Coffin Underground

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Is there anything else to tell me about Terry Place and your brother?’ He had the feeling there was something more. It was in her eyes and the fidgety movement of the hands.

  After a moment of silence in which she studied his face, she said: ‘I don’t know if it’s of any importance, but they played a game.’

  ‘A game?’ A fantastic picture of Terry Place with a tennis racket came to him.

  No, that was wrong. ‘Bingo?’

  ‘Not likely.’ Sarah gave a small smile. ‘A mind game.’

  ‘Like chess?’ Even in fantasy he could not see Terry Place settling down to a game of chess. Although he could have learnt in prison.

  ‘More like Snakes and Ladders.’

  ‘Where did they play? Did they meet here?’

  ‘I don’t think they did meet. Or not much. Anyway, not here.’ She was beginning to look harassed. Leave the game, he told himself. Come back to it later. For the moment he left the subject there, and went back to another line of questioning.

  ‘You say you did not know Nona Pitt well. I accept that. But you were the same age, you might have known or heard things about her that adults would not know.’

  Sarah returned his gaze without much expression. He was coming to realize that she could hold her own under fire. Slowly she shook her head. ‘Can’t think of anything. We weren’t at school together or anything like that.’

  ‘But she was friendly with your brother even then.’

  ‘Oh yes. Sure.’ The ready, noncommittal agreement of her generation.

  ‘Close? They were close?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now she smiled. ‘Pete really did go for her then. That’s when it began. For him anyway. Of course, she was only a kid. It couldn’t be so important for her. She had a lot of growing to do.’

  ‘It has been suggested to me that there was some episode in Nona’s life that disturbed her, greatly disturbed her. And that it might have some bearing on what has happened now. I don’t know what that episode was. Do you?’

  ‘No.’ She was telling the truth, he could tell.

  ‘The name Kincaid mean anything to you? Malcolm Kincaid.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not a thing. Never heard it.’

  ‘He was one of the students who rented the Pitt house in Church Street, they were missing for a while. You never heard that story?’

  ‘I seem to remember hearing something,’ she said vaguely. ‘But it didn’t register.’

  ‘Malcolm Kincaid was later found dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ The monosyllable reflected disinterested pity, no more. She might have said as much if a cat had died.

  ‘What about your brother, would he know anything?’

  ‘Is this in connection with Nona?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Then he might.’ She corrected herself. ‘Well, they were close.’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘But if there was anything, then he never told me.’

  ‘Might he have been involved? In whatever there was?’

  Now she was wary. ‘Peter never did anything wrong,’ she said swiftly.

  ‘I never said so.’

  ‘Right.’ She subsided.

  ‘So you can’t help me?’

  ‘No. I never heard of anything. Nona always looked all right to me.’

  She did not like the subject, he could see that. All the more reason to talk to Peter Fleming when he could.

  He recognized a time to change tack. ‘Any more coffee in the pot?’

  Sarah shook it. ‘A cup each.’

  She had to put water in it to stretch it, but it was still a decent cup of coffee by his standards. Not by hers, though, he thought, watching her face as she drank. A sudden wave of feeling for the clever, perfectionist girl washed over him.

  ‘Your family are lucky to have you,’ he heard himself say suddenly.

  There was a pause while she thought about it. ‘I hope they think so. Haven’t you got any family?’

  ‘A half-sister. Perhaps more than one.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ she said, laughing. Her face was pretty and animated, even though her hair was untidy and her lipstick chewed. He suspected she was glad to be changing the subject away from the Fleming family and on to his. But he felt her warmth and friendliness, her sheer vitality reached out to move him.

  He began to tell her about Letty and then about the astonishing story that there might be another member of the family tucked away in Scotland.

  ‘In Glasgow, of all places.’ He shook his head. For such a Londoner, the idea seemed impossible. How could a member of his family have got there? By being born there, Letty had said.

  ‘You ought to go and look.’

  ‘I think my sister has. At least she’s dropped out of touch and I suspect that’s where she is.’ The coffee was beginning to sit strangely on him, she had been wise to leave hers more or less untouched. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this.’

  ‘Because you’re a nice man. Kind.’

  ‘Not sure how you can tell.’

  With a smile, she said: ‘When you’ve washed a man’s shirts and underpants, you do know something about him.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you do it.’

  ‘It was not for you to say,’ said Sarah proudly.

  ‘Now I know you better, Sarah, I think I’d pay you not to do it.’

  Soon after that, he left. Peter had still not appeared. Out of all his questions asked in the line of the investigation, perhaps he had not got very much, although he was not so sure about that. But there had certainly been something else. He had a lot to think about.

  As he walked home, he reflected that it was almost a love passage. It was not, of course. Just the way it came out.

  Chapter Ten

  Coffin went home and let himself into his flat. All was quiet and still, and undusted. Clearly Mrs Brocklebank had not been to clean today. Now he thought about it, she had not been here yesterday either; small chance she would be here tomorrow then, she was avoiding him. He could understand her behaviour. But it would not avail her, he could always go and see her. Would do.

  Might be interesting to see the Brocklebank household.

  Moodily he put on the kettle for some more coffee, powdered this time, he could not rise to the skills performed so effortlessly by Sarah Fleming. Then he decided to make himself an omelette. Should be easy, he decided, you broke the eggs, bashed them around with a fork, not spilling them over yourself if you could help it, then put them in the frying-pan. He had always managed this part with success, but for some reason, he had always found getting the eggs out much harder. As a piece, anyway. They stuck and came out in bits. Black and burnt usually. And if they didn’t come out in segments, then the middle fell out as you transferred the pale object to your plate.

  He had taken to avoiding putting in a middle. But an omelette empty of content was a sad object. Not nourishing, either. Though by that time, he was not usually thinking of nourishment but the simple satisfaction of hunger.

  In a way, he was glad when the doorbell rang commandingly just as he had got the eggs in the pan. He was still hungry, but he was not in trouble.

  There was always fish and chips. With a pang, he remembered the last time he had eaten fish and chips, the time he had met Irene Pitt.

  The bell rang again, a long, loud peal. He could guess who it was. There was only one person in his life at the moment who rang bells with such commanding force.

  ‘Come in, Paul,’ he said, as he opened the door.

  ‘Sorry to barge in.’

  The Inspector looked tired. He sniffed. ‘Can I smell something burning?’

  ‘Oh damn!’ Coffin fled back to the kitchen. In trouble, after all. He shovelled the contents of his frying-pan into the waste-bin and put the pan in the sink. The red-hot handle burnt his hand.

  ‘Turn off the gas,’ suggested Lane mildly. He looked at his wounded colleague and did the job himself. ‘You have to turn the gas down with eggs.’ He had lea
rnt to cook in his first bedsit as a student. ‘Of course, a good omelette – that was an omelette? – is very hard to bring off,’ he said tactfully.

  It was at moments like this that John Coffin realized that the Inspector would go right to the top.

  ‘I can’t even bring off a bad one,’ he said. ‘Come into the sitting-room and have a drink. Do you mind if I eat some cheese and biscuits?’

  The Inspector followed him in, quietly turning off the kettle which had been busy boiling itself dry. Wonder how many frying-pans and kettles he gets through in a week, he mused.

  ‘I don’t eat here often,’ said Coffin, almost answering his question. ‘Not hot food, anyway.’

  ‘Sorry to barge in.’

  ‘Glad to see you.’

  ‘Wait till you hear what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Let’s have a drink first, then,’ said Coffin, pouring out whisky with a generous hand. He didn’t drink much himself as a rule and neither did Lane, but tonight was the night for it. Sarah Fleming had unsettled him in more ways than one. Without meaning to, she had let into his mind, like a pack of wolves, hard and surprising thoughts about the death of the Pitts. And about herself.

  And about himself in relation to her.

  ‘What did you do, then?’

  ‘I know you wanted to speak to Rhoda Brocklebank but I am afraid I’ve jumped the gun. I’ve been to see her as well as the other two women. Once I’d seen them, I realized I had to get to her before they did.’

  ‘Go on. I’m interested.’

  ‘They have been tapping the money that Place and Egan left with them for safety. Place left his little pile with his sister, she kept it under the floorboards. William Egan left his with Mrs Brocklebank because he trusted her more than anyone else. He just about could do, because as it turned out she only took a percentage, unlike the other two who got through the lot, but then Egan had more to leave hidden than Place. Roxie Farmer let it all out without much pressure. I think she was glad to confess, and her sister-in-law just said she considered it as much her money as Terry’s.’

  ‘She had a point there.’

  ‘It was as much hers as it was Terry’s, I suppose, but the Bank he heisted it from might think it had a prior claim. Anyway, they had managed to fend Terry off by pretending the money was hidden in Spain. God help him, he believed it, and he was waiting to get it.’

  ‘Bit of luck for them what happened to him.’

  ‘Oh yes, and they’re not expecting him back. Written him off. But Bill Egan was another matter. They were all terrified when they heard he was arriving back prematurely.’

  ‘Must have been a relief when he was killed.’

  Lane said: ‘I would call their present mood one of relief mixed with fear. They are still frightened.’ As if something was hanging over them. ‘Especially Rhoda Brocklebank. Once she knew the other two women had talked, it came out like a flood. She kept the money hidden in 22, Church Row so that her husband should not see it.’

  ‘And invented the tale of the house being haunted as a security measure?’

  ‘She thought it advisable, and now of course she more than half believes it herself.’

  Coffin sat back. ‘Let’s run over everything and see what we can put together.’ He took a last bite of cheese and biscuit and still looked hungry.

  Lane took pity on him. ‘Hang on,’ he said, and went out to the kitchen. The pan was past rescuing but he thought he could manage with a nonstick saucepan.

  ‘Don’t think I’m doing this out of pity for you,’ he called. ‘I’m hungry myself.’ He looked around the kitchen, tidy but empty, not the sort of kitchen where any serious eating was done. This must make him an ideal employer for Mrs Brocklebank whom he reckoned to be on the lazy side. ‘Any more eggs?’

  ‘Box in the refrigerator.’

  Coffin sat back. His living-room was one of his rare successes in interior decorating. It had happened by accident, almost, just buying the furniture he liked as he saw it, odd pieces here and there, and then choosing the carpet and curtains in the expensive London store where he had happened to be making inquiries about another crime. The curtains had great golden swags on a pale yellow background and the carpet was deep yellow and oriental. If anyone spilt anything on it, he would kill them. It was the first time he had loved a carpet, and now he found himself looking at carpets in shop windows.

  Paul Lane came back with two plates of scrambled eggs and buttered toast. He had also found time to make some coffee.

  Coffin took a mouthful of hot eggs and toast, found it delicious, made a resolve to learn to cook them himself, and started talking.

  ‘About Bill Egan. We know where he was hiding, we know who killed him, although not why it was done with such unnecessary violence.’

  ‘You think that is important?’

  ‘I think it may be, but we may get Place to tell us.’ Lane looked doubtful, but Coffin swept on. ‘We know what was worrying Rhoda Brocklebank, and Roxie Farmer and Mrs Terry Place. I shall be talking to that trio myself. I don’t know what we are going to do about them. Can’t just say forgive and forget.’

  ‘If Terry Place recovers he’s going to have something to say as well.’ Inspector Lane was tidily collecting the plates.

  ‘Is he going to recover?’

  Lane shrugged. ‘Probably not. He’s on a life support system. Kidney failure.’

  ‘I’m glad he spoke up about the shooting on the river before he collapsed again,’ said Coffin soberly. ‘I must have another word with him. Let me know how things go there.’ He thought for a moment, then went on:

  ‘There is a chain of contacts: Egan, Place, Nona, the Pitts.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Coffin. ‘Perhaps nothing at all. Could be just coincidence. It does happen.’ Every policeman knew that. ‘Or perhaps Rhoda is right and it is the house. No, I don’t accept that. But I do believe that one act of violence seeds another.’ He looked out of the window. ‘You can forget I said that.’ It wasn’t the sort of utterance that the orthodox policeman made in public.

  ‘Which was the original act of violence? We might have to look a long way back.’

  Lane was interested but puzzled.

  ‘Wherever it began, it ends in the death of three of the Pitt family by poisoning. And that poison, potassium cyanide. To which the girl Nona might have had access.’

  Lane’s mouth opened in surprise.

  Briskly, Coffin told him of Christopher Court’s story and how the MP’s tale had led him to investigate the death of Malcolm Kincaid.

  ‘Is that your original act of violence?’

  ‘Could be. There has to be a start somewhere.’

  Lane considered. ‘All very speculative. We don’t know the Pitt girl was there at the scene of his suicide, nor if there was any potassium cyanide left. All we know is that the container or bottle was never found. We’ll never know now.’

  He had a clear, sceptical and analytical mind, valuable to his boss.

  ‘Have you passed this info along?’

  ‘To Salter? No, not yet. I will, of course, but I don’t know what he will make of it.’

  Technically, overlooking TAS’s watching brief, the investigation into the deaths of the Pitt family was now in the hands of a senior local CID officer, Chief Inspector Chips Salter. He was not an easy man to deal with.

  ‘He’s still working on the theory that they were killed by someone from the neighbourhood who resented them and their prosperity.’

  Coffin grunted. ‘Any evidence?’

  ‘He’s floundering,’ said Lane. ‘But he has one or two family groups lined up. The usual violent, racial outfits who hate anyone not like them. People with a record for interfering with the likes of the Pitts, not ones with their social standing, though.’

  ‘He dislikes me interfering, but I’m going to have to.’

  Chief Inspector Chips Salter was one of the officers they had been sent in to bring
under control and Salter both guessed this (although all such information was supposed to be highly confidential), and – naturally – resented it.

  The remit of the TAS said aid and assist, which meant they had the right to weigh in but the locals had the right to offer obstruction. And did. Trouble had been stitched into the TAS at its inception.

  ‘I shall have to put a report in on him.’ Coffin spoke without pleasure.

  ‘He’s one of the worst,’ said Lane, with gloomy satisfaction.

  ‘He always seems a jump ahead of me.’ The Chief Inspector appeared to have ready access to their thoughts and plans. ‘Didn’t he and Jumbo train together?’

  Lane nodded. He was no admirer of the casual Chief Inspector Jardine who had been wished on them. ‘The same thought occurred to me. Jumbo is a leaky sieve. Not on purpose, but in the Golf Club … Those two play together.’

  They settled down to a discussion of their problems, and the work they had in front of them. The two young sergeants, Topper and Evans, were assets, Chief Inspector Jardine a known liability. But everyone knew about Jumbo, he was no surprise. He was like an old car that had been around in the neighbourhood for a long time, loaned out among your friends, used and passed on, so that when it got to you in your time, you knew what you were getting.

  It was well after midnight before Paul Lane yawned and got up. ‘Better get back. The wife will think I’ve got lost.’ It was a joke, she thoroughly understood the demands of his job, it was one of his greatest assets as a policeman. He would never come back home and find she had left an angry note of farewell on the pillow.

  Coffin saw him down the staircase and out of the front door, where they stood, still talking.

  Paul Lane put his hand in his pocket for his car keys and found something there. He drew it out where it rested on his palm. ‘Oh, I remember. Found this at Roxie’s. They had a bit of a bonfire in the front garden. This was at my feet and I just picked it up.’

  Coffin took it from him. It was a small, two-dimensional, painted cardboard figure of a young woman in flowing mediæval-style robes. The flat figure stood on a small base as if ready to be moved round a board like a chessman. It was about three inches high.