‘Sir,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I think I recognized a voice.’
Coffin thought about life and his place in the scheme of things; finally, he knew what he would do. He picked up the telephone and placed a call.
‘Geraldine? Ah good, it’s you.’
‘It’s always me at the end of this line.’ The voice was sour. ‘Are you going to give me that interview?’ When I think of all I’ve done for you, the tone said.
‘I can’t give you an interview, Geraldine. But would you like to take part in a happening?’
‘Do they still have them?’
‘I’m having this one. Meet me at Albert Waters’s house in two hours’ time. And you can bring a photographer.’
‘Who else will be there?’ Geraldine said suspiciously.
‘No other journalist. This is just for you.’
Geraldine expressed satisfaction, it was about time she got what was hers, her voice conveyed.
13
Coffin knew that he ought to get in touch with Stella, to tell her that he would be late home and not to worry, he would try to join her when he could. He knew that they had some evening engagement together but he could not recall exactly what it was or if it was important. He had an idea it was to do with raising more money for St Luke’s Theatre. Just lately it usually was. Stella would not mind whether he was there or not, she said that on these occasions he was more of a hindrance than a help, as the look of bleak policeman-like honesty was not the way to get the money rolling in.
Just for a moment, he wondered uneasily if any laundered money had flowed into the St Luke’s foundation from any benefactor. He was not himself a trustee of the foundation, although his half sister Letty Bingham was, but he was on the guiding committee and if any dirty money had flowed that way then the present trouble he was in would be minuscule compared with what would be coming.
One could but pray.
He had a little time before he need take action, so he telephoned Stella and for once she answered straight away.
‘Been thinking about you. Is everything all right?’
She could pick up moods. ‘Not too bad,’ he said cautiously. ‘Things are moving.’
‘You mean you are pushing them,’ she said astutely.
‘Sometimes you have to.’
‘But you are not sure of yourself? Is that why you rang me?’
‘I always feel better when I have spoken to you.’
Stella was quiet for a moment. ‘That’s one of the nicest things you have ever said to me. Do you mean it?’
‘More than you realize.’
‘Right. Then let me say this: I have seen you before in this state, and it always comes right. Have faith in your own judgement.’
‘Bless you, Stella.’
‘Something is going to happen, that you will have caused to happen and it is going to be soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will be thinking about you.’
He put the telephone down after a few more words, feeling better. It was like a blood transfusion, talking to Stella when he felt like this. Who could have predicted that marriage would bring this with it?
There was still time before he had to set out. He forced himself to settle to work, only to be surprised by a knock on the door and a sudden entrance.
‘Joey!’ He stood up, and said more slowly, ‘Is it Joey?’
‘Of course it is. You saw my name? You knew I was coming?’
‘Yes.’ Coffin looked down at the list of engagements on his desk: Inspector Lessiter. How could he have passed it over? ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, my apologies.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. And you’ve changed.’
‘A lot of years have passed.’ Joe Lessiter did not say how many, but he smiled. He was a tall, well-built young man, with a bright-eyed, long-nosed face and a great air of self-confidence. ‘You haven’t changed, sir. Or not much.’ A few grey hairs, some lines around the eyes.
‘You were the best cadet I ever had, I was sorry when you moved on.’ Years ago the two, one very junior, had worked together in south London. ‘I heard you had gone into security.’
‘I was seconded. But I’ve had no regrets.’
‘No, I should think not.’ Responsibility became him. Lessiter looked like a man in control of himself and of others. I could do with him here. Coffin thought.
‘This is my first time in your territory.’ He grinned, reminding Coffin of the old Joe. ‘In fact, this is my first big job; HM herself, and I want it to go right.’
Coffin nodded. ‘Let’s get down to it.’
They bent over maps and timetables, everything had been checked once but Lessiter must check it again.
Before everything was folded away, Lessiter spread out a half circle of photographs on the desk in front of Coffin. ‘If you see any of these faces around, they are trouble.’
‘I have my own copies, and they have been circulated. No sightings so far.’
‘No.’ Joe shuffled all his papers away. ‘I don’t think they will be there. It would be easy if one knew what face to look for, but it’s always the outsider who gets through, damn him.’ For the first time, he let the tension show. ‘It’s always the worst time when you’ve planned and prepared and just have to sit and wait.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ He met Lessiter’s interested gaze. ‘I’m into a brute of a case now.’
‘I had heard talk.’
‘I bet. I think I know who and I think I know why, but no real proof. I’ve got to bounce the killer into confessing.’
‘And he’s tough?’
Coffin thought before speaking. ‘This killer is very tough, but doesn’t like the idea of publicity.’
‘What killer does?’
‘This one in particular loathes it.’
‘Got a public position to keep up?’
‘You could say that.’ Coffin could see Joe running names through his head, no doubt he had some ideas of his own, he would have looked into what was going on in the Second City. ‘I have someone who will swear to a voice, and I have a letter written by a dead man, but it’s guessing and it wouldn’t stand up in court unless the killer screams. I want that scream.’
As Joe Lessiter stood up to go, he said: ‘You have a lot of support among my bosses.’
Coffin’s eyebrows shot up in question.
‘No, not HM. Next along the line. Thinks you are doing a great job.’
As he moved towards the door, he said: ‘Back to the grind. Mustn’t fiddle while Rome burns. Good luck. Or break a leg, as they say in theatre.’
Now what did he mean by that crack about Rome? Coffin asked himself. It was time to leave and as he tidied himself up in his cloakroom before departing, he took a look at himself in the glass over a handbasin. Was he sprouting Prince of Wales feathers above his head?
Two blood transfusions within the hour; first Stella, and now this. He felt good.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he knew he would move through the ‘happening’ as if he did. It would come.
The great heat had departed from the day but it was still humid.
‘Hello there, Geraldine; you got here?’
She was grouchy. ‘Not with pleasure.’
You can’t have everything, he thought.
‘What’s Sir Alfred doing there, sitting in his car?’
‘You’ll find out.’
‘I hope he will.’
Coffin felt good now, he could sense things falling into place. ‘He will in time.’
There was a crackle of thunder in the air. He hadn’t seen any lightning flash, but sometimes in London with all the other lights in the sky you did not.
‘This way, Geraldine.’
He had a key to Albert Waters’s house, yet he did not go in through the front door, but led her and the photographer from her paper round the back. The house was stuffy with smells of living and dying.
‘God, what a stink!’
�
��You’ve smelt worse, Geraldine.’
‘What’s that old goat doing outside? You never answered.’
‘Sir Alfred will be helping us.’
The photographer stumbled behind her and nearly fell.
‘Watch it. Gus,’ she said. ‘Don’t be a casualty.’
Gus had his own irritation to express. ‘It’s not a good light in here.’
‘You’ve brought a flash, I suppose,’ said Coffin. He did not make it a question, and Gus, feeling no obligation, did not answer.
‘Let’s go into the living room first.’
Geraldine blinked. ‘The light’s on.’ She sounded surprised.
‘Yes.’ His team had already been in the house earlier that evening. ‘Happenings’ may look spontaneous but they have to be planned for with the care of all productions. He had learnt a lot from Stella about drama. ‘We need a bit of light. Sit down. Gus, you too.’
Geraldine chose the only comfortable chair with unerring precision. Gus took an upright chair and Coffin stood. He was running a risk and he knew it but it seemed to him the only way to play it: to push ahead of proof and evidence and go for a straight confession. His mind shifted back to Sir Alfred sitting in his car outside. Well, he wasn’t on his own. Coffin had laid on a complement of police officers, some visible, others tucked away on that rough patch of ground where Albert Waters had constructed his funeral pyre. If the worst happened, then he hoped they would get the fire brigade in. Joke, he said to himself.
Geraldine’s mood was not improving. ‘Did you get a shot of Sir Alfred in his car?’ she snapped at Gus.
‘I did as it happened. Full face. He wasn’t pleased.’
She turned to Coffin. ‘Come on, let’s get on with this. If I’m to do an article, I need some action.’
‘It’s about to happen.’ He switched off the kitchen light, but enough daylight came through the drawn curtains for them to see each other. ‘All set?’ He motioned with his hand. ‘Now we go into the hall, stand behind the front door and you do your bit. Miss Ducking.’
He walked ahead of them into the narrow hall which managed to smell damp even in a heat wave. It was darkish, though. He reached out a hand for the light switch and paused. It would be a kind of signal to those outside that the happening was begun. And then he decided against it. ‘Switch the light on, please, Geraldine.’
‘I don’t know where the switch is,’ she began, but her hand had already gone out to it, and Coffin rested his gently upon it.
‘Yes, you do.’ He pushed her forward.
‘Now you, Geraldine, stand behind the front door. Gus, camera ready to snap what happens. Do you have a tape as well?’
‘No.’
‘But you do, Geraldine?’
‘I do, as it happens.’
‘Switch it on, I want sound effects too.’
‘It’s on already … I don’t get this.’
‘Stand right behind the door and wait.’
‘What do I do?’
‘I’ll tell you: when there is a knock on the door, I want you to kneel down or crouch as suits you best and shout out “fuck off” in your best growl.’
Geraldine jerked as if an electric current had passed through her.
‘You know how to do it,’ said Coffin with sudden ferocity. ‘You’ve done it before.’
There was a knock on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Geraldine turned towards Coffin, the electricity which was pulsing through her body had reached her face, twisting it into strange shapes. ‘You bugger.’ It came out more as a whistle than a growl.
‘That’s not the voice I wanted, try again.’
There was another triple knock on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang.
‘Outside is one of my officers: it was she who tried to raise Albert Waters. She knocked on the door and got a dusty answer. But he was already dead. So who spoke? She thinks she recognized your voice.’
‘What rubbish.’
‘And then there was that letter that Felix wrote to his wife and we found in her pocket. You missed that, Geraldine. It was a D, that letter, I know it and the whole world will know it soon.’
The knocking came again.
‘Come on, Geraldine, do your stuff for me and Gus.’
Geraldine hit at him, spitting and swearing.
‘But you don’t need to say anything, I will do all the talking later; what you have to say is written in your face, and Gus has got it all on film.’
Geraldine began: ‘I didn’t …’
‘Oh, not on your own, you had help. With Henbit and Pittsy, oh yes, and you had helpers. And with Agnes, you were there. My guess is that you killed Agnes, who trusted you but was getting nervous, in her own house and with your own hands. Were you ordered to do it, or be clumped yourself? We will get proof, Geraldine, forensic evidence is very useful.’ He put up his hand. ‘Don’t try and hit me, Geraldine. It just makes me remember your victims. Like poor old Albert, no angel, true, but you used him. I think it was your idea to use Albert Waters. And you killed him as you killed Agnes with your own hands, because those who were behind it all would want to make sure you were involved. Guilty, Geraldine, guilty.’
She opened her mouth. ‘I’m not saying anything. I want a lawyer.’
‘You shall have your lawyer. But you will talk, and you will tell me who instructed you to kill and helped you to do it.’
‘I’m not talking.’
‘I should if I were you. Don’t protect them, because they will sacrifice you.’
He saw that arrow go home as a streak of white stretched across her face. Good, he thought. Good.
‘I hate you,’ she said.
‘Good, and if it’s any comfort, I hate you.’
Outside, still sitting in his car. Sir Alfred was getting restive. ‘What I am doing here?’
Coffin said cheerfully, ‘You were just stage dressing – you’ve done your part. We’ll have a talk later. I have some things to say to you.’ Sir Alfred showed signs of anger. ‘No, don’t huff and puff. Not now. I’m off to see my wife.’
As he drove home to Stella, aware that behind him, the police team headed by Archie Young were in charge, he rehearsed what he had to say to Geraldine Ducking.
‘You are the bagman we were looking for, carrying money on your travels and then salting it away as ordered by your masters. All right, I don’t think you did all the killings on your own. You had help and we shall be questioning you about that. Archie Young will be doing the questioning. And there is Phoebe Astley. You know her? For personal reasons, I think she will want to get into the act.’
He thought for a bit as a red traffic light halted him. ‘How had it gone? Start with Felix Henbit. He had been suspicious of Geraldine. Why or how might never now be known but it had probably been some words from Agnes Page. Henbit had written a note to his wife, perhaps warning her off shopping in any of the boutiques. He had been working with Pittsy who shared the information with him. Henbit had gone first, drugged and killed, then Pittsy and then Mary Henbit. Sometime earlier, you, Geraldine, and whoever else killed Agnes Page and got her father, if he was her father, to help burn her body. You had help there, we must get you to tell us about that killing. Was she your cousin? And Albert Waters? Uncle Albert, was he? There was a family connection and that was why he helped you … He probably helped with Henbit and Pittsy.’
The traffic lights changed and he moved on. His thoughts changed channel too. ‘Sir Alfred, I made use of you this evening, and I don’t mind admitting that I suspected you of being the bagman. You do flash the money around, you know. That car you were sitting in now, your own, I believe, and not the university’s? I’d like to know where the cash comes from and one day I will find out. For a boy from a poorish family you don’t act impoverished. Perhaps I shouldn’t be curious, but I know you have some expensive private hobbies into which I will not go now but which put you under suspicion. I don’t know whether I like you or not, Ferdie. You asked me to call you that, didn’t
you? But I’m not sure if I shall, not until I make up my mind about you.’
He drove on. He put up his hand to his cheek, drawing it down, then looking at it. Blood.
Geraldine had clawed down his face. Do you know what put me on to you, Geraldine? Well, a feather in the wind. It was when one of my bright young men discovered that Albert Waters’s grandfather was called Tom Ducking. That made me think, Geraldine. They’re all related. One bloody clan.
A block in the traffic, and once again a change in his thoughts. He’d better clear up things in his relationship with Phoebe Astley. A bit of a residue there. He shifted in his seat.
‘Let’s think about something else,’ he said to himself. ‘It’ll sort out.’
The traffic moved on and he moved with it.
He saw St Luke’s Mansions ahead of him and there was a light in the tower which made him think, Stella was at home.
I am coming home, Stella, after putting on a drama which has forced a killer to confess. Because Geraldine was now making her confession to Archie Young. I may still be in trouble, although I think I have beaten the guts out of my rebels, and I may be able to present myself to you as Sir John.
It’s a raffle, I may win a prize or it may be the booby one. But I am going to go in and say: May I kiss you, Stella?
If she says, yes, then I shall know life is on my side.
Stella was in their living room in the soft lamplight, with Tiddles on her lap and Bob at her feet; she was listening to the Marriage of Figaro on tape.
She stood up at once, and went towards him. ‘You are hurt and tired.’ She put her arms round him.
‘Can I kiss you, Stella?’
She put her hand gently on his bloodstained cheek. ‘What, unwashed and unshriven?’ She drew him down on the sofa. ‘Yes, and welcome.’
This is more than life just being on my side, he thought: it’s fighting for me. He told her what had happened.
Stella was thoughtful. ‘I never really liked or trusted that woman. I didn’t like her eyes.’
‘You were right.’
Stella continued thoughtfully, ‘Did you really have a case if you hadn’t bounced her into a confession?’
The Coffin Tree Page 23
