At last, angrily, she telephoned the Creeley house.
‘I want to speak to Eddie.’
‘Speaking,’ said a sleepy voice. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I want to know where you’ve been all night and where my sister is. Is she there? Ask Didi to speak to me.’
There was a pause. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re on about. I’ve been in bed all night. I’m still in bed if you want to know, and I haven’t seen Didi. A nice girl and that, but she isn’t here with me.’
He banged the telephone down and Annie, after standing still for a moment, raged around the house calling upon her numerous gods for help, especially the unknown called Thou.
She was releasing into the world a stream of energy channelled into violence and anger. It would stir up something, it always had done.
Didi tried very hard to be found. She was dead but she kept on trying. The wind blew round her body, the damp underneath seeped through her pretty light dress, pieces of paper and autumnal leaves from the trees by the river settled upon her.
There was no life in her but she meant to be found.
Who will find Didi?
She was lying under a railway arch close to the river, where a narrow patch of rough ground ran down to the water. As train after train travelled overhead bearing commuters into London, the old archway shifted.
Didi rolled forward out into the open air. She was going to be found.
A man going to fish for anything that moved and would bite in the Thames saw her body and thought she was someone sleeping in the rough.
Poor cow, he thought.
Two lads, bunking off from school, skipped past Didi next but took no notice. Only as it began to rain again and they decided school might be best after all, did they give her a second look.
They stared at each other, then one of them galloped over to the man fishing. ‘Mister, there’s a dead ’un there.’
‘Never,’ he said, not raising his eyes from his rod. ‘She’s just getting her beauty sleep. Leave her be.’
But Didi was strong to be found and he rose up to take a look. He had served in the army and knew death when he saw it; he had also seen violent death and knew that too.
He considered quietly sloping away and not getting mixed up but neither the boys nor Didi would permit that.
‘Well, lads, it’s a technical problem here: which of us stays and which of us goes for the police.’
He saw the answer in their eyes and sat down. ‘Right, you go. One of you go and the other stay with me.’ He turned to the one with red hair. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Peter.’
‘And yours?’
‘Darren.’
‘Right, Darren, then you go. And my name is Bill Beasden … Got that? Then tell the duty officer, he knows me.’
‘You a copper, then?’ asked Darren, preparing to move.
Beasden grinned. ‘Just known to the police.’
Darren knew the route to the nearest police station, boys in his way of life always stocked that sort of knowledge as a necessary item, but he had a certain natural reluctance to setting foot inside. He had been in there once and the man on the desk had said he didn’t want to see him in there again and no more nonsense about Aliens Landing. So when he saw a tall man walking towards the entrance accompanied by a rangy-looking dog, he thought he had an ally.
‘Sir, sir?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Are you a policeman, sir?’ If he said sir as often as possible, he felt safer.
‘Yes, I am. So what is it?’
The words were said kindly if absently as if the speaker was concentrating on something else. It was not on the dog who was sniffing round the trouser edge of Darren’s jeans with devoted attention.
‘Sir, there’s a body down by the river.’ He edged away. ‘Nice dog,’ he said nervously. ‘What’s he called?’
‘I call him Bob,’ said John Coffin. ‘He has been called other things.’ He wasn’t completely convinced about the body. Not all prone figures were dead or grateful to be reported. ‘Sure it’s dead?’
‘Her, sir, her. It’s a girl.’
‘Right.’ All seriousness now, Coffin got a firm grip on Darren’s arm. ‘Let’s go inside and get the details. Where is she?’
‘Near the arches, the bit near the river. I can show you.’
Darren thought he would rather be on the road, showing, than inside, talking and giving details. He knew details, they got you into trouble. Such as Why weren’t you at school? and What’s that in your pocket?
‘Yes, you shall do.’ Although he knew where Darren meant, knew the rough ground littered with the detritus of urban living like old bedsteads and dead cats. Every so often a group of homeless would set up camp but it was too hostile and bleak even for them. ‘Anyone with you?’
‘My friend Peter. He’s still there, with her and Mr Beasden. He was fishing. He said to say it was him and you would know him.’
I’ve heard the name, thought Coffin, but know him I do not. Beasden had his place in the police world as a highly successful villain, now retired. Allegedly retired.
The officer on the desk was not the one Darren knew, which relieved him. After all, he was doing a public service, wasn’t he? Reporting a crime.
Judging by the reception he and his new friend got (he felt this chap could be a friend, but not the dog), he judged he had picked himself a high ranking copper. He began to feel positively pleased with himself.
Excited by his moment of importance, he told what he knew, and found himself sitting in a car driven by his new friend leading a procession riverwards. That dog was there too.
Then suddenly he did not exist any more. They had his name and address, they were getting Peter’s, they could both go away home. Would they like a lift? No? Better get back to school, then. The next question was inevitable, you could see it coming, and it speeded their departure: Why weren’t they at school?
John Coffin walked over to them both as they left. He patted Darren on the shoulder and murmured something friendly, but the boys could see that his mind was not on them but on that still figure on the ground. A figure already being photographed.
‘I expect we shall want to ask you some more questions, what you saw, if there was anyone around, that sort of thing, but don’t worry. You behaved well. Tell your parents and your head teacher. Now hop off.’
Darren looked at Peter and Peter gave him one of his famous expressionless looks back.
‘Come on,’ said Darren. ‘Better go.’
They climbed up to the road and turned schoolwards. Darren looked back. Several more police cars had arrived, as well as an ambulance. It was the most exciting scene he had ever been involved in, but he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he would have expected. He had a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
There she was, the quiet centre of it all.
‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ said Peter. ‘I might go into the police, detective work, I’d like that. Shall we stay around?’
‘No, let’s go back.’
‘Go into Woolies for a Coke?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s get back to school.’ He wanted to set his world to rights, to be, for once, a boy in good repute.
Darren walked away. It was all nothing to do with him. They had said so and it was the case.
No one had asked him, but he did know her. He had seen her around with Eddie Creeley and she was called Didi.
In Stella’s flat the telephone rang and rang. But Stella was asleep upstairs in her husband’s bed.
Upstairs in Caroline’s flat Charley put the telephone down.
CHAPTER 8
The day continues
Didi was soon identified. One police officer knew her face; thought she came from Spinnergate but couldn’t put a name to her. But that was soon cleared up because Didi had her name with her, almost as if she had guessed it might be wanted.
Her handbag rested in the mud besi
de her. In it together with a lipstick and piece of tissue was a diary with her name and address in it. With carefully protected hands, an officer opened it, then quietly showed it to the Chief Commander. If the Boss was there, then he had better see.
Diana Dunne, 6, Napier Street. She had signed her name, given her date of birth, and provided her telephone number.
Coffin nodded. Just at that moment, he did not connect her with Annie Briggs, his mind was on the girl herself.
She had been strangled, but there were bruises on her face which might indicate she had also been smothered. Like Marianna.
John Coffin waited, silent but observing, as the police surgeon worked. Dr Foss was a wiry, youngish man. He nodded at the Chief Commander, whom he knew by sight.
‘Well, she’s dead.’
‘And?’
‘Strangled manually.’
‘Yes, it looked like that. Hand over her face too. I’d say.’
A protective shield had been set up around Didi’s body which was not yet readied for removal to the police mortuary down in Swinehouse, a new building opened only this year. Photographs were still being taken while other policemen walked carefully with eyes down examining the ground all around her. The full police investigating team headed by a detective-inspector had arrived. They were very aware of the presence of the Chief Commander among them.
The police surgeon, being an independent professional, felt more relaxed: he had his own territory in which he was lord. Accordingly, he felt comfortable enough to take out a cigarette in Coffin’s presence and light it.
‘I thought you people were against smoking.’
‘I am. But it helps.’
The two men moved away a few yards into the shelter of the arch. This area too was being examined and they were careful where they trod.
‘How long has she been dead?’
Dr Foss was professionally cautious. ‘Matter of hours. Last night sometime, I’d say. But when they get her on the slab and open her up they will know better.’
Coffin winced slightly, making a note that delicacy was not a feature of Dr Foss’s working life. What sort of bedside manner did he have?
The second young woman strangled in the Second City within weeks. A repeat of this sort was something nobody liked. Marianna Manners and now Diana Dunne. ‘The second one this month,’ he said.
‘Yes, the Manners girl. She was one of mine.’ Dr Foss took a proprietary interest in the victims whose death he was paid to certify. The more important and interesting work on them might be done later by forensic pathologists but he was one who saw them first. ‘Same MOD as the other girl. Manual, neat job.’ He sounded almost admiring.
Coffin said nothing, Dr Foss did not grow on him.
‘She didn’t struggle.’ He added: ‘I had a quick look at her hands. Unmarked. Even the varnish isn’t chipped. Of course, she chewed her fingernails so there wasn’t much scratch in them.’
Nasty way he had of putting things, thought Coffin. ‘So the killer probably won’t be marked?’ Marianna Manners hadn’t struggled either.
‘No. Pity.’
‘A willing victim?’ Coffin said.
Foss nodded slowly. ‘You could say so.’
He delivered himself of a judgement: ‘Looks as if we’ve got a serial killer here.’
‘Fashionable beasts at the moment,’ said Coffin absently. Get a run of killings and everyone cried serial killings. But they were not always. Killers imitated each other.
He could see the time had come to be tactful. It wasn’t exactly that he had no business here, all police matters were his business, but the investigating team would prefer him to go away.
He eased himself away from Dr Foss who showed signs of giving a lecture on serial killers and their ways, and got into his car. To his surprise he found Bob there, asleep in the back of the car as he drove off.
‘Forgotten you, old chap.’ He hesitated. He was late already for a meeting and Bob was a problem. ‘Right, you can go into the club.’ He put a leash on Bob’s collar, and led him across a courtyard to a white-painted building.
One of the Chief Commander’s innovations had been a club, open to all ranks. A small building on the edge of the complex of offices and communication centres which made up his headquarters, growing all the time, had been turned into this club. Although on the small side, it was well set out with good carpets and comfortable chairs, nothing cheap or sordid. You could drink there, beer, whisky, fruit juice, anything (and at a lower price than in a pub) and get a light meal.
Although Coffin had no illusions that it would wean his Force from their favoured pubs, it was a place to which they could bring their wives and where he could drop in.
He did not do this often, he knew he had to keep certain rules, but he did so now and again. Coffin couldn’t have mates and must never get drunk but he could meet people there and talk like a human being.
The club manager was a retired CID officer with a nose for good wines and the food came from Max’s Delicatessen which now had a catering subsidiary. Despite competition from bigger concerns, Max was proving that a well-run family business could flourish.
Bob was deposited here with the manager, together with the promise he would ‘be collected’.
Police work can be like a thick soup, you get stuck. Coffin had a deputy but he did not delegate as much as perhaps he should have done. As the day went on Coffin got stuck in several committees, dictating one report, and talking to the high-ranking civil servant from the Home Office. At the back of his mind all the time there rested the deaths of Didi and Marianna Manners like a dark shadow.
He went home, late as usual, forgetting all about Bob as he so often did. He pushed open his front door, and knew at once by the smell of Guerlain that Stella was there. Home. He still found it hard to believe that they were married and this was his home.
He ran up the stairs. She was sitting on the floor in suede jeans and a silk shirt enjoying the crackling of a log fire. It was blazing away merrily, smoking as well, he noticed, in defiance of the clean air zone in which St Luke’s Mansions rested.
‘How did you manage to light the fire?’
‘Just laid it,’ she said dreamily. ‘One of my landladies taught me ages ago.’
‘That chimney hasn’t been cleaned for decades.’
‘I know that, it’s why it smokes, but wood smoke is lovely.’
He was so pleased to see her happy and relaxed that he buried all thoughts of newspaper headlines proclaiming POLICE CHIEF BREAKS SMOKE REGULATIONS and also of the voice of the architect who had helped create his apartment pointing out that the fireplace was decorative and that the chimney, what there was of it, had once led down to the furnace in the crypt of the old church.
Then he saw Bob, sprawled at her feet, and remembered. ‘How did he get here?’
‘Walked.’
On his own?’
Stella put on a large pair of spectacles and picked up the month’s copy of Vogue. ‘Well, I didn’t carry him.’
‘Ah, so they telephoned you to say I’d left him?’
‘The great detective. Yes, that was it.’
She stood up, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘You work too hard.’ She took one look at his face. ‘What sort of a day? No, don’t tell me, I can guess.’
He told her anyway, it was what wives were for, hearing the moans and grumbles, as he had discovered to his comfort when he married Stella. Of course, she had the right to grumble back and if he got too boring, then she did. The way it worked was they took turns: tonight it was his turn.
He didn’t tell her about the day’s routine of letters, reports and meetings, but went on in some detail about what had really galled him: the behaviour of the mandarin from the Home Office.
‘He taped the whole conversation, the bastard.’
‘I suppose I’d better not ask what the conversation was about?’
‘Oh, the fashionable butt of the moment: police handling of evid
ence, suppression of evidence and lying and backing each other up.’
‘And that doesn’t go on, of course?’ She made the inquiry gentle as if she knew the answer must be no in the case of the Second City Force. Loyalty demanded it of a wife. In one of her more politically active periods, Stella had marched, waved banners and shouted at meetings against all forms of prejudice and corruption: Men against women, women against men (she was open-minded), ageism, racism and tokenism. She had enjoyed herself but now she was quiescent, with just the odd ripple of scepticism appearing on the surface.
‘Not in my lot.’ Or not while he kept his sharp eye on them. He had gradually managed to weed out those of the old flock whom he had reason to distrust. But there were always a few that were doubtful, you couldn’t count on everyone even in the best of Forces. People cut corners, got lazy or were just tired. The naturally corrupt were easily sussed out and got rid of, much harder to pick out the good man who had had a bad day.
Stella’s political activity had been due to the influence of her most ferocious and marvellously talented actress friend, brilliant child of a theatrical dynasty, but out to reform the world. She was in Moscow now, acting in a new International Theatre and probably creating havoc.
I’m just naturally lazy, thought Stella.
‘But that’s not what’s really nagging at you?’ she said.
‘Oh, there’s always this and that,’ he said evasively, not willing to talk about Didi yet, relegating her to the back of his mind. Almost he could feel himself pushing her face back into the mud. ‘Shall we eat?’
Was there anything to eat? No smell of cooking.
Triumphantly Stella took him downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Bob and I drove over to the special fish and chip shop in Greenwich when you were so late, and we brought back a helping each.’ Four helpings, one for Bob too and for the cat Tiddles, already on the alert. ‘They have special boxes now that keep it hot and crisp … but I thought we’d eat in the kitchen because it does smell so.’
She was setting out the meal and handing out their portions to cat and dog. She stood back to admire her work. ‘I could make some bread and butter and a pot of strong tea, that’s the classic accompaniment, but I expect you would prefer wine?’
A Coffin for Charley Page 8
