‘Don’t say anything,’ said Stella, as Coffin came back with the boy. ‘Wherever it is, we will all go.’
***
In the car park Louise and Jimmy stood solemnly together, their own guy parked by the railing, while they stood guard over the guy in the wooden box. Louise was wide eyed at the approach of the party. ‘Thought you were getting a copper,’ she accused.
‘I have.’ Tom was now proud of himself, having picked up the picture of whom he had with him. ‘This is the boss man.’ He turned to Coffin. ‘Here you are, sir, here you are.’
Phoebe was by his side, while Stella and Jack Bradshaw were a few paces behind. Jack had made an attempt to stay behind but had been dragged along by Stella Pinero. Even Phoebe had looked over her shoulder to say: ‘Come on. Jack, it might interest you.’
The guy was leaning against the wire fence, which supported the lolling head. He had sagged after Louise had touched him as if he could bear no more. The mask still hid the face but the hair was falling down from underneath the hat.
It was a mass of hair, thick and gleaming, beautiful once, now ragged and stained with blood.
Coffin gently took off the hat and peeled off the mask. A livid bruised face stared back at him, the skin swollen about the eyes, the mouth a blue slit. But it was recognizable.
‘Oh, my god.’ Stella put her hand over her mouth.
Jack Bradshaw, moving as if he could not stop himself, came up closer to observe the face. There was a moment of silence, then he paused, swallowed and turned away to stare at nothing. As he turned, he muttered: ‘I think I know her, I think it is Marjorie Wardy.’
‘It is Jaimie Layard,’ said Coffin.
6
The group of them waited, Tom, Jimmy and Louise as well, until the first police cars, followed very quickly by an ambulance, arrived. It was a dark night, but the car park was lit by a harsh yellow light which crept into every hole, and which made them all look sick. Jack Bradshaw leaned against the metal fence, his face turned away. Coffin and Phoebe talked in low voices.
Stella, it is true, removed herself a little, taking Louise with her – she could see the child was shivering in her lightweight jacket. ‘Don’t feel too warm myself,’ she said, deliberately cheerful, as she put a rug round the girl’s shoulders.
‘I touched her, I wish I hadn’t.’
‘I know, it was a horrid thing to happen. I won’t say don’t think about it, but just try to keep in your mind that it was a good thing you did, because now she can be properly looked after.’
‘Dead though,’ whispered Louise.
‘You still need looking after,’ said Stella firmly. ‘It’s not good to sit around in a car park, dead or not.’ She wound the car window down, air seemed necessary; she was not without imagination herself. Make a good scene, though, she thought, a bit out of Beckett?
A slight smile curved Louise’s lips as the wind blew through the window; she was a pretty child. ‘Yes, that’s true … I know you are being jokey but I feel better.’
‘Good.’ Stella looked out of the window. She saw the police cars arrive, and then the ambulance. ‘We can leave soon. I will take you home.’
Louise was a long-time addict of many a police series on television. ‘Will we have to go to the police station to make a statement?’
Stella was saved answering because her husband put his head through the car window. ‘The police surgeon has arrived and the SOCO, so we can be off. The boys want to go in a police car and Phoebe and Jack will go too. I will come with you.’ He smiled at Louise. ‘Have you home soon.’
Louise received this platitude with the contempt it deserved. ‘What about our guy?’
‘That is safe. One of the police cars is bringing it along.’
‘In its pusher?’ demanded Louise. ‘There’ll be trouble if we lose that. We hired it, and we would have to pay.’
‘I assure you that they have transported more difficult things than that pushchair.’
Louise’s sweet smile showed. He’s not so bad, she thought, quite handsome really, if he wasn’t so old. She’s lovely even if she is old too. Louise was ten, sophistication was thick upon her now, had been hers since birth. She had an older sister and a much younger brother. And they had not hired the pushchair but borrowed it, without permission, from the young brother. But it was always better, as Louise knew, to say you were in danger of losing money.
‘It’s all for charity,’ she said, still smiling.
Of course it is, thought Stella, as she started the car, and charity begins at home.
Coffin sat beside Stella as she drove, but he did not speak.
‘You’re thinking.’ The traffic lights at the turn towards the Central Police Station were red.
‘Plenty to think about.’ He looked over his shoulder at Louise who was staring out of the window. ‘I will tell you some of my thoughts later.’
‘I can guess at some of them. You didn’t expect to see that girl, Jaimie there … and Jack did not expect to see Marjorie Wardy … Same person.’
‘I knew she used the name of Marjorie Wardy.’
‘As which person did she get killed?’
Coffin said absently: ‘I don’t think you can separate the two out like that.’
‘I’m worried about Martin. Someone will have to tell him.’ Coffin did not answer, so Stella turned to look at him. ‘I know what you are thinking: Unless he knows. He loved her, he didn’t do this.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘I am not saying he might not have killed her; he’s got a record, hasn’t he?’
‘He’s done it before. As you remind me.’
‘But no man could dress up a woman he loved like that and leave her where she was found.’
‘He is an actor, used to costume, make-up and setting the scene. There was a bit of theatre in all that.’
‘Thanks.’
Coffin reached out an apologetic hand. ‘Sorry, forgive me. It hasn’t been a good scene, finding her there. You there too, and the children.’ He looked back at Louise, still staring out of the window. Heard every word, he thought.
‘It’s this, darling … if Martin killed Jaimie, it would have been a serious killing, done out of love and anger … and there is a horrible, mocking, jokey side to this that is not Martin.’
‘Clever of you to notice that,’ said Coffin.
They had arrived at the police building, behind them two police cars were drawing up.
‘You drive on home, I’ll come back soon, there will be no need for me to stay long, the usual team will take over. The children will be driven home with a policewoman.’
‘With our guy,’ said Louise. She smiled at him and then let the smile fade, gently.
‘With your guy.’ He got out of the car. ‘Come on, Louise.’ What are you going to grow up like, Louise? He could just see an adult Louise, sharp, poised, well made-up, a businesswoman, selling something, driving a hard bargain, but fair and kind of heart. Damn you, Louise, already you know how to charm.
The other cars were near now, and he could see Phoebe and Jack Bradshaw. The ambulance turned left towards the police mortuary. Jimmy and Tom approached in the charge of a uniformed policewoman; they had got their nerve back and were looking cheerful. They waved. ‘We are going to have a cup of tea and a biscuit.’
Coffin handed Louise over. ‘Your parents will be here soon, Louise, and after you and the boys have answered a few questions, you will be off home.’
He went in through the main entrance, not his usual habit, since he had his own staircase and lift. Here he waited for Phoebe and Jack.
‘We can leave them to it,’ he said. ‘The children will have to make their statements when the parents arrive but we need not hang about.’
‘I was going to take Jack up to my office and give him a drink,’ said Phoebe.
‘Yes, he will have to make a statement sooner or later, but I don’t know if it need be tonight in his case.’ He looked at Jack
Bradshaw. ‘I think you need that drink.’
‘It was a shock finding her there …’ He shook his head, as if trying to drive away the memory. ‘Poor girl, poor girl.’
‘You recognized her at once,’ said Coffin, not without interest. The face had been distorted and swollen.
‘Yes.’ Bradshaw got the word out as if speech was still difficult. ‘It was instantaneous. In spite of the swelling and the bruising, I knew it was her.’ He said with difficulty: ‘Do you think this was just a random killing?’
She was a girl who could make enemies. Coffin thought, and to him it looked like a death and dressing-up specially devised for Jaimie or Marjorie. ‘I think it was personal,’ he said, ‘but we don’t know which of her personalities it was devised for.’
‘I wonder how many people knew her as Marjorie Wardy?’ asked Phoebe.
‘I believe she had done a fair amount of work under that name,’ said Jack Bradshaw. ‘I looked into her a bit when she wanted to work on Dick Lavender. He asked me to.’ He passed his hand over his face. ‘Oh hell, I shall have to tell him.’
‘You can tell him it’s a good team on the job.’ Coffin had run his eyes quickly over the CID officers who had turned up – he knew them by name and reputation.
In fact. Chief Inspector Darcy, having heard that the top man himself was on this case, had come hurrying forward, having spotted the Chief Commander from the staircase. He had been working late on a robbery with violence, but for the moment this body must take precedence. Inspector Upton and Sergeant Foster and the SOCO were down at the car park already.
‘Just on my way, sir.’ He halted by John Coffin. ‘I wanted to take a look at the body. I understand it’s on the way to the mortuary?’
‘Be there by now.’
‘I’d like Mr Garden to do the postmortem, if that’s all right by you, sir.’
‘Good idea.’ Dennis Garden. ‘He will probably want to do it in his own laboratory in the university.’
‘He can, sir, once I’ve had a look. Like to do that first.’ As he spoke, the chief inspector was unobtrusively observing who was with the Chief Commander. It paid to assess that sort of thing. Phoebe, he knew, but not the man.
Coffin introduced Bradshaw. ‘Dr Bradshaw was with us when we were led to the body by the boy – I take it you know this happened? Right, well, Dr Bradshaw was able to identify the woman under one of the names she used.’
Chief Inspector Darcy absorbed all this without expression. ‘I shall have to talk to you, sir,’ he said to Bradshaw. ‘One of the inconveniences of knowing a murder victim means people like me talking to you.’ And even more so if you were there when the victim was found, he said to himself. But be polite, Darcy, and remember where you are, this chap knows top brass. And the mighty and mysterious Astley. Phoebe’s activities and friendship with the Chief Commander had been noticed.
‘Dr Bradshaw is writing the life of Richard Lavender,’ Coffin told him. It wouldn’t do to let Darcy fall into a hole he could miss.
‘The Grand Old Man. That must be interesting.’ Darcy looked at Coffin. ‘He’s on our list of people we look out for.’
‘I know.’ Not guarded, exactly, but offered a special awareness.
‘Most people think he’s dead,’ said Jack Bradshaw.
‘Not me, no, my grandfather used to vote for him.’ He began to move away, trying to display that tact which his wife told him he did not have. I got them all smiling anyway, he said to himself, and it was a lie: Grandpa was a conservative from the day he was born, and he called old Lavender: ‘That bloody red, who hangs around duchesses.’ Not many duchesses in Spinnergate. And if you heard of a duchess in East Hythe you knew where his sexual appetites lay.
He saw his own boss giving him a wry look and decided it was time to go. And he did want to see the body. There was a lot to think about in this case of the woman with two names. Writers did have pseudonyms, he knew that, but life and his work had taught him that motives for two names were always worth looking at.
He turned to go, when the swing doors were thrust open. It might be the wind, a strong wind had got up which would blow away the mist. A dishevelled, frantic figure pushed through, came up to the group with a rush and then stopped dead.
He was a young man, wearing jeans, no jacket, in spite of the cold, dark night, his fair hair was tumbled by the wind; his face was bruised and scratched as if he had been in a fight, but the scratches were drying. The tears, though, were new, and still wet on his cheeks. He had cried on his way here and he was crying still. Trembling.
He held out in front of him a small bundle wrapped in a towel.
Coffin came forward. ‘Martin, what’s the matter? What is this in the towel?’
Darcy drew back a pace, watching. Another friend of the Chief Commander?
He took the bundle from Martin’s hands and unwrapped it. The towel had been used and was wet from the rain. Inside was a brown paper parcel, not addressed to anyone. Still keeping his eyes on Martin, he unwrapped it slowly.
There was a stain of blood on the brown paper. Coffin was about to unfold the paper when Martin snatched it from him. ‘It’s Jaimie, it’s her hair.’
Inside, resting on the paper, was a long tress of blonde hair which had been bundled in upon itself; it was stained with blood at the roots, and the roots were there, as if a strong grip had pulled the hair from the scalp.
‘It’s Jaimie’s hair.’ Martin shuddered.
Coffin took the hair from Martin. ‘Calm down, Martin. How did you get this?’
‘Came to me,’ Martin whispered.
‘How?’
‘Pushed through the door.’ Martin was talking in gasps. ‘Just now, this evening. I opened it, Jaimie’s hair. Where is she?’
He got hold of Coffin and began to shake him, crying out that he wanted help.
Darcy stepped forward and hauled Martin off. Coffin shook himself, like a dog that had been rubbed the wrong way. ‘It’s all right, Darcy, no harm done.’
Martin stood between them, head down, he was quiet now, but Darcy hung on.
The swing doors opened again. This time a woman came through. She had a raincoat flung over her shoulders, her hair was the same colour as Martin’s, her eyes the same shape and just as blue. She stood there for a moment, without speaking.
Coffin moved away from Martin. ‘What do you want?’
Then and only then, she spoke. ‘Let go of my brother. Martin, are you all right?’
Martin muttered: ‘What are you doing here, Clara? Go away.’
‘I followed you.’ Without looking at them, still staring at Martin, she said: ‘I am Dr Clara Henley, Martin is my brother.’
Coffin acknowledged her silently: Yes, I heard that you, if not Martin, had changed your name and no doubt in medicine this is wise. He saw George Darcy’s face, he too knew who Clara Henley was, part of his job, after all, and Darcy did his job well.
‘I am John Coffin. Martin has been working with my wife, Stella Pinero.’ Some instinct told him that if you did not oil the wheels with this woman they did not move. ‘Martin came here to show us this packet … I was here by chance … he says it is the hair of Jaimie Layard.’
Clara did not answer, but she nodded.
Jack Bradshaw said in a clear voice: ‘She had black hair when I knew her.’
‘She had wigs,’ said Clara. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? I saw the hair. I would call that hair from a dead woman.’ She put her arm round Martin.
Coffin looked at George Darcy. ‘Let’s go into an interview room down here. Lead the way.’ He looked at Clara and Martin.
Clara stood still, holding on to Martin, who was white but quiet. ‘You’ve answered me: she’s dead.’
‘I told you so. I knew it. She’s dead,’ said Martin. ‘I won’t move a step till you tell me what you know.’
Coffin answered him. ‘I am afraid so.’
He led the way into the small interview room on the ground floor. It was chill and damp w
ith not enough chairs for them all, as one by one they filed in: Martin and his sister, Phoebe and Jack, and the two policemen.
Outside a rocket sailed through the air. Coffin heard the explosion. Then another and one more.
What kind of person, he asked himself, dressed up a dead woman as a guy? Someone full of dislike, someone who wanted to mock and belittle. A killer with hate inside. Love could turn to hate, of course.
‘You have found her.’ Martin looked from Coffin to Darcy and then to Phoebe and Jack Bradshaw. ‘That’s what this is all about. Where is she?’
Coffin did not answer. Not for you to see yet, he thought.
Martin stared at Phoebe and Jack. ‘What are they doing here? Did he kill her? Did she?’
Bradshaw muttered, a wordless growl.
‘Jaimie has been found,’ admitted Coffin.
‘Where? Where?’
‘Not far away. I think that’s all I can tell you at the moment.’ He looked at Clara Henley, who was standing close to her brother, her eyes on the floor. She’s been through this before, he told himself, she remembers. ‘Dr Henley?’ He made it a question so he could get an answer. Any answer to start her off.
In a low voice, Clara said: ‘I knew her sister Teresa at medical school.’
‘There is a sister?’ asked Coffin.
‘Oh yes, any number, five, I think. That is how Jaimie got on to Martin. Teresa introduced them in the library. So it is my fault.’ She bowed her head, accepting blame. ‘Except she was a selfish little bitch, Teresa said so.’ She put her hand on Martin’s arm.
‘Oh, shut up, Clara,’ said Martin, turning his head away. ‘You don’t talk much but you always say too much. I am a grown-up now, and what I do is up to me.’
Coffin stood up. ‘Martin, Dr Henley, Jaimie is dead and her body was found this evening in a car park. It is a case of murder and the rules have to be followed. An investigation has already started, with Chief Inspector Darcy in charge. He will want to talk to you both.’
He found he was still holding the parcel with Jaimie’s lock of hair in it. He held it out and Darcy took it from him.
‘He will want to talk to you about that as well, Martin.’
A Double Coffin Page 8
