The presentation involved a certain amount of dressing up and speechmaking and formality, none of which was really to the Chief Commander’s taste, but all were expected of him. At such times, he felt he understood and sympathized with his sovereign who faced such affairs almost daily. Stella said when he expressed this once that she thought that perhaps wearing a couture dress and beautiful jewels might help one, but even this comfort was denied the Chief Commander, who was instead laced into a uniform of military smartness and stiffness.
The function over, he disappeared into his office, to loosen the collar and find something to drink.
Phoebe was waiting for him. ‘You can give me one too,’ she said, eyeing the bottle. Phoebe allowed herself a certain liberty with Coffin when no one was listening. The habit had been noted, however, in the eagle-eyed world in which they lived, and produced some speculation.
‘I thought you would like to hear the latest about the bodies … bones, really, in the old churchyard.’
Coffin nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘The latest scientific and medical judgement … and this is from Dennis Garden, back from his rapid trip, his judgement is that the female bones are that of a young woman probably between twenty and thirty, he declines to be more precise than that. The child, the foetus more accurately, was probably in the fourth month of its development … it seems the bones develop in patches in the uterus, not a straightforward strengthening all round.’ She handed Coffin a photograph. ‘You can just about make out what he means there – he’s marked it with white arrows. Told me which bones … arms and chest, I think.’ She held the photograph before her. ‘You’d think it would be skull, wouldn’t you, but I suppose that was to stay soft so the brain can develop.’
‘How did she die?’
Phoebe threw up her hands. ‘Can’t say, no flesh to show stab wounds or strangulation and no broken bones … Not naturally, we have to believe, since she hardly buried herself.’
‘And how long has she been there?’
‘He’s just guessing, says soil, leaf deposit, insect remains and so on come in here, which are not strictly his line … over half a century … probably about eighty years …’
‘It fits in with what Dick Lavender said.’ Father Lavender killed the woman and his wife and son buried her.
‘We might be able to identify her positively with Isobel Haved, the missing woman, but I doubt it.’
‘And what about the other remains?’
‘Ah, more evidence of violent death there … skull broken and the neck as well … interestingly the chap had a badly broken leg as well but that had healed. He would have limped though.’
‘And how long had he been dead?’
‘A few scraps of clothing have gone away to be analysed … but a coin was found close to the body … dated 1914. Not long after that, he thinks.’
Coffin assessed this information. ‘Might have been a zeppelin victim, killed by a German bomb.’
‘And then buried himself?’
‘I suppose he might have been buried by the bomb.’
‘By the way, the coin was French.’
‘Don’t say he was a Frenchman?’
‘I am not saying anything, not just yet.’
They stood for a moment, in silence. ‘1914,’ Coffin said. ‘A French coin … a man with a badly damaged leg, still limping. A soldier?’
‘Could be … another unknown dead.’
Coffin sighed; he walked away to look out of the window where a pale sun was shining in an almost white sky. ‘What a gathering of the unburied dead in that place.’
‘The empty box might have been for him … a burial disrupted by an air raid.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. The zeppelin raids didn’t get going till 1917 as far as I know.’
‘Is this as far as you want me to go? I mean, we can tell the Grand Old Man that yes, we have one of his father’s victims and what does he want us to do about it.’
Coffin thought about it. ‘No, carry on for a while, see if you can tie this skeleton in with Isobel Haved. I don’t know, I don’t feel this is the end of it.’
‘Right.’ Phoebe prepared to depart. ‘Could this have anything to do with the jacket that was on Jaimie Layard’s body with the name of the GOM’s father in it?’
‘Oh, you know about that?’
‘Of course.’
Of course. There were no secrets. He had a momentary picture of the gossip in the canteen or the locker room. He’d been there himself, knew the way it went.
‘I am not at all sure about that jacket. It may not be genuine and if it isn’t, then it is either a joke or an attempt to incriminate Jack Bradshaw.’
‘He’s in there from what I hear, isn’t he?’ said Phoebe. ‘Darcy thinks so … He wants to talk to you, by the way.’
Coffin was protected from casual callers in his office by several secretaries and assistants in the outer office and the office beyond them, but people like Chief Inspector Darcy could get through. The outer office was staffed by two young women officers of acknowledged charms combined with sternness. In the inner office his two secretaries, Gillian and Sylvia, used their word processors and operated the fax machine with quiet skill. Coffin stuck to a pen and paper. In a small, hutch-like office of his own, Inspector Paul Masters, Coffin’s personal assistant, worked away in silence interrupted only by his telephone. He too was part of the barricade to protect John Coffin, who did not always wish to be protected.
Darcy was well drilled in getting through to the Chief Commander, but even he was only allowed to do so on the telephone.
‘The jacket, sir? I understand you saw Richard Lavender … any joy?’
Coffin admitted that no one in the Lavender household had owned up to recognizing or ever having seen the jacket. ‘But there was a suggestion from Janet Neptune that it might have been among a trunk of old clothes passed along to a stall at the local church’s sale.’
‘It could be enquired into,’ said Darcy gloomily. ‘See if anyone remembers taking it in or selling it.’
‘Yes. You will have to do that, but don’t be surprised if you get nothing. I am not sure if I know what to make of the jacket.’
‘The Department of Fashion and Costume in the university is examining it, and I hope they will come up with a date. May not be helpful, but at the moment anything helps … But I am still looking at Martin Marlowe, especially since the dead girl herself said he had attacked her once at least. I think they had a violent relationship – he might well have killed her. There’s his sister too.’
‘You aren’t suggesting that she killed the girl?’
‘No, sir, but she is very close to her brother and might well connive at anything to keep him out of trouble.’
He never forgets the past history of those two, Coffin thought. Perhaps he himself never did. It was always there. A shadow at the back of his mind.
But Darcy had more to tell. ‘One of my detectives was coming out of the hospital where Dr Henley works – it was late evening … his wife had just had a baby and he had been with her – when he saw the brother and sister talking outside in the hospital car park. He thought they were arguing so he stayed watching. I had told the team to keep an eye on Marlowe but we weren’t watching him. After a bit Marlowe got into his car and drove off fast … my man decided to follow to see what he did. Marlowe drove to the nearest station of the Light Railway.’
‘So?’
‘By the time my man had parked his car, the train had left and taken Marlowe with it … he was travelling towards the City. He has a friend in the City of London Police and he rang ahead and asked if one of their cars would meet the train at the Tower and see where Marlowe went.’
‘And?’
‘A car did get to the terminus … but no Marlowe, so either he got off at an earlier station or he was not recognized.’
‘You aren’t suggesting he put on a wig and a false beard
?’
‘He is an actor, sir.’
‘What are you suggesting, Darcy?’
There was a pause. ‘Jaimie Layard’s flat in the City, where she operated as Marjorie Wardy, was the scene of an attempted break-in last night.’
‘Are you suggesting it was Martin Marlowe?’
‘Could be, it’s a possibility.’
‘Might he not have had a key?’
‘Yes, quite likely, but we had changed the locks after searching the place. There was an attempt to break the lock.’
‘He didn’t get in, apparently, so whatever he wanted, he didn’t get. If it was him.’
‘I shall be talking to him today as well as Bradshaw. If I can find him. Bradshaw has agreed to come in to see me today, but Marlowe is not answering his telephone or his door. In fact, at this moment, I don’t know where he is.’
Coffin made his decision. ‘Keep the flat under observation … set it up with the City of London men … it’s their area.’
‘We usually mix well there,’ observed Darcy.
A tacit, unofficial quid pro quo arrangement, Coffin meditated: you scratch my back and I scratch yours. Bills no doubt appeared in some shape or form and were settled.
‘And I shall want to take a look round the flat myself.’
‘Of course, sir. I’ll come with you.’ On his own telephone, Darcy ordered the car to pick them both up, and as he put the receiver down, he heard a faint, jovial whisper about the CC’s dead dolly in the car park. So that was the word that was going round? Darcy frowned but decided against reproof. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad description for Marjorie-Jaimie as seen in her Guy Fawkes dress. But on an impulse he strolled down to the CID sergeants’ room where the men sat at their desks. The CID room at Central was large but not large enough for the men who usually crowded it; today it was almost empty and he knew why: as well as the investigation into the dead dolly, there was an arson case down by the tube station and a dead man in the loading bay at a supermarket in the High Street.
He looked around, then went out to meet the Chief Commander. Making good terms with him, he decided, and that never did a man’s career any harm.
A uniformed constable stood outside the front door of Jaimie’s workplace above the flower shop. The flower shop was open for business, as was the coffee shop next door.
The door showed the signs of the attack on it where an attempt had been made to chisel away at the lock, but failing to do so or to break down the door.
‘An amateur attempt,’ Darcy said appraisingly. ‘We had changed the lock and in any case there is a sheet of steel backing the wood put on after the first break-in.’
‘What about the back … windows and so on?’
‘No attempt, you’d need wings, and anyway, access from the back is difficult.’
‘And no one heard anything?’
‘Half the offices below are empty.’
Darcy acknowledged the constable, and let the two of them in.
Marjorie-Jaimie, as well as sharing an apartment with Martin, kept this set of two rooms as her working address. She had a word processor with a big printer, a photocopier and telephone and fax.
George Darcy led the way in. ‘We’ve had a good look round, checked the messages on the answerphone … all business, and only a couple, both saying why hadn’t she answered a previous call.’
‘And the previous call?’ asked Coffin, moving quietly around the room.
‘Wiped. I reckon she came in regularly.’
‘Where she worked, I suppose.’ Coffin was examining a file of typed pages on the desk. It appeared to be the rough outlines for an article on Richard Lavender, Man of the Past. There was no direct mention of a murderous father but a few cryptic notes suggested that she would be dealing with this.
Wonder how she got on to it? he asked himself once again. Jack Bradshaw seemed the likely answer, although he would certainly deny it. He might not even have known that he had given anything away, he was in love with her after all.
How much had he known himself? It was possible that Jaimie had picked up hints from someone else. The old man himself, garrulous and free of speech without realizing it in his old age. Although he had not said so, he certainly still liked a pretty face.
Then there was Janet Neptune, she probably knew as much as anyone about events in the past. Or could make a good guess. She was part of his family and families often knew more than they were willing to tell.
But this had been a clever girl who might have come across evidence on her own, evidence which Phoebe might track down in her turn in a local newspaper or even in an article by Edgar Wallace.
‘Do you ever read Edgar Wallace?’ he asked Darcy absently.
‘No. Did as a boy: Sanders of the River and that sort of thing. Found them in my grandfather’s bookshelves.’
‘That would be it,’ said Coffin. ‘My wife is putting on one of his plays: The Case of the Frightened Lady … bringing it up to date a bit, I gather.’ Tarting it up, Stella had said, and you had to rely on her own natural good taste to make it something more. ‘Be on after Christmas.’
He went on walking round the room, which was well furnished in a businesslike, unfussy way. ‘She wasn’t short of money.’
Darcy agreed. ‘No. I got her sister, or one of them, they are a big family, to come in and have a look round, to see if anything suggested itself to her; she said that Jaimie had a small private income, and that she earned well too.’
‘And no idea what lies behind the attempt to get in?’
‘Might just be vandals, or a chancer who knew the place was empty.’
Coffin went into the kitchen which was neat and clean with some smart but unused-looking kitchen equipment. He opened the refrigerator door to look inside. Nothing much there except coffee and a bottle of wine. Stale now, one must presume.
‘She didn’t live here in any real sense,’ explained Darcy, who plainly felt the conducted tour was his responsibility as guide. ‘Lived with Marlowe in his place.’
‘Let’s hope Marlowe has calmed down.’
Darcy shrugged. ‘I think his sister has a calming influence. May have fed him a sedative of some sort, wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Any indication either of them were on drugs?’
Darcy shook his head. ‘None, and you can bet we looked.’ He opened the door to the bathroom. ‘Not even an aspirin.’
The bathroom had a shower as well as a bath and showed the only sign of feminine habitation, with scented soap, bath oil and toilet water all in a matching perfume.
The bedroom led off the bathroom; it was small with a low bed. The bed, however, was large and luxurious. Coffin turned to Darcy with enquiry.
‘Yes. Her sister said she had a succession of lovers. It was the way she lived. Easy to anger. Always a bit violent but soon got over it. She loved the girl, but was realistic about her.’
‘What was the sister like?’
Darcy appraised her: ‘Large, easy manners, very well dressed; I should say she had a temper too. Not totally nunlike, either.’ He couldn’t repress a small smile: he had liked Griselda Layard. He had an idea that she had liked him also. The home life of the Layard family must be interesting.
‘There is nothing to suggest she was killed here?’
Darcy shook his head. ‘No sign of a struggle. As you can see, all is in order.’ He looked around the room where a faint show of white powder still remained on doors and windows. ‘We checked for fingerprints. Just hers and a blur of others that we can’t identify. Marlowe says he did come sometimes on her invitation but he hadn’t been here for some weeks.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I can’t show that he is lying.’
‘He’s not your favourite for the killing, is he?’
‘I fancy both of them.’ Darcy set his jaw like a terrier who had just got his teeth in. ‘Times I think it’s Jack Bradshaw. He’s the only one who knew the girl, had a motive of sorts and could have used th
at jacket. And then I think, well, the girl more or less accused Marlowe of attacking her once, and then he was seen around here last night.’ He looked at Coffin. ‘Yes. I know we lost him, but one of the local mob saw a man who fits his description hanging around here last night … he could have been trying to break in. And if it was he, then I have the more reason to suspect him. I will be asking him, that’s for sure. And checking on any alibis he might have. Trouble is, no one seems to have them in this case, all airy-fairy, and on their own or with a sister who would swear to anything.’ Grudgingly, he added: ‘Equal as to motive: both in love with her.’
‘Is love a motive?’
‘It brings motives with it, sir. Mind you, it’s a mad murder.’
Coffin made a noise that might have been assent. He moved to Jaimie’s desk where he sat looking around him, studying the whole area from telephone to the printer attached to the word processor. ‘Have you looked at what she had on her PC?’
‘I have a girl going through it all, one of our electronic miracle workers. She will let me know what there is. I don’t expect miracles.’
Coffin sat looking at the telephone and the pad beside it. She had two phones, one attached to a fax machine. He absorbed the numbers automatically. Part of his years in CID, you always remembered the telephone numbers. No messages scrawled, no useful messages on the answerphone.
He stood up and drew away from the table to take a look out of the window. A busy street scene with the red London buses edging their way forward in the traffic, while taxis seemed to weave their way in and out.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ said Darcy, coming up behind him.
Coffin swung round. ‘Yes, sure. Just thinking.’
Darcy screwed up his eyes, but said nothing. Not good thoughts, it seemed, if he could read Coffin’s face. He was a funny one. Darcy had heard Archie Young say that sometimes Coffin seemed to pluck ideas out of the air and then there was a solution. Stood up in court, too, which is more than you could say for the cases put in by more conventional coppers.
A Double Coffin Page 16
