In addition, he had several hospitals, one exceedingly famous for specialist attention to neonates, and one which was setting itself to deal with diseases like typhoid and malaria and cholera, afflictions hardly seen in the other London, but coming back to this New City with its varied and wandering population. He had a fledgling university. Hundreds of schools. Churches, chapels, mosques, temples and house churches, whatever you could have in the religious line, he had. There were several museums, more than one art gallery, a theatre, and numberless bingo halls, disco clubs and straightforward drinking clubs.
Servicing all these activities were ambulances, street cleaners and firemen, all looking to him to keep the streets peaceful so they could go about their work.
He had a rich population, he had a poor population, and they rubbed shoulders with some irritation on both sides. There were numerous ethnic groups, a flourishing criminal community with its roots going back through the centuries, and a floating population of drunks and itinerants of both sexes.
Sometimes they all shook down together peacefully enough. At other times, as now, there was friction.
At the back of his mind was another and darker worry. It was the gulf between his Force and the population from which, with increasing strength, they felt separated. The police had their world, but it was apart and outside the civil world in which they lived, married, had their houses with mortgages like anyone else, and sent their children to school. Professionally, they lived in a rough, tough, brutal world in which they were required to show all the virtues of compassion and sympathy while getting precious little back from the community they served.
It had always been the same, but it was hard and getting harder. This was one of John Coffin’s major anxieties.
Considering all this, he found he was walking past the patch of allotments south of Elder Street, by the Brazen Head Docks and near the railway yard. He could smell earth and damp vegetables. Each patch was the treasured possession of some keen gardener, threatened now, because any day a developer might sweep in to create several more rows of houses. On every allotment was a hut or lean-to such as the one used as his ‘office’ by Fred Kinver. He probably was not alone in this, they were well-known refuges and hiding places. On most nights you could be sure of finding the odd dosser. One old woman seemed to live there permanently, and however often she was ‘rescued’ by the social services or the Salvation Army, always found her way back.
In the distance he heard a cat yowling and another feline voice answering it. Animal life abounded around here. He had met a fox once, face to face in a side-street.
Without conscious thought his feet had taken him towards Rope Alley, quiet and empty now in the moonlight. A dull, dark, little passage between two bright thoroughfares where the traffic never stopped rolling.
Then he was approaching the old Lead Works, now an art gallery. It was a fine building, but so far he had not been inside it. An invitation to a Private View of Dockland Art rested on his desk, as yet unanswered. He remembered that Sir Harry had been photographing street scenes about the time of the murder. It might be worth a look at those pictures.
At first he had thought of the death of Anna Mary Kinver as one of those cases with firm boundaries like a box. It might or might not be solved but there would be an end to it. A self-limiting disease.
Now he had the unnerving feeling that this was just a beginning, and that the affair was growing all round him.
In one of those little huts on the allotments, just passed by John Coffin, the Paper Man was at work. He was laboriously putting together an archive. He typed slowly with one hand.
DEATH NUMBER ONE, he typed.
Then he added the date, and the quantity of poison used. Not where he had obtained the poison, that would be telling.
Then he rolled up what he had written in a plastic sheet and, like a dog, he buried it.
Like a dog, he knew exactly where he had buried it. Would dig it up when needed, and had left minute signs, but careful ones, where it could be found.
You might find it yourself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday, June 16, through to Saturday
The death of Mrs Zeman cast a cloud over the community of Feather Street. In her time she had quarrelled with most of them, but always made it up again. She was a respected and even admired figure. It was a tense time even though Feather Street did not, of course, know of the sinister letter to John Coffin from the Paper Man.
Now they felt they had two sadnesses to mourn: first the murder of Anna Mary Kinver and now the death of Kay Zeman.
Instructed in tact by his superiors, Detective-Inspector Archie Young had decided to leave the Zemans alone until after the funeral, but a discreet eye was kept on the household. Dr Zeman handed his work over to his assistant for the time being, Timmy Zeman kept to the house, and only Felicity went off to her clinics as usual, she said you couldn’t ignore sick children no matter what. And, naturally, Arthur the white peke went out for his walks also as usual. He could not be ignored either.
Councillor Mary Anneck was absent from several of her committees and her son Peter and her daughter and the daughter’s boyfriend held back from playing loud pop music. Only the dog Edie carried on with life as normal, taking her walks and snarling at Jumbo. Jumbo spent a lot of time in his kennel where Philippa had tethered him as a mark of mourning.
The dog Bob, on the other hand, got even more walks, petting and extra tidbits because everyone was sorry for him. So much Kay’s dog, they said, he loved her, he must be missing her. He was living the life of Riley.
The Marshes, father and son, carried on much as before, but Chris Marsh had concluded that the Zemans would not be drinking as much milk as before and, unasked, cut down his delivery to both households to one pint a day. Jim walked the dogs as always, since dogs have their own ways of getting their revenge if walks are denied them. Feather Street valued its carpets and furnishings too much to make life awkward for their demanding pets. Anyway, Jim, who respected the animals, would have done the job.
Feather Street had a thoroughly uneasy feeling about the death of Kay. Shouldn’t have come just now, they thought. She wouldn’t have wanted it. She would have wanted to stay around and protect her beloved grandson Timmy.
On the other hand, the communal but largely unexpressed view was that it was lucky for Val. Oh, she was miserable, in spite of their quarrels she had loved the old lady. They were pretty sure she had loved her, that is, but she had certainly been a barrier to her affair with Leonard Zeman.
They knew all about that business even if they did not talk about it much. On the whole they thought it would be nice for Leonard to have Val as his wife in place of that Felicity who was never home looking after son, dog or husband, but always absent doing good elsewhere, one presumed. Feather Street was public-spirited but thought home should come first.
Over coffee in her kitchen Councillor Mary Anneck said as much to Phil Darbyshire. They were back from the funeral.
‘Val’ll get some good out of it. Leonard will divorce Felicity.’
‘Do you think so?’ She crumbled one of Mary Anneck’s famous dry shortbread biscuits. Biscuits in the Anneck household were either dry and stale or soft and stale. She was noted for it. Philippa had made the coffee herself, so it was hot and strong.
‘They’ll come to some arrangement.’ With annoyance Phil saw Mary Anneck pour water into the coffee to weaken it and then milk to cool it. Good food was wasted on Mary, she actually preferred the poor stuff. ‘Kay was the real stumbling block for Leonard. For Val too, probably. Emotionally, I mean. Marvellous the control that old lady had over them all.’
‘I liked her, though, didn’t you? I was terrified of her when we first came to live here, but after a while I saw all the warmth and mirth under the sharpness.’
Oh, she was a warrior all right. They don’t build them like that any more.’ Long years on public committees had taught Mary the art of the cliché. She spoke in well-use
d clumps of words, knowing she did it. It was a kind of shorthand and it saved her the trouble of thinking when she was miserable or disturbed as she was now. She didn’t want to think there was any connection between the death of Kay Zeman and the death of Anna Mary Kinver, but she couldn’t help wondering underneath.
Phil said it openly: ‘You don’t think she thought Tim had killed the girl and that brought on the heart attack?’
‘She’d never believe he did it.’ Mary’s tone was tentative. In her opinion, Kay Zeman could easily believe her grandson guilty of rape and murder. In her long life she had seen many terrible things happen to nice people, and known of nice people doing horrible things. Her generation, her race, had had to face that reality. Kay anyway had proclaimed her readiness to believe in the evil of the human animal.
‘She might have known something.’
‘Ah,’ Mary took one of her own biscuits and, finding it hard and dry, absently dunked it in her coffee, now nicely chilled, to soften it. ‘Come on, you’ve got something on your mind. Tell Mary.’
‘Val knows something. She told Stella Pinero she wanted to talk to the police but didn’t know how to set about it.’
‘You just go down and start talking.’
‘She wanted to be sure of talking to the right person, of course. She knew Stella knows John Coffin.’
He was a familiar figure in the neighbourhood. He lived in St Luke’s Mansions, he was often at the Theatre Workshop, he was a friend of Stella Pinero (some said more than that), and Mimsie Marker had pronounced him a good bloke. Not one of your common policemen.
‘Ah. Val say anything to you?’
Phil shook her head. ‘No, that’s what makes me think it’s serious information. Hard evidence.’
About Timmy Zeman? Mary Anneck chewed over the thought. Would Val tell anything she knew about her nephew? Tentatively, she put her own position.
‘I’ve had a word with Peter and Hester, they seem in the clear. Hadn’t seen much of Anna Mary for quite a while. These teenage relationships do come and go, you know. Hester says Andrew, that’s her current boy, never knew Anna at all. Well, by sight, but not to speak to. They do seem a bit tentative about Timmy, though. Something there but I can’t quite get at it.’
If Phil thought Mary was too trusting about her own brood (and she did), she didn’t say so. ‘You’ve got to believe in your own children,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s absolutely vital. Terrible repercussions on family life if you don’t.’ But she knew that you could never be quite sure you saw through to the heart of anyone, not even your own children.
Especially not your own children.
‘Harold knew her too, didn’t he?’ Mary carefully avoided her friend’s eyes as she put the question. A sensitive one.
‘Taught her a bit. Clever kid. He liked her.’ Phil made her voice sound generous, warm.
That was the right way to handle Mary and her query. Sound matter-of-fact, which she didn’t actually feel, by the way. A terrible chasm opened beneath her feet every time she considered Anna Mary and Harold.
Phil put the pot of coffee back on the stove and turned on the gas. She had known Mary long enough to take the liberty. In any case, Mary herself was detached about her kitchen. The Annecks’ kitchen was full of sun and warmth, lined with excellent equipment largely unused, since Mary opened a tin or a frozen packet whenever she could. A tin-opener was her preferred tool. Philippa herself cooked vegetarian style and that was cooking, as she often said with pride. Not many quick cuts with nuts and legumes.
‘So what has Val said?’ asked Mary. ‘Any idea?’
‘She hasn’t said anything yet. Kay dying like that … didn’t seem the time, I suppose.’
Phil has kept a pretty close tab on developments, thought Mary. She was closer to Stella than was Mary herself, who was always so busy with her public duties but yielding to no one in her admiration of Stella as an artist.
‘How did you think Val looked?’
‘Pretty awful. Didn’t look too well at all. I think she’s got a bad cold.’ It was amazing how often grief and misery translated itself into physical terms. ‘Leonard didn’t look up to much either. You can never tell with Felicity, she’s got those steady good looks.’
‘I’d call her hard,’ said Mary. From a spot at her feet, Edie gave a low growl. ‘Kind but hard.’ She dropped a biscuit down to Edie who picked it up to carry to her basket. Presently, defeated by it, she buried it under her blanket. Time would soften it. ‘Lovely funeral, wasn’t it? Beautiful flowers.’
‘Kay would have wanted that.’
‘Did you see Fred Kinver at the funeral? Came to the grave. Not Mrs Kinver, just Fred. I didn’t like that much.’
Phil put down her mug of coffee, you never got a cup at Mary’s, always great thick mugs, and lucky if they weren’t chipped. She had even been known to offer disposable plastic beakers. ‘Yes, I saw. I didn’t care for it either.’
There was a moment while they both sat silent.
Mary said: ‘Wonder what Val’s got on her mind?’
Phil shook her head. ‘No idea. I’d be glad to know. Be glad when we do know.’ If ever. ‘I identify with Val. Don’t you?’
‘Don’t think so, no, I’m sure I don’t. Got too many other worries of my own without taking hers on.’
‘Worrying, though, all of it, isn’t it?’
‘Let’s keep our worries to ourselves, shall we, Phil?’
Phil nodded. ‘Sure … I’ve only said something to you because, well, we’re all in it together.’
The Feather Streeters may have thought their worries were private to them, but it was not so.
Versions of their anxieties filtered back to John Coffin, transmitted by Stella Pinero. He had to assume Archie Young knew of them, too.
The fact was that these anxieties were diffused, personalized reflections of lines of inquiry really being pursued by the police.
They were interested in all the young friends of Anna Mary Kinver. This included the Anneck boys, the Darbyshire kids, as well as Tim Zeman, not to mention others from the disco.
They knew of the work that Harold Darbyshire had done with Anna Mary, and they knew that Anna Mary had said, possibly in joke, possibly not, that he was nice but a bit of a creep.
Solomon Wild was on remand; he would be charged with arson for burning down one floor of the Darling Road Hostel for Men. Not forgotten by any means by the police team, who had the feeling that there was gold there if they could only strike it, he had been questioned several times about the murder of Anna Mary. He had ceased to say that he did it, but had added one crucial detail to what had gone on: Anna Mary had not screamed, nor tried to run away, she had walked slowly towards her killer. So he claimed.
‘She knew him, she was walking towards someone she knew and had no need to fear,’ Archie Young had said. ‘I hate to give Kinver best, he’s been a real pain, poor chap, but he may have been right in thinking she named Zeman.’
This had been said at a meeting on the Paper Man (a report of which would go later to John Coffin), chaired by Superintendent Paul Lane and attended by Archie Young together with several colleagues, one a woman sergeant who specialized in crimes against women.
This figure was so far a secret from the general public, although the Press had, somehow, got wind of his existence.
‘Larry Hemms of Newsworld rang me to ask about it,’ reported Young.
‘How the devil did he get to know?’ said Lane angrily. He liked his security to be tight, and in spite of past experiences really believed it could be managed.
Young shrugged. ‘It’s his job.’
‘Well, I won’t ask how he got the information.’
No, don’t, thought Archie Young, or I might be obliged to tell you. He suspected a young detective-constable who drank in the same pub as Larry Hemms. He had already warned the chap.
‘They haven’t printed anything. But that won’t last.’
‘I’m surprised no newspa
per has had a letter,’ said someone.
‘He might get round to it.’
‘Are we assuming that there are going to be other letters?’ said Lane tartly.
‘I am,’ said Young. He was closer to the coal face, as it were, and could feel vibrations coming at him. ‘We’ve had more than one, there’ll be others. He’s that sort.’
Everyone present had photocopies of the two letters. So far there had been no detailed scientific examination of them, apart from a careful fingerprint check. The always busy police scientists had plenty of other work on hand and, not having been asked to give the letters priority, had not done so, but other tests might come later. It depended on what the Paper Man got up to in the future and how important he was judged to be. At the moment there were suggestions about the magazines and newspapers from which the letters had been cut. A couple of tabloids with colour printing, and the Radio and TV Times seemed to have been favoured. Everyone had access to them, nothing unusual to seize on there. The letters had been stuck on to poor quality paper, apparently torn from an old notebook. The same notebook in each case.
The notebook was an old one with yellowing pages. It had been around somewhere for a good few years and got stained with some unidentifiable substance. Not badly stained, just spattered here and there. It had a faintly medicinal smell to it.
‘Are we taking these letters seriously or not?’ asked Lane.
‘I am,’ said Young. ‘I don’t know quite what they mean or why they are coming, but I smell trouble.’
He was in there somewhere, doing something, the writer of these letters, and time would show what it was. Young did not know if he hoped this or feared it.
‘So what does this “one death” mean? Does he mean the death of Anna Mary Kinver? Or some other death? One we don’t know about yet?’
‘You tell me,’ said Young. ‘And one death … that implies death two, doesn’t it?’
Coffin and the Paper Man Page 7
