Cracking Open a Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  From her photograph, she too had had that air of soft attraction that Coffin was coming to see as the mark of this killer’s victims. This killer liked them soft.

  Her parents lived in France and had fled back there after the inquest released their daughter’s body. An unsolved case, still open.

  Amy Dean, the most complex case of the three. He knew all the details here, it was fresh in his head, but he ran a quick check. No helpful traces in the car, her blood, her father’s fingerprints, some other smudges not identified.

  CHAPTER 21

  Towards Thursday and a certain Friday

  He drank some coffee, and let Andrew go. It was past midnight, and he had the confused impression that he had spoken to several people on the telephone, and to Stella twice, without remembering what he had said.

  The forensic evidence on Josephine Day was still not complete, he had a question he wanted to ask. He looked at the clock. Professor Lincoln worked late. Or if he didn’t, he was going to.

  Not in his office, he was tracked down at home, unsurprised and alert.

  Coffin asked his question. ‘Yes, strangled manually by soft, steady heavy pressure. Yes, gloved hands. No, not rubber or plastic, leather gloves, you could pick up the graining on the skin.’

  ‘Thanks. You have given me what I wanted.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Can I go back to bed now?’

  He went to bed himself. Hungry for confirmation of what he suspected. But before departing, he left a note for Fiona or Lysette (it was due to be Fiona but he was never sure which face he would see) to make an appointment for Chief Inspector Coleridge to call on him.

  He underlined it. No refusal, that meant. Lysette would understand. Out of courtesy he ought to let Lane and Young know what he was up to but he had no doubt they would have ways of knowing.

  He got into his office early, but not before Lysette. She was doing more than her rota, could it be she was sorry for him? They met in his outer office where she was sorting his post.

  ‘Surprised to see me so early?’

  She smiled politely. Not surprised at anything you do, the smile said. But it was nicely said; with Fiona it would have had a sharper edge. Still, you need a Fiona in your life, he told himself again.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you, though. Where’s Fiona? Thought it was her day.’

  ‘She has ’flu. She’ll make up for me later.’

  ‘Did you get through to Chief Inspector Coleridge?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s there now, waiting for you.’

  Coleridge was standing with his back to the door, looking out of the window. He swung round as the Chief Commander came into the room. His face looked pale and grim.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, let’s sit down.’

  Coleridge still stood. ‘If this is about anything personal … domestic …’

  ‘Not at the moment. I wanted to ask you about the death of Josephine Day’s daughter, the girl Noreen.’

  Coffin watched the other man’s face. I’ve surprised him, not what he expected.

  Coleridge frowned. ‘That was a long while ago.’

  ‘I think it’s relevant to a current investigation.’ He saw Coleridge change. ‘It was never cleared up, was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you were a neighbour, you knew them both.’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘How well?’

  Coleridge did not answer. Then he said: ‘The mother was not easy to know, even then. The daughter was only a youngster. On her first job. She wanted out, I reckoned, and her mother wouldn’t have it. She didn’t want the girl to go to work, wanted her to stay at school, go to college, Noreen didn’t want that. Not all girls do. I helped her get the job, I knew the manager of a small haulage company, one of Jem Dean’s.’

  ‘I think you knew them both better than you are admitting. You knew they quarrelled? Actually fought?’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing neighbours do know … They were very physical, both of them.’ He realized what he had said and started to walk around the room. ‘Look, I don’t like this. What is it you want?’

  ‘Just to go on talking a bit.’

  ‘There’s something else for sure. You’ve got it in for me because of the business with Betsy.’

  ‘I’m not concerning myself with that at this very minute. It seems you gave evidence to Inspector Taylor that a man was involved.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ said Coleridge sourly. ‘You’ll have to ask Taylor.’

  ‘He’s dead, though, isn’t he? And Wendy Lotham. Killed in the same car accident three years ago. But what you said is on the record. Were you that man?’

  ‘If you are asking me if I was involved with either the girl or her mother, then the answer is no.’

  ‘But you know who the man was?’

  ‘No. Someone she met at work, probably.’

  Coleridge sat waiting.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Coffin. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He knew that he had left Coleridge in mid-air and he meant to do it.

  Coleridge sat there for a moment without speaking. Then, still without speaking, he got up and went out.

  Just at the door, Coffin caught his eye. Expression of a man who knows the hounds of hell are after him.

  Lysette appeared at the door. Before she could speak, the Chief Commander said: ‘Forget it, whatever you were going to say, I’m going out.’

  ‘I was going to offer you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘I’ll wait for that.’ Lysette’s coffee was worth waiting for. ‘But let no calls or visitors through while I drink it.’

  He knew and Lysette knew that a queue would be forming. But he had long since learned how to walk past.

  He drove himself to Josephine’s flat in George Eliot House. It was a dark morning, still early, and few people were around. He had the key in his pocket and let himself in.

  Empty. The traces of the fire had been tidied up. Something the investigators might regret now it was a case of murder. Otherwise nothing had been touched.

  He walked round. He could see the signs of the earlier police inquiry, drawers opened and the contents turned over, cupboard doors not quite closed. A bit of white powder here and there as if a desultory attempt had been made to find fingerprints. Well, they would have to try harder. They might flush out a few fingerprints, but they would not be those of the killer for he had worn gloves. Other forensic traces would be difficult because the fire brigade had been here too. The fire had doubtless been started with the purpose of destroying evidence.

  A sad, lonely dwelling place, he thought, as he went around, but there is hope here, I may find your killer, Josephine. Oh, Josephine, what were you up to? What stopped you behaving in a straightforward fashion instead of burying the girl?

  Some terrible inner compulsion, compounded of what?

  Did you know who killed your child? I think I know. And if I do, then I believe I will have the killer of those girls too. Could you have named him, Josephine, is that the guilt you bore?

  He picked up the tablet of soap by the bath and studied it. There were some greasy marks by the kitchen sink which interested him too. Soap again, he thought. A muddy streak by the fireplace, and one on the door.

  He was ready to leave when he heard a noise at the door.

  Harry Coleridge stood there. His face was blotched with red, his eyes angry.

  ‘I followed you round.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  Coleridge swayed back and forth on his heels. ‘You think you know everything.’

  ‘I know I don’t.’

  ‘I hate you. I’ve disliked you for a long while, but now I hate you. I’d like to kill you.’ Coleridge tried to push his way through the door.

  Coffin held steady, he got the door closed behind him. ‘There’s enough of that already. Don’t be a fool. Go home. Phone in that you’re ill. Wait till I come to you.’

  Coleridge hesitated, the
n turned and walked down the stairs. At the bottom, he turned round and looked up. Just once. Then he strode away.

  God help his wife, thought Coffin. I shouldn’t have told him to go home, I’d better do something about that quickly.

  He went down to his car and picked up the telephone. ‘Lysette … get hold of Chief Superintendent Lane and tell him to send someone round to Chief Inspector Coleridge’s home and wait for him if he isn’t there. Someone ought to stay with his wife, whether he comes there or not.’

  It was all he could do for the moment.

  ‘Sir …’ Lysette had something to say. ‘Mr James Dean telephoned. He would like to make an appointment. Soon, if possible.’

  ‘Did he ask to speak to me?’ I am thinking about this, Coffin told himself, I am definitely thinking. The interview with Coleridge had raised the level of his mood, it had been like pouring petrol on a fire. He was very nearly out of his own control.

  ‘No. Just to make an appointment.’

  ‘Right. Make an appointment for today as soon as he likes. Don’t say I am out.’

  He issued a few other directions and then started the car.

  He drove past the university where Sir Thomas and Lady Blackhall were probably still at breakfast, with their own burden of death and guilt, the memory of which had shaped their marriage. They both had professional success, but the canker would always be there. Martin Blackhall seemed a nice boy, if weak; now he too would have Amy Dean in his memory to brood about. Some families collected bad memories.

  By now it was not so early and he had to decide which of two addresses he should go to. A telephone call would have settled it, but he wanted to arrive without warning. He had gambled.

  The office would do it.

  He knew the address and knew the building, one of the big new office blocks near the Tower of London.

  James Dean had the whole of the first floor, and his logo, an interlocking JD, was so dominant that it felt as if he must own the whole building.

  He pushed his way past the usual security and reception desks to Dean’s own office. Through an outer office with another receptionist and a secretary ensconced in her own alcove, complete with flowers and flashing green screens; through another door to an ante-room leading to the holy of holies.

  A familiar face stared at him from a desk here.

  ‘Hello, Angela.’ He was half surprised, but he had had some expectations of seeing her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mr Dean gave me a job.’

  ‘So he did. This is where you were running to when I saw you packing.’ Coffin looked round at the thick white carpet, the grey suede chairs and banquette, her white desk with no sign of work on it. ‘So you didn’t go to Star Court House?’

  ‘My mother knows,’ she said defensively, ‘and I’ve got a flat. Maisie Rolt didn’t want me.’

  She stood up, swaying slightly, with that air of sexual invitation and vulnerability that could be both exciting and damaging. She came from behind her desk, he could smell the scent of violets and a faint hint of sweat. She smelt like a woman.

  ‘Nasty bruise on your arm. How did you get that?’

  She looked down at one very white and rounded upper arm where a thick bruise was spread, and did not answer.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, harsh in spite of himself. You had to push Angie away from you, or you’d be moving towards her fast. He could feel the draw. ‘I’m going through to see your boss …’

  ‘Oh, but …’

  ‘He wants to see me.’

  Jem Dean appeared at the open door to his office. He looked from Coffin to the girl.

  ‘Toddle off, Angie. Get yourself some coffee.’ He held the door open for the Chief Commander. ‘Come on in. Didn’t expect you. I was going to see you.’

  ‘So you’re looking after Angela? Nasty bruise she’s got there.’

  ‘She must bruise easy,’ said Dean in a comfortable voice. ‘Walked into something, I expect.’

  ‘Like a hand.’

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He sat down himself behind his desk and motioned Coffin to a chair on the other side. ‘Not been here before, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Coffin looked around him, and thought of his own office. A soft cashmere coat was slung over a chair, briefcase and brown gloves thrown upon it. ‘I’m impressed.’ He was meant to be, of course. ‘Has Harry Coleridge been on the telephone to you?’

  ‘Harry Coleridge? Why should you think that?’

  ‘Because you telephoned my office. I thought it might be cause and effect.’

  ‘He might have.’

  ‘He thinks I’ve got him marked for the murder of a girl, one you might have known. Noreen Day.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘I’ll answer that later.’

  Dean sat back in his chair. ‘Bit early for a drink, or I’d offer you one. Still, it’s there. Whisky?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You’d have said yes fast enough, once.’

  ‘Long past.’

  ‘So what brings you down here?’

  ‘I could turn that back on you and ask you why you wanted to see me.’

  ‘News about Amy, of course. It’s about time I heard something. You seem to forget what she was to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t because you had that call from Coleridge?’

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘You and Harry are close enough, I think.’

  ‘I hardly see the man.’

  Coffin leaned forward. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t thinking of seeing … There are other ways of being close. Shared habits, tastes, opportunities.’

  ‘What you are you getting at?’

  ‘I’ll answer in a different way: I never forget what Amy was to you and what you were to her.’

  Dean frowned. ‘You really are a bastard.’ He got up and walked to the window. A carefully arranged courtyard was all he could see. ‘I’m not sure if I like being banded with Coleridge. He’s a brutal beast.’

  ‘Glad to hear you say so. Yes, he does enjoy beating up women. He’d say it was his temper and maybe he’d had a drop too much, but I think he relishes it.’

  ‘I’d be a fool if I didn’t see what you were getting at with your remarks about Angela and her bruises.’

  ‘Glad you see it.’

  ‘But I might remind you that Amy was my daughter.’

  Coffin was on his feet too now. ‘Ah, but Amy was not your daughter, was she? I remember your blood group from way back and I know hers. You adopted her. There is no way she could be your natural daughter.’

  ‘I won’t remind you of how you know my blood group,’ said Dean. ‘Although you might think about it … I loved Amy. All right, she was our adopted daughter, but that doesn’t rule out love. Far from it.’

  ‘I know you saved my life. But frankly, I’ve also always believed you betrayed us that day. That’s what I think about. No, don’t draw up your fists, we’re both too old for that sort of thing and I think I might be fitter than you are these days. I’ve kept in the job, you see, Jem.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware that you’ve had a hand in stirring up that sort of trouble for me, Jem, it’s your style. Once false, always false. A false husband and a false father. Amy watched your violence towards her mother, and she must have found your attentions to herself difficult to handle. And yet she may have liked it too, you always went for the ones that liked it a little rough. But I guess it got to her. And Josephine had been talking to her, they were seen … Her friends knew the state of mind she was in, the pair Beenie and Mick knew. They knew about your sexual and bruising relationship with Amy, but they didn’t feel free to talk about what Amy had hidden inside herself, she felt so guilty. But that’s why she was drawn to Star Court House, it exorcised something inside her. Virginia started it and Amy carried on. She was looking for a pardon, a remission from her disease. Maisie Rolt sensed that she was looking for something out of Star Court House and knew
it wasn’t healthy. But it was your fault with Amy. She had guilt inside because of how she felt about you. But I think she was going to talk and that’s why you killed her.’

  ‘You’ve said too much.’ There was violence in Dean’s face. ‘I’ll see you lose your job over this.’

  ‘I dare say you would if you could, but there might be some doubt about that. What you don’t realize is that I don’t care. That means I feel free to say what I like.’

  ‘You accuse me of killing my own Amy. I won’t stand for that.’ He was angry but cool.

  ‘Yes, you killed her, and put her body in Pickerskill Wood, dumped the car, her car, your car once, and dropped her sweater where it would be found. You tucked the bus ticket in her pocket … because I think you wanted her found. You’re a devious bastard, Dean.’

  Serialists got their kicks from strange pleasures and Pickerskill Wood and the exposed body could be his.

  ‘You used Pickerskill Wood once before when you killed Josephine’s daughter, and I think Josie knew it but was helpless to do anything about it. She was under suspicion herself.’ She had been helpless then, that first time, but she had meant to make things right after the death of Amy Dean. ‘She buried Amy for you. And I’m only guessing why, not to hide her, but to give her respect. And then she came to you. Or to Coleridge. Perhaps he was the go-between.’ Coffin was guessing there again, but it was a good guess. These two men hunted as a pair.

  ‘She was out of her mind.’

  ‘A little bit, I think, but she was ready to go for you. You employed her daughter. Coleridge got her that job. Did he look for birds for the farmyard for you? That was what you called it, I believe.’

  ‘I was good to that bloody Josephine. I gave her a pension. What do you think she lived on?’

  So that was what had fuelled Josephine’s guilt. She had taken money from her daughter’s killer and kept quiet. Fact after fact was slotting into place.

  Dean’s voice was rising. ‘And the other girl, Virginia, am I supposed to have killed her too? I suppose I couldn’t get her body to Pickerskill Wood. Only three murders. I’m very abstemious, aren’t I?’