Coffin nodded. There was a shadow of a bruise still on the bridge of the nose.
‘And since I am a bleeder, my nose gushed blood. I value my blood, I didn’t want it wasted, so I went to the hospital: I had a little op, emergency, they know me there. They plugged my nose.’ He gave Coffin a half-smile. ‘And then I came home, here, where I stayed quietly for the rest of the day, seeing no one, and the rest of the week.’
‘No one?’
‘No one. The doctor said to keep quiet, and I have to admit I didn’t feel too good and I was glad to oblige. In fact, I reckon you are the only people I have seen.’
‘Right,’ said Coffin. ‘Well, just a few more questions to clear things up. But that would be better in a more official place.’ He smiled to help the thought go down. ‘And there might be one or two tests to help forensics. Always best to get things over with, isn’t it?’
Adam gave a smile back.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Do, I’d be glad to myself . . . Like a drink?’
‘Tea or coffee would do nicely,’ said Coffin, giving a small nod to the other two, which meant: Take a look around now.
‘And Adam put on his professional “I am innocent” look,’ said Coffin as they left. ‘You found nothing? I got nothing out of my questions – polite but evasive.’
Masters shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Not a thing,’ said Whitley. ‘He’s very frail . . . I don’t think he’s got the strength to be our killer.’
‘You don’t need strength.’ Coffin was looking back at the windows. He could see a face staring out, and once again a memory stirred and then slid back into the darkness before he could lay a hand on it. ‘Just anger and determination and a gun, and I reckon he’s got the anger and he may have the gun. Anyway, I guess he is stronger than he looks.’ He turned to Whitley. ‘What’s in his bio? What was he before he collapsed into illness?’
‘An actor,’ said Whitley reluctantly.
Coffin knew about actors. ‘Clear it with your CI, then check whether Adam Dodd is his real name or his acting name, and find out what he’s done under that or any other names. Then come to me.’
13
Coffin says he doesn’t know the time or what day of the week it is.
Joseph Bottom liked to think he was the one that mattered. I care, he used to say, the others just do a job and get paid.
‘If you gotta talk, you gotta talk,’ he said. ‘You have to tell.’
He looked at CI Phoebe Astley with large-eyed wonder as if she had three heads.
‘I’m glad you came to me.’ He hadn’t, of course; he’d just come wandering round looking for a Father Confessor and fallen into the arms of a Mother Confessor.
‘We get a lot of talk in the hospital. We pass things round.’ He moved his hands in a circle as if to show her what he meant. ‘Not supposed to talk about patients.’
‘But you do?’
‘This wasn’t quite talking . . . Dr Murray’s dead, murdered, poor soul, and there was this talk about the blood being not all her own.’
‘So?’ Phoebe didn’t want to deny or acknowledge the truth of this statement.
‘A chap came in with a bad nosebleed . . . spurting all out and around. I cleared up what I saw where he’d been sitting in the A and E waiting room. And sometimes if it looks necessary the blood is bottled with a little liquid. He was one, had been in often. Then the nurse comes out and hands me the bottle and I take it to the lab to keep it . . . I was going to do this when an emergency blew up . . . woman having a fit. I was called to that and left the bottle by the wall.’
He lowered his head to look at Phoebe in apology.
She obliged him with the right answer. ‘And you forgot,’ she said, helping him out.
‘The lady having the fit was someone I knew, does my wife’s hair, and I wanted to be there if she needed a friendly face . . . She didn’t, came round all neat and quick by herself. Forgotten to take her tablets, she said.’
Phoebe waited.
‘When I remembered the blood and went back it was gone. Someone had taken it. At first I thought, like you would, that it had been disposed of in the right way. I asked around, keeping it tactful, but no one admitted even seeing it. Then, when we heard about Dr Murray and the two types of blood, I wondered if it was my bucket of blood.’
He stopped dead.
To get him moving again, Phoebe said, ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘Then I came to thinking that Mr Dodd might have taken it himself. Some people are funny about their own blood, he’s one of them. Asked the doctor once if he could have it bottled to take home . . . He wasn’t let, of course. But he hung around a long time. I saw him down the corridor; he could have found it. I shouldn’t have left it.’
‘No,’ said Phoebe. ‘You shouldn’t have left it.’
‘I don’t suppose he’d have wanted this lot, but you never know. All handled very carefully.’ He studied Phoebe’s face to see if she was either laughing or frowning. ‘No laughing matter with him. Precautions have to be taken.’
‘So when it went missing, you kept quiet and prayed? Right . . . and then you heard about the blood or bloods about Dr Murray and decided it was time to talk?’
Joe nodded.
‘And you were right. Thank you.’
‘I don’t reckon it could have been him. He was really in pain with his nose, was still spouting when he left . . . He had it blocked up, though, but any rush would have brought the blood out fast.’
And then he realized what he had said and stopped short.
‘I’m sorry, miss. I’m all muddled.’
‘We all are,’ said Phoebe gently. ‘But you’ve done the right thing in talking to me.’
‘And it could have spouted out as he killed Dr Murray,’ said Phoebe to Coffin.
The Chief Commander looked thoughtful. He had telephoned Stella to hear what, if anything, she knew about Adam Dodd under any of his names. He had three: Adam Dodd as a TV performer, Dave Adams for the straight stage, and Archy Deacon was the name on his birth certificate. Same initials, differently arranged. Stella thought he had a fourth name for radio, but she couldn’t recall that one.
She seemed to remember them all with some affection, and no, she didn’t see him as a murderer, but . . .
Yes, there was always a but, thought Coffin, and he gritted his teeth to see what this but amounted to.
Stella said he had loved playing murderers; only on stage, of course. But yes, now he mentioned it, Adam was always interested in blood.
‘I remember when one of our stage hands had a nosebleed and Adam was deeply troubled. Oh poor chap, he said, losing all that lovely red stuff.’
‘Thanks, love,’ said Coffin. ‘You’ve been a help.’
‘Oh good,’ Stella sounded surprised. ‘I’m always glad to be helpful.’ It didn’t happen very often.
‘Did he show any interest in guns?’
‘I don’t think so. Never heard of it. But I didn’t really know him well.’
‘So what shall we do with Dodd?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Hang on to him as long as possible,’ said Coffin. ‘If possible until the forensic reports come in. At the moment there is no hard evidence. We don’t know yet if the blood type is a match.’
‘Seems likely,’ said Phoebe. ‘How many patients were in that day, with blood running all over them and having HIV? And Joe said he was hanging around.’
‘So your picture is that Dodd comes in, nose bleeding, gets it plugged. Does he kill Dr Murray first, or after his visit to the A and E ward?’
‘Oh, before. That’s what starts the nosebleed?’
‘But he had had an accident.’
‘Well, that too; may have been what maddened him that day, pain can.’
‘Well, leaving out the question of motive, why did he hang around as you put it?’
‘To get his blood back.’
Coffin just looked at her.
�
�You do, don’t you?’ said Phoebe. ‘If you’re in a really wacky mood after killing someone, it’s the sort of thing you do.’
Coffin continued looking at her. She might have been serious.
‘Guns, does he have a gun? And timing, was he in the hospital at the time Dr Murray was killed? You think he killed her and his nose bled. That’s your picture?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t quite buy it.’
‘I agree that lots of points need clearing up.’ Phoebe was sticking. ‘Perhaps his nose hurt because he had had an accident, which is what we are told, so he came to hospital because he knew with his history he needed help, and he saw Dr Murray and killed her.’
‘Why?’
‘If he killed Dr Murray, then he killed the Jacksons and went out on the other shootings; he gets high on shootings. Or he hates the human race and is taking it out on them.’
The infant skulls, Coffin thought. This killer, whether Dodd or not, is not sane and not approachable. He is to be feared.
‘There are quite a few incidents to be checked,’ said Coffin slowly. ‘If he did one, he did all of them, then some traces must turn and will link him to them.’
It was a gospel of hope, more than conviction, but you have to believe in something.
‘I set up the Crime Forum so all the investigations could link up. Meld.’
All this arrangement had done so far had been to create a rebellion. So far Larry Lavender had not shown up, but when he did, all false smiles and charm, he meant to deal with him with well-honed power.
Meanwhile he had something to say to CI Astley.
‘There is one thing that can be done at once; get the forensic expert analysing the blood on the floor – it’s probably Diana Bloomer – and find out if there was any liquid in the blood.’
‘I’ll send Sergeant Abbey,’ said Phoebe shortly; you did not order a Chief Inspector around in that voice, especially one who had known you in your lesser days. She began to feel a certain sympathy with Larry Lavender. ‘He’s been in touch with forensics.’
The answer came back with speed: Yes, there was a liquid with the blood and we could have told you before if you had asked. It is all in the report, which will shortly be on your desk.
Sadly Coffin reflected that he had irritated yet another professional. What was it a truthful aristocrat said to the unlucky Louis XVI? ‘Sire, this is not a revolt, it is a revolution.’
He was beginning to feel it was his head they wanted.
Phoebe Astley, with the uncomfortable sensation that she was beginning to notice her age (no husband, no children, no lovers, she was leaving it all too late), went into the run-down little cafe near to Mimsie Marker’s paper stall that served the best cup of coffee in the Second City.
She found herself sharing a table with Mimsie. Not too surprising, as local gossip had it that Mimsie owned the place.
‘Hello.’ Mimsie had long ago established friendly relations with Phoebe; you had to keep in with the police. ‘How’s your boss?’
‘Fine,’ said Phoebe cautiously.
‘Hints and rumours say he’s got trouble. I admire him myself, a lovely man.’
‘You mustn’t believe all you hear.’
‘You know newspapers . . . will print anything for a good story.’
‘I haven’t seen anything in the press.’
‘I notice you don’t say there’s nothing to come,’ said Mimsie sharply. ‘Keep your eyes on the dailies and it will . . . even The Times, maybe. It’s New Labour, you see, give the police a whipping, and your chap might be in for one.’
‘And who will do the whipping?’
‘You don’t know much about Larry Lavender, do you? Not his background? His ancestry . . . people don’t have to be princes and dukes to have an ancestry . . . His father led the last dock strike, and his grandfather marched in 1926; there was a General Strike then. And his great-uncle was Prime Minister for a year or two. He still lives here, and Mr Coffin sorted out a mystery for him.’
Phoebe drank some coffee while she digested this. It was not good news.
‘And I hear you’ve got Adam Dodd in durance vile.’
There was often a highly literate Mimsie peeping through her disguise, Phoebe reflected as the quotation rippled out. People often speculated where Mimsie came from. Phoebe thought she came from Babylon and had been around for millennia.
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Everyone knows. You can’t keep a thing like that quiet. He’s got lots of friends.’
‘Has he?’
Phoebe was surprised. He hadn’t struck her as the friendly type.
‘Police not amongst them . . . although I believe he did have a boyfriend once who was a copper, but he had to leave. Drummed out or offered early retirement or whatever it is you do in the Force.’
Mimsie, Phoebe registered, was laughing at her.
‘I don’t see him as a murderer, though.’
Phoebe finished her coffee; she wanted to say, But he’s all we’ve got.
‘Vampire, yes,’ said Mimsie, thoughtfully.
‘I see you do know him.’
‘But he’d want the blood checked, for which you can’t blame him. I would myself.’ Mimsie added complacently, ‘But I have always been full-blooded.’ Mimsie got up, saying she had left a lad in charge of the stall and who knows what a muddle he might be making.
‘Mind you, by some mischance – and you can’t trust a hospital to watch out for everything, and I heard he bought some blood once – he could have got the wrong blood, say of a murderer, and it got into his system and made him one.’
‘It can’t work like that,’ said Phoebe.
‘No? No, I suppose you are right.’ Mimsie slung her big black bag over her shoulder, its weight registering as the shoulder went down. Not the crown jewels, thought Phoebe, but she might have a Kalashnikov in there. ‘Now don’t go making a Frankenstein monster out of poor Doddy, odd as he is,’ she said as she departed.
‘You do think he is odd then?’
‘We all have our oddities, don’t we, dear?’ Mimsie laughed and departed. ‘I’m odd myself.’
You certainly are, thought Phoebe, but shrewd with it. She realized that she had been fed some information about Adam that would bear thinking about.
What sort of a man was he?
Odd but innocent was Mimsie’s worldly verdict.
Phoebe left on her own, made a few notes on the questions she would put to the doctor in the emergency ward. If he had dealt with Adam Dodd, then it was time he was questioned. She might surprise the Chief Commander by coming up with something positive.
She finished up her coffee, gathered her skirts, metaphorically, because she favoured a trouser suit, and departed for the hospital. In her hurry she forgot to pay for her coffee and had to turn back.
‘Oh that’s all right,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘Mrs Marker paid . . . she said you deserved it.’
Phoebe shrugged herself into her coat. Thank you, Mrs Marker, you shall be repaid. In what coin, time would show.
She walked briskly to the hospital. Why not drive? she asked herself. Because you are in an awkward mood, that’s why. So she walked faster.
By a lucky chance, the same young doctor who had treated Adam Dodd was on duty that day. He had a round, cheerful face, with a confident, pleasant manner. Phoebe foresaw a bright future in medicine for him.
‘Chief Inspector? Gerry Timson,’ he held out his hand. ‘Inspector Dover was in here earlier.’
So Harry Dover had got in first. That was typical of him, to cover the ground. A quick, brisk interview was his style.
‘You don’t mind if I go over the ground again?’
‘No, sure. Glad to. Come into my office. I do have an office,’ he grinned at her. ‘Or hutch.’
It was indeed a small room, untidy with books, files and loose papers. ‘A lot of us share this,’ he said. There was only one chair, so they both stood.
‘Yes, I know Dodd. I haven’t been
working here very long, but I know him, we all do in the A and E. He liked us, I think.’ He smiled.
‘What exactly happened that day?’
‘Bearing in mind that it was the day Dr Murray was killed?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to a large folder from which he extracted several papers clipped together. ‘Not supposed to talk about patients, but this is official?’
‘It is.’
‘And of course, just for you.’
‘Well, I will certainly be discreet . . . but it may be used.’
He grinned again. ‘Okay. On your head be it. Right: he came in early but we were busy; there had been a bus crash and also the night before two sets of football supporters had fought it out between them as well as drinking. Most of them came in with the dawn to be stitched up. I wasn’t on then, but there was still a backlog when I did arrive . . . I’m only one of a team, of course, and fairly low on the pecking order.’ He gave his broad smile again.
Phoebe wondered what, if anything, that smile meant, and decided it was like a full stop at the end of a sentence.
‘So it was a busy day, and he had to hang around with his broken nose. Wasn’t broken, more cracked, but he needed several stitches.’
‘He was bleeding?’
‘Sure. Freely, very freely. I believe you know about it? Well, we fixed him up, gave him a local, stitched the nose and forehead. He was still bleeding, even with his nose plugged. He wanted his blood bottled.’
‘Did you do it?’
‘Not me personally, but one of the nurses did her best. But liquid has to be added, else it would dry up. One of the nurses took charge, I don’t know any more. I sent him out. I told him to rest. I doubt if he did.’
‘Why?’
‘He was excited. A few people react like that. In fact, I am told he hung around. I was too busy to keep an eye on him. A seriously wonk guy.’
Phoebe considered. ‘What was he wearing when he came in?’
‘You’d have to ask the nurses in reception that. By the time he got to me, he was done up in a gown ready for the op, which he enjoyed, I may say; he seemed to know the routine.’
‘Where is the nurse?’
‘You’ll have to ask in reception. I’ll help.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and led her out of his office to the long reception desk.
Cold Coffin Page 17
