Coffin on Murder Street

by Gwendoline Butler

  No dead bodies there, he decided. For once, Murder Street was not living up to its name.

  Suddenly, he stood quite still. The immensity of the horror of it all struck home. Out there, somewhere, was a child: imprisoned, subjected to God knows what, full of fear and pain.

  He felt sick. A knife was in his guts, turning and turning. It was real physical pain.

  If he felt like this, how did Nell Casey feel?

  He walked back to St Luke’s Mansions but instead of walking through the courtyard to his own front door, he went to where his car was parked. Even at that hour, he gave it the quick, automatic check that security demanded, then drove off rapidly. He was almost sure he saw his cat Tiddles sitting in the shadows, watching him.

  He drove towards North Spinnergate. He turned towards the area which currently obsessed Inspector Archie Young. The rough oblong was formed by four streets: Clock Street, which ran east to west, Shirley Road, which crossed it at right angles and ran south towards Creek Street, the narrow thoroughfare leading to Bowler Street, which crossed the bottom end of Clock Street. A tiny spur of Shirley Road ran towards the railway line where it ended in an archway, now housing a garage. Coffin knew the garage owner.

  None of the roads ran in a straight line and the general shape of the district enclosed was more of a diamond than an oblong, Coffin reflected as he completed the circuit.

  Within these four streets was a network of narrow streets lined with houses, shops and small factories. There was a chapel, now secularized, a school and what was once a cinema (and had once been a music hall by the look of it), now a small factory making jeans. A bit of history was embodied in some of the street names: Dalhousie Street, Madras Passage, Jubilee Road, Beckett Street. Tucked away in the north-west corner of the diamond was a little road called, for no reason that anyone remembered, Carnival Alley.

  Coffin toured them slowly, mindful that he was probably observed by his own men, if no other. The observer observed.

  No doubt frantic radio calls were even then reporting his progress.

  He saw nothing that seemed important, the area was quiet, with not much movement. He turned and drove home.

  CHAPTER 16

  March 24

  Archie Young had his way, and his team poured into the area in North Spinnergate to which those they called the Papershop Group seemed attracted. As well as his own men who had been working on the case all along, he was using the radio cars and constables who usually toured the area and knew it well. The first day brought nothing. No interesting cars were sighted parked anywhere, none seen touring the district.

  Young had not expected results at once, but it was disappointing. He bit back the thought that some alert might have gone out to the Group. They were an intelligent, sophisticated circle of men and women and would be on their guard.

  The next day, the same. Nothing. He reported back to Paul Lane, who said he could have more men if he wanted it, but it didn’t look as though anything was going to come of it.

  The report duly went to John Coffin, who had other troubles of his own, with the threat of a Parliamentary Commission of Inquiry (which he did not think would come about, but he could not be sure), not to mention the rumours of the formation of a national police force which he thought would happen but not in his time. But it all made for unease.

  ‘Have you any news?’ Stella Pinero asked on the telephone that morning. She rang every morning. He thought she was acting as the voice of Nell Casey who no longer telephoned. Relations between him and Stella were still chill.

  ‘No, sorry. You can believe I’d tell you if there was.’

  ‘You know more than you’re saying, I expect,’ said Stella. ‘You always do.’

  ‘Not a lot.’ He did not tell her about the police drive on North Spinnergate. But it turned out that he did not have to.

  ‘Mimsie Marker says there’s something going on behind the Tube station, that area. Police cars and detectives all over the place, she knew their faces. What is it, John. Have you found a body?’

  ‘No body.’

  ‘But you’re looking for one, that’s what Mimsie says.’

  For once Mimsie had got it wrong. ‘She knows more than I do,’ he said. ‘How’s Nell bearing up?’

  ‘Can’t get a word out of her. Doesn’t answer the telephone nor the doorbell.’

  ‘Well, look after her.’

  ‘I will if I can find her. You don’t ask how I am and how my Festival’s going.’ Stella was crisp and angry, and as usual when in this mood, her delivery was tremendous. ‘Well, fine, just fine. I’m well and the bookings are good, thanks for your asking.’

  Fill Drury Lane that voice would, Coffin thought as she slammed down the receiver; no, I do her an injustice, every syllable would have registered in the Olivier auditorium itself. He had seen Stella play Lady Macbeth in the National once and saluted her power.

  He went back to his own worries, knowing that Archie Young could be relied upon to cover the ground in North Spinnergate. Whether he found anything was another matter.

  Back in the North Spinnergate district, the young police constable, Leslie Castle, who had set off the search in the first place, came on duty after making a good breakfast in the canteen. Sausages, bacon, chips and three cups of tea. He was an alert and lively young man with a good degree from Birmingham University, a lot of ambition, and his feet planted firmly on the ground.

  The eldest of a large family and still living at home, he had had an argument last night with his younger brother who maintained that aliens were stealing children and taking them away to study. That was where Tom Casey had gone.

  ‘They bring them back, you know, don’t keep them. Just want to take a look and make a report, then they dump them on this planet Earth and the kids don’t have any idea where they’ve been. It’s all out of this world, you’ll see.’ And younger brother went back to reading the latest science fiction book which he had just secured from his school library where they were open-minded about what their pupils read as long as they read. ‘He’ll drop off a spacecraft,’ he ended dreamily. He wished it could be him, he’d remember all the details all right.

  Not a likely tale, Leslie had thought, as he stepped out, glad it was a fine morning. Nothing extra-terrestrial about this little load of trouble.

  He took a personal interest in what was going on, regarding it as down to him. He hoped to transfer to the detective force and he guessed he already had a good mark on his card from his earlier piece of observation, and another one would not do any harm. So he kept his eyes open.

  It was a competitive world and you had to look out for yourself. Besides, he liked children. He had a very young brother, a late and unexpected arrival in the family, and he loved the young sprog.

  He paced on, through Rocket Street, Forge Street, Needless Passage, thinking as he always did what a silly name for a street, enough to put a street off. Needless Passage did have a sad look to it and seemed to attract more rubbish and old cars than even Carnival Alley, which was a byword for dossers and dirt. In the hierarchy of the streets round here Needless Passage and Carnival Alley did not rank high; if you could live elsewhere, then you did. But there was a nice little café in Carnival Alley much used by lorry-drivers and van men parked illegally near by.

  He walked on. Surely there ought to be some sign an intelligent and alert observer could pick up? He turned into Navigation Street and then left into Windward Place, but nothing caught his eye. He continued on thoughtfully. Perhaps that last cup of tea had been a mistake.

  He was at the corner of Carnival Alley and the main road that led to the old Chantry Railway station, closed to passengers but used for goods only, when the scream of brakes followed by the sound of metal grinding on to metal told him two cars had hit each other. He hurried down the Alley to the sound of angry voices bitterly accusing each other.

  He sighed and hurried forward to deal with the affair before blood flowed.

  By the time that the pr
otagonists had been parted, agreed to settle the issue without fisticuffs and had driven off, the matter of the third cup of tea demanded urgent attention.

  But Castle knew where to go. He hurried towards the friendly café in Carnival Alley. Harry’s Bar would accommodate him.

  ‘A cup of tea?’ said the proprietor, as he came back into the café from the washroom.

  ‘Not just now.’

  ‘Was that a crash I heard?’

  ‘Only two old bangers running into each other.’ The cars hadn’t appeared much worse after their impact than before, not the first collision in their lives. Castle looked round the shop where a nearly full crate of milk waited. ‘Lot of milk, you’re using, Harry. Trade must be good.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I’ve got a regular customer, comes in and collects the bottles.’

  ‘Wonder he doesn’t have them delivered.’

  ‘It’s a she. I reckon she’s one of those child-minders. Unregistered, you know, and doesn’t want to draw attention to herself.’ He looked at Leslie.

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Harry,’ said Leslie, after a pause.

  ‘Just telling.’

  ‘Any idea where she comes from?’

  ‘No.’ Harry shook his head. ‘But it would have to be near, she wouldn’t walk far with all those bottles.’ He probably did know where she came from, you couldn’t hide much round here, but a kind of class loyalty meant that Harry had gone as far as he would for the moment.

  Castle acknowledged what he had got. ‘You’re right. Thanks again. I’ll be seeing you.’

  Castle turned back into Carnival Alley, and now he looked carefully at every premises he passed. He turned into Russia Lane, looked down Needless Passage and then into Forge Street.

  Not a soul about, there rarely was at this time of the day. Forge Street had once had a forge in it and you could still make out the old building now turned into a lock-up for cars. Forge Street was upmarket for the area with a row of three-storey houses perched over narrow basements.

  At the end of the road the council’s refuse lorry was collecting bags of rubbish. He walked towards it.

  One house had a small mountain of black plastic sacks outside, piled up awaiting collection. Leslie remembered the amount of mucky stuff that his small brother had built up as an infant and there had only been one of him.

  He went up to look at the house. No. 5, Forge Street. It was newly painted with clean curtains and a brightly polished knocker. It looked very respectable.

  But evil things can go on behind respectable front doors. From behind the door, he heard a child cry out.

  He hesitated, tempted to bang on the door and rush in, but prudence held him back. He might alert people who would otherwise be caught.

  This had to be done properly.

  Where children are concerned, Archie Young knew that you had to be both careful and quick. He was both.

  He checked that the address in Forge Street was not registered for the care of children. He got the name of the occupant from the electoral roll: Mrs Brownrigg, she had lived there for at least three years.

  Then, backed up by a worker from the social welfare department, by a police surgeon, and by Policewoman Alison Jenkins whose speciality this was, he went in.

  ‘You hold up the woman,’ he told Alison. ‘And I will get into the house. Then you lot follow. But hang on to her. Do you know her?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘No, she’s kept herself well hidden.’

  The woman who opened the door to them was tall, nicely built with a neat roll of hair and a blue apron trimly belted at the waist. She looked surprised but not frightened. Behind her, Young could see a tidy hall with a bowl of flowers on the table and the smell of cooking floating towards him. It was midmorning, it smelt like lamb cooking for the next meal. He had to admit that, unregistered or not, this looked a good place.

  A faint seed of doubt took root inside him.

  ‘Mrs Brownrigg?’ He named himself and produced his identification. ‘May we come inside?’

  But he was already inside and pushing past her. Behind him he could hear Alison Jenkins’s voice talking about illegality and unregistered child-minders, and he could hear the woman protesting. An educated voice.

  There was a door at the end of the hall which stood half open. He went through into an anteroom of some sort with hooks for small coats on the walls, and underneath brightly painted lockers decorated with pictures of dogs, cats, cows and even a small friendly-looking lion.

  With every step forward this place looked more and more respectable. All right, he said to himself, you may get your head chopped off but this counts, you have to risk it.

  He could hear Mrs Brownrigg protesting that she did a good service and Alison Jenkins making a gentle reply. She would not alarm the woman but she would be tough.

  He opened the door to the inner room which was the children’s room. It was a big room, bright and cheerful. Two infants, not yet walking, sat inside playpens. Two girls in frilly dresses stood inside a playhouse, and a mixed band of other children, all sizes, ages and colours, disposed themselves around low tables. Some were painting, others dabbing with plasticine, and a couple were studying books.

  They were quiet, though, he thought. Of course he had startled them, but he hadn’t heard much noise through the door before he came in. All the kids he knew made a big racket.

  Well-disciplined, he thought. Was that good or bad?

  But at the back of the room, near to the window, a table of four children, two boys and two girls, sat immobile. One girl gave him a quick look and then turned her head away. The other children avoided all eye contact.

  That is not good, he said to himself. And his heartbeat quickened and a pain, cold and fierce, went through his guts.

  He walked over to them. ‘Hello,’ he said, and saw, with sadness mixed with venom for those who had caused it, that they looked at him with apprehension and knowledge. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently. ‘I’m good news.’

  But how could you say that to these children and make it mean anything? They had a whole damaged life before them to prove him wrong.

  ‘Alison,’ he called. ‘Over here.’ He pointed towards the tables by the window. ‘Look at them.’ He turned away. ‘Or don’t look, even doing that seems to hit like a weapon.’

  Alison said gently, ‘You go out and deal with the on-goings in the hall. Leave this to me.’

  He rode out the storm of protest from Mrs Brownrigg as she was taken away. The cook in the basement kitchen was calmed and interviewed. The woman from the social services department located a roll of children with names and addresses and began the process of getting hold of parents. Other officers started going through the house. It all had to be done and it all had to be done now.

  If he was in trouble, he was in it in a big way. But it was worth it. He took a deep breath and remembered one other puzzle.

  As things got under control, he drew Alison aside. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  He had a roomful of frightened children, but Tom was not there.

  CHAPTER 17

  Still that same day in March

  John Coffin sat in his office with the late afternoon sunlight on his back and looked at the other two men. He had asked for a tray of sandwiches and coffee to be sent up for the three of them. Himself, the Superintendent and Archie Young, the group which Young was beginning to think of as the War Command. He was taking notes and he observed that John Coffin was taping it all.

  He put his pen down and took a bite of ham and bread. No mustard, he thought regretfully, life was getting purer and purer all the time. He would have enjoyed a cigarette but a no-smoking area had been declared about the Chief Commander, so that was out. Probably whisky would go soon. One by one the bodily comforts and supports of the hardworking crime officer were being declared harmful.

  Coffin went to his cupboard and brought ou
t a bottle of malt, and offered it around.

  ‘You did a good job,’ he said to Archie Young. ‘Backed your hunch and got a result.’

  ‘But not the boy.’

  ‘You got a list of the Papershop Group with their names or aliases and their addresses, and evidence good enough to go to court.’

  ‘Underneath the floorboards in the kitchen,’ said Archie Young, not without satisfaction. ‘Not an original mind, our Mrs Brownrigg.’ She had kept a long list with a few pencilled additions, including an address in Regina Street. Murder Street was coming into play again. Archie Young was minded to visit that house. Near old Jim Lollard’s place, he thought. ‘I reckon she had a poor memory and had to keep things written down.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘The woman who did the cooking knew where they were and didn’t mind pointing them out. Didn’t like Brownrigg. Liked the job, liked the money, but didn’t like her employer. Thought there “was something going on.”’

  ‘But she didn’t report anything until we arrived.’

  ‘That’s people,’ said Young philosophically. ‘But she’ll talk now. And so will Brownrigg. Alison’s already got her going. She’s a marvel, that girl.’

  So all that was fine, but had not brought Tom Casey home.

  ‘Back to looking for Duerden?’ said Paul Lane.

  Regina Street, thought Archie Young instantly. I’m going to have a look for him there. Say nothing Archie, do it on your own.

  ‘Possibly. But I don’t see it plays that way. Duerden is a chancer, a quick operator, not a fancy planner. And Tom’s troubles all seemed custom built for him. They had his name on them. So that means someone close.’

  Only two people close to Tom as far as they knew. Nell, Sylvie, and Gus Hamilton in there as an extra to make up the weight.

  ‘I rule out the girl,’ said Paul Lane.

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Young.

  ‘Yes, she rings true,’ said Coffin. ‘That leaves Gus Hamilton and Nell Casey.’ About equal between those two, he thought. The psychology of Nell he would leave to others. Something odd there underneath the surface, he would swear.