‘So you helped yourself to the good one?’
‘Sort of.’
Win wasn’t quite sure if she believed that explanation, but she wasn’t going to argue. The background of the photograph was certainly blurred. Behind the body, to the side of one of the display cabinets, there was a pair of glass doors. A shadowy figure could just be seen peering through the window.
“Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know. A hospital worker, I expect. The death caused quite a sensation. Whoever it is just wanted a look, I suppose.’
Win nodded. ‘Hang on to that photograph.’
‘Oh I will.’
‘Who took it?’
‘Eddie Chanlon, I think,’ said Tony, still vaguely. ‘I think.’
Sally Young patted her son’s cheek dry. The infant stopped howling, and Coffin drew in a deep breath.
‘That’s done,’ he said to Stella.
‘Were you as bad as this with your own child?’
Coffin thought about it. ‘I don’t think we had him done. Just as well really, because I don’t think any Christian god was interested in him; more likely one of the darker Egyptian deities would have suited him.’
‘All these years together, and I’m still never sure when to take you seriously.’
‘Always and never.’
‘There you go again.’ She was laughing, used to their familiar joking interchange. ‘Noel Coward here we come. But better shut up, the rector may not find the joke funny.’
‘Who said it’s a joke?’ said Coffin, but he said it silently, to himself.
His mobile phone rang in his pocket, and he dragged it out. ‘Can’t speak now.’
It was Tony Davley. He had to admit that she didn’t fuss about nothing. ‘You ought to hear this, sir. We’ve found a bullet that matches with the bullets in the killings.’
‘Tell me later,’ Coffin snapped.
They still stood in that same half-circle round the font; Sid and his wife moved up as well. All were staring towards the child with his mother, all had their backs to the door.
The organ was playing a happy anthem, above which the noise of the shot was almost inaudible. It came across like a passage of air.
Coffin spun round, turning towards the west door. ‘Get down, all of you.’
Stella moved to protect her husband, putting her own body in front of him. ‘Get down yourself.’ Of course, it would be Coffin they were shooting at.
But it was Marie Rudkin who slid to the ground, her breast covered in blood.
9
Thursday onwards.
The Chief Commander and Stella Pinero were welcomed back in the Second City with a hushed, nervous enthusiasm, as if they had returned from a war.
On the way back, Coffin had telephoned the hospital to check on Marie Rudkin’s condition; she was alive, but her condition was precarious. ‘Still alive,’ he said briefly to Stella, stuffing his mobile phone in his pocket.
A conference was called by CI Phoebe Astley, expeditious as always, in the Record Room, in which the leaders of the CID could meet in quiet surroundings with only files and video reels and tape-recordings, all neatly packed away and totally passive until disturbed by human action into giving up what they knew. In itself the Record Room was neutral.
Sergeant George Cummins was in charge today, Harry Darby being on leave, Both liked a quiet life, and usually got it. George had started out as a uniformed officer in Cutts Street Station, which was always in trouble, caused, so the police there complained, by the proximity of Nean Street, whose stocky, barrel-chested inhabitants were a tribe on their own. Very early on he had formed the ambition to move into the plain clothes side of police work and to establish a base in the HQ. He was a quiet, introspective man, who knew his limitations. He also knew that someone like him had a place in modern police work.
‘I’m a documents man,’ he told himself. ‘I can do my thinking best at the computer or with a folder of papers.’ So he got himself a degree in social history at the Open University in his spare time. (Spare time? queried his long-suffering wife; tell me what that is.) He had made himself proficient in the world of the computers a decade ahead of his fellows, advised therein by his tutor at the Open University.
As Sergeant Cummins, BA, he was treasured as a unique specimen by his colleagues.
Into his quiet world poured a procession. First came Chief Inspector Phoebe Astley, and after her Inspector Paul Masters, Sergeant Tony Davley and other supporters. Other officers had stayed behind in the Incident Room.
‘Sorry to break in,’ said Phoebe. ‘Can we park ourselves on you?’ Not pausing for an answer, she sat down at a table in the window where a big computer was located, and nodded to her followers to do the same. ‘Find the chairs.’
‘You know why we are here: I wanted a quiet place to talk. Before we talk to the Chief Commander. He’s had a bad time at the christening. Mrs Rudkin may survive, but we think the bullet was meant for him.’ She turned to George. ‘All right there, George?’
CI Astley was known for her trick of gathering up a congenial group of fellow officers to talk over a case with them. The Chief Commander was supposed to know nothing of this trick, but was alleged to have commented that he knew more that went on than she thought.
However, at this moment, he was still on the way home.
George nodded. ‘The new shooting? Want me to clear off?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, stay.’
‘Well, I won’t interrupt.’ But he said this to himself, turning away to pick up some of the folders that Phoebe had knocked off the table as she sat down. ‘Clumsy cow,’ he thought, again not aloud. In spite of this comment, he liked and admired Phoebe as a good officer. Tidy too; a set of documents sent out to Phoebe came back neat and in the correct order, not pulled to bits with coffee spilt on them. Also, she knew how to use the computer. She was literate in all the languages George admired, among which English was by no means the chief. His wife too admired CI Astley, saying that she would be the one to run to in any crisis, but then his wife had recently joined a women’s group, which he suspected Phoebe was behind. His own feeling was that if there was any sort of crisis that involved being lost on a desert island it was Stella Pinero he would go to every time. He admired the Chief Commander, who had certainly created a highly efficient Force (after all, it employed George), but he had picked up comments that he took over in CID matters a touch too often . . . Or did he? He was a first-class detective. Anyway, he had got to the top, and George intended to do the same himself.
‘I heard within the last few minutes that the Chief Commander is on his way back.’
A murmur of satisfaction or relief greeted her.
‘He’s okay.’ Another murmur of pleasure. ‘This shooting does not come within our patch – it’s Southern Counties territory – but I’m sure we’ll be co-operating.’
Another murmur. Yes, yes, yes.
‘Stella is all right too. And we don’t know yet if . . .’ she paused, searching for the name, ‘Marie Rudkin is going to pull through.’
The CI is really upset, Tony Davley thought. She’s the one who never loses a name.
‘We have had a run of murders by shooting: four. I think there may have been an attempt to kill a child or a teacher in a school bus – a bullet has been found that matches with those used in the killings. And now today we have this sixth shooting.’
‘And it’s all by the same man?’ said Paul Masters, hardly making a question of it.
‘I think so. It looks like it. Could be a copycat killing, except for the matching bullet. I have no doubt that this new attack is one of a series.’
‘And does the gun used on Marie Rudkin match?’ This was Tony.
‘Don’t know yet.’
So what are we doing here, Tony thought. In the main Incident Room a team of officers had been left behind. Sergeant Williams, WDC Peters, several others on computers taking messages and logging in others.
‘
I believe that the Chief Commander was meant to be the victim of this new shooting.’
Paul Masters spoke first. ‘Is there any evidence of it?’
‘Not yet, but I am sure we will get some. This run of shootings has been Second City only. Marie Rudkin was not Second City, so I think she was hit instead of the Chief Commander.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Paul Masters. ‘What does the Chief Commander think?’
‘I haven’t discussed it with him.’
Masters said thoughtfully, ‘It could be Stella. She could have been the intended victim. In fact, it’s more likely; this killer seems to go for women.’
‘Don’t forget Jack Jackson.’ Jack was still alive, but only just. Death was round the corner with an open hand and beginning to grasp. Even as they spoke, Jack died.
‘And then there’s the school bus . . . children as victims?’
Phoebe said irritably. ‘It’s not a strict pattern, I’m not saying that.’
‘The latest shooting was at a christening,’ pointed out Tony. ‘And a policeman’s child. Sally’s an officer, too, for that matter.’
‘Not touched,’ said Phoebe seriously.
‘Either the killer’s aim is bad or he’s not into killing mothers with children.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ said Phoebe.
‘Did you believe all that?’ Tony said to Paul Masters as they filed out.
‘I don’t know.’
‘One of Phoebe’s gabfests. She has them sometimes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh you know: every so often she gets an idea in her head and wants to share. We made a captive audience.’
‘So you don’t believe the Chief Commander was meant to be shot?’
Tony shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Let’s ask him.’
Coffin and Stella had come back together, both of them tense. Coffin spoke to Phoebe Astley on his mobile, asking her to set up a meeting for him. She had already created one meeting, but she kept quiet about that.
Stella watched as he phoned, but said nothing. She knew he was talking to Phoebe. I’m not jealous of that woman, of course I’m not. We inhabit different spheres. It’s a working relationship for them both. But she knew they had been close, fairly close if the truth were told, in that period when she and Coffin had been far, far apart.
Sid drove them, his wife by his side. Neither of them spoke much.
‘D’you think she’ll pull through?’ Sid murmured to his wife.
‘Live, you mean?’
‘Of course. You saw her, I never got close. Will she get through?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I wish I knew what I could do.’
‘Just drive, Sid,’ said Coffin from the back.
‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t know you could hear.’
Coffin sank back into his seat. ‘I wish I was driving now.’
Stella murmured that she was only too thankful he was not. He was a good driver when he was calm, but otherwise . . .
‘And I’m not calm now?’
‘Do you think you are?’
By his silence, Coffin admitted that he was far from calm. Eventually he said, ‘It was the child. He could have been killed.’
‘But he wasn’t,’ said Stella stoutly.
They finished what was left of the journey in silence. Stella was left at St Luke’s Tower and Sid drove the Chief Commander on to his office. He wanted action.
He could see Paul Masters and Phoebe Astley in the outer office. He could read relief in their faces at the sight of him.
He was welcome. This wasn’t always the case by any means.
‘Glad to see you, sir,’ said Paul. ‘We heard about what happened. How is Mrs Rudkin?’
‘She was taken into the Southern Counties Hospital . . . She was alive then.’ Coffin nodded, still worried.
‘I’ll make a call, shall I, sir?’ asked Phoebe. ‘One of the surgeons there is a friend of mine.’
‘Yes, do, Phoebe.’
She took herself into the outer office, dialling on her mobile.
‘A rotten business,’ said Masters. ‘Thank goodness you weren’t hurt. Did you manage to see the attacker?’
‘No, we all had our backs to the door except Mrs Rudkin.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he aimed at her.’
‘I don’t know why he did. Even if it was a man . . .’
Masters looked surprised. ‘Could it have been a woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Coffin. He wanted to move on. ‘What is the message that I got about the bullet found in the school bus?’
‘It matches with the bullets used in the killings,’ began Paul, but he was interrupted.
Phoebe returned to the room. ‘Marie Rudkin has been taken to St Thomas’s.’
‘Sounds bad,’ said Masters.
‘No, I don’t think so. Dr Rudkin worked in the hospital herself at one time, and before that the university hospital here. She’d feel at home. She’s there for an operation. The nurse sounded quite cheerful.’
‘That’s her professional face.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Thank you for telephoning, Phoebe. I’ll ring myself later. Or get Stella to . . . she might be best.’
‘What’s the position, sir? Are we in charge of the investigation into this new shooting?’
‘No, the Southern Counties Police are in charge . . . we will help out as requested and come in if the connection with the shooting here is established.’ He added quickly, ‘Of course, we will be in contact. Chief Inspector Dent will be in touch, Phoebe.’
Phoebe said she knew Geoff Dent and they could work together. He was a very efficient officer, knew when to break the rules and when not to. She wanted to get her hands on this killer. Or killers, she added thoughtfully in the notebook she was making. She felt there might be two.
‘Yes, I’ll ring Stella to tell her about St Thomas’s. She can telephone. She might even go there.’
But before he could telephone his wife, Stella had called him: ‘John, Mrs Tully has come in with the story that a neighbour and her three children have been found shot dead.’
‘Sounds like a domestic,’ said Coffin.
‘The father is in America.’
‘Since when?’
Sheila Fish always passed on to Lia a magazine that both enjoyed. Lia read it, then gave it to a charity shop. The magazine was called For Women Only.
Letty Brown did not care for the magazine; she said she wanted to broaden her mind, not narrow it, and she was going to take up French. Sheila said that if she looked at the magazine and saw the subjects its articles covered, she would see it was very broad indeed. Letty said she had looked at the magazine, and she was surprised that Sheila read that sort of thing, and she was surprised the charity shop accepted it, but Letty said that the charity shop was keen to get it and that it always sold very well.
But now Sheila came to see Letty because she was worried.
‘I took the mag round to Lia, but she wasn’t there.’
‘She’s gone out shopping,’ said Letty, not concerned at all and surprised at Sheila.
‘But she said she’d be in when we spoke on the telephone this morning.’
‘She’s just popped out. She’ll be back. Try again.’
Sheila said slowly, ‘I think the door was on the latch.’
‘And you didn’t go in?’
Sheila shook her head. ‘No, didn’t like to.’
Letty put her hand on Sheila’s shoulder. ‘Go now.’
‘Come with me.’ Then she said, ‘Please.’
Letty studied her friend’s face. She saw this was something she had to do. ‘Yes.’
Sheila said, ‘We can’t take the kids.’
Letty’s mother lived two doors down the road. ‘We can leave them with my mother. She won’t mind if we aren’t too long.’
The two women held hands as they approached the door of Lia’s flat.<
br />
‘It’s open a crack,’ said Letty. ‘Was it like this when you came?’
Sheila nodded.
‘You didn’t try to go in?’
‘No. I was frightened.’
They were both frightened, but holding hands they pushed open the door to walk into the hall. The smell hit them both as they walked in.
Their eyes met and Sheila dragged back, but Letty pulled her onward towards the sitting-room door, which was partly open.
Something was obstructing the door as Letty pushed against it.
Lia was lying, face down on the floor, her feet pushing at the door. She lay in a pool of drying, stale blood.
The children lay crouched together like little animals. But dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
Letty had said, ‘We’ll phone the police from here, then we’ll go and wait outside.’
The telephone was working, to Letty’s relief; it could have been cut. The police took in what she said and promised a car there at once.
Letty and Sheila waited outside, leaning against the wall. Mrs Tully, who knew them both, passed on the way back from the big shop on the corner.
‘You all right? You look terrible.’
There seemed no reason not to tell her. Mrs Tully absorbed the news with surprise and horror.
‘Children too?’
She stayed with them till the police patrol car arrived, then she left.
She wondered if Miss Pinero knew about it. She was on her way there now, to clean the silver.
‘If she’s there, then I shall have to tell her.’ After all, she was married to a policeman. Well, the policeman really, and one for whom Mrs Tully had a healthy respect, since she cleaned his silver and her daughter had joined the Force last year, uniform of course, but hoping for a sideways move to CID in time. And her black Persian that had been lost had been brought home by the local copper. Nothing to do with the Chief Commander, of course, but it all added up.
She was surprised at the look of anguish that shot across Miss Pinero’s face when she told her of the killings, and at the speed with which she telephoned the Chief Commander.
10
A terrible day continues.
Cold Coffin Page 12
