Coffin Underground

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Let her go,’ he said suddenly and loudly, more loudly than he had meant. ‘Let her go off and I’ll stay.’

  Nona raised her head and looked at Peter hopefully. ‘I wouldn’t leave you.’

  He ignored this as valiant but untrue. She would certainly go if she got the chance, and he would not blame her.

  ‘Let her go,’ he repeated.

  ‘We’ll all move together, when we go,’ said the man. He was sitting on the ground near his packages over which he kept a protective, hostile arm, as if he did not want anything of his touched. ‘I’ll go first, then you after me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When it’s dark and the time is right. Do you think I’ve been staying here for the good of my health? I’m waiting for the tide.’ It was the longest sentence he had said since they got there. There had been occasional mutterings to himself over his cigarettes, but nothing spoken to them. This was almost a conversation, and not a fuck or a shit in it. There had been quite a lot of those in the sentences directed at himself.

  ‘Why can’t we go first?’

  ‘Because I say not.’ And he looked at his gun. ‘I have the right to say. And who gave me that Right?’

  For the first time, Peter felt fear. And also a tremendous sense of excitement. This is it, he thought, this is how it should be. Power is crackling through me.

  Irene Pitt had her lunch with Christopher, saw that he was deeply preoccupied with his election chances, not thinking about her at all, and wondered if she was going to enjoy being married to a politician.

  Oh, come on, now. There may not be a General Election.’

  ‘Got to be,’ he said gloomily. ‘He’ll have to go. If not now, then soon.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare do it.’

  ‘Things happen. He’s not a lucky PM. He’s got trouble.’ Nothing like President Carter’s, of course, but sufficient.

  No, it really was not going to be much fun being married to a politician. Then she caught Chris’s eyes, and yes, it was, after all. You could change your mind three times in as many seconds, and that was the exhausting thing about being in love. Age didn’t seem to make any difference.

  After their lunch (so called, but not much was eaten), she went shopping, met a friend to discuss future work plans and finally went home.

  Edward appeared at the door of his study as soon as he heard her key in the door.

  ‘Where’s Nona?’

  ‘Out. She was going on a picnic.’

  ‘It’s time she was back.’

  ‘It’s not late.’ She looked at the wall clock. It was a household with a number of clocks, all of them accurate.

  ‘Late enough.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  Edward said angrily: ‘The sooner this divorce is over and done with, the better.’

  ‘Eddy, why are you like this suddenly? You never were in New York. You were happy enough about it. After all, you had always got …’ She did not utter what he had always got. But he had always had Someone.

  ‘I wish we had never come back to this house.’

  It might, indeed, have been better.

  The river police provided a boat, an escort and much expert advice. They showed signs of wanting to take the whole operation over, but Coffin, backed up by his Inspector, would have none of it.

  They piled into the motor launch.

  ‘We will make a fair noise, let him know we are coming,’ commented Lane. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to sneak up quietly? By rowing.’

  ‘No. I don’t mind if he hears us coming. See what he does.’

  ‘We can shout if you like,’ said the man piloting the launch agreeably.

  ‘No. No voices. Just the sound of the launch’s engine.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  They chugged down river from the pier towards the entrance to the tunnel. The tide, as predicted, covered the little path by which Peter and Nona had arrived, and lapped at the wooden door.

  A plastic bag floated in the water.

  ‘Someone round here shops at Harrods,’ said Coffin. ‘And I don’t think it’s Terry Place.’

  He fished out the bag to examine it. ‘Had chocolates in it. There’s still one in it, stuck to the bottom. Looks quite fresh.’ He added, thoughtfully, ‘Wonder if there’s anyone inside with him?’

  That made a difference.

  They heard the engine of the motor launch inside the tunnel. It was clearly audible in the silence. No one had said anything for a long time.

  ‘I can hear an engine.’ Nona scrambled to her feet. She opened her mouth to shout. Terry Place clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling her cries.

  ‘Shut up, you bitch.’

  Nona bit his hand in a fury of frustration and fear. He hit at her face with the gun, but she jerked her head back. Peter lunged forward to protect Nona, but the gun was stuck in Nona’s neck.

  ‘Please,’ whispered Nona, her eyes on Peter.

  ‘Move another inch and she’ll have it.’

  ‘That won’t do you any good if it’s escape you’re looking for.’ But Peter drew back.

  ‘I’ll kill myself before I let myself be taken in.’

  ‘You won’t kill yourself,’ said Peter. ‘I know you. You mind how you look. I’ve seen a dead man, a man who killed himself, and he looked terrible. He soiled his clothes so he stank, and his face was all swollen and black. You wouldn’t like to look like that.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Nona.

  Outside in the launch a conference was going on.

  ‘Like to know who’s in there with him.’ Coffin was still holding the bag which had held chocolates. ‘Some wretched tourists, I suppose. Wonder how they got there?’

  ‘Same way as he did,’ said the river policeman. ‘You can walk when the tide’s right. If he’s there, of course.’

  ‘I think he is,’ Roxie had thought so, and Coffin believed she understood her brother. Didn’t like him, feared him even, but knew the way his mind worked. ‘We’re sure there’s no way out the other end?’

  ‘There was once,’ said Lane. ‘According to the map. Came out just by the Old Observatory. Near the Meridian. But the chap in the office says a bomb went down there in the war and there was a landfall. The tunnel is blocked. He was clear on that. You heard him.’

  ‘He’s caught like a rat in a trap, then.’

  They stayed quietly in the launch, waiting and listening. Everything was still.

  At home, in Church Row, Nona’s parents were just beginning to get worried about her. Sarah had hardly thought about her brother yet, but she did wonder when he missed his tea. No Fleming ever missed his tea, it was the main meal of the day, and Sarah was very good at producing tasty dishes like Toad in the Hole and homemade deep apple pie. She was an enterprising cook, as she was in all things, and fed her family well.

  All the same, she was surprised when Edward and Irene Pitt turned up on her doorstep.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they are. Just out. They are grown up, you know. I didn’t expect Pete home any special time.’ Privately, she thought that Irene and Edward must be living in the past. You didn’t expect people to clock in these days.

  But in the end she agreed to go with the Pitts to the local police station to express concern about the absentees. She refused to regard them as missing. It meant taking Weenie and Co., who had to be made tidy and neat, so it was some time before their caravan set forth.

  Weenie and the others piled into Edward’s car with relish. An outing. What luck. One had to hope, Sarah thought, that they wouldn’t be sick.

  On the river, another police launch had arrived to complement the first one. They were in radio contact with their base.

  ‘He’s in there,’ said Coffin. He had decided to make a move. ‘Let’s give him a shout.’

  ‘Terry! Terry Place, we know it’s you. Open up and come out.’

  The noise echoed over the water which seemed to suck up the sound. They tried again. You didn’t expect an
answer straight away.

  Suddenly, from inside the tunnel, they heard first a shot and then a scream. There was no mistaking the sex of the screamer.

  ‘Who’s the girl?’ said Coffin.

  For once communication of information was brisk and free, all channels seemed to be open and listening to each other.

  Another launch from the river police arrived to help keep watch on the mouth of the tunnel. More policemen took up station on the river walk. A cordon was thrown round the area. For the moment they were sitting and waiting.

  From the local police came the story of the missing girl and boy. As soon as he heard the story, John Coffin had himself taken back to the police centre dealing with the case. The Pitts were glad to see someone they knew.

  Irene Pitt was shown the plastic bag which had once contained chocolates. She identified it at once.

  White and anxious, she said: Yes, she had given that bag to her daughter, and it had contained such chocolates.

  The young policeman from Bromley reported that he had seen a young couple whose description matched the wanted pair and they had gone towards the pier. ‘I watched because they were a striking couple. He had red hair and she was beautiful. Very striking. They went down a flight of steps on the river walk. No, I didn’t see any more. Couldn’t from where I was. They were out of view.’

  Sarah Fleming answered the few questions that came her way with concise intelligence. John Coffin questioned her himself. Yes, it sounded like Peter. He did have red hair and he had certainly been interested in the whole area down by the river walk. It was something of an obsession with him. No, she didn’t know Terry Place and she would be surprised if Peter did. He only liked people of his own generation.

  Bright kid, Coffin thought. What’s she keeping back? He sensed there was something. ‘We’ll arrange a car home for you and that lot,’ he said, giving her a smile and Weenie (who was stamping on his foot) a severe look. ‘Try not to worry.’

  She was surprised how unhappy and anxious she felt. It was almost a pleasure to deal with a tantrum from Weenie, and a positive relief to be sent home in a police car. She knew that the Pitts were going to stay with the police, go down to the river to wait if the Chief Superintendent let them, but she did not want to. You had to trust Peter. She did trust Peter.

  ‘Now we know who is in there with Place. He’s got the girl, Nona, and the lad. The girl is frightened but alive. About the boy we don’t know.’

  ‘We heard a shot,’ said Lane. ‘He could be hurt. Or even dead.’

  ‘That’s looking on the black side.’

  ‘We can get bugs fastened to the door. They’ll pick up anything inside. That way we will know who is in there and where.’

  ‘And how long to get them fixed?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Depends.’

  Coffin looked across the water. ‘I don’t think we’ve got much time.’

  Inside the tunnel, Peter said to Terry Place: ‘That wasn’t very clever, what you did just now, firing the gun. Now they know you’re inside.’

  ‘They knew that anyway.’

  ‘You could have kept them guessing.’ Peter felt immensely stronger than Place, and in charge.

  ‘And now they know you are frightened as well.’

  After a period of silence from outside, a voice now hailed Place, told him to come out and give himself up.

  By some freak of the acoustics his name seemed to echo round and round the chamber. Place, Place, Place.

  The three of them had come back down the tunnel to the entrance, with the man pushing Nona in front of him as a hostage.

  Nona whispered to Peter: ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  From the river the disembodied voice said: ‘Let the girl go. Send her out.’

  Place took no action, but the other two could see he was listening.

  The voice started again: ‘Send her out before we come in, and we won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it?’ Peter had the question ready. ‘It would be better.’

  Once again the voice outside spoke: ‘Open up, Place.’

  ‘Let her go,’ said Peter, ‘and I’ll stay. You’ve still got me.’

  ‘No.’ Place moved forward quickly. He grabbed Nona by the waist, held her against him, with the gun pressed to her neck. ‘She stays, you go.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Give in to this man and you’re lost, Peter thought. He’s mad, gone over the top.

  ‘Get on with it.’

  Nona looked at Peter with fear in her eyes. ‘Please. Do what he says.’

  Slowly Peter opened the door to the river and stood there at the opening, the water lapping at his feet.

  Behind him Place and Nona shuffled into place so that all three were visible to the police on the river.

  Coffin stood up in the launch facing them. ‘So that’s how it is? You’re a fool, Place. And your own worst enemy. Let the kid go.’

  A small fleet of boats were now in position in an arc around the entrance. Place could not see the police presence on the river walk above his head, but he could probably guess it was there.

  He shouted out his demands. A car to get away with. No pursuit. No helicopter to hang overhead. If they let this happen he would shoot the girl. Otherwise he would release her when he felt safe.

  Peter did not believe this for a moment. Nona would not go free. She would be shot. It was up to him to save her and he knew how to do it.

  He was standing directly in front of Terry Place, with Nona to his right. He measured the distance between his foot and Place’s leg, then between Nona and the river’s edge. The tide was already on the turn, you could just see the stone margin of the path they had walked.

  I am a horse, he told himself. A great horse with powerful hooves. He delivered a great kick backwards at Terry Place’s shins, the edge of his boots like iron.

  As Place screamed and stumbled, Peter grabbed Nona. ‘Jump! Jump into the river!’

  Behind him he heard Place scrambling, then there was a shot. Did it come from behind or from the water? Then a flurry of shots.

  And as he and Nona hit the water, the world exploded into light and fire.

  Chapter Five

  It was a room with a lot of clocks. John Coffin thought he had never sat in a room with so many clocks. One on a table, one on a desk, and a third on the wall. Watches as well, everyone in the room was wearing a watch. Time had never been so well watched over.

  He felt intimidated, and perhaps was meant to feel so. He was sitting facing the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), across a desk so neat and orderly and so well polished that you knew no serious work could be done at it. In fact, the AC had another and smaller office which he really used. This one was for show, to see people, to hold the sort of meeting he was holding now.

  A kind of court, Coffin thought sourly.

  It was an unofficial meeting with official overtones. The unofficial side was represented by the friendly way he was being offered coffee in a thin china cup, and the official side by the nervous energy of the AC’s manner and the fact that he was unobtrusively taking notes.

  Coffin was almost glad to taste that the coffee was as mediocre as always. It made him feel more at home.

  He looked back on the last ten days, reflecting on the events which had brought him to where he now was.

  Ten days ago a police bullet had hit the explosive which Terry Place had hidden in a carrier bag in the tunnel. It was about six feet from him when it went off, to which distance, and the fact that Peter’s kick had made him roll into the water at the minute of explosion, he owed his mangled survival. What had come through was not quite a complete Terry Place, but one substantially still himself. He remained in the intensive care unit of the local hospital and under police guard.

  The youngsters, Peter and Nona, had been hurt by blast and Peter had been burnt in the back, but they had come off lightly. The River Thames had received them with some kindness, not passing
on to them hepatitis or typhoid or any of the other plagues its waters might be carrying. They had had hospital treatment but were now at home.

  One policeman had suffered a detached retina from the blast and one onlooker had had a heart attack. Several more had complained of shock.

  Coffin himself had injured his back helping the girl and boy out of the water. His own fault, he should have left it to the river police who had more experience of that sort of thing, but he had felt responsible. Which brought him to why he was here.

  ‘Who gave the order to fire?’ asked the AC.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You had information that Place was armed?’

  ‘Yes. I had what seemed reliable information that Place had both a gun and explosive.’ Roxie had been dead right too, as it turned out. ‘He was a man with a record of violence. So I asked for guns to be issued, and that was done.’

  ‘And who fired first?’

  ‘Place did,’ said Coffin firmly.

  ‘And all necessary warnings were given.’

  ‘Yes.’ Yes, bloody yes, Coffin said inside himself.

  But a journalist on a local paper had claimed that the police had fired the first shot and without shouting a warning to Place. He had got his story into the national press. Once that happened an inquiry hung over Coffin’s head.

  Without warning, he had fallen into just the sort of trouble he ought to have kept out of. He knew how unloved he and the TAS unit were locally. Bernard Jones had told him, even if he hadn’t known. No tears were going to be shed for him.

  There was something very handy about the way this story had come out. At the moment he couldn’t say more than that, but he was thinking about it. It would be paranoia, of course, to suggest that someone had arranged for him to drop into this particular hole, but it was certainly true that no one would be eager to fish him out. Not locally, anyway.

  ‘A witness has come forward to say he heard the police fire before Place. Two shots from one direction.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Coffin bluntly. ‘The witness is mistaken.’

  So there they were with two conflicting stories. One of the clocks struck the hour, then significantly after it, a second chimed. The third clock remained silent, but as if to compensate, a watch on the AC’s wrist gave a tiny chirp.