‘Community policing,’ said Young. ‘The local officer managed to insert himself in the house for a look round. He had a word with Eddie about car parking, Eddie Creeley has three old bangers parked outside and the neighbours were complaining. Eddie’s a car mechanic as hobby but he’s working in a hospital. Our man reported favourably on him. I think he liked him.’
‘I didn’t think you could like a Creeley.’
‘The old lady’s gone, of course. But her spirit lives on. Anyone who does a Creeley down gets it back in spades. They’ve never forgiven Annie, that’s the story. Or you, for that matter.’
‘They won’t do anything now. It’s too late, too long ago. Oh, writing on her front door, dog dirt through the letter-box …’
‘They did all of that in the past, but not lately, not since the shift back from New Zealand. Perhaps Eddie’s different, who knows?’
‘I know old Mrs Creeley said one or other of them would kill Annie in the end. They never took that back. Never did much about it, either.’
‘She still sees it coming.’
‘She’s lived a long while with that on her mind. How long is it now? Over twenty years? We can’t watch all the time.’
‘I’ve been told that Lizzie Creeley is being given parole. The brother’s had a stroke, he’ll get out too but go straight to hospital,’ said Young. ‘I dare say Annie has heard the news.’
‘How old is she now?’
‘She was about eight then. Thirty-odd now. A daughter of her own. The sister lives with her. She wasn’t born then.’
Twenty-odd years ago when John Coffin, even then a controversial figure with friends and enemies, had been called across the river from his own area to consult on a case which seemed to have a parallel with a murder he was dealing with. Whether the death of old Addie Scott had a connection with the Creeleys had never been established, but the Creeleys had gone down anyway for another crime. Coffin knew this area of old, because as a raw young constable he had lived here in what was in those days a working-class district of the great metropolis. Lodged with ‘Mother’. She had not been his mother, of course; nobody’s mother, certainly not his.
A child, Annie Dunne, hiding in the garden of her home one foggy night had heard strange noises, she had crawled through the next-door hedge to watch and had seen two people burying an old man, and his wife.
Coffin had been the man who persuaded her to talk.
The killers were a brother and sister, Will and Lizzie Creeley. Without Annie’s testimony the bodies might never have been found nor the two convicted. The Creeley family swore to get her.
Annie had grown up, had married, and had a child herself. But for some time the Creeleys had still lived three streets away. Bad years for Annie, until the family had emigrated, but one by one they had drifted back. Eddie was the latest. Creeleys had lived in Swinehouse for many generations and were embedded in the district like weeds.
‘She wasn’t believed at first, you know, when she told her story.’
Archie Young nodded.
‘But I believed her … And then, of course, the rumour went round that there were other bodies buried in the garden. As if it was a kind of cottage industry that the Creeleys had there: killing for money. But there were only the two, as if that wasn’t enough … I suppose Annie’s heard about this murder?
‘I don’t suppose she thinks Marianna was murdered instead of her.’
‘She did live two streets away.’ Marianna had a tiny flat in the Alexandra Wharf block, and Napier Street, where Annie Briggs lived was only a few yards away.
‘They didn’t know each other. Not as far as we know.’
‘I bet she hopes that if the Creeley boy did it we get him for it fast.’
‘Doesn’t look like a Creeley crime, they were strictly business as far as we know, and there was no profit in Marianna. Straight sex there, I reckon.’ Young added wistfully: ‘If I had to choose between getting Job Titus or a Creeley for Marianna I don’t know which I’d go for.’
‘Hard choice,’ said Coffin.
‘But poor Annie. I mean, she’s a nuisance, always popping in with crisis calls, but you can see why.’ He looked at the wall. ‘She’s got in a private investigator.’
‘My God, who?’
‘The Tash Agency,’ said Young, still not meeting Coffin’s eyes.
‘Tom Ashworth. My wife used him on her divorce.’ Stella had claimed her divorce was amiable on both sides, Coffin had only learnt later that this was not quite true.
Young, who knew this, he made it his job to know everything about his boss that he could, kept silent.
Then he said: ‘Annie says she liked him, trusts him … Whatever that means.’
Stella had said the same. ‘I think it means he’s attractive,’ said Coffin.
He had discovered that where Stella was concerned he was capable of quick and ready jealousy. He kept quiet about it and hoped she had not noticed, but it was there. To his surprise, jealousy was cold, not hot, and penetrated everywhere like a gas.
Stella was naturally flirtatious, and meeting desirable men all the time. She said there had to be chemistry, it was all part of the job. Very likely it was.
‘There aren’t so many people Annie Briggs trusts. Her husband left her, couldn’t stand it.’ Young kept in touch with his world. ‘She’s got a social worker who calls in, the sister gave them a bit of trouble once. Can’t blame her, it’s hardly been a normal life.’
Coffin said: ‘She is on my mind and on my conscience all the time. I’ll go and see her.’
He knew what was lined up for him in his diary, so it wouldn’t be today or tomorrow, but sometime. Soon. Might get Stella to help, unofficially, of course. She was good with women.
At the door, Archie Young paused. ‘Supposing the man that Job Titus was seen drinking with was the Creeley boy? Sounded like him. May be nothing in it.’
Driving home that night Coffin thought: Supposing Job Titus got a Creeley to do Marianna in, and then Titus promised to help the Creeleys get Annie somehow?
It was an interesting idea. He could feel sorry for Titus if he let the Creeleys get a hook in him. He might be a smart political operator but the Creeleys had millennia of criminality behind them. A Creeley man or woman, the women being fully as bad, had probably conned a Roman centurion and then slit his throat.
He let himself in, wondering if Stella would be home. Sometimes she was and sometimes not, but she always left a note around saying where she was. ‘At the theatre.’ ‘Downstairs.’—This meant in her own flat. ‘Gone to see Jay.’—Jay was her agent.
He was beginning to enjoy what he called ‘Stella’s little notes’. Part of his new life, he always felt in touch. They had promised never to be apart for long. When you marry late, then you cannot afford too many absences.
On his desk that day he had found a card and invitation: Phœbe Astley invites you to celebrate her promotion. An address in Birmingham and a scrawl: Why don’t you come up and see me?
Phœbe had occupied a niche in his life before Stella came back into it. She was post-Stella and pre-Stella. She had moved away, joined another force and risen sharply. Clever girl, Phœbe, but I won’t be coming. I shall be home with my wife.
Tonight he smelt cooking. So she was home. Here. His spirits rose. Darling Stella.
And he smelt cigarette smoke: so that meant Letty too. He liked his sister and admired her. She had been around a lot lately. She and Stella were putting together a scheme to help beat the recession in St Luke’s Theatre by opening a small drama school which local youngsters would be encouraged to join. A keep-the-kids-off-the-streets scheme. There had been a lot of idle vandalism lately.
It would help the neighbourhood and, with local sponsors, would assist the theatre too. It was going to be very professional.
For so long resistant to economic stress, the theatre was now getting the full effects. And just at a time when Letty’s property investments were in decline. More than decli
ne, rushing precipitately down hill. But he backed Letty, he had noticed that nothing had stopped her buying her new autumn wardrobe in Paris and New York, and he took that as a sign, while being grateful that Stella could fund her clothes at less expensive outlets. Not that he bought her clothes. She bought her own and always had.
The cat and the dog were home too. He knew that from the two food bowls on the staircase by the living-room. Why they chose to eat there he did not know. Stella said it made them feel free, but he thought it was because he had once tripped over their bowls and had fallen down the stairs. They were waiting for him to do it again.
Both women turned round to look at him as he came in.
‘Talking about me?’
‘Thinking about you.’
‘Always, I hope.’ He gave Stella a kiss. ‘Hello, Letty.’
Letty raised an eyebrow, it was an eyebrow trained to rise. ‘Oh, come on, she’s got other things to do.’ Letty’s marriages never prospered because she always had other things to do.
‘Rescue me,’ said Coffin’s eyes to Stella. His beautiful sister could terrorize him on occasion. He suspected she was like their eccentric, errant, delinquent mother who had abandoned her children one after the other. Letty was wearing black silk jeans with a leopard print silk blazer in which she looked sinewy and alarming. ‘Help me out.’
Stella almost did. ‘Well, not all the time, not when I’m learning my lines or on stage, but underneath, darling, I think about you and I expect I always will.’ When necessary, Stella could deliver lines as if from a Coward play.
He sniffed the air. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘One of my chicken casseroles.’
He knew better than to criticize Stella’s cooking efforts. ‘Do you think it could be burning?’ His tone was tentative, questioning humbly.
‘No, I think it’s meant to smell like that.’
‘Ah.’ He certainly hoped so, but it seemed doubtful. Was carbon an ingredient in the best meals? But they could always go round to Max’s Delicatessen and eat there. He had what he called his Bar, just a few chairs and tables, usually full of performers from St Luke’s Theatre grabbing something to eat. The comfort level was low but the food was excellent.
Coffin had eaten there a lot as a bachelor, as had Stella Pinero, but just lately she had decided it was her duty to be the Perfect Wife. A part for which she was not naturally gifted.
He knew he would have to live with the idea until she got tired of it, but he had preferred the former, unreconstructed Stella.
‘That is, I think so,’ she said. She too could smell something dark and burnt. ‘I wonder if I ought to go and look.’
‘Forget it,’ said Letty. ‘Past praying for, I expect.’
‘Someone will murder you one day, Letty.’
‘One or two have tried,’ admitted Letty. ‘But I was too strong for them.’
‘Don’t joke,’ said Stella. Her tone was sharp. She went to the window. Nothing there. Well, even lurkers, Stage Door Johnnies, go home.
Coffin looked at his wife. ‘What is it? You’re worried.’ He drew her away from the window. ‘Come on, sit down and tell me.’
Nervously, she said: ‘There’s this man … hanging around. Sometimes he’s outside the theatre. I have seen him near the old church hall where we rehearse. This last week he’s even got as far as the TV studio.’ Stella was filming a new series in which she had a plum part as a female detective. ‘He was further away there because of the security patrol GTV have there, but I know it was him.’
‘Is it always the same man? Have you seen his face?’ I’ll kill anyone who touches Stella.
‘Only a glimpse, he wears dark spectacles and hat. A wig too, I think, not a good one, something cheap.’ As an actress, Stella knew a wig when she saw one. ‘And yes, I’m sure it’s the same chap, same clothes, same posture.’
Coffin frowned. ‘Go on talking. Give me all the detail you can. How long has it been going on?’ He wanted to observe Stella. Many successful actresses (and some unsuccessful ones too) had people who stalked them: men and women who were ardent fans and wanted to get to know them. Or to watch them come and go from the theatre. Stella had had her share of those, and she knew how to deal with them. They did not make her nervous.
Now she was nervous. I’ll kill him.
Dutifully, Stella went on, providing what meagre details she could. She had first observed the man almost a year ago, but his appearances had been sporadic at first and she had not taken them seriously. Now he was very regular. Of course, he couldn’t get into the St Luke’s complex of buildings easily, but he sited himself under the clump of trees across the road from where he could see her windows. Kitchen and bedroom. Bathroom too for that matter, but she had clouded glass on that so it wouldn’t do him much good.
‘He can see your windows too. But it’s not you he’s looking for. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him yourself.’
‘Keeps out of my way, I expect.’ But from now on, he would be looking. ‘I wish you had told me before.’
Stella was silent. ‘I thought I was being foolish to worry. It might have been kind of flattering …’ Her voice died away. ‘But it’s not. Doesn’t feel right.’
‘Why does he frighten you?’
Stella said slowly: ‘I feel his concentration. It’s obsessive. Not admiration … something else. Hungry.’
His sister Letty said: ‘I think he’s watching me too.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe that’s likely.’
‘Well, thanks, brother. You do know how to make a girl feel attractive.’
‘What I meant was, men like that are usually, invariably, obsessed with one person at a time.’
‘I’ve seen him there, too. I wish I’d said something sooner. He’s just as Stella said: dark glasses, soft hat pulled over the face.’
‘You’re welcome to him,’ said Stella. ‘He’s all yours and good luck to you.’
‘There’s another thing: I think he uses binoculars.’
‘If you saw that you certainly should have told me, Letty.’ Coffin was angry.
Letty shrugged. ‘London’s full of weirdos. New York is full of weirdos, so is Paris. The world is full of weirdos.’
I have a weirdo all my own. Charley, Stella thought without pleasure. Who would like to take on my Charley? Letty can have him.
Coffin stood up and went to the telephone. ‘Stella, I should look at that casserole. There’s burning and there’s burning and there’s incineration.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I can order a patrol car to call regularly, and the constable on the beat to look in as well. That ought to frighten the man away. If he hangs around, then we’ll take him in.’
Stella nodded. ‘It was a wig, you know … and the face, there was something not quite right there, I swear it.’
‘You serve the meal.’ If it could be served, and not put out with water. ‘And after I have made this call, then I will walk around and see if he’s there now.’
Stella looked relieved. ‘So silly to mind, makes me feel a fool, but he has worried me.’
‘Me too,’ said Letty, anxious not to be left out.
Coffin called the dog, ‘Come on, Bob,’ attached a lead to his collar and went out. Bob was, as ever, eager and dragged ahead, breathing heavily in expectation.
It was dusky outside with a light rain falling, the street lights were on, but the pavements were empty. The theatre was dark tonight, with no performance, but that didn’t mean it was empty. A read through, a rehearsal, or just a meeting of the Friends of St Luke’s Theatre might be going on. There was never a really dead night. Letty and Stella encouraged activity.
He walked slowly, his thoughts anxious. He knew what the women did not: that there was a killer in the district.
He looked up and saw Stella profiled against the kitchen window. He could see her turn her head as if speaking to someone, she appeared to be opening the window and in the circumstances
of the chicken casserole, he could see why; then she moved away out of his vision. He must remind her to keep the blind down. He felt very protective of her and yet awkward at the same time.
He was surprised how powerfully and vigorously that sight of Stella had affected him. Strong feelings came and went with him at the moment. He was floundering with Stella just now. It was odd, this marriage thing.
Although they each kept their separate apartments, and although they had, let’s face it, been lovers on and off for years, marriage had subtly and definitely altered their relationship. He was less sure of himself with Stella than ever. She was trying to be everything she could to him, he could see that, but he didn’t want her to try, he wanted her to be, just to be. Spontaneous. Happy.
He walked on. No dark-spectacled figure to be seen under the trees or on the corner or in a doorway tonight. He could go back and tell the two women that it was all clear. Although that did not mean the man had not been there or might be there again.
No need to alarm Stella and Letty by telling them that a girl called Marianna Manners had been strangled and then stifled. But he had to think about it.
It was possible that she might have been killed by Job Titus whom they both knew.
Or Titus might have contracted for her death with one of the Creeley family, a youngster with a violent reputation.
In both those instances, Stella and Letty were under no threat.
Or Marianna might have been killed by just the sort of man that was watching them.
He walked back to St Luke’s Mansions. A patrol car passed him, slowed for a look, recognized him, and passed on. So his orders were already being followed.
A prosperous-looking dark blue car was parked in the kerb near by. An expensive-looking car and he thought he had seen it before. He walked round the front to study the windscreen and saw on it a card which empowered the driver to park his car in the area reserved for Members of Parliament.
The last thing he wanted just now was a visit from Job Titus. There were good sound reasons for not entertaining in your home a man who might be a murder suspect.
He walked up his stairs quickly, arriving at the kitchen in time to hear Stella saying that they were going to eat at home but something had gone wrong with a casserole she was doing and she thought they would now be eating out.
A Coffin for Charley Page 2
