Coffin on Murder Street

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘You don’t remember the number?’ Felicity shook her head dumbly. ‘Or the make of the car?’

  ‘It was just a dark old car.’ She was miming grief.

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve been thinking about it, wondering if I ought.’

  Gus got his coat. ‘You’re coming with me now. I’ve got my motorbike outside, we can go on that.’

  The class, dismissed, was cross. All right for her, was the mutter. Off with Gus, getting all the action. But what about us?

  Fred took charge. Ignoring all complaints, he organized his own drill, he wasn’t going to call them anything pansy like exercises, they were drill, and you did them or else. No acting ducks, or being a chair, or miming a riverbank complete with rats; he would demand noise, and violence and pain, it would be war. He had always thought he had better ideas than Gus and now was the time to put them into action. He would offer them a slice of life: He had a moment’s debate while he considered whether to make them act a massacre or an aircrash. Then he had a better idea. A slice of life.

  ‘Make a circle and scream. High, low, loud, then soft. Then with pain. Now plunge straight in, this is for real: A child, your child, is missing and you want to kill someone. Act Murder.’

  To his surprise, the class obeyed.

  Gus led Felicity straight up to the desk where a young uniformed police constable was dealing with a woman who had lost her cat. Both parties seemed to feel that something should be done, but while the constable was recommending a masterly inactivity because pussy would come home, the woman wanted a house to house search started at once. It was a valuable cat, a pedigree Burmese, she suspected a neighbour.

  Gus cut right across all this, bother cats, what did they count? The woman gave a little scream of rage, but recognizing, not Gus as such, but a primal force, subsided.

  ‘This girl has some information about the kidnapped boy. It’s important. Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Well, sir …’

  ‘Get him.’

  Even as she was handed over to the investigating team in the Incident Room, Felicity felt that there was an intensity about Gus that she would rather not have been involved with.

  She told her story to a young policewoman, Barclay or something, and was allowed to go. She had half-expected that she would make a statement and have to sign it, but nothing like that happened.

  ‘I’ve taken it all down,’ said the policewoman politely. ‘Of course, I may come back to you again with more questions, but at the moment I have everything.’

  ‘I think it was the car I saw,’ said Felicity, almost doubting herself.

  ‘Yes, I think it was too. Pity you didn’t get a number, but as you say, how could you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see Tom or anything like that. I know him, he’s a nice little boy. But even if I had seen him get in the car I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, it would all have seemed perfectly normal. I mean, I would have heard a shout or a fight. I was near enough for that, and he was old enough to shout and fight, but there was nothing.’

  She stopped. They were both aware that she had said something important.

  That Tom had not struggled, had not called out; he had known his abductor and not feared him.

  Or her.

  ‘I saw the back of the driver,’ said Felicity, staring straight ahead of her, and not acting now, not a bit. ‘I did see the back. Not a very tall person, wearing something dark, blue.’

  ‘A coat?’

  ‘Perhaps a black sweater. Thin arms.’

  ‘A man or a woman?’ said Mary Barclay.

  Felicity sat thinking, then she shook her head. ‘Couldn’t tell… It just might have been a woman … Now I wonder why I think that?’ She shook her head again. ‘No, I don’t know. There might have been something but it’s gone.’ A hat? No, not a hat, but something womanish.

  ‘Come back if you think of anything.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no news?’

  ‘No, ’fraid not.’

  No sign of Tom. No one had seen him since Sylvie had seen him playing in the garden.

  ‘People are gone sometimes and never come back.’ Felicity was fearful.

  ‘Not often children.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes children.’

  Mary Barclay was silent. She remembered the sergeant’s son who had gone out one day and not come back. No, they didn’t all come back.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, anyway, Felicity. Everything helps.’ Felicity smiled nervously and mouthed silent assent. ‘Can you get home all right?’

  ‘I’ve got a lift.’ She hoped she had, and that Gus hadn’t disappeared. But he was still there when the two of them walked through to the reception area. He was pacing up and down.

  ‘Oh, there you are. So what? Is there any news.’ He turned on Mary Barclay. ‘It’s about time there was. You wouldn’t know Felicity here saw the car if I hadn’t brought her in.’

  ‘Can I have your name, sir?’ asked Mary Barclay.

  ‘Hamilton.’

  ‘Oh, hang on, will you please, Mr Hamilton. I think I’ve heard your name mentioned. I think the Superintendent would like to talk to you.’

  Gus walked impatiently up and down the room while he waited. At some point, Felicity had taken herself off. He seemed to recall a voice saying goodbye and his own answering that he hoped she could get home all right. He didn’t recall the answer.

  John Coffin was in the room when Gus walked in and he sketched a greeting. Gus knew nothing about police procedure and cared less. If he thought about it all, it would have seemed natural to him that the Head of the Force should be in the room to meet him.

  ‘You kept me waiting,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ said Paul Lane, standing up, and introducing himself. He towered over Gus, which surprised him. Looks smaller than on the stage, he decided.

  John Coffin was not introduced and did not explain his presence, although he had taken the lift down from his top floor suite of rooms to be present.

  ‘Good of you to bring that young woman in with the sighting of the car. I don’t say we would have missed her, picked her up in the end, I expect, but this is quicker. It’s interesting what she had to say. I’ll be having a word with her myself.’

  Gus nodded.

  ‘You haven’t any information for us yourself, have you, sir?’ said Lane smoothly.

  ‘No. Wish I had.’

  ‘People often don’t realize what they know.’

  ‘If I think of anything, anything, you’ll be the first to hear.’

  ‘You take an interest in the little lad.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gus. ‘I do. What the hell are you getting at?’

  Temper, thought Lane. ‘Not getting at anything, sir.’

  He was not put out by his Chief’s silent presence in one corner of the room, they were old friends and colleagues who had worked together often in the past, but he did regret that other business had not kept the Boss away. Far be it from him to want a riot or a natural disaster in Thameswater but it would have demanded the Chief’s attention. The trouble was that John Coffin was a natural detective who had been too successful, the price of his success being removal from what he was good at. So he put his finger in the investigatory pie when he could.

  But he’s good with men too, Lane loyally reminded himself. Even better with women, if all he had heard was true.

  ‘It’s a foul business. Of course I want him found.’

  ‘You won’t mind if I ask a few more questions, then, sir?’

  ‘Go ahead. But I don’t think I’ve much to tell.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Lane. ‘Bits and pieces appear sometimes. All helps.’ It was his customary line, he didn’t expect to be believed (although it was true), but it was better than silence with an awkward customer. Gus had fallen into that category with his very first words.

  An angry man, Paul Lane decided. He glanced at John Coffin, who
gave a small nod. You go ahead, he was saying. I’ll listen.

  Unfortunately, Gus saw and stood up angrily. ‘What is this? An inquisition? I came in to help, not to be subjected to this. I’m going. I have nothing to tell you.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday, Mr Hamilton, at the time of the abduction?’

  ‘No bloody where,’ said Gus. ‘Working on a script in my room. Walking. I don’t know. I don’t know when it happened.’

  ‘About four-thirty in the afternoon,’ said Lane.

  ‘Then I don’t know. I took a walk.’

  ‘Do you own a car?’

  ‘No. I do not own a car. But yes, I can drive, and I could hire one.’

  There was silence in the room.

  ‘So you could,’ said Paul Lane.

  Gus got control of himself. An actor after all, Lane mused.

  ‘Why would I be interested in abducting a child I hardly know and only saw for the first time a few days ago?’

  ‘Let’s make a case,’ said John Coffin, coming forward, ‘that you might want to get possession of the boy if you thought he was your own son.’

  Gus became very cold. ‘If I thought Gus was my son I would want to know him and have him know me, but I would not snatch him.’

  ‘Even if his mother was obstructive?’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to her?’ Anger was flickering all round Gus now, it was almost visible, like lightning in a storm. ‘Yes, ask her. Perhaps she’s playing some sort of game.’

  ‘What sort of game?’

  ‘I don’t know. Publicity, she’s capable of it. She might have some devious scheme. Whatever, she’s a casual, careless parent. Talk to her.’

  ‘You don’t seem to like Miss Casey?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything about that. Talk to her.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going. I am afraid you haven’t got much from me.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said John Coffin.

  Suddenly, Gus gave his wide, charming smile. ‘Is that a threat?’ He made a small bow. ‘My exit line, I think.’

  They let him go. Coffin went to the window and watched the motorbike roar away. He could kill himself on it in that mood, but you knew he never would, a charmed life, Gus had.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Paul Lane.

  ‘An angry man,’ said Coffin thoughtfully. ‘A powerful, imaginative, angry man.’

  ‘Imaginative?’ questioned Paul Lane, as they parted.

  ‘Oh yes. Didn’t he project a picture of a negligent, selfish, casual mother with her own schemes?’

  ‘A kind of Mother Macbeth?’ said Paul Lane. ‘But I think he really believes the child is his. Or thinks that the mother is to blame for what has happened. I don’t see him playing those macabre tricks, though. The girl Sylvie had the best opportunity there. Or the mother, although God knows why she should want to do it.

  ‘Likewise the abduction … You see the significance of what the girl Felicity had to say?’

  ‘Oh yes, the boy did not call out. Or struggle, and he was big enough and old enough to have a shot at it.’

  ‘Exactly. So he could have known his abductor.’

  The Chief Commander left the conference at this point to go off to the House of Commons to see the MP who was making such a nuisance of himself. He didn’t want to go, he would have preferred to stay with the teams working on the two big cases on his patch: the hi-jacked coach and the dead Jim Lollard, and the puzzle of the missing child, but his first duty was to defend his Force when under attack, he had to play the politician.

  ‘Keep me in touch,’ he said to Paul Lane.

  The investigating team had a list. On this list of people under suspicion they had Sylvie, and Nell Casey and Gus Hamilton.

  In addition there was always the possibility of an unknown chancer who had grabbed the boy on an impulse. This character might be one of the papershop network.

  And there was William Duerden, the alleged child murderer, said to be in the neighbourhood.

  The possibilities were wide open. Most of this speculation was kept from the Press, but the media had been told of the missing boy and the coverage was wide.

  Tom’s picture appeared on the evening news on all television channels. Nell was photographed but had refused, on police advice, to give any interviews. Sylvie had hidden herself in The Albion flat and refused to come out, and the St Luke’s Theatre complex, new buildings and old, was besieged by newsmen of all sexes and sizes.

  Two days later, when he came back from another visit to the House of Commons (where the MP had been polite but difficult), John Coffin called on Stella Pinero, because you must talk things over with someone and, not having a wife, he had only Stella.

  ‘We are under siege here,’ she said. ‘And I do not like it. Did you have to fight your way in?’ She poured him a drink and went on without waiting for an answer. ‘Your sister won’t like it if profits are down.’

  ‘They might go up. Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘How was Harry Guffin, MP? I won’t vote for him again if he’s tiresome to you.’

  ‘He’s just doing his job and I’m just trying to do mine.’

  ‘You sound weary.’

  ‘Let’s go out and have a meal.’

  ‘At Max’s?’

  ‘No, let’s go right out of the district.’

  Stella studied his face. ‘I’ll drive, you look tired.’ Their relationship was coming to a turning-point, they both knew it but didn’t want to dwell on it. It could go either way.

  I’d miss him terribly, Stella thought. But it might have to be a parting.

  I take too much from Stella, John Coffin thought. I can’t let it go on. But what, else? Which way? What does she really want?

  Stella was never going to say, he knew that, knew her well enough to understand that he would have to read the signs and act. Stella would expect him to do what was required.

  ‘How are you getting on with editing your mother’s diaries?’

  ‘Not very well, what with rehearsals for The Circle,’ admitted Coffin. ‘She frightens me a bit. I used to want to get to know her. Now I feel I know her too well but without understanding her.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a romantic about family relationships. Not like Letty.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that: she’s got the family habit of jettisoning spouses.’ He had done that himself, for that matter. Or been dropped.

  Stella gave him a sharp look. ‘Letty always comes out of things with a profit and I bet your mother did. Not sure you do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s a compliment.’ The car gathered speed. ‘I’m taking you, and it’s my treat,’ she said, driving briskly along the road which led southwards out of Thameswater. ‘You haven’t been to this place, but you’ll like it. Not smart, but the food’s good.’

  ‘Where?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘Close your eyes and wait.’

  Five minutes, ten minutes, the roads were clear. ‘I know where we are,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘I can smell. That’s Deller’s.’ Deller’s was an old soap factory, long since closed, but the smell seemed to hang on forever. ‘I know that smell.’

  ‘Of course, you do. Greenwich. You used to live here once. So did I.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ It had been a good while since Stella had worked in a local theatre, closed now too, but he had hung on longer.

  ‘The old Theatre Royal is opening again, did you know that? Was a Bingo Hall, fell on hard times, and has now got an Arts Council subsidy and is going to start up again.’

  ‘No, that’s good news.’ He was getting out of the car. On one side of the road was the splendid rustic sprawl of Greenwich Park, on the other a row of shops. ‘Where are we eating?’

  ‘Can’t you smell that too?’ She pointed across the road. ‘Bert’s Diner. The best fish and chips in South London.’

  ‘You know, I think I remember this place,’ Coffin said, as they went through the door. ‘It used to have
a high counter and the top was tin or some metal and the frying went on behind the counter and you got your fish and chips wrapped up in newspaper.’

  ‘It’s not like that now.’

  ‘And it’s bigger,’ said Coffin looking round. The room was divided into two, one part laid out with blue plastic tables and matching chairs, the other devoted to frying and sales. At the blue tables, several parties were eating away happily, and in some cases also washing the meal down with large cups of strong tea. At least, he assumed it was strong, Greenwich had changed drastically indeed if it was weak. The smell offish and frying pervaded each side about equally. ‘Somehow it’s grown.’

  ‘Bert bought the shop next door and turned it into a fish restaurant.’ She nodded towards a man in a white overall and white cap. ‘That’s Bert.’

  ‘Not the Bert?’ Coffin was doing sums in his head.

  ‘Grandson, I think.’

  ‘There used to be a table in the corner, I think,’ said Coffin, nodding towards it, ‘but nothing like this and I don’t remember anyone ever eating at it. It was usually piled high with old newspapers.’

  They took a table where they were waited on by Bert himself, who said he didn’t remember Mr Coffin, but of course he knew Miss Pinero well, and he didn’t recommend the skate tonight but the cod was first-class.

  ‘Do you know, I think I miss the newspapers,’ said Coffin, as they waited.

  ‘You get paper plates.’ Stella, although elegantly dressed in white slacks and a white jacket, somehow managed to suit her background in a way known only to actresses. Coffin felt he stood out in his dark suit. All the other men were wearing jeans and bright shirts. ‘Saves on the washing-up.’

  He took a look around. ‘Can you get anything to drink beside tea?’

  ‘You’d have loved the tea once.’

  ‘I know, and I bet Bert makes a good cup, but times change.’

  ‘You can have beer. Or wine, he’s got a licence.’

  ‘Well, you’re driving,’ he began.

  ‘And I’m paying.’ Stella motioned towards Bert. ‘He doesn’t keep champagne but he does a nice Bordeaux.’

  The fish was as good as Bert had promised and the chipped potatoes, crisp and light, were even better.