Cold Coffin

by Butler, Gwendoline

  Presents and her pretty hat were on the seat beside her.

  8

  Thursday.

  ‘Are we lost?’ asked Coffin. They had been driving for about an hour. For most of that time he had been absorbed in the work he had with him, leaving the driving to Sid Gubbins and route-finding to Stella.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve been down this bit of road at least once before.’

  ‘I didn’t think you noticed.’

  ‘Not the first time, but I remember it now.’

  ‘Perhaps we were a bit lost, but I’ve found the way again . . .’ She consulted the map. ‘We follow this road, and take the left turn, it should be called Church Road . . . and it is. There is the church . . . you can see the spire.’

  ‘I don’t believe you were ever lost at all,’ accused Coffin. Sid and Mrs Gubbins in her smart new hat were both tactfully quiet.

  Stella let them drive on in silence for a minute, before saying, ‘You’re right, of course. I suppose that’s what makes you a good detective: you can see into people, through them.’

  Then he saw the tears in her eyes. Not theatrical tears, which she could contrive so beautifully, but real, painful tears that were reddening her eyes. They were not running down her cheeks; she was controlling the tears in her eyes. Only an actress could do that, thought Coffin.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything. I understand. I feel the same. But I can’t cry. I wish I could.’

  ‘It’s hard for men.’

  ‘Oh, they can cry all right, you know that, but I was born dry.’

  ‘It’s the baby, and Sally being so brave about it.’

  Coffin nodded wordlessly. He was thinking of Charlie and his father, Archie Young. Charlie had reminded Coffin of himself when young.

  The church in Wibberly was not particularly old, mid-Victorian, and built of red brick, but it was surrounded by well-kept grass and neatly weeded paths. In the churchyard lay several rows of graves: Charlie Young had not been buried here, for which Coffin was grateful.

  Sid Gubbins parked the car at the end of a row, then got out to open the door for Stella, who was adjusting her hat. Mrs Gubbins got out too; her hat seemed indestructable and immovable.

  Coffin fiddled with his tie. ‘I didn’t know what to dress for: a funeral or a wedding.’

  ‘Something in between,’ said Stella, checking her makeup. ‘Serious but not sombre, offering a welcome to the new life.’

  ‘Leave the presents in the car?’

  ‘Yes. After all, it’s not Christmas.’

  They walked towards the porch door, where a small group were standing: grandparents, four of those, and the one parent, Sally, holding the child. The Gubbinses took themselves into the church, where they chose a suitable pew. They enjoyed being unobtrusive and tactful. Stella knew and enjoyed this too; she said it made her feel like the Queen with an equerry and a lady-in-waiting.

  Archie Young came forward, hand outstretched. He had not changed, no greyer, no more lined. Grief had passed through him and out again, like a purge. He gripped Coffin’s hand and kissed Stella on the cheek. ‘Good to see you both. Thanks for coming.’

  ‘In good time, I hope.’

  ‘Very good. The vicar’s just getting ready for us.’

  Sally was nearby, the baby in her arms, awake with alert, bright blue eyes and red cheeks.

  Healthy, Stella thought, thank goodness. She put out a finger to stroke the cheek. ‘Hello.’

  The child stared back from his nest of white wool, pressed against his mother’s pink tweed suit. Sally was hatless, but her own mother, coming to greet Stella, was wearing a red hat to match her red suit. She was a pretty woman, smaller and slighter than her daughter, a doctor, now retired.

  Maisie Young, who had been talking to the Chief Commander, kissed Stella’s cheek. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘You too. You are missed in Spinnergate.’

  ‘I miss it too. It was home for such a long time, and Archie enjoyed working with the Chief Commander.’

  ‘Archie deserved a top job.’

  ‘He does love it,’ admitted Maisie.

  Their eyes met. Stella put her arm around Maisie, who let the happy mask drop for a second. ‘Yes, well, Charlie’s death hit us both hard . . . but we want to make today happy, for Sally’s sake. She’s been splendid. She’s going back to work, you know.’

  Stella nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘She’s taking her full leave, of course.’ Maisie smiled as she looked at her daughter-in-law and her grandson. Sally was talking to the Chief Commander. ‘She feels she has to be the success for both of them now.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll do it . . . John thinks well of her.’ And he likes a pretty face; mustn’t be cynical. But Sally was clever, Stella knew something about her life before the police: a first-class degree from University College, London, and then a couple of years studying law. Yes, she’d climb the ladder all right, even with a baby on her back.

  The child stared at Stella. ‘All right, I’m thinking about you, chum.’ He almost said it aloud; he had quite a commanding gaze that baby, for one so young. You look all right, he was saying, but I don’t know you well enough to be sure. Babies have to be careful.

  The pair were interrupted in their silent conversation by the arrival of the rector. Just as well, decided Stella, as the infant’s mouth drew down, clearly deciding she was undesirable company. Or possibly it was the rector who was getting the dour looks.

  He introduced himself: Paul Rudkin. Then he went over to speak to Coffin, murmuring that he knew he was a bit late starting, but with four kids you were never on time for anything.

  ‘He never would be,’ said his wife, Marie, coming up behind. ‘Children or not.’ She shook her head. She held out her hand, introducing herself and explaining that Sally had asked her to be godmother to the child. ‘Time-keeping is not Paul’s greatest gift.’ She gave him a loving smile. ‘Four kids, all under seven. You’d think an obstetrician would know better.’

  ‘That’s your job?’

  ‘Will be again, I hope, when family life permits.’

  ‘I admire you for doing it.’

  ‘I admire you, Miss Pinero, or should I call you Mrs Coffin?’

  ‘Either will do.’

  ‘He’s one too, you know, a performer. Mostly stage, but a bit of TV. Then he decided to join the Church, become a rector.’

  Stella looked at the rector’s blond good looks. Yes, she could see him as a performer. He still was, in a way.

  His wife echoed her thoughts. ‘Of course, the Church had use for his abilities. He knows it. But he may go back to the profession when he’s got too old to be a rector.’

  ‘Can you be too old?’

  ‘In the time of Trollope, no; these days, yes.’ Her eyes were on her husband. ‘I think we are being instructed to go in.’

  She was still talking as they walked in, following Sally with the child in her arms. ‘Sally wanted it as quiet and simple as possible, although the christening service is not really elaborate anyway.’

  Stella found Coffin at her side, and smiled at him. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Do I have to hold the baby?’

  ‘I think so, dear.’ Then she relented, ‘There is a godmother; she will hold the child, I expect.’ She turned around. ‘Two godmothers in fact, I’m told, unusual for a boy, so you get off lightly.’

  ‘I don’t see another,’ worried Coffin.

  ‘Just arriving. That’s her car.’ She nodded towards a little red Metro.

  Coffin looked relieved. The sun came from behind a cloud as they walked into the church, the light following them in so that pews and altar and font were touched with gold. The double doors behind them were wide open, so a soft breeze came through to ruffle his hair and disturb Stella’s fashionably bouffant hat.

  They began with a prayer, then the organ offered up a quiet but happy melody; no melancholy for this child. Then a small choir, almost entirely made up of girls f
rom the local school, sang a short anthem. They moved towards the font and the christening proper began. Coffin was not required to hold the child, but had to make the proper responses. The second godmother was a pretty young woman whom Coffin recognized as Sergeant Chrissie Miller, a member of the Second City Force. She had hurried in late, apologizing without explaining, thus causing Coffin to wonder what crisis had happened in his absence that he knew nothing of, but Stella, mind-reading as usual, managed to whisper in his ear, ‘Just her soft contact lenses, could not get them in her eyes.’

  Chrissie smiled, murmured what sounded like, ‘Afternoon, sir, nice to see you,’ turned to Marie Rudkin. ‘Hi, fellow godmother. Who gets to hold the baby, Sal?’

  ‘You for a minute.’

  The infant was deposited in her arms, looked her in the face, and at once began to bawl.

  For the first time Coffin felt he knew what the word bawl meant, and he was glad, with an intensity that surprised him, that he was not the one provoking what was clearly anger.

  But more to his own surprise, he was swept with a surge of sympathy for the creature.

  ‘You’re a noisy little customer,’ said Chrissie, rocking the child in her arms. He just cried the louder.

  ‘He’s scared, I think,’ said Godfather Coffin.

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Chrissie. She smiled at the rector, who was advancing towards them. He gathered up the infant and got down to business at the font.

  Coffin, Chrissie, Marie Rudkin and the rector stood in a half-circle round the font.

  Soon be over, Coffin thought, and like most happy occasions you will be glad when it is.

  In the Second City, Nancy Eden had at last got round to cleaning the school bus. It was not a job she looked forward to, brushing and polishing not being one of her favourite tasks, but she had had the broken glass in the window replaced, and if she didn’t do this cleaning she didn’t know who would. Theirs was a small school that she and Betty Pomeroy had founded and owned together. It was now profitable, but only if both partners did a full share of the tiresome tasks such as setting out the milk and biscuits at break time, tidying up afterwards and overseeing the midday hot meal that came in from outside.

  Cleaning the van fell in a doubtful category that both partners argued about, but this time it was clearly Nancy’s task. After all, Betty with her medical training did the matron side of things, bandaging wounds and mopping up sick.

  She was on her knees brushing the floor, where fragments of glass still lurked, dangerous to anyone but particularly so to small children. Apart from a genuine concern for the safety of her pupils’ skin and eyes, Nancy knew that some of the parents of those children were litigious. Readily and eagerly so. Her own outfit had not so far suffered, but she knew that St Freda’s down the road had suffered heavily. But then St Freda’s was an Academy of Dance, teaching ballet, where damage to limbs might almost be expected.

  The light shone on a shard of glass under the long seat by the door. She always used this seat herself so she could keep an eye on the whole busload. She told the children who naturally sometimes tried to get there before her that she had to sit there in case she felt sick. Not true, and she doubted if they believed it, but a lie or two was sometimes necessary. You had to be devious on occasion when dealing with this age group.

  She brushed up into her dustpan the small splinter of glass. Nearly done now, the floor and seats looked clear.

  But something came bouncing into her pan after the glass. Nancy picked it out with a frown. She held it in her palm, clutching it with care.

  ‘Well, I never.’

  She went to sit on the long seat by the door where she had left her mobile phone.

  ‘I’m no expert but I think I know what I’ve got here.’ She felt the weight of it. A surprising density, for so small an object. Relatively small, she told herself; what do you want, a cannon ball? Not a pebble, not a nut, but a bullet.

  ‘I’ll tell Win Darby. If she’s not at home, then her husband will be.’ Nancy knew about the domestic and working arrangements of the two.

  She dialled the number on her phone. ‘Win? Nancy here. I’m sitting in the school bus . . . we were bombed.’

  ‘What? Is this one of your jokes?’

  ‘No, well, bomb perhaps isn’t the right word. But it wasn’t a stone thrown at the bus: we were shot. I’ve found the bullet.’

  Win was quiet for second. Then she said decisively, ‘Bring it round.’

  Winifred Darby knew both Betty and Nancy, as well as the young girl who helped in the nursery class. She had always thought Nancy, pretty and fond of good clothes, the more phlegmatic of the two; now she wondered.

  She opened the door to Nancy. ‘Come in, I’ve made some coffee.’ She looked into Nancy’s face; she was white and pinched-looking. On the way round Nancy had had time to think about what might have been. ‘I think you need something stronger than that.’

  She poured some coffee, added brandy, and took the same herself. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’ She looked and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a bullet.’

  ‘I told you so.’

  ‘You said bomb at first,’ Win reminded her, glad to hear that Nancy’s voice was stronger now.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ll show the bullet to Harry. He’ll take it in to HQ.’ She did not say so, but she thought that the team dealing with the series of shootings in the Second City would want to see it. She would talk to Sergeant Tony Davley herself.

  ‘You must catch the gunman.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be caught,’ said Winifred with more confidence than she felt inside.

  Nancy took a long drink of coffee. ‘Been a lot of murders, Win, all with guns. I only know what I’ve read in the papers. Do you think this shooting could be connected?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Win patiently. ‘Mustn’t jump to conclusions. You’ll have to answer questions about what happened. What did you see?’

  Nancy thought about it. ‘I didn’t see much . . . I was talking to one of the children who had been crying . . .’

  ‘They might have seen something.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want them questioned,’ said Nancy promptly. The school’s finances were on a knife edge, so any rush of parents to take children away would have been a disaster.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Win. ‘Any questioning would be done very tactfully, parents present and everything.’

  Nancy groaned inside. Parents were the last thing she wanted around, asking questions, fussing, some of the mothers crying, provoking similar tears in their offspring.

  ‘We did report it at the time. You know we did.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but then it was called just a silly, childish prank.’

  ‘I never called it that,’ said Nancy hotly. ‘I always knew it was dangerous . . . and I was right.’

  ‘Where is the bus now?’

  ‘Where we garage it; at Steve Overshot’s . . . he drives it for us sometimes.’

  ‘I know his garage.’ Win hoped he was not likely to hose it down because forensics would want to look at it. ‘Did he repair the glass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  So his fingerprints would be all over the broken pane. But then no one had suggested that the gunman had come up to the bus close enough to touch.

  ‘Do you think he will come back? Have another try?’

  Win shook her head. ‘It’s nothing personal . . . the CID think he’s just one of those chancers, no personal motive, just takes an opportunity when it offers.’ She patted Nancy’s hand. ‘You leave it to me.’

  ‘I sent her off happy,’ Win said to Tony Davley. ‘Well, happier.’

  The two were meeting in the canteen by arrangement. Win had set up the meeting for the first hour of her return to duty. She had let Tony know that she had something to show her that might be very important.

  She handed the bullet over, saying where it had come from, then she took a drink of coffee while she waited for the detective’s react
ion.

  Tony did not leave her waiting long.

  ‘I’ll get the bullet checked to see if it could be a match to the ones that killed the Jackson family.’ Already a mist of anonymity was descending over the dead Jacksons; just ‘the family’ now, nothing more personal. ‘And Dr Murray.’

  Win tried to probe. ‘Any new developments?’

  Sergeant Davley shrugged. ‘We have a case meeting every morning, but nothing much so far. Forensics are moving at their usual pace but they seem to confirm that the same gun killed all the Jacksons and also Dr Murray, but why and how they were picked on . . .’ She shrugged again. ‘What is it? What’s the connection? Is there one?’

  Win waited. She sensed that Davley had something she wanted to say.

  ‘She was killed in the museum of medical specimens. She was surrounded by a circle of skulls . . . infants’ skulls. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like that.’

  ‘Don’t like the idea.’ Win thought about it. ‘Nasty picture. I didn’t see it, of course, glad I didn’t.’ She studied Sergeant Davley’s face. ‘I suppose you did.’

  For answer, Davley pushed a black and white photograph across the table. ‘I’ll deny that I ever showed you this.’

  Win saw the body of Dr Murray lying spreadeagled on the floor of the museum. A pool of blood, which someone, Tony Davley she supposed, had outlined in red. Also outlined in red was the circle of tiny skulls. There was another bloody area nearer to the wall. This too had been circled in ink, black not red.

  ‘Different blood,’ said Davley. ‘Believe it if you can.’

  ‘Oh, I do . . . From the killer?’

  Davley shrugged. ‘Who knows? We don’t. Not yet. When you’ve got a suspect, then you can try to match blood to him. Or her. But we haven’t got a suspect.’

  The process the CID team were doing at the moment was known as ‘trawling’, trawling the ground, as with a net, to see who and what they could pick up. Trawling sometimes dragged in likely characters, sometimes not.

  ‘Where did you get this photograph?’

  ‘Scrounged it from the SOCO photographer. He wasn’t satisfied with it, as the background is blurred. He did another set, but from a different position. I thought they didn’t show the position of the body so well.’