‘He says he’d won the right to kill.’ The sergeant added: ‘He thinks he’s dying. I think it puts you in the clear. He’s admitting it was his fault.’
‘Good,’ said Paul Lane.
‘You can’t win the right to kill,’ said Coffin. ‘In what kind of a game do you win a death as a prize? What does he mean?’
Sergeant David Evans shrugged. ‘Kind of Russian roulette, maybe. Doesn’t have to be a real game. Mind’s gone a bit, I suppose. Still, he said it.’
‘You’d better get back and go on listening.’
‘Topper’s there, sir.’ Geoffrey Topper was the other young sergeant.
‘Well, we’ll have to hope Place says something else.’ But Coffin was pleased. He was off the hook. One other problem had rolled away.
But Evans had something more to say.
‘Place came out with something funny, sir. I didn’t know if I was hearing right. He said that there was a curse on the Pitts.’
‘But he was unconscious by the time the Pitts died. How did he know anything about them?’ Or what did he know?
The sergeant shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘Don’t say he killed them too.’
‘He may just have meant the girl,’ pointed out Lane.
‘Sounded more general than that,’ said Evans, who was enjoying his moment. ‘As if he meant the whole lot of them.’
‘Did he know them?’ queried Coffin sharply. ‘Had he even met them?’
‘No evidence that he had at all. Not that we can find, and he isn’t saying. Except the girl, that day in the tunnel.’
‘If he killed them, then how did he do it?’ said Lane.
‘By remote control?’ The sergeant was a keen science fiction man and always ready to be open-minded.
‘I wouldn’t call Terry Place one of the great criminal minds of our century,’ said Inspector Lane.
‘I think you are both forgetting that the Pitts died by poison,’ said Coffin.
You did not have to be there in person in order to kill by poison; in fact, you probably tried not to be. That was what a poisoning was: death by remote control.
Where did Terry Place come in, to play his part in that triple killing? What was this right to kill?
It was still infinitely more likely, to his mind, that the poisoner was one of the Pitt family. Possibly the girl, more likely the father.
So why did Terry Place start talking about them?
As soon as one set of questions were on the way to being answered, others seemed to take their place.
Although he did not know it, Roxie Farmer and her sister-in-law were having the bonfire they had promised themselves. It was a fine evening and all the gardens around them were deserted by their usual gardeners because of an important football match being shown on television.
‘We’ll do it now,’ Roxie said. ‘Get it over.’
‘I’ll be happy.’ Mrs Terry Place was not a girl to show false sentiment, and she was not going to show it now. Roxie could do that if she so wished. ‘Give me the match.’
It was quite a small affair, but they took advantage of the occasion to burn some of their old clothes, throwing them on the fire with gleeful cries of ‘Rubbish’. They added Terry Place’s clothes as well, Roxie shedding an obligatory tear as she did so, while her sister-in-law remained dry-eyed. It was her only concession to family feeling, which had been severely strained during Terry’s stay with her after he came out of prison. They were counting on him not coming out of hospital. Ever.
On the fire, when the heart of it was red, went a square, brightly coloured cardboard box covered with black and crimson dragons, and strange symbols.
It writhed and curled in the fire as if it was alive.
They were glad to see it go. It was only an empty box.
No one told Coffin about the bonfire. Nor did any intuition, any extra sense, alert him to the fact that part of the case he was quietly and imperceptibly building up inside him was going up in smoke.
Chapter Nine
While the ladies were fuelling their fire, in more ways than one, John Coffin was taking a walk. It was the end of his working day, and although not exactly free of preoccupation (he would be telephoning Paul Lane the moment he got in), he wanted some time to himself. He was wearing the unobtrusive shabby clothes with soft shoes that would allow him to plod round the streets without being noticed. He liked to do this occasionally, acting as an anonymous, unobserved pair of eyes and ears.
He was saving Mrs Brocklebank for tomorrow. As she advanced with the vacuum cleaner she had forced him to buy, with her duster over her arm, and her customary air of efficiency, he would say: ‘Wait a minute, Rhoda.’
Now he knew she was called Rhoda, he could make a brave start. Before, she had slightly intimidated him. Men have always been respectful of Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, easily intimidated by the mysteries she manipulates so easily. John Coffin was no exception; a clever and practical man, he was unable to manage his own electric oven. It was new and the knobs were different, the old one he had known his way about. The refrigerator was easy, you just opened the door and put food in it until it looked like an igloo inside, and then a pair of hands which might or might not be your own came along and cleared out the ice so that you could use it again. On such simple lines he conducted his life. It was one of the ways he showed his generation. All the young ones like Topper and Evans learned to cook at their mother’s knee. Or their first live-in girlfriend taught them quickly.
Now the capable Mrs Brocklebank had become someone who had a conscience and a guilty secret. She had told him half of her worry, but the other half she had kept to herself. She was just a subject to be questioned.
Today his walk did not hold his attention as it usually did. The streets were hot, the pavements sticky. No one was about except a black and white cat asleep in the sun. In the distance, through an open window, he could hear pop music pounding away, not the tune, if there was one, just the beat.
He turned into the main road that ran parallel with the unseen river. The district had changed since he last lived here, but he was not so old that he resented it. Change had to come, or we should all still be living in caves. Besides, in some ways the change was for the better.
In particular, Greenwich Wick was becoming a new world. Lurching into it, with one part lumbered with unlovely council tower blocks up the hill, while nearer the river the developers had arrived, and where once had been a network of tiny streets harbouring some of the most professional criminal families in South London, there were now several expensive blocks of flats: expensive because they faced the river and looked sideways to the old Royal Palace of Greenwich with the trees and slopes of the park behind. Coffin wondered if the inhabitants of Drake Towers, with their BMWs and Porsches, knew that the old Francis Drake Street had been a regular thieves’ kitchen. Policemen had walked in pairs there in the old days.
The joke was, as he knew from the records, that one of two of the most successful criminous families had moved from council flats into the new apartments on the proceeds of a life of profitable wrongdoing. Billy Egan and Terry Place had not quite risen to their ranks, although Egan at least had aspired to.
For a moment he found himself thinking of Letty. He had tried to telephone her twice and got no reply, not even an answering machine delivering a placatory little message. He began to suspect that she had gone to Glasgow. In which case he might even now have a new brother or sister. He wasn’t sure he really wanted this, which was perhaps why he had not done much about it himself. He had Letty and now found himself dreading a new face to love.
He swung round and began to walk back to Church Row. He was not reading the district well this evening, he might as well give up and go home. He felt alien, not necessarily a bad thing in itself for an observer. A sense of detachment might produce a sharper view, but he felt unreal, as if the scene he was viewing was nothing more than a backdrop at a theatre which might roll itself up and disappear
when the present act was over. It was fatigue, of course; that special feeling of unreality was nearly always due to weariness.
From out of the past came a memory of a quick cut home, down past the side of Deller’s and then out into Queen Charlotte’s Alley. Not a recognized route, it had been a track much used and he was willing to bet it was still there. An air of antiquity hung over that pathway, which, followed to its logical end, ran down to the river, as if the ancient Britons had used it first and it would go on being used even after the Bomb fell.
He found the path easily, broken at one or two points by the new arrangements at Deller’s, a shed here, a car parked there, but both easily circumvented.
He was walking into Queen Charlotte’s Alley before he recognized where he was. Coming at it, at this angle on this hot evening, he saw the change vividly. Now it was smart. In the old days, it had been just poor.
After all, he had not come here by accident. Give his unconscious mind a chance and it usually showed his feet which way to go.
He wanted to see Sarah Fleming. He wanted to see both the Flemings. They were the bridge between the two crimes.
Not Terry Place, who, as far as could be judged, had never met any of the Pitts except the girl, and that on a day that nearly killed him.
Not Rhoda Brocklebank, even though she knew everybody, and was certainly more deeply linked with William Egan than she had admitted; not her because she was not emotionally involved with the Pitts. They were her employers, that was all. She had no insight to offer him.
But the Flemings, yes, because Peter had certainly loved Nona.
He knew Sarah was at home, since he could see her watering the plants in her small garden. She was doing it with her usual spare, economical elegance, but also with the air of one who would rather be doing something else.
‘You’re not enjoying this,’ he said, taking the heavy can off her, and starting the watering himself.
‘They are Weenie’s plants, she put them in, the social worker said it would be good for her to have something to look after, give her a sense of responsibility, but she doesn’t do it.’
‘Perhaps she’d do better with a cat or a dog.’
‘One couldn’t trust an animal to Weenie.’
‘She’ll grow up one day.’
‘Oh yes, I expect she will, there’s quite a lot of growing inside Weenie. I don’t know about the boys, though.’
For a long time he had wondered about the history of this little family, now it looked as though he was going to find out.
‘Weenie was with my mother and father when they were killed, the boys weren’t. Weenie would be normal enough, I think, if it weren’t for that. She was all right before. What happened then seemed to … stunt her. Every way, physically and mentally. I don’t think the boys ever did have far to go, but Weenie did have.’ Her tone was sad.
‘What happened?’ He had heard some talk about an accident. People didn’t seem to care to talk about it much.
‘You don’t know? Most people round here know. It’s a kind of fable. Or a joke. Only they don’t joke much about death. And they’re sorry for us. They are kind round here, never think they are not.’
Coffin nodded, telling himself he might remember this fact when people talked to him about ‘neighbourhood’ crimes. Only perhaps your face had to fit to get the kindness, you had to belong. The Flemings undoubtedly belonged.
‘Dad was driving the van. He hired it out. That was how he made a living after he lost his job on the railway, through drink and petty pilfering. I don’t usually tell people that, although I expect you know already. He was quite clever, Dad, in his way, but he had never had an education. I don’t think he wanted it, he liked the way he was. Mum married beneath her, as they say, she had an education, only it never took, she wasn’t bright. I used to wonder why she married Dad, but I know really. It’s easy. What they had in common was what a lot of people have.’
She stopped, and then went on: ‘Anyway, he had Mum in the van with him and Weenie, but the rest of us were at home. I was at school. He had a vanload of manure. And he hit a lorry full of pigs going to the abattoir at Woolwich.’
‘Don’t go on if you don’t want to,’ said Coffin.
‘Dad hit the lorry, smashed right into it. And all the pigs came tumbling out. They found Dad in the middle of the road with a pig straddling him and manure all over his face. He was dead. So was the pig, for that matter. The rest of them were running round squealing. Weenie was all right, but Mum had a ruptured spleen and died before they could get her to hospital.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Nearly three years. I took over the family. Now you know why we are the way we are. You must have been wondering.’
Coffin thought she was gallant and brave and loving, when caring for Weenie and her brothers could not have come easily.
Sarah put the trowel she had been using carefully into her garden basket and removed her garden gloves. ‘Why did you come tonight? Is it about your laundry? I know I’ve been slow lately. But there have been reasons.’
‘I understand that, Sarah,’ he said gently. ‘And no, it’s not about my laundry.’ He picked up her basket. ‘Shall we go into the house?’
She stood still. ‘I know we must look a kind of circus.’
‘Now, now.’
She allowed herself a small smile. ‘Come on in, then, I’m going to make some coffee. Have a cup with me.’
The coffee proved to be filtered and freshly ground, something he had not expected.
She saw his expression and read it accurately. ‘You expected coffee powder and boiling water, didn’t you? Well, so it is most of the time. But this is my little luxury that I have when I can. When it seems the right time.’
He was pleased that this was the right time. He felt a warm liking for the pretty, brave girl. It might be a dangerous feeling, but he would see it was dangerous only to him and not to the girl.
They drank the coffee in the kitchen. No small talk, but a friendly silence.
‘So why did you come?’ Sarah put down her cup.
‘Where is your brother?’
‘Out walking. He mostly is, these days.’ There was sympathy and toleration in her voice.
‘He loved Nona?’
She nodded.
‘What sort of a girl was she? How did you feel about her?’
‘You mean, was she the sort of girl that other girls could be friends with? Yes, she was. Even a girl like me that would have liked some of the things she had. She was effortless, was Nona. Grown-up for her age, a bit wild. I envied her.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘I’ve always had to fight. I don’t mind the fight. In a way I enjoy it. But just sometimes …’ She shrugged. ‘Well, poor kid, she’s gone and I’m sorry. She didn’t deserve that, none of them did.’
‘Can you think of any reason why she should have been killed? Anyone who disliked her?’
Sarah shook her head silently. In a way, she had come close to hating Nona at times, although she was not going to admit it. But not to kill. Not like that.
‘What about the rest of the family?’
She looked surprised. ‘They were nice. Charming. I admired Irene. Didn’t know Mr Pitt, but he was always polite.’
‘Did everyone like them?’
She was silent again.
‘Let me put that another way. Were they disliked as a family?’
She shook her head. ‘No. They were nice people.’
Not exactly what I heard, thought Coffin.
‘You never saw any signs of jealousy or resentment of them?’
Sarah occupied herself taking the coffee cups over to the sink. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘But no, I never saw anything like that.’
‘They were a lot richer than most people round here and had more status. Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes, yes and yes,’ said Sarah, ‘but I never saw any signs of hatred. There, have I answered you?�
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‘Yes. I think you have.’ Coffin got up and stood looking out of the window. He could see a tiny backyard with a scrap of lawn and a few flowers. Clothes were pegged out on a line, nothing of his own. ‘I would like to see your brother.’
‘He’ll be in. Or he won’t be.’ Another shrug.
‘He recovered after that business down by the river? It was hard on him and the girl.’
‘It was rotten for them. He was so brave and good then. He saved Nona’s life.’ Her voice was defiant.
Coffin said in a careful voice: ‘Yes, but I find that the whole episode is puzzling. He knew Terry Place, didn’t he?’
Sarah nodded, reluctantly, he felt, as if she would have denied it if she could. ‘They both loved the Cutty Sark, and the river. I don’t think Place can have been all bad, even if he did kill someone.’
‘Friends, would you call them?’ He was probing her. She knew something.
‘Friends? That’s a hard word. Only in a kind of way. They were people who had things in common.’ She was phrasing it carefully, as if she was writing an essay. It alerted Coffin.
‘Did he go there that day to meet Place? I have wondered. Coincidence worries me.’
‘You’d have to ask him yourself.’
‘And what do you think?’
Sarah hesitated. Then she took a deep breath. In the end you had to trust someone and she trusted this man. ‘I’m not saying he knew Place would be there, but I guess he thought he would be.’
‘Ah.’ Coffin considered. ‘Then why did he take the girl there?’
‘He hasn’t told me,’ said Sarah carefully.
Coffin sat down again on one of the hard kitchen chairs. He would have to speak to the boy again. Get more out of him.
‘He may have wanted to impress her,’ said Sarah. ‘Do something brave. And he did, of course. Or she may have asked to go.’ She dropped this into the conversation as an afterthought, but it interested Coffin. Nona as an active participant in their arrival at the tunnel party was a new idea.
‘I’ll have to speak to him myself.’
‘I don’t think anyone can talk to him at the moment. I know I can’t. He doesn’t seem to hear. The doctor says it’s shock. Because of Nona’s death on top of the other thing.’
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