‘I don’t know if dogs are allowed there,’ said Stella doubtfully.
‘Oh, this fine fellow won’t be stopped. He’s a real beauty. You were right to get him, Stella.’
Augustus and Martin seemed acquainted, which Coffin found mildly irritating. ‘You know the dog?’
‘Oh yes, isn’t he nice? He’s from the Deddington kennels … they have a lot of the old Alderbourne breed in them which makes them special. I knew it was the right place to go to.’
‘I’ve always had mongrels before,’ said Coffin, thinking of his last dog and the dog of his troubled boyhood, who had appeared out of a bomb shelter, the only survivor. Coffin had always felt that he and that first dog had a lot in common. But then he had felt the same about the second, only a mongrel, a rangy beast and a good fighter.
‘Oh, they’re the best of all,’ said Martin, ‘if you can get a good one, but if not you can’t go wrong with a peke.’
‘And so you told Stella?’
‘Yes, she took my advice.’ Martin bent down to pat the dog. ‘Come on, Gus, off we go.’
They bounded down the stairs, sure-footed this time.
‘So he chose the dog for you,’ said Coffin, coming back into the room and throwing himself on the sofa. ‘Let’s get out the champagne.’
‘Oh, come on.’ A flutter of red silk settled beside him. ‘Don’t be childish, besides, he’s your dog, I bought him for you. He’s Augustus, his mother was called Empress and his father was Pompey, Policeman of Rome.’ And she laughed.
Coffin laughed in spite of himself. ‘You are making that up.’
‘You can look at his pedigree.’
He stood up. ‘I don’t believe a word of it, but I will get the drinks out. And do you want champagne?’
‘No, of course not, he’s far too young to give good champagne to, let him have gin and like it. Or a nice sweet white wine, much more his style.’
‘I’d be surprised,’ said Coffin, as he moved away. ‘He has obviously got good taste.’
He got the reward for his good humour because Stella came up to him and kissed his cheek. ‘That is a lovely compliment, thank you.’
‘He’s back, there’s the bell.’
Dog, Martin and Coffin, with a tray of drinks, came back into the living room together. By this time, Stella was standing by the window staring down across the road to the old churchyard. Last year it had been turned into a small park, and all the dead, long dead they were by then, were disinterred and buried in one big grave in the new cemetery in East Hythe Road, where one great stone was their memorial. The old headstones were placed like a stone fringe in the former churchyard. The years had worn away most of the inscriptions but some could still be read: she remembered a Duckett, several Cruins, and many Earders, all of which names the district still knew. Families seemed to stay in Spinnergate over the generations.
Surely, she asked herself, when the churchyard was turned into a park, and graves were dug up, they would have found a body if one had been buried there?
As Coffin came up to her, offering her a glass of wine, she looked towards where Martin was playing with the dog, and murmured: ‘But wouldn’t a body have been found last year when the graves were dug up?’
‘I have been wondering about that myself,’ he said quietly. ‘None was found as far as I know, and I think I would know, but as I remember only the central area of the churchyard was excavated, and a wild area with shrubs and grass around left.’
He moved away to give Martin his drink. Martin stood up and smiled. ‘Thanks, I feel better already. I felt suicidal before I came … this is my big chance’ – he looked at Stella – ‘and I don’t want to fluff it …’ He walked over to her, drink in hand, and followed by Augustus. ‘I really have a problem with Shakespeare … I know you are not supposed to say so, but the verse is so difficult … it’s dialogue, right? I want it to sound like dialogue and not verse.’
‘Well, Olivier managed it,’ observed Stella, ‘and Gielgud managed to combine both.’
Martin groaned. ‘Have a heart, please. I am not in their class. Not yet.’
‘What’s the part that worries you?’ asked Coffin, trying to take his own mind off a dead woman who might not be there.
‘Malvolio, a tricky part at the best and I have to get it across to an audience of schoolchildren.’
Stella explained: It’s an examination text this year – we always try to do a performance of the play if we can. We get a grant from the Schools Theatre Society on condition we do it. Short run and full houses … the kids are conscripted.’ She turned to Martin. ‘Best part in the play, and you know it.’
‘And the most difficult … I’ve always fancied Sir Toby Belch.’
‘You will have to wait a decade or two to do that.’
‘Or Maria … good part, that.’
‘Don’t go bisexual on me.’
Coffin watched them gloomily: they were flirting, it was only a theatrical flirtation, which did not usually mean much, but he found it hard to handle. And you never knew where it could go: to bed quite often, and then best friends for ever, only they might never meet again – that was the theatre world.
I’m afraid, he said to himself, that’s it. I am afraid. I fenced myself in, I built a wall and felt safe inside it. Stella broke down that wall. I can’t risk anything with Stella and nature has not made me a trusting customer.
Nature and his profession. There he was again, thinking about Dick Lavender and his astonishing story. He wondered if he could get away with doing nothing, and telling the old man that there had been nothing to find.
But bodies and bones have a way of outing themselves when least you want them to.
He raised his eyes to Martin, who was saying that in many ways Shakespeare’s tragedies were easier to act than his comedies. ‘We laugh at different things now compared with Tudor England, but we cry at the same. I could manage tragedy.’
No doubt, thought Coffin. Perhaps we all can.
‘Depends on the part,’ said Stella, always willing to enter into a good theatrical discussion. ‘I defy anyone to call Hamlet easy, or Lear.’
‘They support you,’ said Martin with animation, ‘Iago must be a wonderful part to play.’
‘We don’t do Othello much for the school and college audiences,’ said Stella drily.
Augustus sidled up to Stella, opening his mouth and looking at her intently. He gave a little bark.
‘He wants a drink.’ Martin reached out a hand to pat the white head.
‘He’s not having gin or wine.’
The loose sleeve of Martin’s jacket had fallen back; Coffin saw a line of just-healed scratches on his arm. Three ragged, not parallel but haphazard, lines. Gouged out. They didn’t look like loving but overpassionate scratches, more as if delivered with a sharp instrument. Say a knife. To his experienced eye they looked both deep and sore. Fairly new, also.
‘I’ll get a bowl of water,’ Coffin said. A self-mutilator? Or how much did the lad see of his sister of the knife?
The conversation was going on when he got back. Stella was showing Martin a book of her press cuttings; she was unusual among actresses since she kept bad notices as well as good ones. ‘Look at that one’ – she pointed – ‘the stoat … never got a good notice out of that man, I always got the parts his girlfriend wanted. Even when he decided that he wanted a boyfriend and not a girlfriend, he didn’t change to me … Now this one, bit sharp, but not bad. I was a bit facile in those days.’ She frowned. ‘I think I have got over that, life knocks it out of you in the long run.’
Martin picked out a review. ‘You know, I couldn’t do that … keep the bad notices. I’d have to tear them up, pretend they hadn’t happened.’
‘It’s one way,’ said Stella, closing the book.
‘That’s what makes Jaimie so mad with us … my girlfriend,’ he explained. ‘She says I bottle things up. So I do, I suppose.’ He sighed and suddenly looked very young.
�
�Jaimie is not usually a girl’s name, is it?’
‘Can be. She’s very strong, is my Jaimie, but we do get across each other,’ he said sadly. ‘I expert we will split up. She says I’m a dreamer, not focused and too repressed.’
‘She does love you.’
‘I daresay it is true … she’s very focused herself.’
‘What does she do?’
‘A writer … freelance journalist … she says I am a table for one permanently reserved.’
‘She has a good turn of phrase.’
‘She’s very clever; she’s on to a good story at the moment.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, she hasn’t said much, probably afraid I’ll talk too loudly. Something from the past is all I know.’ He had seen Coffin notice his arm and he smoothed the sleeve down in a protective way. ‘Never keep a cat,’ he said lightly.
‘We do, but it doesn’t scratch.’ Not quite true because Tiddles not only put out a sharp paw on occasion but had been known to bite as well. Lovingly, Stella always said, but Coffin wondered.
When the telephone rang, Stella, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. Her voice registered surprise. ‘It’s for you, Martin.’ And she handed the telephone over.
‘Jaimie, hello. Yes, I’ll be there … d-down …’ He was stuttering again. He turned to Stella: ‘It’s Jaimie, I asked her to pick me up here.’
Stella nodded. ‘She’s on the way then?’
‘Down below, mobile phone.’
Stella decided to be gracious; she was also curious. ‘Ask her to come up for a drink.’
Martin stood up, a wary look on his face. ‘Thank you, I know she admires you. She would I-love to come.’ Once again he stammered.
They heard him clattering down the stairs, the door open, then silence.
There was a long wait.
‘She doesn’t want to come,’ Coffin said.
‘No, in spite of admiring me so much … Wonder what she’s like.’
‘Tough, I guess.’
‘Wonder if she gave him those cuts on his arm?’
‘You saw them?’
‘Of course, and no cat did them. She did. Love and hate.’
Coffin stood up. ‘I think they are coming.’ He held up a hand. ‘Listen.’ Someone fell up the stairs, then laughed an apology, getting only silence in reply.
Martin was first into the room; he was followed by a tall, young woman with a mane of fair hair, unbrushed, wearing dark jeans and a dark sweater. She had a small, lovely face, but she looked cross.
Proudly, Martin introduced her: ‘This is Jaimie.’
She held out a hand. ‘Jaimie Layard.’ The hand was not directed at anyone in particular.
Stella took the hand, pressing it gently before returning it to its owner. ‘Jaimie is a pretty name, but unusual.’
Jaimie’s face did not change, but she was willing to provide some information. ‘I took the name myself, I got it out of a book at the time – I was aged eight. I was christened Jessamond and it wasn’t right for me, I didn’t want to go through life as Jessamond. Jaimie did me, I might have chosen anything though. I don’t see why you shouldn’t change your name as you grow.’
‘Actresses do change their name,’ said Stella. ‘I use my own, but it might have suited me to change it. And if there had been another Stella Pinero on the boards, then I would have had to change. Couldn’t have two of us.’ She smiled at Jaimie. ‘A professional matter. You are a writer?’
‘Journalist.’ Jaimie accepted the glass of wine that Coffin was offering to her.
‘Which paper?’ asked Coffin.
Jaimie drank some wine. ‘Freelance,’ she said after a pause.
‘Martin says you are working on a story?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s something or nothing. I may drop it.’
How does a freelance journalist live, if she drops her story without getting it into print? Coffin asked himself. Jaimie, although plainly dressed, was not poorly dressed, her clothes were expensive, the bag thrown over one shoulder was beautifully shaped and of very good leather. Even her hair was designer-unbrushed. Then he remembered her name was Layard. Money, there. He remembered something else about the Layard family too: soldiers, fighting men all, Jaimie looked a fighter.
At the moment, she looked a cross, aggressive fighter who was not pleased with Martin, not pleased to be dragged up the tower, and even less pleased to meet a policeman and his actress wife. Maybe she suffered from jealousy and if so he had a fellow feeling.
The telephone rang on the table by his side. He picked it up.
‘This is Dr Bradshaw … May I speak to John Coffin?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It really is John Coffin himself? This is such a very confidential matter.’
Coffin covered the telephone. ‘Stella, I will take this call downstairs. Please excuse me, everyone.’
In the kitchen, he asked what the call was all about.
‘First, here is the telephone number of the journalist.’ Jack Bradshaw read it out. It was a local number. ‘But I have not succeeded ever in talking to her directly, you get the answerphone and later she rings back.’
A phone in a rented room. Coffin thought. But we could trace it easily enough.
‘Her name.’ Jack went on, ‘did I say, is Marjorie Wardy?’ His voice dropped.
Coffin held the receiver to his ear: And I might already know who she is.
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Tall, wearing dark spectacles, with curly black hair.’
Ah. Well, there were wigs.
‘I expect I can find her. And she is digging around in the story?’
‘I think so, from the questions she asked. But I cannot imagine how she got on to it.’
‘Dick Lavender hasn’t spoken of it to anyone?’
‘Not that I know of, he’s only recently told me. I could sense he was working up to something but he took his time. To tell you the truth, I believe it was her questions that made him feel he must unburden himself before it was done for him.’
‘Would it be so terrible if it came out? It will in the end if I go investigating.’
‘He thinks so. If it comes out that his father was a killer of women, then he wants to be the one who tells the story.’
‘Yes, I see the force of that.’
‘But there is something else: I told you he had had anonymous letters … Today there was an attack on him.’
‘What? Is he harmed?’
‘A big bunch of mixed flowers was delivered … it was covered in transparent paper; when it was opened it appeared that the flowers had been covered with some sort of irritant powder affecting the eyes, nose and throat.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It was opened by Janet, she deals with all parcels, he never came near it, but it was meant to hurt. For an old man the result might have been serious. No, it was sent by an ill wisher.’
‘Not one who knew the ways of the household, though.’
‘True. So no one close. There is hardly anyone, to be honest, only Janet and the woman who comes in once a week to help with the laundry – the old man likes all his personal linen washed and ironed by hand, no laundry. But Lavender thinks, and I think too, that it is someone who knows the story. And wants …’ He hesitated.
‘Vengeance? It’s been a long time coming. Hardly likely to be a contemporary of Lavender as a boy.’
‘No, but possibly the descendant of one, someone, man or woman, who knew about it from parents or grandparents. Seriously, I believe there is someone out there who is after the old man. And I cannot believe it goes back to his days in government, although God knows he made enough enemies then. But most of them are dead. No, this is someone else.’
Oh good, Coffin thought, not only do I have to find the remains of a long-dead woman, but I also have to find a hunter in the shadows.
He went to the kitchen to look out; he was nearer to the old churchyard on this lower floor. A chi
ld was playing on the grass while his mother stood watching. An older woman was walking towards one of the flower beds. An old man sat on one of the seats, smoking and reading a paper.
Peaceful scene. Coffin thought. I may be about to turn it into a less tranquil place. He could imagine the digging, the police screens set up to shield what they might have found.
He turned away. I have been told an extraordinary story. The threatening letters to Richard Lavender, and now this bunch of flowers, they are not dangerous episodes in themselves, but there is a threat.
He heard Martin and Jaimie tumbling down the stairs, he could hear voices which sounded angry. He thought he heard her say she didn’t want to come to this house again.
Upstairs, Stella was finishing her drink with a thoughtful look. ‘I didn’t ask them to stay for a meal, I think they are about to have a quarrel. One of many, I fear. So I encouraged them to go.’
Coffin sat down beside her, he picked up the end of the silk girdle that went round Stella’s waist and was tied up on the side. ‘Do you think you could hide all that fair hair of hers under a wig?’
Stella shrugged. ‘I expect you could. Yes, I daresay. Why?’
‘Tell you later, but I feel as though I am being led into an unpleasant business.’
And as if the past had reached out a bony hand to tweak him. He did not enjoy being reminded of his own boyhood and youth, when he had felt that he might get stuck in a world he did not like and when he knew it was up to him to fight his way out.
He was going to need assistance with the problem the former Prime Minister had set. It was like being given an errand by Mr Gladstone, the moral imperative was strong.
Phoebe Astley, he thought, he would set her to work.
He looked at Stella; if she was jealous of any other woman in his life, then it was Phoebe.
3
Phoebe Astley was a senior police officer who had been brought into the Second City by John Coffin to head a special unit. Since one of the purposes of this small and secretive unit was to check on the performance and behaviour of the local force, he had taken Phoebe from another county. Phoebe was a forceful, dark-haired woman with great energy. Charm too when she chose to use it, but because of the delicacy of the tasks she was given, she preferred a smooth neutral manner. Archie Young was her nominal chief but she reported directly to the Chief Commander.
A Double Coffin Page 4
