‘Three days, nearly three days,’ Jim Dean spoke sharply. ‘That’s too long.’ He reached into his pocket to pull out a small photograph. Black and white, not new, a little battered as if it had been carried around. ‘That’s my Amy. Look at her.’
Coffin looked. ‘Can I take this away?’
‘Not that photograph, I’ll give you another …’ He reached in his pocket. ‘Have you got a child? No, of course, I heard, tragic … I want her found, she’s got to be found. Your lot can do it. You and I know how it goes, you can see they make a push.’ Coffin saw his eyes were bloodshot. ‘It’s day two, into day three, and she’s my child. I want her found.’
Sir Tom said: ‘That goes for me too, I want my son found.’
Coffin turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see things get started.’
‘I’ll walk you across the campus, the gate may be locked now.’
At the gate, which was closed, a security man stood. The Rector nodded and got out a key. ‘I’ll do this, Bill, thank you.’
‘Right, sir.’ The man stood back, but he studied John Coffin’s face as if he meant to remember it.
With the key in his hand, the Rector said: ‘Dean thinks my boy has killed his daughter. I don’t believe Martin did it. That’s another reason I wanted you here. Dean wasn’t so keen.’
He put on a good act then if that’s so, but Coffin did not say this aloud. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
He walked back through the streets to the big new police buildings in Spinnergate. Not much of a walk but an interesting one, with plenty to observe. He passed the Great Eastern Dock, once the place where furs and timber from Russia and the Baltic arrived and now a wall of new apartments, well lit up on this autumn evening. On his right was the new hospital, an ambulance going in and another speeding out with all lights flashing.
He walked on, there was the Old Leadworks Art Gallery, said to be prospering in spite of the recession. Past Rope Alley, scene of a notorious killing of a girl, avoiding the turn to Feather Street and the junction which led to St Luke’s Mansions where he lived himself, walking fast to the unpretentious but efficient blocks of his own headquarters where he would find someone on call in the CID rooms.
And they would certainly know he was on the way, the message would have been flashed ahead that WALKER was coming.
It came back to him with a shock then that he had seen Dean not so long ago without taking in who it was. A figure in a pub (the Lamb and Lion, much patronized by his Force), talking to a face he knew. Yes, Harry Coleridge. Not one of his admirers. Dean had left with a laugh, slapping Coleridge on the arm and calling, ‘Keep me in touch with the barnyard.’ Just a flash of memory but it was interesting. Yes, that was the authentic Dean touch, friendly, bantering but sharp.
He was still studying the photograph of Amy Dean, a sensitive face but possibly a troubled one, and weighing up the interview with the two fathers last night, while waiting for Stella to arrive. He was thinking too about that earlier case of the death of a student around which there had hung an unpleasant smell as of people not telling all they knew; he had called for the file on this before leaving his office last night. One of the good things about his now automated life was that he could summon material on his screen at any hour of the night or day. No waiting about as in the old days.
On the screen he had read the details: Virginia Scott, twentyish, a third-year student of sociology, her body had been found outside the departmental library, partly concealed from view by bushes.
She had been badly beaten up, and had died from shock. The post-mortem had turned up the news that there were old bruises as well as new on her body. No one had been charged, but there were rumours she had been beaten up by her boyfriend. The name of the student was Martin Blackhall. Nothing could be proved against him. She had had other boyfriends, in and out of the university, and she liked older men.
He was mulling this over and drinking his now tepid coffee when Stella Pinero walked into the bar.
Bob got up, nearly heaving over the table the better to let off a stream of happy barks and embrace his beloved mistress.
‘Down, Bob.’
Stella Pinero kissed John on his cheek and patted Bob’s head, all one lovely flow of motion that only an actress could have achieved. Coffin felt that if she had patted his head and kissed Bob it would have looked as elegant and meant as much. Kisses were not tokens of affection to Stella but a sign that she knew you were there and could speak later. Her turn first. Relations between them were still strained.
He knew better than to deliver more than a modest peck back nor to praise her appearance although she looked lovely, she had cut her hair short and tinted it red for a part she was rehearsing on TV and it suited her. He suspected she had known it would or a wig would have been ordered for the television series. A flourish of Guerlain came with her. Over the years he had learnt with some amusement that she wore Mitsouko with jeans and Chamade with skirts: it was a Mitsouko day.
With her was a tall, thin figure draped in what looked like rags and tatters until you saw the rags were of jewel-like colours and glittered here and there with gold thread. Then you realized you were looking at a carefully put together composition. A turban of soft chiffon scarves framed a thin face with huge brown eyes.
A striking face, so bony and yet so strong that it was hard to say if it was beautiful or ugly, it could be both.
Coffin stood up.
‘This is Josephine,’ said Stella, as if this explained everything: her late appearance, and the slight fluster in her manner now. ‘She knows you, of course.’
Josephine held out a long, thin hand, heavy with rich jewels, every one of them false.
‘She wants to talk to you, she has something to tell you.’
‘You don’t know me, no need to pretend,’ said Josephine, ‘no one knows me now.’ Her voice was deep and sweet with the remains of strong cockney accent overlaid with something transatlantic. ‘I was in New York and San Francisco far too long, but I’ve come back to my roots now.’
Life with Stella had trained his nose to scents. He knew a Chanel from a Dior, and he detected Josephine’s: oddly enough, she was wearing pine disinfectant.
Not a doctor, he thought, and definitely not a nurse. She was tall, he was tall himself and her eyes were level with his; Stella only came up to her shoulder. She appeared to be very thin, but with every movement she made he was becoming aware that inside that flutter of draperies was a body that knew how to move.
As well as the pine disinfectant he had caught the whiff of distinction which, like decay, has its own particular smell. Josephine was or had been Someone, but who? Stella acted as if he ought to know.
‘Josephine works at Star Court House,’ said Stella.
‘Ah.’ Coffin knew Star Court House, it was well known as a home for battered wives and children. He walked past it occasionally, just to see how it went on, but one did not enter unless invited. Not if you were a man and especially if you were a police officer. No one had so far asked him to Star Court House. ‘You do good work, but you’ve had your troubles.’ There were outbursts of violence in and around Star Court House at intervals; it attracted the very physicality it dealt with.
‘Haven’t had nearly so many incidents since one of the local gangs took us under their protection … No, since “Our General” started looking after us, we’ve felt safer.’
‘Oh, she’s down there, is she?’ Star Court was well south in his district, right down the bottom of Swine’s Hill and near the river. He hadn’t known Our General’s territory stretched so far, he had placed her in Spinnergate, that was gangland.
‘Been a real good friend. We owe her.’
Certainly interesting, he thought, but he was stepping carefully, because Star Court House did not welcome police interference, and he was surprised to be invoked. ‘Shall we all have a drink?’ He could see Max, who ran the bar, eyeing them hopefully. ‘Or we could have lunch, Stella?’ He managed to keep r
eproach out of his voice, because the arrangement had been a picnic lunch together.
Stella raised an eyebrow at Josephine, who shook her head so that the chiffons moved and waved about her head.
‘I have to get back. I promised. We’re short of help today. There’s a court case and that always drains us.’ Then she gave a smile. ‘On the other hand, a cup of Max’s coffee would be nice.’
Behind the bar, Max, a well-known local figure and owner of the nearby delicatessen (but this was recession and you needed as many jobs as possible), heard and started moving the cups. ‘Espresso, Miss Josephine, as usual?’
So he knew her, Coffin thought, but Max knew everyone. Still, it was his own job also to know everyone, how had he missed Josephine?
Josephine sat down but did not wait for the coffee before beginning. ‘I’m a volunteer worker at the hostel, most of us are, the hostel can’t afford much trained staff. We all muck in. It works mostly …’ She paused. ‘We had a girl, a student from the university who came in one day a week, she helped in the office, typed letters, saw that bills got filed if not paid, that sort of thing. She cooked if necessary, we all do everything … She’s gone … We’re worried about her, we think she’s missing and might be dead, and the girls, that is all of us who work there or live there, have sent me round to say.’
‘What was the name of this girl?’
‘Amy Dean, Amy to us.’
The coffee arrived and Max, who had certainly heard every word spoken because he always did, set the cups down carefully.
‘I know about Amy Dean,’ said Coffin.
‘Ah, I suppose that’s something. We thought the police were being shifty. So what are you doing?’
‘Action’s being taken, you can count on that.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Stella, leaning forward eagerly, as if Coffin was her pet and deserved a pat on the head. Like Bob.
‘Because it’s the second time.’ Josephine picked up her cup. ‘Another girl who helped at the centre was killed. Last year. She was murdered. And we don’t like it.’ She drained her coffee. ‘We think that’s two too many.’
Coffin absorbed what she had said, then he said: ‘One would be.’
‘I agree there.’
‘But Amy could turn up any minute.’ Only, like Josephine, he did not think she was going to.
Josephine was silent. ‘No,’ she said.
‘But thanks for telling me.’
Josephine drew her flutter of clothes around her, touched Stella lightly on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for helping,’ she said, and departed.
Coffin leaned forward. ‘I see your part in this, Stella, you brought her in. Don’t tell me you are also a helper at Star Court? No? Well, tell me, who is Josephine?’
Stella’s eyes grew round with surprise. ‘She’s Josephine. You don’t know Josephine? You mean you didn’t recognize her? She was the great model of the ’fifties and ’sixties, everyone knew her, her face was on everything.’
He thought he did recall the name and now he considered it, he could see it explained the way Josephine held herself and moved. ‘So what’s she doing at the Star Court?’
‘Oh well, she’s been down, you know, right down, touched the bottom … she had a bad time, drugs, drink, she went through it all, got beaten up herself once or twice.’ Perhaps more often than that, from all Stella had heard. ‘And I think she’s paying back all the help she got herself.’
‘So she doesn’t work any more?’
‘I don’t know what she lives on,’ said Stella, answering the unasked question. Not much, she feared.
‘She’s right, though, we ought to look into the case of the other girl.’
‘She’s got a conscience, has Josephine.’
‘You’re not suggesting that she had anything to do with it?’
‘Of course not. I mean she cares about people.’
‘It’s more complicated than she realizes.’ He drew a pattern on the cloth with his spoon. ‘Do they have lads, male students, working at Star Court?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, they avoid the male down there and you can understand it. Even the security staff is female.’ Ah yes, Our General, Coffin thought, no doubt supplied by her, wonder how they’d perform as Valkyries. Stella went on: ‘Why? Is a male student missing too?’
‘Could be,’ said Coffin. ‘It’s complicated.’ He could tell her that Martin Blackhall was missing, but he decided not to. Stella could be discreet, but not always.
He meditated the problem: a university and a refuge for battered women, two institutions at opposite ends of the social picture, yet reaching out touching hands to each other. Bloody hands.
He sat silently for a moment, his own problem sitting on his shoulders. Who knows how long he’d be able to help anyone? Stella looked at him with big, soft eyes. For once she seemed in a sympathetic mood.
He was badly in need of someone to go to for advice, but unluckily she was the very last person he could ask.
‘What’s up?’ said Stella. ‘Feel like more coffee? Or a glass of wine?’
Yes, definitely in a sympathetic mood, but it was no good.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Stella. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’
‘Me too, I have a board meeting: your sister’s trying to cut our money.’ Letty Bingham kept the theatre on a rolling budget. Funds were tight at the moment, the theatre was doing well, but this was a recession, and Letty had other interests, other responsibilities. Stella liked and admired Letty Bingham, a beautiful, well-groomed woman whose clothes and way of life she admired and even envied, but Letty was sharp about money. They had battles; sometimes Letty won and sometimes Stella. No bones broken, but you had to struggle. ‘I have to fight it.’
‘You’ll fight.’
They both stood up. Stella reached down for the dog’s collar. ‘I’ll take Bob.’
‘He’s yours.’
Philippa, hurrying home, after what had been a very satisfactory and heart-warming meeting with Marcus (she called him Marcus and she was Philippa), went into Max’s the Deli on Old Church Street, hard by the theatre and St Luke’s, where she walked into her Brunnhilde.
Lydia Tullock was buying smoked salmon roulade and a half-bottle of champagne.
‘Just bucking myself up. I felt I needed it after what I’d been through.’
Philippa knew what was required of her, there had been a raid on a shop in Spinnergate Tube station and Lydia had been there. ‘Is that the Spinnergate thing? I heard you saw something.’
‘Saw something! I was there, my dear. I was just walking up to buy some tights in that little boutiquey place as you come up the escalator when I heard the noises and saw the assistant trying to fight off a youth, with another boy just coming up to attack.’
‘How awful for you. What did you do?’
‘Just stood still. One youth pushed past me, that one got away and the other would have done, but he was absolutely fallen upon by the most splendid girl in a kind of leather tracksuit, she hit the second boy and knocked him right down. Skull-cracking,’ said Lydia with some pleasure. ‘Ambulances and bodies all round.’
‘It must have been exciting.’ Lydia had all the luck.
‘Of course, I was worried for my voice.’ She touched her throat, draped in a silk scarf. A Dufy print in pink and blue, Philippa noted, and therefore probably from Hermès. Lydia always had the best. ‘That’s where the strain always shows. Otherwise, I should have run after our defender and offered her a lift home. But she cleared off … motorbike. Lovely young creature … not beautiful, plain of face, but a marvellous flow of muscles.’ Lydia gave the beaming smile that suited her plump face. ‘I shan’t say I saw her hit him, though, she might get into trouble if he dies, and she was such a creature.’
Philippa listened: her friends’ sexual inclinations were always a subject of interest to her, but she decided now, possibly with a shade of regret as she herself admitted with shame, that Lydia’s emotion was purely æ
sthetic.
‘I wonder if she can sing?’ she asked, her chorus line of Valkyries being always on her mind.
‘Shouldn’t think so, dear,’ said Lydia, ‘but I saw some marvellous soft leather jeans in Bond Street that would just do for Siegfried.’ Except that he was about six feet round the waist. ‘I must take my little snack home. What are you getting, dear, something nice?’
‘Pretty nice,’ said Philippa, not willing to admit to an economical choice.
From the back of the shop, Max called, ‘Here is your vegetarian terrine, Mrs Darbyshire.’
‘I thought you’d given that up, Phil,’ said Lydia, clutching her luxuries to her ample bosom. ‘Mustn’t stint on food, you need building up.’
Philippa ground her teeth and watched her Brunnhilde depart. Tired, she walked home. On the way she nodded and smiled at a passing young constable on the beat. You never knew, and with searching eyes like that he would make a very visual Hagen, and with such a chest, he must have a voice. She gave herself a shake, she was getting obsessed with Wagner.
That evening, that same young, sharp-eyed constable saw the blue and white sweater as he walked on the river path by the old foundry works. It was a well-known spot for the river to deliver its burdens.
The young man picked the garment up, saw the label and recognized it for an expensive article. Missoni, said the label, and a discerning girlfriend (she was a barrister and they had met in court) had educated him about the value of that name.
He knew at once it was something that could be important. When he saw the initial on the front, he connected it instantly with the missing girl Dean.
CHAPTER 3
Day Three to Day Seven
Time passed, a slow, and painful passage for those closely concerned with the two missing students. Sir Thomas kept his appointments and tried to avoid the sympathetic comments of his colleagues as the story got out. He preferred not to discuss it. His wife, a distinguished physician, flew home from Berlin where she had been giving a series of lectures. He would have preferred not to discuss it with her too, but that was not to be.
Cracking Open a Coffin Page 3
