Coffin's Ghost

by Gwendoline Butler

  Not that he had any choice.

  He sat in the back of DCI Astley’s car, which she drove. She did not need him to tell her the way, which told him she had been here before, since the Gun Club was tucked away in an old mews running behind Abbey Road. The front door was in the mews but the club extended back towards the main road.

  ‘Do you have keys to this place?’

  ‘Some members do.’ He was shifty about this admission.

  Not very good security then, Coffin thought, flood or not. They went in as a trio with Tim Radley leading the way, while at the same time trying to hide himself. The Gun Club was a tight unit and two extra members of the police sailing in would not be welcome.

  However, it was afternoon, and not too many members used it in this time of the day.

  The secretary, Bill Eager, was there. He was always there. Paid to be. Ex-army, ex-copper but from the Met, he was not known to Coffin.

  He came out of his office, slowly and deliberately, pretending, as so often, to be more stupid than he was. In fact, he was a sharp-minded man, not a deep thinker but acute.

  He held out his hand. ‘Chief Commander, sir.’ He knew why they had come, of course, since he had already had a visitation from DS Tony Davley on the subject of the gun.

  Although the Chief Commander did not remember it, they had met in the past when John Coffin was already an important CID officer, while Bill Eager was a recruit, walking the beat. He’d seen Coffin working a case.

  Eager ran an appraising eye over him, he himself had retired on an injury pension, and felt able to allow himself this liberty. The man had worn well, hardly gone grey and hadn’t gone bald. Not fat either, but he had been a success and perhaps success kept you thin.

  Coffin took his hand. ‘I remember you: Kettle Street Station, wasn’t it? That bank murder with arson?’

  ‘That’s right, sir, but you can’t remember me?’

  Coffin smiled without answering. No, he thought, but I do my homework. ‘You had a flood?’

  ‘Yes, a tap was left running in the upstairs toilet. Accidental or on purpose. We’re still fighting that out with the insurers. It wasn’t me, I can tell you that.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Some fool pulled the piping away from the cistern in the lavatory . . . the water came pouring out, but I didn’t notice till a real torrent had built up. I was downstairs in the basement.’

  ‘Did a lot of damage?’ Coffin looked around, it still had the sour damp smell of carpets and curtains drying out.

  ‘Blew the wiring and took most of our security with it. We had a lot of trouble, took the computer where we keep all the records. The devil, it was.’

  Coffin nodded.

  ‘So you didn’t know what guns you’d lost?’

  ‘Shouldn’t have lost any. The big cupboard where they are kept works on an electronic card; I got the cupboard open but I couldn’t secure it again. Not properly, but it all seemed all right. All the members stayed away as no shooting was possible till we dried out.’

  ‘But one gun went?’

  ‘Yes, I knew as soon as I saw it. Often had it in my hands. Didn’t belong to me. Not particularly.’

  Not particularly, thought Coffin. Nice phrase.

  ‘All right, it was sloppy, I plead guilty, but I was so busy mopping up and cleaning and drying. Added to which we had newish cleaners that I didn’t know so well, so there was more direction needed from me.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Coffin was walking round the room, which looked tidy and well-run enough now.

  ‘But when I heard about the gun that was found, and one of your officers came along checking again . . . well, I was able to put my hand up and say, Yes, sorry, sir, it is one of ours. Mine, in fact, although I haven’t used it for some time.’

  So that was what ‘not particularly’ meant, Coffin thought.

  Coffin continued his slow perambulation round the room. ‘Mr Freedom came in before the flood with a view to joining, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sure. He came in with Tim Radley. Business being what it is, we like an introduction.’ He nodded towards Tim Radley, whose face remained expressionless, so much so that Eager turned away with the air of having been rebuffed.

  ‘Did he come again?’

  ‘No, well, we had the flood, visitors were not encouraged. No, I correct myself . . . he tried, one of the cleaners told me. I didn’t see him myself.’

  ‘It looks as though this gun which went on the loose, killed a woman and was used to half-kill a man.’

  Eager muttered that he understood as much.

  ‘Did Mr Freedom offer you any money to let him join the club?’

  ‘No,’ said Eager stiffly. ‘A bribe would not have been necessary, we need members, but they must come with a backer. Someone who knows the proposed member well. And the proposer must be a member in good standing.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Coffin smoothly. ‘Like a policeman.’ He looked at Tim Radley, who licked his lips. ‘Thank you, Mr Eager, for letting us have a look round. I expect you will get another visit.’

  ‘Naturally, I’m glad to help. I can’t think how the gun got stolen but plenty of people including firemen and members of the police were in and out when we had the flood. Oh, and the neighbours said we fused their freezers.’

  ‘We might want to call you in for a further interview.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Eager. ‘Sure. Whenever.’

  During all this time, Tim Radley had not spoken. Now he said: ‘Did you know Mr Freedom before I brought him in?’

  ‘Never saw him before. Knew who he was, of course. Successful man, isn’t he, with that string of successes. Be glad to have him as a member, thank you for the introduction.’

  In the car, Tim said: ‘I’m surprised he didn’t make a connection between the killings and Mr Freedom.’

  ‘Oh, he did, of course he did. Just putting up a front.’ Coffin settled himself in his seat. ‘As you are yourself . . . How much did Freedom offer you to get him into the club?’

  Radley looked at Phoebe Astley who looked at. him with a query: ‘Well? Worth at least a tenner, I should think.’

  Radley swallowed. ‘Spot on, ma’am.’

  Which means, decided Phoebe, that it was at least twice that much; Freedom must have wanted to get inside that Gun Club badly.

  ‘You may have to swear to that.’

  Radley swallowed again. ‘Right, ma’am. May I ask, are you putting Mr Freedom in the frame for the two shootings?’ He added nervously: ‘I feel I have the right to ask as I seem to have helped him get the gun . . .’

  ‘I’ll drive you home,’ was all the answer he got from Phoebe.

  When they got to his small house from which he knew Claudia would long since have departed, he got out of the car, offered his thanks for the lift and then, still holding the car door, he said, to the air as much as any person, although he looked at Phoebe: ‘I suppose I’m in trouble, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phoebe, as she drove off.

  Coffin said: ‘He was bribed, probably with more than the tenner, and Eager as well, possibly . . . anyway, he might have been glad to get the insurance money. Check on the club’s finances.’

  ‘I was thinking that myself.’

  ‘Get hold of Freedom, and set up an interview with Eager. See they meet. Then they can be questioned together. I will sit in if I can.’

  Phoebe returned to the incident room to check on what was going on there. Tony Davley was crouched over a computer, the room was emptying as the day shift went off. The incident room was lightly staffed at night.

  Tony looked up. ‘Well, any luck?’

  ‘Seems as though Freedom worked out how to steal a gun.’

  ‘Still think it would be easier to buy one.’

  ‘I don’t know. Not a man you can figure out.’ Phoebe went on: ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I know where he is supposed to be: in his flat, but he was only requested to stay there. I doubt i
f he felt bound by that.’

  ‘As long as he’s there now,’ said Phoebe. She passed Coffin’s orders on: ‘Get someone to bring him in, and set up a meeting with Eager.’

  Coffin went to his office, prepared to sign letters and read reports before going home. He had not taken the dog with him to the Gun Club but left him with Gillian. Gus fell upon him with the joy of a dog that has been abandoned and was now reunited with his master. He fawned upon Coffin, licking his feet.

  ‘He does love your shoes,’ said Gillian. She admired Gus but thought he was spoilt. In her world, you did not spoil animals. She had noticed that Gus had somehow manoeuvred himself into the position of honorary human.

  She was getting her possessions together, which Coffin recognized as signalling her departure.

  ‘Get off them, you fetishist,’ said Coffin, giving Gus a shove. Gus clung on, eyes adoring. He stood up, perforce taking the dog with him. ‘Time to go home.’

  They followed Gillian down in the lift, the Peke tucked under one arm because he did not like lifts. Dangerous for paws.

  In the airy upstairs sitting room, they found Robbie Gilchrist sitting on the sofa, facing the sun through the big window, drinking whisky and talking to Stella.

  Stella looked cheerful, so if it was business then it was going well. Gilchrist stood up when Coffin came in.

  ‘I wanted to tell Stella that I am taking Alice home with me . . . No, not to the place here, but to the house I have in Gloucestershire. I will leave her there with the good friend who keeps house for me.’

  Good friend, Coffin thought, nice way of putting it.

  ‘I went round to the Serena Seddon to have a long talk with Mary Arden. She agrees with me that to get Alice away will be a good idea. Physically she is better. I know she’s not clever, but there’s more to her than you might think. Evelyn told me her husband thinks she would work well in his department at the theatre. She’s good with colour and materials.’

  No doubt he had come to some arrangement with Stella, hence her pleased smile.

  ‘She’s ready to travel but I wanted to clear it with you first.’

  Coffin poured himself a drink, noted with amusement that Gus, the sycophant, had transferred his attention to Gilchrist and was leaning against his leg with a wistful look. Wants a job on TV, no doubt.

  ‘Has she said any more about what went on? About where she was while she was missing and the birth of the child?’

  ‘I haven’t pressed her.’

  ‘Someone should, I think.’

  Robbie Gilchrist muttered something about the dangers of digging things up.

  Coffin, whose whole professional life had consisted of ‘digging things up’, said gravely: ‘She might be glad to talk.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  Coffin said he thought so. ‘To the right person.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s me . . .’ Robbie sat thinking, hands on his knees. Then he bent down to pat Gus’s head. Not looking at Coffin, he said: ‘Would you do it?’

  ‘Do you have any special reason for asking me to do it?’

  ‘I know you are still investigating George Freedom, and if this in any way helps your case against him, I want you to be the one who does it.’

  Old friends, old enemies, Coffin thought. He knew the feeling well. Goodness knows, he wanted to get Freedom.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it. You must be there, though.’

  ‘Yes, sure. I know that.’

  ‘And you must in the end talk to Alice about this business,’ he said gently. ‘You or her mother.’

  ‘Not her mother,’ said Robbie instantly.

  ‘You then.’ Coffin shook his head. ‘Don’t bury it. I’ve buried a lot in my time, and take it from me, it lies there rotting.’

  ‘No time like the present then. Shall we get on with it? Then I’d like Alice to go to Gloucestershire.’

  Stella came across to kiss Coffin on the cheek. A public demonstration of affection that she rarely showed. He looked at her sceptically.

  ‘Just glad to see you,’ she said. ‘Robbie and I will be working together when he gets back.’

  ‘No input from Freedom?’ he couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘I think we can manage.’

  That dumped Freedom nicely then.

  ‘I must just make a telephone call before we go,’ he said to Robbie. He was Robbie now, not Gilchrist, now and probably forever – Coffin had a strong feeling that Robbie was here in his life to stay.

  He went to his own work room, a few steps up the tower, to call Phoebe.

  ‘No nothing special on Freedom. He was at home and has made one or two phone calls. No, we have no tap on him, so I can’t say what they were, I only know he made them because he could be seen through the window using his mobile. It looks as though he means to stay there, for now at least, and not do a bunk.’

  ‘Tomorrow then.’ Coffin ran over in his mind what his diary had down for tomorrow. ‘Afternoon, I think.’

  Phoebe agreed.

  ‘Nothing on the head or the torso, I suppose? We really need it. One or both. Both preferably.’

  The beginning had been the dumping of the arms and legs on the house in Barrow Street where he had once lived. Where Anna had once visited him. For a very short space. It all started with Anna.

  Joanna Carmichael. A woman with two names. If that had indeed been her name. How many names did she have?

  He couldn’t help feeling that someone wanted revenge for Anna.

  But I need to see your face, Anna, I need to see Shelley plain. God, you are not like the marvellous poet, although he was a liar and a bit of a performer. Although they all were in that little coterie: Byron, Trefusis, Shelley. Not Mary Shelley, though. But then she had Mary Godwin for her mother.

  Phoebe was still talking. ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Go on.’

  ‘Nothing found, still have a team out looking. Scaled down though.’ They were beginning to give up hope. ‘But there is one piece of good news: Albie Touchey is coming round. Talking more coherently. You will be able to see him.’

  ‘Yes, that is good news. I will try to see him before Freedom tomorrow.’

  But first, he had to go to the house in Barrow Street.

  Well, this is it, he thought, as he followed Robbie Gilchrist in. But the place had changed so much since he had lived there for a few uneasy months.

  He had expected painful, angry memories to flash back. But there was nothing.

  The place was so different, it even smelt different, a mixture of lavender airspray and disinfectant. And there were children playing on the stairs. Children who gave him a hostile look. He was not to know that they were very new arrivals whose memory of the world outside the Serena Seddon was of violence and swearing. If necessary they were prepared to offer both back, but for the moment they were silent.

  Coffin was able to follow Robbie upstairs to Mary Arden’s room with more calm than he had expected. The ghost of Anna, if indeed there was a ghost, was not to be found here.

  Mary Arden with Evelyn by her side stood up to greet them. Alice tried to rise too. ‘Don’t get up, Alice.’

  The telephone was ringing and was ignored. After a while, it went silent. No one took any notice.

  Except John Coffin who wondered who it was and who was getting the rough treatment.

  Robbie, who had bent to kiss the girl, drew back.

  ‘Do you want to stay, Alice?’ Mary asked.

  Alice nodded. She looked pale still, but her hair was combed and shining clean, while the blue jeans and blue shirt she wore fitted her slender frame snugly. Care had been taken over her appearance.

  ‘I expect Robbie and the Chief Commander here will want to ask you questions, but you need not answer.’

  Once again Alice nodded.

  ‘Before you two start, I want to tell you something. First, I have talked to Alice and she has given me permission to tell you about her and to answer questions for her if sh
e wishes. I will do it only with her consent; she may prefer to answer herself.’ Mary’s voice was coldly angry, her face was turned to Robbie Gilchrist. ‘For a professional family, educated people, you and Alice’s mother have treated her shamefully. The girl has great problems in communication but she is not stupid, she is autistic. She is locked in her own world and you and her mother did not help her to climb out of it.’

  Robbie opened his mouth, then shut it again. Coffin said nothing, but he watched the girl. She may have said nothing but her eyes followed Mary.

  ‘It took Evelyn and her husband Peter to work out what Alice’s trouble is. She finds it very very hard to struggle with the world outside but she is not stupid; Peter thinks she will work beautifully in his workshop in the theatre, she has a marvellous colour sense.’

  Robbie said: ‘I am taking her home with me for a rest. That is if she wants to come.’

  Mary looked at Alice. ‘Do you?’

  In a clear, sweet voice, Alice said, Yes, if she could then come back and work in the theatre again.

  ‘Yes, sure, of course.’

  ‘Right, agreed. But she ought not to go back and live alone in that grotty little flat she had. That is not good for her.’

  The telephone rang again and was once more ignored.

  Coffin raised his eyebrows. ‘Do answer it if you wish.’

  ‘It will be Mr Freedom,’ said Mary. ‘He has been ringing at intervals. He wishes to see Alice. We made a joint resolution not to answer his calls.’

  Coffin looked at Alice. ‘Is that so, Alice?’

  Alice nodded.

  When almost at once the phone rang again, she shivered. A long, painful movement. Fear personified, which Coffin saw and understood: she was terrified of Freedom.

  ‘He’s a bully,’ said Evelyn, who hadn’t spoken before. ‘Violent with it.’

  ‘What I want to know from Alice, if she wants to tell us, is: Who is the father of the baby, where was she living when she disappeared, and who was it that was with her when the child was born and then buried the child?’

  ‘A lot of questions.’ Mary spoke dryly.

  ‘Short answers will do. Do you know the answers?’