He was there early, having been woken by a telephone call he would rather never have had, but Stella’s flight was early too, a wind behind them, and as he walked in, Stella walked towards him.
She was wearing a full pale yellow skirt and a white shirt and she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
She ran towards him, cheerful and full of energy, not at all as if she’d just been travelling all night. She threw her arms round him. ‘Lovely to be back, heaven, heaven.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve brought you a present. Well, several … Oh, you smell of smoke … it’s in your hair.’ She drew back and looked at him. ‘You look peaky … What’s wrong? Bad time?’
‘I’ll tell you in the car.’
He did tell, an edited version; he could trust her, but for her own sake it was better not to say too much.
‘Those poor young men … I remember Felix.’
‘I thought you would. I was going to ask you to visit his wife with me.’
‘Of course, you know I would … But that’s not all, is it?’
The traffic was building up as they crossed the river; it was still early but commuters were driving into work.
He told her about the body on the funeral pyre.
‘Burnt. Totally burnt, how terrible. Who was it?’
‘I’ve heard now: it was a young woman.’
‘She was dead?’
Alive or dead, that was the question.
‘She was alive when she set the fire and she meant to do it. Suicide. She left a note.’
Stella looked at his face.
‘It was Felix’s wife.’
Alive or dead.
Suttee.
3
The moment Stella came back, the theatre came to life: a new play opened in the big theatre in the old church (now called the Stella Pinero Theatre), an innovative piece was rehearsing in the theatre workshop, and the drama school had a new intake. It was Stella who had waved the magic wand, and life began again.
He realized how much he had missed her.
She had returned with all her usual enthusiasm and cheerfulness to breathe energy into the schemes at the theatre that she had left behind.
Coffin relished this side of it; the glitter and sparkle that Stella brought with her made a counterweight to the tragedies that hung over him. Felix, Mark Pittsy and now Felix’s wife.
Suicide, of a particularly terrible kind. How could she do it?
‘I don’t know, darling,’ said Stella as she unpacked her presents for him. ‘But if she was in great pain in her mind, I suppose physical pain might not matter so much.’ She contemplated a day in which she herself could do such a thing and could not find it there. No, she would always battle on. ‘I couldn’t do it.
‘No, I’m such a coward … I’m surprised any woman could, but they do, in India. There, it’s part of the culture, or it was, but this was her own private hell, poor love.’
Coffin sat on the bed and watched her unpack. ‘Here’s a bottle of your favourite Jack Daniels. I know you don’t drink as much as you did, but it’s nice to have it by you.’
‘I drink enough,’ said Coffin gloomily. Especially when she was away – he’d had plenty this time, but life had been tough.
‘But not as much as once,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘And if you stick to the best whisky and champagne, you won’t go wrong.’
It was the sort of remark he loved her for, redolent as it was of her own zest for the superior.
‘Geraldine has asked us to one of her mornings.’
‘Oh, we’ll go, she always has the best people there. And with this new play coming on, I could do with nobbling a few critics.’ Stella held up before him her latest purchase from Bergdorff Goodman. ‘Look at this, isn’t it lovely?’ It was a plain, short little shift of black. ‘You’d never believe how much it cost.’
‘I expect I would.’ Coffin was beginning to be an experienced husband. ‘Especially when I see it on.’
‘Oh, you are a love. And quite right. A cheap dress.’ (Cheap by Stella’s standards did not necessarily mean a small price.) ‘A cheap dress often looks good when on display and a couture dress nothing, but when you wear them … ah, that’s when cut and fit show.’
She seemed prepared to elaborate on this but Coffin said: ‘She wants us to bring Phoebe Astley.’
‘Ah.’ She was perhaps not best pleased to find Phoebe Astley so ensconced in his life. ‘Well, of course. I like Phoebe. Of course, I’ve never really got to know her,’ she added carefully.
‘I need her in this job, Stella. I couldn’t see anyone else doing it. I wanted her here.’
‘I know. And I’ve decided to be big about it.’
‘And she’s clever and ambitious; she’ll move on.’
‘Think so?’
He nodded. He felt like opening the bottle of whisky already; Stella, when she started to probe, could get close to the bone, very close. He had told her some of the reasons for wanting Phoebe to head the Unit, but not all the secret investigation as well. It was really better not. Safer.
Because he might be the ultimate victim, and he didn’t want Stella involved. She was not for burning.
‘Well, I won’t ask why you really wanted her,’ said Stella, letting him know she could read his mind more than a little, ‘but why did she come?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Coffin slowly. ‘I know what she said, but I’m not sure if it’s the truth.’
‘And I’m not to ask?’
‘Oh, just a love affair that went wrong.’
‘Just,’ said Stella with a little nod. ‘Just.’ She continued with her unpacking, while her husband watched her, leaning across the pillows. ‘You look lovely in bed, darling. At your age.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re really unhappy and worried. I could feel it while you were making love to me, not really there.’
‘Not true.’ Perhaps it was though, horrible thoughts had intruded.
‘You’re getting to be megalomaniac, you know, dear. I hate to say, but I’ve seen it growing on you.’
‘You mean paranoid.’ He rested back against the pillows. ‘You could be right.’
‘But I love you, and you have a lovely, smooth …’
‘Say any more and you’ll make me blush.’
‘Temper,’ finished Stella, sitting on the edge of the bed and giggling. She threw across to him a soft, silk dressing gown. ‘Here, in thanks for your lovely smooth, rounded temper.’
‘There’s terror about,’ he said gripping her wrist. ‘It’s an infection. Like the Plague. It’s got me; I don’t want it to get hold of you.’
‘It won’t,’ and added with her elegant, brutal honesty, ‘although I am often afraid of almost anything: of the dark, of spiders, of being ill in a strange place.’
She removed her wrist. ‘You’ve got quite a grip, you know; you’d have made a good actor, I think.’
‘Why do you say that?’ One or two of his colleagues would have called him one already.
‘You get the action to fit the words; you grabbed my wrist at just the right moment. It would have looked good on stage.’ She got on with her unpacking. No more presents for him appeared, but a small collection of carefully wrapped parcels were placed on her dressing table. Stella always brought gifts back for her friends. Those who were closest to her at the time (and they varied, usually being people she had last worked with or would be working with next), could count on a bottle of scent or a little piece of jewellery or a special silk scarf. Stella prided herself on her presents.
‘Well, you won’t want me to go and see the poor woman now. She’s dead, poor love.’
‘No.’ Coffin was up and finishing a cup of coffee. Tiddles appeared at the window and was let in. ‘He must have good take-off, that cat,’ he said as he opened the window. ‘I never know how he does that jump from roof to windowsill.’
‘He’s eaten enough birds,’ said Stella, ‘he’s probably got little wings deve
loping under that fur.’
Since a veterinary surgeon’s intervention had rendered Tiddles neutral, he was he or she as it suited them. Even before the operation, the vet had said that Tiddles was a natural neuter; there were a few around even in the cat world. Unlike their dog who was defiantly male with wide and catholic sexual interests.
‘I’d like to see the house myself, though,’ he went on. ‘Her death worries me; from what I’d been told she wasn’t suicidal. And if she was, it’s a terrible way to go.’
‘What would the house tell you?’
‘I don’t know … how disturbed she was, perhaps. A woman’s eye might be a help?’ He looked at Stella.
She shook her head. ‘Take your Phoebe.’
He did not rise to the hidden barb in that invitation. ‘You’d do it better.’
‘Where’s she living?’
‘Hasn’t got anywhere yet as far as I know. She has to sell a place in Birmingham then she will buy, I suppose.’
‘So she’s here for ever?’
‘Nothing’s for ever, Stella.’
‘Right. Well, she could have my flat and I could move in up here … silly having two homes, anyway.’
With some pleasure, Coffin realized that Stella was protecting her property: him.
‘I’ll put it to her.’
‘I’ve been thinking so for some time,’ said Stella.
The chief commander was usually tied to the pattern of events in his diary, but in between two meetings, he telephoned Phoebe; she had scribbled a number on a piece of paper before going off last night.
It was not, as he had been led to believe, the house of a friend, but what sounded like a small hotel. He knew some of those small hotels in Docklands, not cosy.
Phoebe was not there, so he left a message asking her to telephone and returned to his routine of work. He was reading a government report (to which he had made a contribution) on child abuse, when she returned his call.
‘Where are you?’ He could hear voices and the clatter of china.
‘I’m in Max’s Delicatessen, round the corner from the St Luke’s complex. I needed a cup of coffee.’ And some aspirin, her tooth was throbbing.
‘Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?’
‘I was just scouting round.’
With your usual sharpness. Of course, she knew exactly where to go, knew he lived close by, knew how often he went there with Stella and without her, and probably wondered if she would see Stella Pinero there. For all he knew, Stella might be there now.
‘It’s a nice place to eat,’ he said, ‘is Stella there, by any chance?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Ah, so you have checked. ‘I want you to come with me to the Henbit house.’
‘Yes … I’ve heard about the wife … It was her on the fire?’
‘Who told you?’
‘I asked Teddy. He seemed to think it was all right to tell me.’ Her tone was dry. ‘I think he was in shock himself … I am too, if you want to know. Utterly shocked. She left a note, I understand?’
‘Yes, that was what put them on to it. No one would have thought of it being Mary Henbit otherwise … Why there? The identification is only provisional at the moment and not for public consumption, but there seems no doubt it’s her.’
‘I suppose there’s a PM?’
‘Yes. I’ve asked for it to be hurried along.’ She always asked the sharp question. ‘Stay where you are, and I’ll pick you up in my car. I’ll be driving, nothing official.’
‘I’m very comfortable here. On my second cup of coffee.’ He could still hear voices and laughter behind her.
But she was watching for him when he drove up and got into the car without drawing attention to herself. He could see Max’s back through the plate glass window as he served a customer. A tall man carrying a big bunch of flowers was just going in whose face he recognized as that of a famous stage designer. There was a bright yellow poster advertising the new show at the Stella Pinero.
Phoebe settled herself into the seat by his side. ‘Been doing some work. The crime rates have gone up in the Second City. Three per cent.’
He knew that, but had not expected her to know. Nor was he totally pleased.
‘How did you get that?’ He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice; he wanted to be able to work with Phoebe, he needed her, and this inquisitiveness of hers was valuable if directed in the way he chose. But Phoebe had never been controllable, as he was now remembering. Nor did she always tell the truth; he was remembering that too.
‘Oh, I always get what I want … I found an old mate working in Records …’
‘The one you aren’t staying with?’ he asked drily. He was beginning to feel that he was like the man in the story who let the djinn out of the bottle and then couldn’t get the djinn back in again.
Phoebe was unblushing. ‘Oh, you found that out? The telephone, I suppose. I had to have somewhere to stay so I found this cheap hotel. Just for the night.’
‘Stella says you can have her flat if you like.’
‘Might drop in to Minimal and see if Eden Brown still has a vacancy.’
He slowed down at the traffic lights while he considered this. Eden Brown was the woman who managed Minimal, one of the small chain of dress shops whose advertisements figured in the newspaper cuttings he had sent her.
He had meant her to take an interest and she had done so. But was it wise to get too close to Eden Brown who might be innocent of all ill doing in connection with the dirty money, but who might know exactly what was going on?
‘Remember you are working for me and with me,’ he reminded her.
‘You mean: keep my nose out of what doesn’t concern me?’
‘Yes.’
They drove on in silence, each of them assessing the position of the other. Phoebe did not mean to be hindered by the chief commander: if she did well in this private investigation, then her position at the head of the unit to which she had as yet to be officially appointed would be very strong.
Nor did she mean to stay in it overlong. Her ambition went beyond it.
There is always a hidden agenda.
‘I am beginning to get some things clear in my mind: you want a woman helping in this investigation, and I can understand that because the involvement of the dress shops and possibly other similar places. Easier for a woman. You wanted a woman not connected with your own force and new to the district. That suggests to me that you don’t trust your own force.’ She stopped. ‘Did I say that aloud? It’s quite brave of me, I expect you are angry … Oh, I quite understand that I am in the same dangers that the two men were.’
‘I am using you,’ admitted Coffin as the lights changed and he drove away. ‘But you are using me too.’
‘As long as we both know where we stand,’ said Phoebe. Then she said, as he accelerated: ‘But I have never known for sure with you and I don’t know now. But I’m not going to ask questions. You’ve got Stella.’
Once again there was a pause: ‘Let’s leave it there,’ said Coffin.
‘Conversation closed,’ said Phoebe brightly.
The house in which Felix and Mary Henbit had lived was in a neat crescent of semi-detached houses recently built and sitting uneasily on the site of the old biscuit factory, as if they felt its ghost.
It was going to be generations, Coffin thought, as he stopped the car at the kerb, before his Second City in the old Docklands really settled its identity.
‘Is the house open?’ asked Phoebe.
‘I’ve asked for someone to be there to let us in.’ He nodded towards the door where a uniformed WPC was trying to look as unobtrusive as possible while being aware of the neighbours looking out of the windows up and down the street. ‘A friend of Mary Henbit had a key and went in to see how she was, one of the Wives Support Group, and that was how she came to find the note.’ He was as aware of the silent watchers as was the WPC. ‘Let’s get inside quickly.’
The house was
quiet and still, a small pile of bills and unopened letters on a table in the hall. A vase of flowers, long dead, with the leaves and petals spattering the floor.
‘The house has been looked over but I want to see for myself.’
‘What worries you?’
‘It was such a terrible way to go, I ought to have done more,’ he said. ‘And don’t say it’s not my business, it’s all my business.’
Felix Henbit had been his business, Mark Pittsy had been his business. Phoebe, if she got into trouble, would be his business.
Phoebe stood in the middle of the hall and looked up the stairs. Ahead of her were three doors, each open so she could see into the bedrooms and the bathroom. On the ground floor was one large sitting room with a dining alcove at one end. Straight ahead was the kitchen.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Look around. Use your eyes. See what the place says to you.’
‘What the place says now,’ Phoebe said, ‘is that they were a happy young couple, recently married with new furniture which they looked after. They may have had debts and quarrels but that isn’t written in the furnishings.’
‘Look at her clothes, go through the pockets; look in her handbags, see if there is a diary, or anything to explain why she did what she did the way that she did it.’ He produced a folded sheet from his breast pocket. ‘She left a note – here is a photocopy.’
The message was very short.
To the Chief Commander,
Dear John,
I can’t go on here now without Felix. I want out and I am taking my own way. Better to marry than to burn, was said, wasn’t it? But sometimes you have to do both.
‘She didn’t sign it,’ said Coffin, ‘as you see, but it appears to be in her handwriting. The original has been fingerprinted. Anyway, it was enough to make the CID look at the burned body. The measurements and so match, as far as can be checked at the moment.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Phoebe. ‘She calls you John. How well did you know her?’
There was a pause. ‘Well enough,’ said Coffin.
‘Oh, my God! No wonder you wanted me on the case and Stella well out of it.’
‘Wait a minute, don’t get the wrong idea. I met her at a conference on police and society in Brighton; she was unhappy and I wasn’t too jolly myself – Stella and I had quarrelled and split up, it was before we married. She was acting as VIP driver and she ferried me around a bit: we liked each other and it could have gone further; I was tempted but I drew back. I had to say to myself: this is not important.’
The Coffin Tree Page 6
