EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Bob Taylor, Adam Makin, Jany Blanchard, and her close friend Virginia Gold. And Tim, of course.

  "That's a pretty lethal look,” said an interested Coffin.

  "Oh, I don't think they'll kill each other ... too many other people are ready to do it for them."

  "One of them is crying."

  "Probably just lost his part in a good production.” Stella bit cheerfully into her sandwich.

  All three ate. The dog dragged his sandwich to the floor, where he tore it between teeth and paws.

  "Better go over to the theatre so you can try your voice out."

  "You said I didn't have to speak."

  "Just an odd word or two."

  "If I didn't love you, I'd hate you,” said Coffin.

  "Eat your sandwich,” said Stella. She thought Coffin did not look happy. Worried. “Are you all right?"

  "Touch of indigestion ... mental only."

  Coffin looked down at his hands, which held his sandwich; they looked white and grey.

  "I trained you two to that,” he said. He addressed his hands. When there is trouble, you instruct me (is that the word?) to worry. I know now what to worry about: the message on the telephone, voice unknown:

  "I am going to get you, and if not you, then your wife."

  He pushed this to the back of his mind, not the first threat of this type he had received in his long career, but he always hated it when Stella came into it, even though she always escaped, sometimes at the last minute like in the old film serials.

  * * * *

  With the little white dog trotting gamely forward, they made their way to the theatre. The dog knew the route well, since he went regularly with Stella when she was performing there. He was, in fact, a well-known local figure, and if he had been found wandering alone in the city, would have been led back to Stella.

  He was the first into the theatre, where he stopped short and growled.

  A low, deep growl, quite unlike the earlier one that day.

  "Now he's angry,” said Coffin.

  But Stella knew the dog better. “No, he's not, he's nervous. Something has frightened him.” She picked up the dog, who struggled in her arms.

  Coffin was looking at the stone-flagged floor. “That's blood."

  A drop of blood lay in front of him. One, two, three.

  He marched forward through the side passage.

  "That's onto the stage,” called Stella as she followed after him.

  "Has there been a war play or a thriller with a lot of blood being produced?"

  "Shakespeare,” gasped Stella as she followed him, still carrying a struggling dog. “'Midsummer Night's Dream.’”

  "Sure it wasn't ‘Macbeth'?"

  His voice trailed away. On the floor was the body of a man. Coffin knelt down beside it. He studied the face, which was bloodied, as was the man's neck. The man's features were neat and regular; he looked about thirty, but it was hard to be sure through the blood. Coffin felt he knew the face.

  He looked up at Stella, who was staring down at the body.

  "Who is he?"

  "He's an actor. Tim Hall. He's been assisting in rehearsing the next production here. He's a close friend of the producer."

  Coffin raised an eyebrow in question.

  "No, nothing to do with me ... It's Bert Illiffe who's the producer. He wanted Hall badly, he brings in the critics."

  Coffin knew that Bert Illiffe was on a short contract to produce plays in the theatre created out of the old church. He had been a big success. Coffin didn't remember meeting him and his close friend and ally, and now Tim was dead. Possibly Bert was too. Coffin had noticed these deaths could go in pairs.

  "He's been dead for some time ... he's cool.... No, don't touch him, I must get the murder squad in."

  Stella nodded. “You're going to ask me what about Tim and Bert.... They quarrelled. And now Tim is dead.” And where was Bert?

  Coffin pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. He knew who could come: Chief Inspector Willy Freedom (who lost no opportunity to be close to his boss) and Inspector (recently promoted from Sergeant) Mary Adams. There would be others, too. Good officers all through, or they wouldn't be where they were.

  He drew Stella away from the body. “Any idea how this happened? No, I suppose it's not fair to ask."

  "Someone will ask me, though,” said Stella who had not been Coffin's wife without learning something of how the police worked. “With du Croy and now this, you have got a lot on."

  "I won't be doing the actual investigation,” said Coffin just a fraction coldly. Stella ought to remember that he had got past that stage. “I have the overall responsibility, of course."

  Stella, picking up her tactlessness at once, said hastily that of course she knew that. “And Willy Freedom is a good officer, I know."

  This was tactless too, as she knew and he knew that Willy was a very handsome man who had shown clear signs of liking Stella. He also knew that Willy had his little coterie of young constables (no sex please, we're British, but the feeling was generally reputed to be there).

  Mary Adams was the usual woman career officer, hard-working, polite, and knowledgeable about what was going on, but discreet, not to say silent, about it all.

  Chief Inspector Willy Freedom knew how to hold on to information also. When Coffin asked him about the case later, he said, “It's going very slowly, sir. It's early days. I can tell it's going to be one of those murders that takes time, and after all, sir, we haven't had much of that."

  This was true, as Coffin admitted to himself.

  "It would be a help if the knife that was used could be found,” he said.

  * * * *

  It was one of Coffin's duties to take Stella's little dog for an early-morning walk. Stella claimed that performers always slept late if they could because they worked late so often.

  "When I am filming or doing TV work, you do not hear me complain, do you?” she said.

  "No,” admitted Coffin, “although you look a bit grim sometimes."

  "Thanks.” She rubbed some anti-wrinkle cream on the skin under her eyes. “I wonder if this stuff works."

  "You haven't got any wrinkles."

  "It does work then ... or something does.” She looked at him and smiled. “Or just naturally good skin."

  "I should have said that."

  "So you should have, but I've said it for you.” She patted the dog, who was sleeping beside her. “And take this one for a walk, he's a bit constipated."

  "It's all that chicken you let him have. Come on, you."

  The dog knew to come.

  There was a large stretch of grass, a former graveyard, near the theatre, which Stella felt she owned, although she did not, and this was where the dog took his morning run. He liked it and galloped forward as usual.

  There was an old gardener who valued his grass, but he was a dog lover and an admirer of Stella. He also knew Coffin to be a top policeman, so all in all it was a good place for the dog to run.

  "Morning, sir,” said the gardener.

  "Morning, Jim."

  "You're out early, sir."

  "Just walking the dog for Her Ladyship.” He rarely called Stella Her Ladyship but somehow to old Jim it seemed the right way.

  A thick hedge of shrubs made a verge round the grass. Into this the little dog galloped. He usually took a look in there.

  Jim gossiped away. He always knew all the tales of the town, which he enjoyed passing on to Coffin, who usually knew them already, but he listened.

  "Did you know that Dilly Unwin, who is the public librarian, won't have any books in the library with swear words?"

  "Can she keep them out?” said Coffin. “And how does she know if she doesn't read them?"

  Jim laughed. “She didn't tell me that."

  Coffin looked at his watch. “That dog is taking his time."

  "He's got something,” said Jim. “I can hear him scrabbling away."

  "Probably a rat."

  "I'll
take a look."

  Jim pushed his way into the bushes. Coffin lost sight of him. He was gone for a few minutes. When he emerged he was carrying the dog. The dog had something in his mouth.

  "See what he's got?"

  The dog was holding a knife, handle end, with his teeth. His eyes shone brightly above his treasure, but whereas normally there was a friendly look in his eyes, as if he knew you and was pleased to see you, now the look was distant.

  "He looks as though he could eat me,” said Coffin.

  "It's the blood on the blade.” Jim took a closer look. “Got some on his whiskers too, he's done a proper job on that knife.... I expect he liked the taste."

  "Can't take him back to Stella looking like this,” said Coffin.

  "He won't eat her.” Jim was enjoying it.

  "I wouldn't like him even to think of it."

  "As soon as he sees her, he'll calm down ... he's only a little dog, sir, not a tiger."

  But Coffin knew what the blood meant, while Jim did not; it was human blood.

  This was the knife that had killed Tim—something else Jim did not know.

  But Jim had been working things out. “You've had a murder here, haven't you? A chap was stabbed. I reckon this was the knife that did it.... Your lot will want it."

  "Yes,” said Coffin. His mouth suddenly felt dry. “Don't touch it.” He pulled his newspaper from his pocket, wrapping it round the knife as he pulled it gently from the dog's mouth. The dog did not growl or struggle; perhaps he didn't like the taste of Tim's blood after all. “Forensic stuff, Jim."

  But Jim was a great reader of detective stories, especially American ones, and was well up in forensic details such as blood groups and hair. Coffin, who knew a great deal more about such subjects, had no intention of discussing them with Jim.

  Coffin watched as the clump of bushes and trees were searched by a small team of forensic scientists.

  "If there's anything else here, we'll find it, sir,” said the sergeant in charge. He was keen to find something more with John Coffin there. It was always a good thing to impress the boss. “The knife had been buried but not very carefully, just stuck in the ground, really. It wasn't hard for the dog to find it."

  But the blood was useful, because it was identified as being Tim's. Chief Inspector Willy Freedom came by later to tell Coffin. It so happened that Stella was there too, having a cup of coffee with her husband, which made the chief inspector a happy man. He always felt happy to see Stella, and with her husband there as a chaperone he felt safe. Left alone with her ... well, he might have tried something.

  Stella knew about the blood and wanted to talk about it.

  "It was Tim's blood group."

  She felt a bit sick. “But other people could have that same group..."

  "Oh sure, but we had something else that made it certain that the knife has been used on the victim ... there was a bit of his skin caught between the blade and the handle."

  Not nice, Stella thought, giving a little shiver.

  Willy did not add that a length of bloodied striped cotton had also been found nearby and that made him sure the killer had been a woman.

  He did not suspect Stella, however, even silently, to himself. To suspect the boss's wife would not promote his career.

  When Freedom had gone Coffin thought again about the dead man and that bunch of actors he had seen at the pub.

  "It's good you were able to give us the identity of the victim right away,” he said.

  Stella nodded. “I'm glad I could help. All the murder cases I've been around with you, I'm usually just a passenger."

  "No, you're never that, Stella. I always get support from you. Did you never understand that?” Then he stopped. “Mustn't go on like this or I shall be telling you how much I love you and not doing my proper work."

  * * * *

  The police team soon concentrated their attention on the cast of the play that was being rehearsed.

  "The only people the victim seemed to know were actors,” said Inspector Mary Adams.

  "I've noticed it's the way with actors ... they just move from play to play."

  She did not say that she had come to the chief's office at this moment because his wife was an actress and must know all the performers her suspicions (and those too of Chief Inspector Freedom, of whom, as it happened, she was not a special admirer) had settled upon.

  She ran over the names in case Coffin had forgotten.

  Bob Taylor, Adam Makin, Jany Blanchard, and Virginia Gold.

  Coffin accepted them politely, but he had remembered. It was one of Mary Adams's annoying tricks to remind you of what she thought you had forgotten but you had not.

  Chief Inspector Freedom believed that the killer was a woman. A powerful stabber, though, some of those wounds had gone deep. Powerful and in a killing anger. He was keeping to himself for the moment not only this but the fact that on the blade of the knife was a stamped local address:

  H. E. Willis, Cardoman Street, Second City.

  He meant to go there. Cardoman Street, long and winding, with old shops and houses. It was not the smartest street in the Second City, although it was turning that way as the value of some of the old buildings began to be recognised.

  It was late afternoon by the time the chief inspector got to Cardoman Street; he had planned it that way. He didn't think of it as the end of his working day, because his working day never ended. He chose the time because the shop was more likely to be empty at that time of day. He took a young detective constable, Sarah Jones, with him. Sarah's father was a well-known MP, and this was no bad thing for Willy to get close to.

  Coffin noticed, but he did not think Willy did, that there was an amused glint in Sarah's eyes whenever her father's name came up with Willy. And he did get it in quite often.

  The shop was little and dark, but crammed with saleable objects. Even Willy, not given to imaginative bursts, felt that if it were a bit bigger he wouldn't have been surprised to see a battleship in a corner.

  There was an H. Willis, but that the chief inspector knew. It was the sort of thing he checked before setting out.

  Harry Willis, aged 52, married with two sons. The Willis family obviously had good fecundity and would go on through the future as it had done in the past. The quiet lady in the corner of the shop must be Mrs. Willis.

  Harry Willis looked at the knife and admitted he had sold it to a lady. A very quiet-spoken lady.... No, she had been wearing big dark spectacles, so it was hard to see her features.... Yes, he might know her again, couldn't be sure.

  The chief inspector ground his teeth.

  "But the interesting thing, strange really, don't you think so, dear,” and he looked towards his wife, “she bought two knives."

  * * * *

  Coffin was summoned by Stella. She was usually careful not to presume on her position as his wife but sometimes, as now, it seemed important that he come home.

  When she summoned, he obeyed.

  Sitting on the sofa behind Stella, who was standing up holding her dog, was a woman he recognised as Jany Blanchard.

  She stood up and held out a knife.

  "I have come to confess.” With dignity and clarity she said: “I was going to kill myself, but I find I cannot. But I think I killed Tim. Motive: love and hate."

  A well-written piece of dialogue, Coffin thought, but all the same, Chief Inspector Freedom was in charge of this case and by him she would be arrested.

  No favouritism here.

  Then he looked at the knife.

  It was not a pair to the knife that had stabbed and killed Tim. He shook his head. Not a confession he would accept.

  "I don't believe you,” he said bluntly.

  Jany Blanchard burst into tears.

  "Come on, Jany."

  "I wanted to kill him. I felt as though I had. I wanted to confess. I loved him and I was so jealous."

  Coffin shook his head.

  * * * *

  Coffin found himself havi
ng to deal with Inspector Mary Adams next.

  "We are looking for Bert Illiffe, but so far he's not been found."

  Coffin had his own idea about Bert Illiffe. He had learnt that Bert (a shifty fellow to Coffin's mind) had had an offer to produce a very interesting little play in Paris, provided he got there fast. And he also knew that Bert had a lover in Paris. He thought Bert was there now and would eventually let them know. If and when it suited him.

  Coffin enjoyed the thought of deflating Mary a fraction—not too far, since he had appointed her and thought she was clever. “He's probably performing somewhere under another name. Most of these people have a pseudonym or two ... it's a commercial matter."

  "He's not the only one,” said Mary sadly. “I've got one chap, he's a forger, and he's got sixty names that I know of. I've no doubt he's got one or two others past me."

  "You seem to have got his measure, though,” said Coffin, glad to show appreciation. He knew she'd had an offer from a commercial company to set up her own private-investigation outfit. The money would be good, and he couldn't blame her for considering it.

  "Oh yes, he got ten years, but he won't serve all that, and I have no doubt that he is somehow managing to carry on his business where he is.... The place he is serving time in now is so modern that I expect he thought he could get away with—"

  "Murder?"

  "No, not murder,” said Inspector Adams. “Several chaps in there for that ... but he might think he could carry on business when it suited him. I expect he has done.... Just my knowledge of what he is like ... no proof though."

  When Adams had gone, Coffin settled down to his work.

  No progress on this murder, and no more on the du Croy murder, either.

  Two murders, thought Coffin morosely. One a death for which an actress claimed responsibility but was lying, and the du Croy murder, with no one wanting to confess.

  Usually he could make a good guess at the killer or killers. But not this time.

  "I want a proper confession,” he told himself.

  He telephoned Stella, who turned out to be busy and not anxious to talk.

  "I'm going to retire and take you off round the world."

  "And I'm not coming,” said Stella. “I have a TV series coming up."

  Coffin told himself it was only what he had expected.