him. The voice on the other side of the door had gone quiet. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted. ‘Hang on.’

  He was a strong young man, but the doors were heavy and old and stuck. Ie got them open a crack and peered through. ‘Oh the Lord Harry! … Jess,’ he called back. ‘Get on the radio. We need help here.’ And plenty of it, he thought.

  He got the doors far enough apart to force himself through. It was dark inside but a strong streak of light came through the aperture so that he could see the coach parked in the middle of the warehouse.

  The woman who had been banging and shouting was slumped on the floor. He attended to her first. She was alive but looked poorly. He propped her up against the wall. ‘Help’s on the way. Hang on.’

  Then he went over to the coach and stepped inside. He saw the driver slumped across his wheel, but on investigation he was found to be breathing, heavily but strongly. From the driver’s seat the constable shone his torch along the rows of seats.

  Passengers seemed to have collapsed into them. Slowly he went down the centre aisle, stopping at each seat to examine each person. Breathing, alive, but out cold. But one or two were stirring. One or two had vomited. Eyes opened.

  He came to one seat and touched a chilling hand. He shone his torch in the face.

  ‘This one’s dead,’ he said.

  Because it was a major incident, John Coffin came down to the warehouse himself as soon as the word came through to him.

  Ambulances were lined up on the forecourt where lorries had once been loaded with tea. The police surgeon was on hand, as required, but the ambulance men were good judges of an unconscious person.

  ‘Dosed with some sedative,’ the first arrival had summed up, ‘hopped up with alcohol in some cases.’

  The driver smelt faintly of whisky and was a bad case, still breathing stertorously, while others were already coming round, but looking rough.

  ‘Drugged,’ said the police surgeon briskly to John Coffin. ‘Not lethal doses, though.

  ‘And the dead man?’

  The police surgeon shrugged. ‘People react differently. Or he may have got more. Of whatever it was.’

  Coffin walked down the coach to where the dead man lay across the back seat. Inspector Archie Young showed him the way. Lights had been rigged up so that he could see well.

  ‘I know that face,’ Coffin said.

  ‘Yes,’ said DI Young. ‘What was he doing on the tour? It’s Jim Lollard. We all got to know him, you as well, sir. He saw to that. He’s cried wolf often enough and now someone’s got him.’

  Stella and Nell Casey were lunching in the bar of the Theatre Workshop. Trays of lunch were sent across from Max’s Deli. He liked to do this trade, it paid, and kept his name active in theatre circles. His daughter, the Beauty one, had brought the trays across. She was anxious to inspect Nell Casey, although slightly disappointed to see that Nell was smaller and less made-up than in the soap, and wearing jeans, which anyone could wear (she was herself) and not the designer originals she had hoped for. The voice was the same, though, very lovely, although back to being more English.

  Nell was in French Without Tears, playing the femme fatale, Kay, who tries to seduce the whole male cast, but gets her comeuppance in the last scene.

  Gus, inevitably, was the wary sophisticate, originally played by Rex Harrison, who does not get seduced.

  Nell said to Stella that she would not have minded playing that part either, but sex discrimination was still too strong to let a woman play a ma
n, so she would grit her teeth and let Gus have the last word.

  Tom and Sylvie were out to spend the first instalment of Tom’s Danegeld, with Sylvie under strict instruction not to let him out of her sight.

  ‘You ought to have some protection yourself, Nell,’ said Stella, biting into a chicken sandwich. How many calories she wondered; still, the job she did demanded as much energy as a lorry-driver so that her weight was stable. Give or take a pound or two.

  ‘I can look after myself. I’m strong. I took self-protection classes in New York. I didn’t live in a very upmarket district, didn’t have the money, so it seemed a good idea. A lot of women do it, it’s so easy there.’

  ‘Catching on here.’

  ‘Just walk in and join a class, as easy as having your face lifted. You can just walk in off the street and get your jaw-line tidied up. Over here you practically have to have a signed certificate that you are in your right mind.’

  ‘Not if you’re an actress,’ said Stella.

  ‘Now let’s talk work.’ For the next half-hour Stella filled in more detail about the work plan ahead. Bits of theatre gossip passed between them.

  Nell began to look more relaxed and Stella congratulated herself. They walked across to the theatre so that Nell could familiarize herself with her working conditions.

  ‘Dressing-rooms are adequate but not luxurious,’ Stella warned her. ‘Money being tight, I concentrated on good rehearsal and workout rooms.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Mm, sure. This way.’ Stella went through a fire door (Letty Bingham had been very firm about these and they were always kept closed), and turned into a large, well-lit room. If it looked like a shed, that didn’t matter; it was good, usable, adaptable space, exactly what rehearsals needed. ‘Lovely to have this to use so that we don’t have to go out to rooms at the back of pubs or old social halls. And I usually manage a good timetable so that even if, as happens, we have a couple of plays in rehearsal, each has its place on the rota.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Empty now.’ … Oh damn, but this was to herself.

  The room was not empty for there was Gus, walking round shouting as he busily conducted his teenagers in a workshop session on Hamlet, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. Several of the group were in the centre acting according to his instructions. Two of them looked baffled, one was crying and the third, a girl, had mysteriously picked up a black eye.

  ‘I said be physical, not brutal,’ Gus was saying. ‘You silly sods.’ His audience gave a joyous whoop, this was the sort of talk they liked. Beat politeness any day. Gus swung round as the two women came in.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Gus, didn’t expect you to be here.’ Stella put a protective arm round Nell and began to draw her away. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Saw the place was empty, just moved in.’ Gus all over, he was a great mover-in to unoccupied places, not exactly part of his charm, but certainly part of his power. ‘Oh, Nell, wanted to see you.’ He was standing on the balls of his feet, rocking slightly. There was a threat there. ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘Some other time,’ said Nell turning towards the door. ‘Later.’

  He caught up with her. Stella stood aside quickly. ‘No, now. Question and answer time, love.’

  ‘Not in front of all these people.’

  ‘They can’t hear.’ This was true. Left to themselves, his class was raising its own din, as several of them moved into the acting arena and others disputed the interference. Stella could hear at least three Hamlets on the go and a couple of Ophelias, precipitating themselves noisily, but differently, mad. ‘And I don’t bloody care.’

  ‘I don’t want an audience.’

  ‘Not like you, dear.’

  Stella said hastily: ‘There’s my office just down the corridor.’

  ‘This place will do.’ Gus had a grip on Nell Casey’s arm. ‘The child, he’s mine, isn’t he?’

  Nell did not answer.

  ‘Yes or no.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How old is he? When was he born? I have a right to know.’

  Nell pulled at her arm and Gus pulled back. Her foot slipped on the matting and she slid backwards to the floor. ‘Damn you, Gus.’ She got up, white and shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he began.

  ‘No, you’re not, you enjoy it.’

  Stella got herself between Nell and Gus. ‘That’s enough, you two. Come with me, Nell. Gus, I think your class needs you.’ When Stella liked, she could pull rank and she did so now. Gus nodded, made a muttered apology and turned back to the small near-riot behind him.

  Stella took Nell to her office, sat her down and gave her a drink. ‘No questions asked, but clear things up with Gus before work starts in earnest. I won’t stand for any nonsense in working time. You can do what you like outside it.’

  Nell decided that she needed something to restore her morale and some new clothes might be the thing. After all, London fashion was subtly different from New York, clothes were not quite transferable and she might as well patronize the home team. She thought of names like Muir and Hamnet and Conran and Charles. John Boyd, but no, she wouldn’t buy a hat. You needed to be in really good face for that and she was still suffering jet-lag skin. Besides, hats of all things were tricky, highlighting differences of skin, bone and sex, in a way you wouldn’t expect. Her hair had suffered from the travel too, but she could deal with that herself. Nell had long ago learnt to do for herself what was needed. Money had been too short most of the time.

  Tom and Sylvie had returned in triumph from their shopping expedition, having located and purchased another Bonzo. He was not, after all, unique. Hamley’s had plenty of him. Bonzo Two he was now called.

  They had been too excited to eat, so Nell took them to Max’s Deli. She put on her dark spectacles but there was no one from St Luke’s Theatre present. Mostly it was a pleasure to have fans and admirers come up and greet her, but sometimes she wanted to be anonymous. That was how she felt today.

  She placed her handbag on the table beside her, an elegant soft leather pouch from Chanel. She checked her money and credit cards. All there. Next to them, tucked into a side pocket were three letters. Yes, they were there, as they should be. She valued those letters.

  She gave Tom a long and loving look. What hostage to fortune a child was.

  ‘Ice-cream?’ she said. ‘But have a club sandwich first.’ She looked around. No, Max did not do club sandwiches, too American, but she could smell a buttery, oniony and peppery smell, and there was a big bowl of Parmesan. No, they would not starve. She picked up a packet on the table. ‘Have a grissini,’ she said, ‘while I order.’ After lunch, she set off shopping, taking the Tube from Spinnergate and changing at Piccadilly Circus for the line to Knightsbridge. She went in and out of shops, picking up this and that, little items, small but eyecatching. It was calming, like a drug, and what her spirit seemed to need. A compulsion not to be resisted. Tom and Sylvie had sought and been given permission to go to the park across the way.

  ‘After your rest,’ she had said.

  ‘With Bonzo Two,’ announced Tom.

  ‘I should leave him at home.’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Up to you. But there won’t be Bonzo Three if he goes missing.’

  So Nell had put on what she called her ‘Casey’ face, and enjoyed her shopping. She returned, carrying several boxes and carrier-bags bearing illustrious names. At least one of the plastic bags was loaded with small choice objects that had taken her eye. She had been in a compulsive mood. One way and another she had had quite a haul.

  She got out of the taxi (you really couldn’t carry a dress from Yves St Laurent on the Tube) and met Sylvie and Tom just returning home.

  Tom seemed as gay as a grig but there was a sort of look on Sylvie’s face. She thought perhaps Sylvie was not too pleased to meet her just then. Tom had Sylvie’s jacket draped over his shoulders.

  ‘Why is Tom wearing your coat?’

/>   Sylvie thought about it. ‘He was cold,’ she produced.

  ‘But it’s quite warm.’ Actually, the boy looked overheated. ‘Do take it off him.’ And when Sylvie hesitated, she whipped it away herself.

  His shirt was grubby but not too dirty, and he waved his arms about, certainly not complaining of being cold.

  As he danced ahead into The Albion, she saw the back of his shirt.

  Across it was a great handprint in red. It looked like blood.

  ‘How did that get there?’ she asked sharply. ‘Is he hurt?’

  Sylvie shook her head.

  Nell grabbed the child and took a closer look. ‘How did that get there, Tom?’

  ‘Man,’ he said happily. ‘Man.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Man,’ he repeated.

  Nell put her hands to her head. ‘Who is tormenting me?’

  CHAPTER 6

  Still March 6, then through March 7 to March 8

  Although you couldn’t leave it there, and Nell Casey said so at feverish intervals to Sylvie, it was hard to know how to advance. She couldn’t get any more out of Tom, who varied Man with Person, a new word in his life and one that pleased him, thus confusing them completely.

  Was the Person a man? Or did sex not matter to Tom and Man not mean man but a person who might be a woman? It was even possible to believe that Tom knew what he was doing and was confusing them for the hell of it.

  It looked like a man’s hand, though. The size. A right hand.

  They had gone straight upstairs to the flat, Sylvie carrying Tom and Nell following behind in a protective way. There ought to be a lift, she grumbled to herself.

  Under questioning, Sylvie produced nothing that was helpful. She admitted that they had been playing hide and seek with another small child who was out with her mother and that there had been a brief space of time when Tom was out of sight.

  ‘But we were in a pretty part of the park,’ she said tearfully, as if that in itself had constituted a protection, ‘by the duck pond with flowerbeds all around us.’