Cracking Open a Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘We had to pick the bits of wood out of them.’

  The policeman started to say something, but she ignored him.

  ‘There’s something wrong with him beside the head injuries.’

  The nurse had now got Victoria’s face in focus and knew her. Dr Blackhall was a respected and admired figure in St Luke’s. Slightly feared as formidable, but trusted.

  ‘Yes, a virus. He was soaking wet, we think he may have been in the river.’

  The policeman managed to get his word in: ‘If it’s a medical matter, of course … but otherwise …’

  ‘I only wanted to see if this is my son.’

  The police constable was flustered. In his youthful experience, admittedly limited, doctors, and especially such commanding ones as this lady, did not have sons who might go down for a stretch for attempted robbery with violence. ‘And is it?’

  Victoria Blackhall looked down at the bruised and battered face. His eyes opened, he stared up at her.

  ‘Mum.’

  She took one of those battered hands. ‘I’m here, darling.’

  A whisper. ‘Mum. I didn’t mean to hurt her.’

  Sharply, she said: ‘Stop it. Don’t say another word.’

  Outside, on her way to telephone her husband, she leaned against a door, took a deep breath and thought about her son’s condition, about his immersion in water, about his hands which had handled wood and about the two girls, one dead, one gravely injured. What had been going on?

  Wood and water, she said to herself. Wood and water. Rationality made a play to be heard, she must listen to reason. It can’t mean anything … And yet I have said it … Perhaps that is what retribution is: you make it yourself.

  I shall not say this to Tom. He has the night horrors in the daytime already.

  The news spread around at once, evoking different reactions in different places.

  The hospital was the first to know, beating the police by a short head. John Coffin was alerted by a telephone call from Chief Superintendent Paul Lane. Then the news was transported to the theatre, where a rehearsal of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ was taking place. Star Court heard nothing that day, it was not quick at noticing the outside world, but Josephine was told the next day on picking up her morning paper from Mimsie, who had heard the story and slept on it. Jo looked so ill these days she was sorry she had told her.

  The hospital, on the whole, held its breath and kept quiet. Dr Blackhall was a well-known and respected figure there, no one wanted to cause her more pain than they had to. She had cancelled her clinic appointments for the coming week, leaving her Senior Registrar to stand in for her. No one expected her to be away longer than that: she was a professional, after all. Nor did they pain her by looks of sympathy as she walked through the corridors, although one very senior colleague did give her a hearty slap on the back, but he was known for doing that sort of thing.

  For the police it was another matter and Chief Inspector Young was round to the hospital at once, where he was soon joined by the team that had been investigating the robbery in the shop. Sergeant Hill got there first, having been alerted by the constable in the room.

  Two men, both concerned with questioning one young man about two different cases. The two of them met in the hall outside Martin Blackhall’s room. Martin had been conscious and they wanted to get at him.

  ‘Inspector Vernon is on his way over,’ said Hill, anxious to be polite to Young who was known to be in with the Big Man himself. Or so the story went. He himself had spoken but once to the Chief Commander and had found him courteous yet alarming. Like everyone else he knew the tale of the Chief Commander’s life; how he had come up through the ranks, how he had a mad mother and a rich half-sister, how he had spent a period out of favour because of some special circumstances (not known about but thought to be secret and dangerous work which sent him mad too) and how he had come back. Stella Pinero had her place in the saga too but they admired him for that. She was a woman of importance.

  ‘I want to speak to this young man,’ said Archie crisply. ‘He must have had quite a busy few days if he strangled and buried one girl and then went in for robbery with violence.’

  Hill remained silent, life with his superiors having taught him the virtues of a quiet tongue.

  Archie Young continued his monologue: ‘What was he up to? Wanted the money to escape, I suppose … Could be on drugs. That might explain a lot.’

  Archie opened the door and looked into the cubicle where Martin lay, but his way was blocked by the nurse.

  ‘Dr Chain says no visitors.’

  ‘Oh, come on, nurse. We’re police officers. This is important.’

  She was nervous, but held her ground. ‘Doctor says not … And in any case, the patient is not fully conscious.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  She moved a pace back. ‘Just look and no more.’

  Archie Young pushed ahead of Hill. He saw what Victoria had seen: a bruised and swollen face, with bandages covering the head. He observed a scratched hand resting on the bedcover.

  His spirits took an unexpected dip, he was touched by cold. He had the sense of something very wrong. He did not use the word Evil, it was not a word in his vocabulary, but he was puzzled. He felt something more than he could express.

  A feeling like that was not to be endured, and he rallied.

  ‘His mother knew him. That’s good enough for me.’ He stepped back. ‘Let’s go.’

  Hill remained circumspect. ‘I’ll hang on till Vernon gets here.’

  ‘Right. Then come on over, both of you, to my office. We need to talk.’

  Not two cases but one, with two investigating teams involved. Three, if you considered those handling the matter of the car found in the territory of the Met.

  One thing, Archie Young decided as he drove back to Spinnergate, we can give up looking for a dead body in Essex. Work had gone on there since the discovery of the coffin with Amy Dean’s body in it, but nothing had turned up and now he thought he knew why.

  The hospital, having triumphed as an institution over the police by imposing a delay for medical reasons, resumed its own busy life.

  One more thought came to CI Young as he waited in the heavy traffic, banging an impatient hand on the steering-wheel: Have to get round to the university on the quick or the Blackhalls would have that sewn up too. He had no illusions about whose influence had operated back in the hospital. No word might have come from Sir Thomas or his lawyers as yet, but his shadow had gone before him.

  In the main refectory of the university there was a quiet buzz of gossip as various medical students got back from the hospital and spread the news that Lady Blackhall had identified her son.

  Angela, Beenie and Mick were about to eat a late lunch. Mick deposited a large tray on the table. ‘Three cheese salads. It was about all they had left. Oh, and coffee for us, Beenie, and fruit juice for Angela.’

  ‘I’d have liked coffee,’ said Angela.

  ‘Get it yourself, then.’ Mick sat down and picked up a fork. ‘I thought you weren’t drinking coffee because you thought you had caffeine poisoning.’

  ‘I’m over that now and back on the caffeine.’ She moved the cheese around on the plate. ‘This salad is disgusting.’

  ‘Looks all right to me.’ Beenie dug into her salad. ‘I’m hungry.’

  But although all three had healthy appetites, today the food was chewed without interest. Angela anyway had been causing her friends worry since the discovery of Amy’s body.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about Martin and Amy,’ said Beenie. ‘Not till we’ve eaten.’

  ‘Thrashed it out already, haven’t we?’ Mick muttered.

  ‘No, there’s more to say.’

  Angela kept quiet. Her friends noticed and exchanged glances. She had been so much closer to Amy and Martin than either of the others. Knew more about Amy and her problems. There had been problems. Who said sex was easy, thought Beenie. She gave a small shrug which Mic
k interpreted as: Keep off anything dangerous for the time being.

  He might or might not take notice of that warning; he was the man in this group and would make his own decisions. But he did notice a new bruise on Angela’s arm.

  He poured sugar into his coffee with youthful abandon: he had no weight worries, he was never going to get fat. Hunger worried him much more, he was nearly always hungry. Even now, he looked round wondering whether to go back for that extra roll and cheese. The canteen girl knew him and liked him and might therefore hand it over without charging. The university awarded them so many points a term for food in the canteen. Beyond that allowance (and Mick usually ate his way fast through it) you had to pay in hard cash which no student ever admitted to having much of, and certainly not Mick who operated on an overdraft at the bank and loans from his family.

  He stirred his coffee and decided against the roll. ‘How was Star Court?’ Angela could not refuse to answer a direct question.

  ‘They’ve accepted me to go once a week. I was there today.’

  ‘Good, was it?’

  ‘I think I was helpful. I did jobs that weren’t getting done. They watched me a bit, but I understood that.’

  ‘Anyone been rough with you down there?’

  ‘No.’ Angela flushed and drew her sleeve down over her forearm. ‘Just banged myself.’ Lies and more lies, Beenie thought. What is with this Star Court?

  ‘Wish you wouldn’t go down there. I know you said you were kind of doing it for Amy but you give too much.’

  ‘It helps me. I like doing it.’

  ‘You mean you get something from them?’

  ‘Give, get.’ Angela shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s the same thing.’

  He wondered more than ever what had drawn Angela and Amy to Star Court. For Amy it had been part of her degree course, she was doing a paper on it for her tutor, but he sensed something more. Something personal. Started by Amy, he thought, but now carried on by Angela. And before that there had been Virginia. ‘Shall I come down and give a hand?’ he tried experimentally.

  ‘No.’ Angela was quick to say no.

  Strangers keep out, Mick thought, men not wanted. But he put his considerable brain power to work.

  Across the room a cluster of medical students, white coats flung over chairbacks, notebooks and files stacked on the tables, were bursting into laughter. One male student had a skeleton on the table.

  ‘Showing off,’ said Beenie. She leaned forward. ‘We ought to talk about Amy and Martin now he’s turned up.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ said Angela. ‘Nor do you, do you, Mick?’

  ‘Thought we’d hashed it all over.’

  ‘No,’ said Beenie. ‘Besides—’ she lowered her voice still more—‘see those two men sitting over there, having coffee, and pretending to be one of us?’

  ‘Police,’ said Mick, glancing over his shoulder. ‘They’ve been all over the place for days, we all know them. And it isn’t their feet, it’s the way they look at you.’

  ‘Right. Well, rumour has it they’ve found something in Amy’s room.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  Beenie shook her head. Her information, reliable because she had heard one of the detectives say so himself, went no further. Angela got to her feet. ‘I’m going.’

  Mick watched her walk from the refectory. ‘We said something wrong there.’

  ‘I’m keeping an eye on her, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Have you thought there’s something that Angie and Amy have in common.’

  ‘Someone,’ said Beenie promptly. ‘Martin.’

  ‘Well, that, yes.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘A look,’ Mick said thoughtfully. ‘Let’s recapitulate.’ This was a favoured expression of his, much used in his essays when he wanted to think things out on paper and didn’t know the way forward. ‘Our friend Amy has been killed, strangled. Martin is suspected because he seems to have been the last person known to be with her. Mark you, I say known.’ Beenie nodded. ‘Martin is in hospital, suspected of having tried to rob a shop in order to get money. To escape with, we presume. He muffed it and got knocked out himself. Badly. The girl shop assistant is not too good either. Then there is Virginia, who died last year. Also murdered. Possibly by Martin? Both girls worked at Star Court, home for battered ladies. And finally, there is our Angie, about whom we are worried because, inexplicably, she seems to be going the way of Virginia and Amy.’

  ‘You’re soft on her yourself, I think,’ said Beenie. ‘I could eat another roll.’

  They got up and strolled over to begin negotiations with the girl at the counter.

  One of the visiting detectives said to the other one: ‘I wish I could lip read. I’d like to know what they were talking about.’

  ‘I can’t lip read but I know what they were saying: that we’ve found something.’

  ‘And have we found something?’

  ‘Haven’t we just.’ They indulged in this sort of repartee occasionally. After a particular triumph.

  Under the floorboards of Martin’s student room which he did not share with anyone, they had found a tin box in which was the torn-up, cut-up or, as forensics were to show later, the sliced-up-with-a-knife photographs of Virginia, the very first girl killed.

  ‘He’s lying there in his bed, not speaking, not saying a word, all tucked up and comfortable, and all the time he had that picture under the floorboards in his room.’

  The two of them left the university precincts soon after this, having warned the university security staff against people trying to get in.

  ‘No one inside, right?’

  They drove off, they were in a hurry to report and get home. One had a girlfriend he was keen to meet and the other was singing in a choir that was joining in an amateur production of Wagner. He thought he was meant to be a dwarf.

  Philippa knew that one of the chorus singers was a policeman, because the beloved Marcus had told her. All in all, she thought him one of the most unlikely Nibelungs she had ever seen, but he had the voice, Adrian said. She also knew, due to the excellent intelligence service that Spinnergate operated (it was, after all, a village), that he was working on the case of Amy Dean. The woman who cleaned her house was a friend of the woman who helped behind the bar where several police officers gathered, that was how it worked. Hardly anyone thought about the woman quietly polishing the glasses with a soft cloth. Quite a few police officers drank in that pub which was across the road from their HQ, so that some information often seeped out that way. Even the Chief Commander had been seen there on occasion, although not saying much. Perhaps he was conscious of Daisy and her sharp ears.

  Circles do interlink, Philippa thought with unease. Must be careful what I say. She gave the policeman-Nibelung, whom she was introducing to his costume, a sweet smile.

  He looked baffled, both at what he was required to wear and her smile. ‘I don’t think I can get my legs into this.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can. Try.’

  He took the garments and retired behind a screen. They’re not decent, he thought. Or won’t be when I’m in them. A sort of leather jerkin and tight leggings. A kind of little cap for the top of the head. He felt like a mixture of something out of Snow White and a garden gnome. He supposed he could sing in such clothes.

  As he emerged he could hear one of the Valkyries complaining about her breastplate, and when he saw it he didn’t blame her. Even Madonna couldn’t wear that, he thought.

  ‘No, it’s not really steel,’ Philippa was saying. ‘Of course it’s not steel, it just looks like it. Painted. Anyway, the Gods wouldn’t have had steel. Not period. Iron or bronze.’

  The Valkyrie started to say something about the boy Martin being found and then stopped when she saw him. Must know he was a policeman. Now he got a look at her, he saw that she was the chief Valkyrie, Brunnhilde, a kind of super Girl Scout.

  He put his head down and moved into the rest of the Nieblung chorus, most of whom were co
mplaining about their costumes too. He knew the face of one of the Nibelungs: a student. His eyes and Mick’s met and admitted a relationship.

  While they awaited the arrival of the conductor and the musical director, he sat down and thought about what he had discovered under the floorboards in Armitage Hall that afternoon. It had been his hands that had lifted it out.

  ‘Saw a mark on the floorboards,’ his report had said. ‘Lifted the board, and this tin box was underneath.’

  Inside was the coarsely shredded photograph, in colour, of a girl. On the back, when pieced together was the word Virgin.

  Short for Virginia, he supposed. Virginia Scott. Dead a year ago. Made you think.

  Lydia Tulloch was also thinking. The boy Martin had obviously been badly hurt by the black-leather-dressed girl and she had witnessed his beating. And it had to be said it looked as though the leather girl had enjoyed what she was doing.

  It was justified, of course, she told herself, if he had just attacked the shop assistant, but I suppose I ought to say. There had been that milkman, he saw something, maybe leave it to him. Could I recognize the girl again? Hard to say.

  She wondered how the police worked. Reports in duplicate, memoranda and meetings probably, much like the university where she had been a unit in the administration before coming into her inheritance from Aunt Dolly.

  She felt so sorry for the Blackhalls.

  She took herself off to stand with the rest of the Valkyries. Centre stage of course, that was where Brunnhilde stood.

  The meeting in John Coffin’s room had been going on for some time. Superintendent Lane, and Chief Inspector Young were present and talking. Inspector Vernon was looking on.

  ‘Do we know who knocked Blackhall out?’

  ‘Yes, we have a good idea. One person saw from a distance and gave a description. Milkman on his round. He described a figure that makes us think it was the girl they call Our General. But it’s a guess, we can’t prove it. We need a good witness.’

  ‘Have you questioned her?’

  The Chief Superintendent looked at Archie Young, who admitted with reluctance that they had not. Our General could not be reached.