The thing that annoyed him most was that this was all such a waste of time when there was work to do. The murder of William Egan for a start. Terence Place, although highly favoured for the job, had not confessed and might never do so. He might die before he had a chance to speak at all.
And apart from this one case there were several others lining up for his attention. Not to mention an urgent telephone call from Lætitia about a trip to Glasgow.
Coffin drank his cold sweet coffee down to the bottom of the cup.
‘All the forensic evidence ties Place to the murder of Bill Egan. He had the motive and opportunity. His own behaviour bears out his guilt, but there are still one or two questions I would like answered.’ Coffin was speaking almost to himself. It was the end of the day that had started with the interview in the dark-panelled room with the clocks.
Coffin and Inspector Paul Lane were talking privately over a drink in the Victory Arms, a pub whose windows gave them a view of the sails of the Cutty Sark. Something was needed to take away the taste of the coffee and the interview with the AC. Lane, who knew of the session, had carefully not mentioned it.
Across the room, also having a drink, were two young sergeants who were the rest of the TAS unit. They were showing loyalty to their boss by drinking there. They were a team.
Coffin looked around. ‘Where’s Jumbo?’ Jumbo was the nickname of the large Chief Inspector, Jimmy Jardine, who was his direct assistant.
‘Gone home,’ said Paul Lane. Jumbo was not happy working with them and they all knew it. He was even less happy now, and anyway preferred his garden and a glass of wine to beer and the Victory Arms.
Coffin accepted the information without comment. ‘I wish I knew a bit more about Place.’
‘Don’t we all?’
They knew all about his birth, upbringing, schooling and police record, but something essential was missing.
Paul Lane was occupied in putting together the formal structure of the police case against Terence Place which would then go to the DPP. As he said himself, with something of a mixed metaphor: ‘The baby seemed to have all its parts but was liable to fall to pieces in the hand.’
He was more irritated than Coffin by what he felt was the untidiness of the case. He was a man who liked his cases to be neat, to be finished in broad brush strokes. Now he was getting a lesson in the complexities of human relationships. Coffin had been at it long enough to know that was the way truth lay, that in the untidiness lay the answers. If he was honest he would admit that the shifting surface, the muddy underside fascinated him. What he looked for, really.
‘Yes, we need Place’s testimony.’
‘But you believe he did kill Egan?’
‘Oh, sure of it. We’ve got the right man. But there are some worries.’
‘I feel the same way.’
‘To begin with, where was Egan all the time before he was killed? We still don’t know. Not for sure. We’ve made a guess from the piece of paper found in the pocket of Place’s coat.’ Was he hiding in No. 22? And if so, how?
‘I’d like to know why Place murdered his father-in-law so savagely,’ said Lane. ‘Kill him, yes, but to do it that particularly brutal way puzzles me. He never was a nice man, but he wasn’t a sadist.’
‘I think I can explain that: he was frightened.’
But that only posed another question: Why so frightened?
‘Do you know,’ Coffin went on, ‘I think there is a third figure in this case. One we haven’t focused on yet.’
‘Roxie Farmer?’
‘Could be.’
‘Or the wife?’
‘More likely. Where is she, by the way?’
‘In her own flat. She flew home from Spain yesterday.’
‘She didn’t hurry.’
‘No, not much love lost there. She would have preferred Terry to die quickly, but as long as he dies, I reckon she’ll be easy.’
‘What about her father?’
Lane shrugged. ‘Hard to know.’
‘I’ll have to see her.’
‘You won’t enjoy the meeting. She’s her father’s daughter. Got a tongue on her.’
The two young sergeants watched their seniors depart.
‘Guvnor’s in a bad mood.’ The speaker was an ambitious young graduate, seeking accelerated promotion and not pleased at the notion he might have got into an accident-prone unit. But David Evans was a fair-minded young man, and knew from his historical studies that bad luck cannot be avoided by even the greatest of men. Look at Julius Cæsar, Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy. Still, he did not propose to offer his own career for assassination. ‘Can’t blame him,’ he said tolerantly. ‘I shall look out for a move.’
His partner was both less well educated and a sharper observer of his boss. ‘I shouldn’t, if I were you. Never looks good going out on a falling tide. And I’ve seen the old man in this state before. He always gets up.’ He might have added: But he has a long memory for those that let him down.
John Coffin walked down Church Row on his way home, cutting through Queen Charlotte’s Alley, on purpose to have a look at the house where the Flemings lived. All looked in order, but there had been no laundry done for him lately. Couldn’t blame the girl, but he was running a bit short. It was amazing how his underwear and the case seemed to be involved in a kind of dance, in which the arrival home of his shirts might depend on who was found guilty of what.
He considered calling, he knew Peter was back from the hospital, but decided to put the visit off until the morning. Weenie and Co. might be at school then and he wanted a word with Sarah on her own.
One of the Flemings’ neighbours was outside, polishing his car, a nice-looking Audi.
Sign of the times, he thought, as he turned the corner into Church Row. He could remember when a barrow, or a donkey and cart, would have been the mark of riches in the Alley and not an imported German car. He had known this district all his life, had come back to it as a young police detective for his first major case, and its vitality and capacity for change amazed him.
Under his arm, neatly wrapped in white paper (once it would have been newsprint, yesterday’s evening paper), he had his supper. Fish and chips, the Londoner’s favourite take-away meal. The fish shop had a rival now in Padovani’s Pizza Parlour next door. The Padovani family had long been known to John Coffin since they had once run a restaurant near where he had lodged as a young detective. Now they had a smart restaurant in Blackheath, another in Knightsbridge, and a chain of pizza houses. Londoners for four generations, they went back triumphantly each year to the village in Italy from which they had sprung to buy wine and show off their wealth. And occasionally to bring back a bride.
He could see down the road to No. 22. The Pitts had certainly livened up the appearance of their house since their return. The window-boxes were in full bloom. But there was a FOR SALE board up, new today, he hadn’t seen it there this morning when he set out for the meeting with the AC.
Mrs Brocklebank had been quiet lately about the tragic possibilities of the house, but he did not think she had forgotten. By no means. He had seen a thoughtful look in her eyes. Could you have with a bad character, an actively hostile house?
Of course you couldn’t. He was a rational man and a police officer, but No. 22 seemed obstinately to be producing its own evidence. He studied the front of the house. Just an ordinary house. Might have a word with Mrs Brocklebank, he thought, just as the front door of No. 22 opened.
Irene Pitt came out of her house and saw him.
He walked forward. ‘Good evening. How’s Nona?’
Irene hesitated. ‘Pretty well recovered. Almost herself again.’ Irene looked less sleekly groomed than usual. Her hair was untidy and her lipstick chewed away.
‘It was a bad experience for her.’ How bad he was in a good position to know, he saw that in Irene’s eyes. Judgement as well; he couldn’t blame her.
‘I think she still has the odd nightmare. We’re sending her awa
y.’ Irene’s gaze moved to the FOR SALE board.
‘I’m sorry you’re going.’
‘Yes. Well, that might have happened anyway. Probably would have done. I don’t think Edward would have wanted to stay on, and I was leaving. This just hurried things along.’
Aware of his supper rapidly cooling under his arm, Coffin nevertheless let the conversation go on. If Irene wanted to talk, then she should.
‘We’re grateful to the boy for saving Nona’s life.’
‘Yes, he probably did that,’ Coffin agreed gravely.
‘But then he got her into the trouble in the first place. Still, I blame myself too. So I’m staying home, trying to be a good mother and cooking all their favourite meals.’ She noticed the bundle under his arm. ‘Fish and chips? I’m off there myself. It’s what Edward likes best. Tomorrow or the next day, it will be curry soup and lasagne, that’s for Nona.’
‘Invite me round.’
‘So I will. But I have to make my own curry powder, the bought stuff won’t do.’
‘There’s a spice stall in Greenwich Market.’ He had seen it there.
‘I’ll take a look.’ Then she said suddenly: ‘I want to get out of here. The house, the street, the district. I don’t think it’s good for us. I don’t know where is, but here is wrong. I don’t think people hate us personally, but we don’t fit in.’
He did not dispute this, but he was troubled. ‘It was not the cause of what happened to Nona.’
‘No? But it’s part of it.’
She had said to him what she had wanted to say and now she was off. ‘I thought you’d understand.’
Coffin nodded. He did understand.
‘Give my love to your sister.’
‘I will.’ He understood the need for her to say that, too. The message was the message.
On the next day he took Lane with him, together with a woman detective whose services he had borrowed, and went round the corner into Queen Charlotte’s Alley to visit Sarah Fleming. There was no need really for such a high-powered delegation. He could have sent one detective-sergeant from his unit, but he felt personal about this.
He went breakfastless, his fish and chip supper still rumbling uneasily around inside him. He had left Mrs Brocklebank cleaning his flat, and she did not look herself either.
She said as much. ‘I’m not myself this morning. Brock said to me, “Old girl, you need a rest,” and I said, “Brock, I shall take one.” So after today, I shall not be cleaning you for a week.’
‘Once the Pitts have sold up, you won’t have to clean there.’ Might not be a very cheering remark for her, as he thought she liked her employers. Good payers too, or he misjudged them.
‘Someone will always need to clean up that house,’ she had responded gloomily and ambiguously.
Sarah Fleming saw them coming through the window of the front room. It was her practice to watch Weenie and Co. off to school, but without letting them know she did it. She had trained them to hold hands, walk straight to school and not to talk to strangers. Sometimes she thought that when they were old enough to be doubtful strangers themselves she would still be telling them to hold hands and watch the traffic.
Peter was lying on the sofa in the room behind. It was an old sofa, but had been a good one in its day, made of soft leather which had worn to a comfortable softness.
‘We’ve got visitors.’
‘Oh.’ It was a listless sound. Peter lay back on the cushions. Officially he had recovered nicely from the shock of his experience, but his sister thought he needed more time: she was mothering him.
She let her mind run over the events of yesterday. Peter had come back from hospital in his own but in tearing good spirits. ‘I rescued her,’ he said. ‘I saved Nona. I did. Nothing can take that away. We shall see each other soon.’ He looked rapt.
Edward Pitt had called on them in the evening. He had come in and asked to see Peter. Then he took his hand, and thanked him. Peter said very little but the glow was still on him.
‘I want you to know how grateful to you we are. We can’t repay you for what you’ve done. Never. But this represents our effort to try.’ He handed an envelope over to Peter. ‘Might help you with your training for whatever. Or buy a car.’
‘Nona …’ began Peter.
‘We’re sending her to New York to stay with friends. Seems best. She sends her love.’
There was a bit more talk, more thanks, and then he was gone.
‘He paid me,’ said Peter. ‘He paid me off.’
Sarah had said nothing. Nothing to say. She had concentrated on keeping him warm and preparing the food he liked best. It always worked with Weenie when she had a misery. They all had miseries, it was one of the things in their family. Sudden great glooms of engulfing horribleness. But they came out of them, as a rule, in no time at all.
‘The visitors are the police.’
Peter shrugged. ‘Don’t want to see them.’
‘Chief Superintendent John Coffin.’
‘Oh, you call him that, do you?’
‘And two others. They mean business.’
She recognized the woman. She had called on them when their parents died. Peter might know her too.
Buried in their past, like a rock in a desert, was the death of their parents. They never spoke of it. Still, it was there, and occasionally you walked on it and banged your foot. She thought it could no longer draw blood, the time for that was past.
Without waiting for the ring, she opened the door and let them in. ‘Good morning, Chief Superintendent.’ She smiled nervously at Sergeant Phyllis Henley, who had been kind to her at the time of their parents’ ungainly departure from life, but uncompromising. The only one she did not know was Inspector Lane. No one introduced him, but she found out his name later from a newspaper.
They crowded in, all rather large people. As she looked at them squashing themselves into chairs bought for Weenie and Co., she thought of a story from her French course. Madame de Sévigné telling the story of the poisoner, Madame de Brinvilliers, about to undergo the water torture. Looking up at the great leather bag of water and the funnel to be inserted into her mouth, the murderess had said, ‘What, all that water for poor little me?’
All those policemen for poor little them?
Sergeant Henley said, as if it was all her show, which it could not have been: ‘How are things with you, Sarah?’
‘Very well.’ Sarah knew she sounded prim. ‘I’m managing beautifully.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Could that be admiration in the tough lady’s voice? Respect, anyway. Sarah was almost shocked. ‘But what about the others?’
‘They’re doing all right.’
As if she had had a signal from the Chief Superintendent, Sergeant Henley subsided and Coffin took over the questioning. Because it soon became apparent to Sarah, if not Peter, that this was what it was.
He took the boy through the whole episode. Very quietly and not pressing too much on details at first, getting him talking. Then: What was the purpose of this walk? Why had they gone?
‘We were just out for a picnic and bit of sightseeing. The Cutty Sark and all that.’
‘Why did you look in the tunnel?’
Peter just gave a shrug. ‘Just taking a look.’
‘It must have been a shock to you to find Terry Place there?’
Peter nodded.
‘You didn’t know him?’
Peter shook his head.
Sarah got up. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Or a cup of tea?’
Coffin said quietly: ‘Stay where you are, Sarah.’ He thought: I’ll get her on her own and have a private talk. He knew more now about the family, and how they had lost their parents. He had a lot of sympathy for the girl, she had taken on a lot and was doing it well. Keeping her own identity together too. Some girls would have been completely submerged. He smiled at her. ‘Coffee later, eh?’
Turning again to Peter, he said: ‘Let’s talk about the shooting. Did you jump bef
ore Place shot at you or after?’
Peter thought about it. ‘All seemed to happen at once.’
And that was the trouble, Coffin thought. It probably had. He tried again. ‘Think about it. What made you jump at that moment? Was it the sound of a shot?’
‘No. I’d made up my mind there was a chance for us.’
‘So probably Place shot at you in reaction?’ And that would make his shot the first.
Peter shrugged. ‘Could be.’
Coffin saw that it was as far as they were going to get now. Nona Pitt next, he thought.
‘We’ll have that coffee now, Sarah,’ he said. ‘If the offer still holds.’
They would talk to Nona Pitt next.
As they left, Phyllis Henley said: ‘Makes a good cup of coffee, that girl.’ In a quiet way she was a heavy drinker and often needed a dash of caffeine in the morning.
‘Does everything well, I should think.’ It was Paul Lane’s first contribution. ‘Nice kid.’
‘Seen the others?’ asked the Sergeant. ‘I never know what to make of them, but they certainly make you think about the future of the human race.’
She was not an optimistic woman.
They walked back down Queen Charlotte’s Alley towards Church Row and No. 22. But the Pitts were denied them. No one answered the door.
‘Out.’ Coffin turned away after his third ring on the bell. There were plenty of other tasks for all three to get on with, and he might not bring Phyllis Henley tomorrow, he would prefer a more conciliatory personality, although she certainly knew her district. He thought he had it pretty clear from Peter’s testimony that Place had indeed fired first and that the boy knew it. Nona might be able to confirm this for them. ‘I’ll see them tomorrow.’
And he did.
Mrs Brocklebank was the first into No. 22 Church Row next day and the first to see the Pitts.
All of them, all except the boy, who as a weekly boarder at his school was never at home midweek.
She picked up the milk bottle, muttering to herself about how bad her back was and about her deep inner conviction that the steps would need scrubbing again. She couldn’t see the stain; owing to the rain it was all dark, but of course it was there.
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