A Coffin for Charley

by Gwendoline Butler

‘And I’ve got it.’ She pointed to the table on which rested the notebook with the scatter of photographs. ‘I’m not saying you killed Didi, but you were seeing her and I didn’t know. I hate being betrayed.’ She put her head on one side. ‘So?’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘No choice, have you?’ Then she slid in that remark which doomed another woman. ‘By the way, Stella had the notebook.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Said she didn’t look in it, but …’ Annie shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  Damn, and Damn.

  He had heard that the identity of the murderer was known, the rumour had reached him, but he was about to disappear in any case, his time was up.

  Thoughts circled as Annie talked. They discussed plans of how to settle scores all round. She really was crazy now, her friend decided.

  ‘We might use Eddie Creeley.’

  ‘Eddie, Eddie, oh, I do like the sound of that,’ said Annie. Her eyes glittered.

  Mad, he thought, over the top and waving a flag as she goes.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt HER. Not really. Just frighten HIM.’

  ‘It won’t hurt her.’ Or not for long, but Eddie would be incriminated again. ‘And you have to think of yourself here, what is due to you.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So what about the Eddie bit?’

  ‘We write his name on a bit of paper, anything will do, just something she grabbed and managed to scrawl before …’ He left that open.

  ‘Wouldn’t he take it away?’

  He would, of course.

  ‘Hide it underneath her body as if she fell on it.’ The killer was used to hiding little bits of evidence to turn up as he desired. He had done it with Marianna, and with Didi and with Mary, who had to be found if his plan was to work, and had been found just a touch too soon. But he’d be off, over the hills and far away.

  ‘But it won’t look like Stella’s writing. They can check.’

  Annie was being difficult now, it was time for her turn at dying.

  ‘Big block letters, harder to identify.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Annie tried, scrawling the letters as he suggested. ‘Oh yes, I see what you mean.’ But she still had doubts. ‘I don’t mind her being frightened, chilled a bit, you know, but not hurt.’ And she had another worry. ‘Won’t she see me, then tell?’

  ‘You won’t be seen, you’ll be invisible.’

  ‘Will I?’

  There was no doubt that Annie could be a nuisance. But he smiled on her and spoke gently: ‘I’ll show you how it’s done, and you will know for yourself. Stand there. Head back. That’s right.’

  We all have our little madnesses, we need them to carry through a strong enterprise. And my madness has at least been profitable. Yes, on the whole I am in favour of madness.

  The matter of the fingernails, well, that was something to admit to: useful because it made the police latch on to the serial murder idea, but chewed fingernails did turn a man on. Hard to say why, like the smell of female sweat really, something hormonal.

  Mary had chewed fingernails, particularly ragged on the right hand, and she had slapped his face with that hand, on which was a scar he had given her with a knife as a child. He had marched about the business of murder wearing two heads and he had come through. He gave his head a shake.

  I am sane again.

  Goodbye, Annie.

  CHAPTER 20

  The river is very cold

  Coffin got back to London before dark, he went straight to his office where he at once telephoned Stella. She did not answer nor had she put her answerphone on.

  ‘Keep on trying,’ he said to his secretary. He wanted to hear Stella’s voice, he needed her warmth, her sanity.

  Then he looked for news of Letty and her daughter, but Birmingham was silent still on this matter. It was probably too soon for a resolution.

  His secretary said: ‘Chief Inspector Young was asking for you, he’s got Chief Superintendent Watson with him.’

  Good, that was what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the Chief Inspector’s room. Shall I ask them to walk across?’

  ‘Yes, please, and order some coffee and sandwiches.’ Suddenly he was very hungry. Archie Young and Wally Watson came in together at the same time as the sandwiches and coffee.

  After a look at Wally Watson’s face, Coffin produced some whisky as well. He poured each man a good measure, but took none himself. He had to do the talking and he had to convince two practised, hard-headed professionals.

  ‘Glad to see you back.’ Wally Watson supped his whisky. ‘Downey said he saw you.’

  ‘Have the Birmingham team put a watch on the house, as I asked?’

  ‘The house is important, is it?’

  Coffin considered his words: ‘Very important. It’s the motive for everything, and in it there should be proof of the murderer’s identity.’

  Archie Young cleared his throat in a way familiar to Coffin, expressing at once doubt and a desire to be convinced.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s the motive for the murder of Mary Andrews, just as her murder provides the motive for the deaths of the other two women: to establish that we were dealing with a serial murderer, whereas in fact the murderer was out for money.’

  Watson put down his sandwich. ‘Was the girl rich?’

  ‘No, but when her grandfather died, I believe she would have inherited his house, and that house is going to be a valuable profit—’

  ‘A house? Is that enough of a motive?’

  ‘Murders have taken place for a few pounds, and one way and another this house is going to be worth a lot more than that.’ And the killer may have hated Mary, Coffin had picked up the smell of hate. She had been imprisoned and starved before dying, that had to count for something personal.

  Wally Watson said: ‘We’ve had a call from the next of kin, says he’s willing to do the formal identification.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Coffin. ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘Nice young man. Bit of a Brummie accent.’

  ‘There would be,’ said Coffin. He could act, this chap.

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Charles French, a cousin, all that’s left of the family. He said he is the grandfather’s executor.’

  ‘Oh, the old man’s dead, is he? He wasn’t earlier today.’

  Wally Watson shrugged. ‘He seemed to know about the will.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’

  The other two men looked at him, and he knew what they were asking: Out with it, enlarge on these hints, explain.

  The Chief Commander got up and started to walk up and down the room, talking as he went. ‘You, Wally, have a fingerprint, I have a picture of the murderer’s face, and you—’ he stopped in front of Archie Young—’you have the murderer living here in Spinnergate.’

  He poured some more whisky for the others, this time taking some himself.

  ‘And I’ll tell you where to go to find him.’ He might be still there, a working day, after all, and he had no reason as yet to believe himself a suspect. Or so Coffin hoped.

  ‘I’ll just try to get my wife on the telephone, and then we will go on talking.’

  He went to his outer office to telephone Stella. He longed to hear her voice but there was still silence.

  Lizzie Creeley was ministering to her nephew Eddie who was sick in bed. Every so often he would go to the bathroom to lie groaning before trying to vomit.

  Lizzie fussed around. ‘You’re doing yourself no good.’

  ‘I know I’m going to be sick. I want to get it over,’ he moaned.

  ‘You’ll feel better when you have been sick,’ said Lizzie hopefully. She helped him back to bed. ‘Why don’t you try these tablets I got you?’

  ‘They won’t help.’

  ‘They might, the chemist said they would. He’s got migraine, I said, so try these, he said.’ Lizzie was enjoying being a nurse, she was
beginning to feel a real person again, as if her young self and her old self had joined up again after being separated for so many years.

  Eddie groaned and rolled out of bed. ‘I believe I really shall be sick this time.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Lizzie, following him to the bathroom door. ‘There you are, you see, you are clever, Eddie, although you say you are not, because you have migraine. Only clever people have migraine.’

  ‘Then I wish I wasn’t,’ said Eddie, returning from the bathroom. ‘I wasn’t sick.’ He groaned.

  ‘Better luck next time,’ said Lizzie. She helped him back to bed.

  ‘Thanks, Lizzie, you’re an angel.’ What a thing to say to a murderess, he thought, and at once felt sicker than ever. I believe I shall manage to be sick next time, he told himself, and then I shall feel better. He groaned again.

  ‘It’s nerves that brought it on. You’re highly strung.’

  ‘I don’t think I am. But I do keep thinking of Didi, I’m not out of that wood yet, Auntie.’

  ‘I blame Annie Briggs,’ said Lizzie, who had been in that wood herself.

  ‘It’s not her fault.’

  Later, when Eddie had been sick and sick again and then fallen asleep, Lizzie put on her coat.

  ‘I’m going to see that Annie for myself and have it out with her.’

  The distance between the two houses was not great, Lizzie was soon in Napier Street. Annie’s house was dark, with no light showing in any of the front rooms.

  ‘Doesn’t mean she’s out, though,’ said Lizzie. She rang the bell. In the old days when they had been neighbours, doors had not always been locked. So it was no surprise to Lizzie to find the door opened when she gave it a push.

  ‘Annie? Annie, are you there? It’s Lizzie, you remember Lizzie.’ She walked into the hall. ‘Annie?’

  Then her foot touched something, she looked down, and in the light from the street she could see Annie on the floor, her face puffy and discoloured with a belt drawn tight round her neck. Lizzie bent down to touch Annie’s face. It was still warm.

  Lizzie did not scream, her life had toughened her, but she gave a little cry before picking up the bit of paper with Eddie’s name on it.

  Thank God, my boy’s been home all day and I can swear to it, she thought.

  She leaned against the front door, breathing deeply. What to do. Go away, say nothing? Burn the piece of paper. But she had given up lies, and these days even preferred the truth, because it always stayed the same and did not turn into something when you took your eyes off it, as lies sometimes did. For this reason, her mind turned to John Coffin. He could be bleak and hard but he was straight.

  ‘It’ll have to be the police.’

  John Coffin had convinced the two other policemen.

  ‘So what next?’ asked Young.

  ‘Take him in,’ muttered Wally Watson.

  ‘But can we charge him yet?’

  ‘There’s the fingerprint,’ said Coffin.

  Young looked doubtful. ‘That could be explained away.’

  ‘It’ll do for a start.’

  ‘We have the address to go to, his office.’

  ‘Will he still be there?’ questioned Wally Watson. ‘What about the telephone call from Birmingham?’

  ‘I don’t suppose he really rang from there,’ said Coffin. ‘I think he’s still here. But not for long. Let’s go.’

  Two cars set out, Coffin and Walter Watson in front, with Archie Young and a sergeant following.

  They drove through Spinnergate to the small building with dirty windows and a basement with iron bars next to a betting shop. Coffin had been there before and did not like it any better this time. He stared down into the basement and felt cold: Mary Andrews had been kept there, and starved.

  He felt the chill of malice and evil in that starvation. Hatred of a person. Money was not the only motive, he thought, there was hate, evil, inside this man.

  They pushed inside without waiting for an invitation.

  A pleasant-faced young man with dark hair got up from behind a desk. ‘What can I do for you?’ He hesitated. ‘You’re police officers, aren’t you?’

  ‘And who are you?’ asked Coffin.

  ‘Tash. T. Ashworth,’ the young man said.

  Coffin nodded. ‘And how long have you been using that name?’

  ‘For about forty-eight hours. It’s not illegal, I’ve bought the business. It’s my professional name. It’s not my real name, nor was it the last chap’s, there hasn’t been an Ashworth for the last ten years.’

  ‘So where is the last Tom Ashworth?’

  ‘I don’t know. My solicitor must do, he arranged the contract. Indemnity and all that. The chap’s out there somewhere.’ He was blithe about it.

  Then he looked anxious. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing that you’ve done. But I am afraid that we will have to turn you out and seal up the premises. You’ll get back in, don’t worry … Archie, leave the sergeant here to do what’s necessary.’

  The sergeant licked his lips in anticipation. If he played this well, he could see a chance of promotion. He nodded. ‘I know what to do, sir.’

  Other teams of experts would be surging in, fingerprinting, photographing, searching the very dust of the place, but he had the luck, he was here first.

  ‘Be careful with the basement,’ said Coffin. ‘I want that dealt with inch by inch, and nothing missed.’ I’ll get that bastard, he thought. Hanging would have been too good for him, frying would have been better.

  The two cars drove back together, but this time the Chief Inspector drove with Coffin so that they could talk.

  ‘He’s got away. Too carefree altogether, that young man who bought the firm.’ Coffin was tense.

  ‘But we know where he must go,’ said Young. ‘To that other identity he will claim. Charles French, where are you?’

  When they got back to Headquarters, they heard the news that Lizzie Creeley was waiting for them: she had made her report.

  ‘I suppose forensics are in Napier Street,’ said Coffin to himself. To his surprise, Lizzie answered: ‘I don’t know. I went with Annie to hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Well, someone had to.’

  ‘Then she wasn’t dead?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Lizzie. ‘I thought she was.’

  But she would not have gone to hospital, dead bodies do not go to hospital.

  Coffin and Archie Young consulted. ‘I’ll go,’ said Young. ‘On my way.’

  ‘Right.’ At that moment Coffin’s secretary arrived. ‘Oh, sir, your wife telephoned and left a message. She’s on her way home. About forty minutes, she said.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Coffin turned to Young. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘She’s probably dead by now,’ said Young as they drove. ‘Just our luck.’

  But she was not.

  ‘That’s a tough lady,’ said the doctor who met them. ‘She must have a different constitution from most. But enough oxygen must have got through to the brain to keep her going.’

  ‘I think that’s a fair description,’ agreed the Chief Commander.

  ‘Of course, she may be brain damaged.’

  But Annie proved them wrong. She opened her eyes, closed them again, and said: ‘Stella.’

  Stella Pinero had driven herself home to St Luke’s Mansions after a happy day. She was convinced that she had secured a new backer for St Luke’s Theatre, and one who was prepared also to be patron to the new Drama School. With such a patroness, the school would surely get all the certifications necessary to tap all possible funds. Money was the game, but she must practise her curtsies.

  She got out of her car and was locking it when she looked over her shoulder, there was a dark figure lurking behind her. Damn, surely that lark was over.

  ‘Annie, is that you?’

  But she knew at once that this was not Annie: the smell was all wrong, this smell was totally masculine. But there was another smell as we
ll. It was petrol.

  Her shoulders were gripped and then something leather and hard slid round her neck. She began to choke. She felt herself pulled backwards, and her feet began to slip beneath her. She fell against her attacker who silently dragged her backwards.

  Silently, silently.

  The smell of petrol began to be stronger, she was choking and gasping for air. I am being doused in petrol, Stella thought, I am going to be burnt alive.

  The body has its own survival instincts. Her arms and legs were constricted, she could hardly breathe, but she had the use of her legs. Performers know how to use every part of their body, Stella kicked backwards at her opponent.

  Her attack seemed unavailing, he was dragging her into the darkness of St Luke’s courtyard, where he would set her alight and deposit her on her own doorstep.

  I’m not going to let him, thought Stella. Anger gave her new strength.

  The leather thong round her neck was biting into her skin. She heard the click of cigarette lighter, smelt the flame. Then suddenly headlights flared as a big car shot into the street, she and her attacker were caught in the beam. With new energy she thrust herself against the man, kicking with her high heels, struggling to free herself. One kick went home, she delivered another.

  He swore at her: ‘Bitch!’

  Then, with the sinuousness of a body trained in exercise, Stella swung round, pushing him as far away as she could. The man staggered against the wall of St Luke’s, the petrol bottle fell to the ground, splashing him as it went.

  Flames leapt all over him in one sudden eager movement. He was a flaming torch, reeling, rolling round the courtyard, screaming.

  Stella’s coat was burning, she tried to tear it from her back, but she was restricted by the belt round her throat and could hardly breathe, she wrenched at the leather, dragging it loose. Then she was pulling at her coat, staggering against the wall, still hearing the screams.

  Coughing, she saw a figure leaving the car, dragging a smaller figure by the arm. She knew that car.

  ‘Letty …’ it was all she whispered. ‘Letty! Help me! I’m on fire.’

  Later, lying down in her bedroom, with Letty and the doctor, and somewhere in the room, her husband, she heard herself say: ‘Letty, what were you doing?’