Coffin on Murder Street

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Were there other people near you?’

  ‘Many, many,’ said Sylvie, with tears running down her face. ‘People walking, ladies with dogs, other children.’

  ‘When did you notice about Tom’s shirt? When did you see the blood?’

  ‘When he came back from hiding.’

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘No, he just came back. And I say: What is the matter, Tom, why do you come back? He had that look, you know how Tom can look when he has done something he knows is naughty but he has enjoyed it.’ Still the tears fell.

  Nell knew the look exactly. ‘And he showed you his shirt.’ Nell was getting impatient, she was chiselling the facts out of Sylvie. Dry up, girl, she wanted to say, and get on with what happened.

  ‘No, he just laughed. But I thought he was not happy, that something might have happened. Then I see the shirt, so we come straight home.’

  ‘And did you see who could have done it?’

  Sylvie shook her head.

  Nell turned her son round. ‘I suppose it is blood? Yes, it looks like it. Could have been an accident. Did anyone have an accident in the park? No, don’t answer,’ she said. ‘You didn’t see and you don’t know.’

  She sat back on her heels in the middle of the room with her packages, those lovely garments she had bought with such joy, distributed all around her.

  ‘Get that shirt off, Tom.’

  He held his arms up and let her pull it off. She stared at it for a moment. The blood was dry now, turning brown as the oxygen in the air got to it.

  ‘Wonder if it’s human blood?’

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Sylvie; she looked white.

  ‘You frightened of blood, Sylvie?’

  She nodded. ‘Makes me sick.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to put it in a plastic bag and take it round to the police … You and Tom have some tea and spend a bit of time watching television … There’s a chocolate cake in that box.’ She smiled and patted the girl on the shoulder. Sylvie flinched away from her: Nell didn’t like that. What the hell’s up with you, she thought, but she kept calm. ‘It’s all right, I’m not angry now, although I was at first. But just keep an eye on him in future, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sylvie, allowing herself a small tentative smile.

  That girl’s a fool, Nell said to herself as she gathered up her boxes and bags and went to her bedroom, but I think she’s a kind fool and that’s something.

  Sylvie was already stagestruck, loved working for an actress, and had barely hidden ambitions to be an actress herself. This was one of her reasons for working with Nell Casey. Her father was a famous and successful film producer, which was Nell’s reason for employing her. They both had their motives.

  Nell rang the local taxi service, and walked down the staircase, the plastic bag containing the stained shirt under her arm, to wait for the cab.

  ‘Take me to the main police station,’ she said to the taxi-driver. ‘I suppose you know where it is?’

  He was one of the silent sort, which suited Nell, and he nodded without a word. It was a short drive, past St Luke’s Mansions, down the busy main road towards the Spinnergate Tube station and then a sharp right turn. The new police station was a large, blunt-faced building that had not tried for elegance and had barely made functionalism. When you looked at it you had a shrewd idea that the roof leaked somewhere and would always leak, and that the people who worked in it were not so happy in it as they had hoped to be.

  The taxi-driver leaned out of his cab: ‘Want me to wait, miss?’

  ‘No, I can walk back.’ She had memorized the route like a cat, she had not got used to spending money freely and, as a matter of fact, had not got that much to spend. Her little circus took a lot to carry round with her and then to house in the comfort they expected. Nor would she be earning much with Stella Pinero, but there was something good coming up which her agent was negotiating for at this very time. The new Ayckbourn was casting and she was being asked for. A lead part too, and he always wrote marvellous parts for women.

  She was surprised at the smart reception area, not like Hill Street Blues or Cagney and Lacey at all. Surely British police stations could not be newer and more comfortable than those across the Atlantic? Not beautiful, though. Commonplace was how she would have described it, as if the architect had not really thought too highly of the people who would use it. Or even much about them at all, and much more of the records, papers, books and computers they would need.

  She asked the uniformed man at the desk for WDC Mary Barclay. The name rose to her lips unprompted.

  She got a look of surprise, but a telephone call was put through and Mary Barclay presently appeared through the swing doors at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Hello, Miss Casey. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Talk, please,’ said Nell, through dry lips. There was a clean, clear look in Mary Barclay’s eyes as if she could see right through to the essential you. That’s the professional look, Nell thought, flinching away from it nervously.

  ‘Right. Follow me.’

  Mary Barclay took Nell through to an interview room. Still clean, still reasonably comfortable. A faint, just a very faint institutional smell on the air.

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  She listened quietly to Nell’s story. Then she said: ‘Have to ask this. Sorry, but I must. Is there any chance the girl, Sylvie Meruit, could be doing these things?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,’ said Nell. ‘I mean, of course I did. But I can’t believe it.’

  ‘What do you know about her? References and all that?’

  ‘Her father is a very well-known film producer,’ said Nell slowly. ‘I didn’t think she needed references. I’ve worked with him.’

  She had done more than that, together they had had a very pleasant, little fling. Or call it what you will. It had been both pleasant and intense. More on his side than hers, oddly enough, because it was usually Nell who went overboard. Physically it hadn’t worked too well, she had been unlucky there. These things took time. Then his family, including Sylvie, had come over and the affair had ended. Just as it should do, because neither of them wanted his wife upset. She was in fragile health.

  In fact, she had died rather suddenly. It was one of the reasons for bringing Sylvie away with her: to give her a lift, help her get over it.

  Get over what? asked a hard little voice inside Nell Casey’s head. Her mother’s death or her father’s affair?

  But Sylvie can’t know about that, Nell answered herself. It had not been an utter secret, things like that were never an utter secret in the world she moved in, but the relationship had been declared past history as soon as Sylvie came over from Paris.

  Past history for Nell was easy. She could put things behind her fast.

  All except that one thing connected with Gus, which still rankled. She had liked that kid in Australia, really liked, and he had really liked her.

  ‘Can’t believe it of Sylvie,’ she said aloud to Mary Barclay, putting aside all her reservations about the girl. ‘Not Sylvie, she’s such a nice child.’

  But WDC Barclay registered the slight delay in answering and drew her own conclusions. Something there, she thought.

  ‘Besides, Tom likes her. He’d pick up any bad vibes, I know he would. And he wouldn’t fail to say, either.’

  ‘He’s very young.’

  ‘But no fool,’ said Nell stoutly.

  But children can be deceived, thought the policewoman from the depths of her troubled experiences, children can be so easily deceived, led and misled by those they love.

  ‘Fond of the girl, is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘It was sensible of you to bring the shirt.’ She took up the plastic bag with the soiled shirt in it. ‘It does look like blood. I’ll get it looked at.’

  She was reassuring to Nell, said she would come round and see the boy, have a word w
ith him, see what he had to say, then talk to Sylvie herself.

  ‘He won’t say anything more to you, and I don’t suppose Sylvie will.’

  ‘Worth a try,’ said Mary Barclay easily. ‘I have to give it a try. Couldn’t face the Sarge without.’ She made it light, not serious at all, as if no terrors could ever break in.

  She did not say that the police everywhere were on the alert for William Duerden, looking for him all over the district, and that this was her real worry, not any suspicions of Sylvie.

  Get Duerden, the Boss had said. If he’s in my bailiwick I want him. Unexpressed by John Coffin was his feeling that Duerden was already operating.

  Nell walked home, grateful to have the air on her face. She felt sick inside: she had set the machine in motion, but she could not leave it there. Tom was her responsibility. Somehow, she would have to protect him, while getting on with her own life. She couldn’t afford to stop work.

  If it was Gus doing this, perhaps that was what he had in mind: to drive her out of the theatre. He had always hated her work, pretended he hadn’t, but she knew better. He thought she was too light, too detached, not involved. Not female enough. Not true. She worked in a different style but her work was just as true and valid as his. That was one of their troubles, the clash of two different visions.

  He wouldn’t hurt a child, though, she thought. But it might be some devious scheme to get his hands on Tom, to claim him as his own.

  Over my dead body, she told herself.

  She called to Sylvie as she let herself in to the flat in The Albion. ‘I’m back. That policewoman will be round soon. So don’t go out.’ Sylvie had the evenings free if Nell was home.

  Nell gathered up the script with the notes that Stella had given her and sat by the window, working. She had a beautiful voice but she was finding it hard to get into the speech patterns of Rattigan, the ’thirties way of speech was subtly different, but it was important to get it right. Speech patterns influenced body posture, she believed.

  She looked out of the window. No one there.

  A dead body lay under the harsh lights in the police mortuary. The only victim of the missing coach was being investigated. The other passengers were quietly passing the time in their various homes and hotels while awaiting visits from the police. They had been told not to talk to the journalists clustering around like flies over a succulent piece of decay.

  To the police all the passengers had told the same story: they had felt sleepy, gone to sleep and woken up to find themselves locked in the old warehouse. The heavy doors were stuck and impossible to open.

  They had a memory of being driven in and told by the driver it was going to be a true horror and something they would never forget. It had been, only not in the way they had expected.

  Some passengers were angry at what had happened to them, others just miserable, and all were puzzled. At least two were in hospital and one was dead.

  The driver was questioned at more length and was still detained in hospital. The police had quietly suggested he would be better there for the present and the doctors had agreed. He was segregated from his passengers, all of whom had been medically examined before leaving. The majority of them had been passed as fit by the doctors, and allowed to depart.

  Doped, but coming out of it now. The drug had not yet been identified positively, but the informed guess was that it was a common sedative easily bought over the counter which could be used as a sleeping tablet. Dormex was the brand name. It was allied to one of the anti-allergens. As a drug it came out of the same family.

  The driver had been sicker than most, or perhaps more tired to begin with. He still seemed dazed, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened to him. Or was he just acting that way? DI Young had his suspicions.

  Tremble was genuinely bemused and his head ached worse than any hangover he had ever had; it was a relief to keep his head on the pillow and see no one. He did not want to see his wife or his brother, nor the policemen who kept popping in and out with questions. He felt confused, with his head full of thick lead, but alert enough to pick up that he was under suspicion. Of exactly what he was not sure, but of something. He was questioned at first by a young plain clothes sergeant, only he didn’t quite catch his name. Second time round he was questioned by a full inspector and this time he took pains to listen to the name. Or perhaps he was just more awake by that time.

  DI Young. Not a friend, he thought.

  In the room, sitting in a corner, but not saying anything, was a tall older man, with bright blue eyes.

  This man he did not introduce himself, nor did Tremble know him, but he had the feeling he ought to have done. Might even like to, he looked a decent chap. Only, with policemen, as Tremble well knew, you could never tell. Looks could deceive. Might be a real swine underneath that calm look.

  He wished he could remember exactly what lies he had told.

  John Coffin was sitting in on the interview, to the embarrassment of DI Young, who had had no choice in the matter, had to say yes, of course, sir, as politely as if he was pleased. The word had already gone in that the Boss would be dropping in on them all without warning. It was just his turn. The Boss was doing it to them all.

  Coffin had good reason for this.

  One of the local MPs interviewed on the radio had said that he was not happy with the policing in this area. Was it racialist? Too casual, too laissez-faire? Was the Chief Commander up to the job? He might be asking a question in the House.

  The attack was probably political, an election was coming up in what was a marginal seat, but you had to play politics. You had to protect yourself. Coffin knew this and had learnt to play the game.

  He had let it be known that he would be dropping in on all units, unannounced, to take a look around.

  This apart, these two cases worried him.

  A dead man, Jim Lollard, dead in strange circumstances, and a child murderer on the loose. A man gearing himself up for action, by all the signs. Coffin had read the report of Mary Barclay and he didn’t like it. Yes, he was worried and taking a very personal interest.

  Now he took in the scene in front of him. Driver Alfred Tremble was sitting in a chair dressed in hospital pyjamas and gown, looking sorry for himself. He was a small man with a long nose and greying hair, it was easy for him to look depressed. The good cheer that coach tour drivers were supposed to radiate towards their customers had not existed with him. He was a natural for terror tours.

  Yes, he said, he had driven to the warehouse. No, he’d never been there before and hoped never to go again. But he’d been told it was the scene of a horrific mass murder and hadn’t been touched for years. Genuine unspoilt scene of the crime and well worth a look.

  And was it? DI Young said, keeping his voice neutral, masking his scepticism.

  No, not really, swept and garnished except for the odd mouse dropping, it had looked in the coach headlights. But honestly, Guv, he’d been half asleep already, sagging at the wheel. He’d known something was wrong.

  You drove in? DI Young had asked. What then? Who shut the doors?

  Tremble said he thought it was one of the passengers.

  Wasn’t that odd?

  Not really, Tremble had tried to say. He’d expected it, part of the show. Drive in, doors close, lights off, then floodlights would come and there would be the spectacle.

  Who shut the door? DI Young had persisted.

  Tremble had licked his lips, taken a drink and managed to answer that one with a loss of memory statement. Couldn’t say.

  But the question was put once more. Even he could see it was a crucial question: Who shut the door?

  Tremble said again that he couldn’t remember. He was aware of not being believed.

  There was silence in the room, then DI Young asked: ‘And who told you this tale, which you say you believed, about the mass murder?’

  The silence went on and on. Tremble thought they would sit there for ever until he answered.

  ‘
Jim Lollard,’ he said at last.

  Jim Lollard, late of Regina Street, otherwise known, and principally by Lollard’s own efforts, as Murder Street.

  Lollard couldn’t confirm or deny this, he was dead.

  Tremble pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache. Can I have a drink?’

  ‘Shifty chap,’ said DI Young as they were talking it over afterwards. The scene had moved to the Incident Room set up in the old church hall next to the Rip and Vic. Handy spot, he thought, feeling thirsty. ‘Always has been.’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Coffin.

  ‘Of old.’

  ‘Keep at him. He’s lying, I think. Keeping something back.’

  ‘We won’t leave him alone.’ It was a promise, and one which Tremble had felt hanging over him. More was to come, and no one knew it more than Alfred Tremble.

  Coffin and Archie Young discussed the case, Coffin sitting there with the various reports and statements laid out in front of him. ‘I’ll have to be off soon,’ he said, aware of the next engagement, the next committee, this time one in Central London. There was never enough space for everything.

  In the room with them was Superintendent Paul Lane and Sergeant Alison Jenkins. These two had arrived to discuss the elusive child murderer. They were aware of the importance of grabbing the Chief when you knew where he was.

  Jenkins had had experience in looking for people like William Duerden. She knew what to look for, the signs of their presence in a community, but this time she was having no success.

  He seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. But he had done that before in his career. It was one of his tricks.

  All local known perverts being rounded up and interviewed. Just in case they had contact with Duerden.

  ‘Not usually a coven,’ said Lane.

  ‘No rules,’ said Coffin.

  ‘Agreed. But they tend to be loners.’

  Alison Jenkins said nothing. Not for her to interrupt the top brass. But she had her own thoughts.

  DI Young said: ‘I’ve heard a rumour that a paedophile group is in the district. Haven’t been able to get anything positive.’