Coffin and the Paper Man

by Gwendoline Butler

  He saw her safely inside, then went through his own front door and up the turret staircase. As he mounted the stairs, he thought: Someone ought to let the Zeman boy know he is off the hook. But he knew his men well enough to guess they would not do this; they would let the boy sweat a while longer to see what they could get out of him.

  He looked out of the window for a moment. The night sky was calm and still, you could see the stars. As Stella had said, it was a quiet night.

  Sometimes the quiet nights are the most dangerous of all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saturday, June 24

  Coffin awoke to the sound of Chris Marsh’s milk-float stopping in the street below. He was too far up in his turret to hear the clink of the milk bottle as it was set down, but he could imagine it. Stella Pinero had two bottles of low fat milk, but he had never discovered what she did with it, as he never saw her drink milk. He had to admit that Marsh, with all his faults, was never late on the job. If you wanted an early bottle of milk, you got it from him.

  Coffin was one of the few who knew why Clare Marsh had killed herself. She had been HIV positive. Her husband knew, Coffin knew, and a few others like her doctor knew, but the boy, Jim, probably did not know. He hoped he would never have to know.

  Chris Marsh sped on down to Feather Street. He liked to get his deliveries over early in the day, thus leaving him free for that life of his own that he was always going to start upon yet never seemed to achieve.

  Two pints and one cream for Mrs Anneck, one pint for old Mrs Bartram next door, and three pints for the Darbyshires further along the road. He never knew what they did with the milk bottles, more went in than ever came out, he knew that much because he had to bear the cost. One New Year a whole boxful, about fifty bottles, rested on the Darbyshires’ doorstep waiting for him, so they must keep them all inside the house in a big container. Every bottle was clean, though, not a sour or cruddy one in the lot. But all the Feather Street ladies were good about returning their bottles well washed. Chris gave them full marks for hygiene. Likewise for paying regularly.

  Three pints of skimmed for Dr Zeman, together with some special Bulgarian yoghurt which Chris liked and ate himself so he didn’t mind going to the trouble of getting it in specially for the household.

  The Zemans were in trouble, as he well knew, and since he regarded himself as an expert on being in trouble, he sympathized with them. Bottle in hand, he advanced up the short garden path.

  Mrs Zeman, or Dr Felicity as she was known to some people, liked her milk delivered to the front door. The ladies of Feather Street were divided on this point. Some, like Phil Darbyshire, preferred to have the bottles at the back door, near the kitchen. Others, and Mary Anneck was among them, put a container at the side of the house, where it was in the shade from the morning sun. A few issued no instructions and presumably did not care one way or another. To these he gave front door delivery since it was easier for him, less walking. Felicity Zeman had asked for the bottles to be put on the step in the porch.

  To his surprise, there was a small off-white figure on the step this morning.

  ‘Hello, Arthur,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Arthur was a quiet but not specially friendly dog. He stood up and stared at the milkman hopefully, but without wagging his tail.

  ‘How did you get out?’ Chris knew that Felicity Zeman was protective with the white peke, who was old and partly blind.

  He saw that the door was a degree open and that Arthur had come through but had been unable to nose his way back in. This was odd, because Arthur although small and old was sturdily built.

  Chris had never known the front door open before. He stood before it, holding a milk bottle, debating what to do. If anything. He could just put the bottle down, then turn and walk away.

  ‘I ought to walk away from this. I just ought to do that.’ He touched the door, gave it a tentative push.

  It did not move. He gave it a second shove. This time the door did move very slightly. Something was stopping it.

  He tried another push, still not very hard but giving it a bit more pressure.

  A hand flopped through the door at his feet.

  He gave a small cry of alarm, he could feel his heart thudding faster. He swallowed hard, a little nervous lump rising in his throat.

  It was a man’s hand, well manicured, with fine dark hairs on the fingers.

  With some relief he realized that the hand was still attached to the wrist, he could see a watch.

  ‘Come on, Arthur.’

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door back with some strength. Behind the door was slumped the body of Dr Leonard Zeman. He had pulled the telephone table down on the floor on top of him. It looked as though he had tried to open the door to get out and failed, sliding down against the open door.

  Chris bent down. ‘I don’t know if you are dead or not.’ He heard himself speak the words aloud. He raised his voice and called out. ‘Help here, I need help.’

  His voice echoed through the hall and up the stairs. No one answered. The house seemed empty.

  Arthur was fussing round the body, sniffing at the face, trying to lick the hands. Chris pulled him away. The hand was still warm; Chris felt for a pulse, he thought there was a faint movement beneath his fingers. He put his hand on Dr Zeman’s chest, pulling aside the pyjama jacket. He must have been in bed when he became unwell.

  Chris sat back on his heels. There was a heartbeat. Summoning up memories of a First-Aid course of long ago, he turned Dr Zeman on his side, then picked up the telephone. With an unsteady hand he dialled the emergency number.

  Then he went to stand outside to wait for the ambulance, taking Arthur with him.

  He took a long deep breath of good fresh air; he did not know what had happened in that house or where everyone was, but he knew he didn’t want to stay inside.

  For a moment he closed his eyes, only to open them quickly. A car had stopped behind his milk-float. He recognized it as Felicity Zeman’s smart red Mercedes.

  She came briskly up the path. ‘What’s this? What’s wrong? Why are you here?’ Arthur was jumping up and down, barking with excitement. ‘Down Arthur.’

  ‘It’s Dr Zeman,’ began Chris, ‘I found him …’

  But Felicity was already in the hall, kneeling beside her husband. She turned to Chris, who spoke before she could utter.

  ‘I’ve called an ambulance. It’s on its way.’ He thought he could hear it now drawing up outside. In a dim kind of way, he realized his milk-float must be in the way and shouldn’t he be getting on with his round?

  Felicity Zeman rose to her feet. ‘Where’s Tim?’

  Chris just shook his head speechlessly.

  She ran up the stairs. Then he heard her scream.

  Dr Angela Livingstone in her thorough, unhurried way had examined the body of Val Humberstone for the cause of death. She had found normal coronary arteries and no obvious post-mortem signs to give her an indication of what that cause was. She was too experienced and too canny to find this unusual. People did drop dead and yet still appear to have normal coronary arteries. Death was unfair and unpredictable sometimes.

  She moved on to do a screening of the blood and other body fluids for a number of substances. Some traces she found there made her thoughtful.

  It had been at this point she had asked for a PM on Mrs Zeman. You could call it just curiosity.

  Then she had done a muscle biopsy, because what she was looking for was stored in the muscle as well as in the blood serum. There are, of course, changes in the blood serum after death, but she had what she wanted.

  Finally and triumphantly, she did a monoclonal antibody test.

  Then she knew how Val Humberstone had died.

  So she duly put together her report, despatched it through the usual channels so that it would be on certain desks in the morning. Then she went out to dinner in good spirits.

  Over dinner, she said blithely. ‘I’ve just finish
ed an interesting PM.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Her boyfriend was a doctor too, so he could take in the notion of an interesting PM over his dinner without ceasing in his consumption of grilled steak and salad. ‘More wine?’ He had cooked the steak himself, allowing Angela to mix the salad.

  Angela accepted the wine and rested her elbows on the table. They were eating in his kitchen. She was prepared to be confidential to Dr Mark Allen while maintaining a reserve towards her police bosses. They must learn how to treat a professional.

  ‘Death was due to overdose of glycoside. Massive dose.’

  Mark looked interested. ‘Accident? Wrong prescription?’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s for the police to find out … I think it might be murder.’

  Now Mark did stop eating, halted in mid-bite by his surprise. ‘Good lord, that’s an unusual poison for homicide, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unique, I should think.’

  ‘Got any reason for thinking it’s murder?’

  Angela nodded. She had some reason. An oddness she had noticed, but she was too discreet to pass this strange fact on to Mark in what might be a tricky case, and one in which she would almost certainly be a witness for the prosecution. ‘I don’t see it as an accident,’ she said.

  Her conscience was clear. She had done a good job, had played a sort of game with people she did not much like, but no harm could come of that, because tomorrow the report would be on the desks of the investigators, one copy each. She had kept the rules.

  John Coffin also slept with a clear conscience. He had been too long at the game to harrow himself unnecessarily. After being disturbed by Chris Marsh on his milk-float, he had gone back to sleep, falling into one of those nightmares he had experienced lately which centred around Stella. She was always off-stage in these dreams, he never saw her, but she was just round the corner and in terrible danger. She had screamed, he never heard the scream, it was always as if it had just died away, leaving only the echo in his ears. He always awoke at this point, surfacing with the relieved feeling that it was a dream after all.

  One day he might tell Stella, but not just yet.

  The telephone rang somewhere in his flat, he had to remember where he had deposited it last. Stirring himself and clearing the fog of sleep from his brain, he remembered carrying it upstairs last night.

  Must be in the room somewhere. He stared around. The sound was very close. Underneath him, he was sleeping on it. He reached under the pillow to answer it.

  Because his mind was full of Stella, it was the greater shock when it was her voice heard on the telephone.

  It was vibrant with alarm, she was sounding a kind of tocsin, with those famous deep tones thrilling the sound waves.

  ‘John, I thought you ought to know, perhaps you do know, I think something terrible has happened at the Zemans … Jim Marsh came in to collect Bob, I’ve got an early call for a TV session, and he says he saw ambulances outside their house. Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No, I don’t know anything.’ But someone had better tell me.

  He hoisted himself out of bed, still carrying the telephone. ‘I’ll let you know, Stella. If I can, can’t promise.’ Events sometimes ran too fast to pass on news.

  ‘Jim said it looked pretty bad.’ After a very short pause, she said, ‘He thinks he saw Fred Kinver down there. I thought I ought to tell you. It doesn’t seem a good idea for him to be there, whatever is going on.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what I find out. You get off now, Stella.’

  ‘I ought. I think the taxi’s there now. I’m playing ten years younger and that does take some making up to.’

  ‘You go, Stella.’

  Neither of them knew that the Paper Man had made his move.

  The telephone rang again almost at once. The caller was Archie Young, never averse to a chance to talk to the Guv’nor. He was sharp enough to know it could do him no harm at all.

  ‘Thought I should report, sir. I’m at Dr Zeman’s house in Feather Street. The Zeman boy is dead. Don’t know the cause yet. Or whether it’s suicide. Could be. If so, he tried to take his father with him.’

  ‘Is Dr Zeman … ?’

  ‘No.’ Archie Young got it out quickly. ‘He’s not dead. Nearly, but not quite. Poison. We don’t know what yet, of course. The police surgeon has had a look but hasn’t said much.’ Didn’t know what to say, was Young’s opinion, but in any case police surgeons were a cautious lot, not given to committing themselves to premature judgements. Especially this one; Dr Wright had arrived to pronounce Timmy Zeman dead, and he never said one word, if silence would do.

  ‘I’ll be down.’

  ‘Right, sir, be expecting you. The Superintendent’s on his way,’ said Young dutifully, returning to the chaos inside the Feather Street house.

  He had not been the first police arrival at the Zeman household. The very first had been two uniformed men in a police car. They had been followed at speed by a CID detective-sergeant.

  He himself had got there as the police sergeant had finished his examination. Dr Leonard Zeman had been taken to hospital. Felicity was still in the house, and Chris Marsh, his milk round unfinished, was sitting slumped on a chair in the hall. He looked thoroughly miserable.

  But he was willing enough to tell what he knew.

  ‘I was walking up the path with the milk bottle when I saw Arthur, he’s the dog.’ Arthur was also present, sitting under the chair, eyes alert. Every so often he growled at the passing police feet. It was only a matter of time until he bit someone. ‘I wondered what he was doing there. Then I saw the door was slightly open, he must have got out. I wondered why he didn’t go back.’

  ‘So you went up to the door?’ asked Young.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve already said all this to the sergeant.’

  ‘I want to hear too.’

  Chris started again. ‘I went to the door and pushed it. Thought I’d let the dog in. He’s never allowed out on his own. But the door wouldn’t move. Or not much. I realized something was stopping it.’

  From underneath the chair Arthur gave a low, soft growl. He had made his decision, he did not like this particular policeman, didn’t care for his voice. He was the one to go for.

  ‘Go on,’ said Young, thinking that if you had to have a dog, why not have a proper one?

  ‘So I pushed the door again and then I saw a hand. It was Dr Zeman. He was lying there on the floor, pressed against the door.’

  ‘Could you describe what you saw?’

  ‘He’d pulled the table where there was a telephone over and had the telephone down on top of him. I reckon he’d been trying to telephone for help, then felt he needed air, but collapsed.’

  Seemed a rational explanation, thought Young, but it was not for Chris Marsh to say what was what. So he nodded. ‘And then?’

  ‘I thought he was dead, but I felt his pulse and there seemed to be one. That was when I called for an ambulance. Then Dr Felicity came in.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She looked after her husband. Then she said where was her son. I didn’t know. I had shouted for him, but he hadn’t appeared. She ran up the stairs and I heard her scream.’

  Chris Marsh had told his story so far with some vividness. He went on: ‘I went up the stairs after her when she screamed.’

  He paused.

  ‘Do you want to stop?’

  ‘No, I’ll go on. Timmy Zeman was on the bed, half on it, half off. I could see by his face that he was gone. Eyes closed, but he looked dead.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything else. I’d already called an ambulance, but Dr Felicity did some more telephoning. To the hospital, I think. Then ambulances and the police started arriving. Dr Felicity said—’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dr Zeman myself.’

  Felicity Zeman had, with difficulty, been prevented from going with her husband, and was now sitting in the dining-room waiting to be questioned.

  Chris considered
. ‘Is this a statement?’

  ‘No, just questions to put me in the picture.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Can I go, then? I’d like to get on with my milk round. My customers will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘They’ll have to wait a bit longer, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can I have a drink of water? A cup of tea would be better.’

  At that moment the police surgeon came through the hall with his bag, and John Coffin arrived at the front door, together with a police photographer.

  They had been watched by a small cluster of neighbours, several dogs of the district, one in charge of Jim Marsh, others running free, and a hidden company of cats.

  ‘Wouldn’t advise you to eat or drink anything in this house,’ said the police surgeon as he swept through. ‘Wouldn’t advise it all.’

  Arthur leapt from beneath the chair and fastened his teeth in Young’s ankle. It was hard, covered in something rough, but just chewy enough to give job satisfaction. Archie Young swore.

  John Coffin toured the scene of the crime quietly, not saying much. He had talked to Superintendent Paul Lane in the police car parked at the kerb, so he knew the details, such as they were.

  ‘Has Mrs Zeman explained why she wasn’t in the house when her husband and son were taken ill?’

  ‘She was on call at the hospital and had been out all night, dealing with a series of emergencies. That appears to be true.’

  Coffin nodded. ‘Has she said anything of interest?’

  ‘Not said much at all. She’s in a state of some distress but not talking a lot. Takes everyone differently, some talk their heads off, she’s just gone quiet.’

  ‘Is the cause of death known yet?’

  ‘No, we ought to know more during the day. The hospital might have something to say about what has made Leonard Zeman ill, and killed Tim. Not natural death, though. The third death in that family in as many weeks.’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t overlooked Val Humberstone. Well, we ought to know about her soon. Do you think Tim Zeman’s death is suicide?’

  ‘Could be. Or some sort of accident. But he had something on his mind, even if he wasn’t the one who raped Anna Mary Kinver. It’s an explanation to think he killed himself. He may not have meant to harm his father.’