‘You say so,’ said Lane, half questioningly. He had the feeling that he was picking up vibrations that could shake his picture of the crime, already forming. He seemed to see Felicity Zeman as the poisoner. A kind of female vengeance figure, wiping out her husband’s lover and her son like a Greek fate, dealing out her own justice.
‘Think about it.’ Coffin put down the pencil and stood up. The meeting was over.
As they went out, both Young and Lane had a similar thought, but it was Archie Young who got it out: ‘He knows something we don’t. Felt that, didn’t you?’ He rubbed his ankle, still sore. That bloody dog.
‘He gets around far too much,’ said Lane. ‘Talks to people. Sees round corners.’ He sounded disapproving. ‘Thinks too much.’ But this he did not say aloud, it would reflect on himself. Also, he owed a lot to John Coffin, and there was loyalty. He hoped the Old Man wasn’t going over the top. He blamed Stella Pinero.
John Coffin had his own informant. He had established a friendship with an elderly local inhabitant, Mimsie Marker, the proprietor of the stand selling newspapers and magazines by the Spinnergate Tube Station, every morning, every day including Sundays. But Sunday she packed up at midday and went home. Wherever home was, as Mimsie kept quiet about this. She had a basement flat in Parmiloe Street, had had for years, ever since being bombed out of Woodstock Street as a young war bride. But it was generally believed she owned a large suburban house in Wimbledon where she kept either a lover or one invalid daughter, according to how your fancy took you.
She was locally famous for her hats, flowery in summer and velvety and feathery in winter. It was summer, so her hat was adorned with violets, layers of them, violets upon violets. No one ever saw her without her hat, nor knew where she found them. No ordinary hatmaker had piled those violets upon violets. Stella Pinero had said that a rose confection that only came out on high days like a royal wedding had been made by Simone Mirman in Paris, and that there was one that Rose Bertin might have created.
‘But Rose Bertin made hats for Marie Antoinette,’ Coffin had protested.
‘And after the revolution, for Josephine too. And these are very old hats.’
A walking hat museum or not, Mimsie was always very well informed, as someone will be who spends all the day on the pavements.
She always had John Coffin’s papers ready for him, although in her opinion he wasted his time reading those that had no real news in them. The only one to read was the Thameside Times, in which, if you read between the lines, you got all important local news. International or national stuff did not count, you watched the TV news for that, or didn’t bother. Still, she was always there to inform him.
It was a pleasure as well as a duty, like Arthur and his bites, with whom, indeed, she had a lot in common: both wary Londoners, ever ready to defend themselves and their friends.
‘Nasty business,’ she said, as she handed over his papers. ‘How’s Dr Zeman?’
‘Early days yet.’
‘If he’s not dead by now, he’ll live. I knew his old dad, Dr Victor. Tough, that lot. That’ll be two-fifty.’
Coffin handed the money over. ‘Think so?’
‘Wasn’t meant for him, anyway.’
‘Are you sure of that, Mimsie?’
She ignored the question. Who was sure of anything? ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t. Surprised if you do.’
She ignored this also, nor did she answer it directly. That would be too straightforward for Mimsie. ‘Know who they’re saying did it?’
‘Who is they?’ Of course, he knew, but one had to play it Mimsie’s way.
‘Us, us locals. People like me who have always lived here, not the new lot.’
‘So who have they picked on? I suppose there is a name?’
‘Yes. They think Fred Kinver is wiping out the Zemans to avenge his daughter. And they say Good Luck to him.’
‘But the Zemans have lived around here a long time too, Mimsie.’
‘Makes no difference. Well off, you see.’
‘And do you think Fred Kinver killed them, Mimsie?’
Mimsie just smiled, showing sparkling white false teeth.
Coffin remembered all this as he went home, late on that violent Sunday. He was hearing too much about Fred Kinver.
Bob always demanded an evening walk, pointing out in an anxious way that without this walk his bladder could not manage to last. Once or twice he had got Stella up in the middle of the night to prove his point.
On the Sunday, when the fires were out and the streets quiet, she took him as far as Max’s Delicatessen: Max never closed until midnight, even on a Sunday. She could have a drink of coffee, give Bob a biscuit, although not chocolate. The rumour about the use of chocolate to mask the presence of poison had spread through the district with great speed.
It was about nine o’clock, and a fine evening. Usually at this time, Max’s was busy with people drinking coffee and eating cake, buying ice-cream or just gossiping. The Theatre Workshop crowd used it as a kind of club. Max encouraged his customers just to drop in even if they didn’t buy. ‘They are my friends,’ he said. ‘I like to see them, pass the time of day. It makes my work happy.’
It also made his till ring, because few emerged without buying something, even if it was only a packet of coffee. He sold good coffee, the best in London, he claimed.
But tonight the place was almost deserted. Just one couple sitting in a corner over glasses of iced coffee. Sir Harry Beauchamp and Dick, heads together, talking quietly. They had the reputation of being the worst old gossips in London, but without malice.
Max was on his own. ‘My wife has a migraine, I have one myself. I think. It is that sort of day.’
Sir Harry looked up and waved her over. ‘Come and join us. We need cheering up. I’ve just signed on the dotted line for the new apartment in St Luke’s Mansions. We wanted to be near Dicky’s gallery.’ He patted Dick’s hand, they made no bones about their relationship; they lived independently but each apartment had a double bed. ‘And now I’m wondering if I’ve done the right thing.’
Stella walked across to them followed by Bob. Bob was allowed in on sufferance because he was known to be a dog of sorrows, a bereaved boy, but otherwise Max did not encourage animals.
‘A double espresso, Max, please.’ Stella sat down by Sir Harry. ‘And a custard cream wafer for Bob.’ It was better if Bob was a paying customer. ‘Oh, you’ll like it round here,’ she said loyally. ‘It’s very agreeable. Usually, anyway. Perhaps it’s a bit rough at the moment.’ She decided not to tell him about the fire that never was in the courtyard, since he obviously did not know.
‘I don’t want to be savaged on my way home,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I keep late hours, and there’s poor Dick’s place. Some cad painted on his wall. Quite a nice drawing but a bit graphic.’ Delicately, he said no more.
‘Has he wiped it out?’
‘No, it was quite decoratively done, and I’m going to photograph it for my book on graffiti.’
That book ought to be quite a sizzler, Stella thought, if all she had heard about Sir Harry’s haunts were true. There was said to be a bit of rough trade down by the Dock in the Plymouth Bar, and she had heard stories about one of the local discos too. You heard every sort of gossip in the theatre world without taking it to heart. Live and let live. However, she did not usually pass on such tidbits to John Coffin, although he probably knew of them professionally. He must know of every sink and stew and den in the district.
‘For private publication only, of course,’ said Sir Harry, with a wicked look in his pale blue eyes.
‘Of course.’
‘I had to pay a pretty price for my apartment. She drives a hard bargain, your landlady. She says she needs every penny for the new theatre.’
‘I expect she does.’
‘And she’s sister to our eminent detective.’
‘Half-sister.’
‘I suppose he affords us
some protection.’
‘You could say that.’
‘On the other hand, he might attract violence,’ said Dick, making a rare contribution to the conversation.
‘Naughty,’ said Sir Harry, slapping his hand.
Stella sipped her coffee while Bob swallowed his biscuit and looked round for more.
‘I was sorry about that poor boy Zeman. He had such a lovely face.’
‘You knew him?’ Stella was surprised.
‘Seen him around,’ said Sir Harry easily. ‘I notice faces. It’s my job. I liked what I saw. I might have photographed him. A lot inside him.’
‘Perhaps we ought to get off,’ said Dick; he was said to be the jealous one.
‘Give you a lift home, Stella?’
‘No, I must walk. It’s for Bob.’
Bob looked up at hearing his name, stood and gave a shake. Stella picked up his leash and they departed. Bob was like an old horse and only ever wanted to take the walk he knew. Now he showed a strong determination to head off in the direction of Feather Street.
Stella let him take her that way, it was a fine night, the coffee had refreshed her, and she had Bob with her, after all. What was there to be afraid of?
To her surprise, Bob went through Feather Street without more than a sniff at the odd lamp-post, then carried on briskly to the bottom of the road. Here, outside the Marsh house, he stopped and looked up hopefully.
Stella laughed. ‘Obvious where Jim takes you on your walks. Home. Well, not tonight, Bob.’
She moved him on, letting him lead her round the corner and up Brazen Hill. She knew this led back to St Luke’s.
But outside a house, Bob showed a desire to linger again. This time it had a big brass plate: John Dibben. Veterinary Surgeon. Obviously another of his haunts.
‘Come on, Bob, nearly home now. Just a pull up the hill.
Brazen Hill soon flattened out, turned into a busy main road and then led to St Luke’s Mansions.
Stella walked in through the main doorway where all the entrances to the flats were situated. Once it had been the door of the church, but Letty Bingham’s architect had opened it up in a charming way to form a small cloister.
John Coffin was just arriving in his car which seemed to have a curious dulled look as if someone had dipped it in soapy water and not polished it. Stella waved at him, pulled on by Bob, now anxious for water, and sleep.
‘I’ll catch you up, Stella,’ called Coffin. ‘Want to talk.’
Then he heard her scream.
He got out of the car and ran into the building after her. Someone had turned out the light that always shone at night, but the moon was up so he could see her.
She was staring down at a figure lying propped against the wall. She had stopped screaming but shudders were running through her.
The figure wore a man’s dark old trousers, a tweed jacket and a striped cotton shirt with scarf at the neck, on the bulbous head was an old tweed cap. Black boots stuck out from the legs.
Stella still shuddered. ‘He hasn’t got a face,’ she said.
Coffin bent down and touched. Paper stuck out from where the arms would have ended, the legs in the old boots gave under his fingers. The body was stuffed with paper, rolls and rolls of newspaper.
‘It’s the Paper Man,’ he said. He put his arm round Stella, holding her close.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sunday to Monday, June 25–26, and it rolls on through the week
Where there should have been a face was an oval of white paper, roughly cut with jagged edges. The paper gleamed pale in the moonlight, managing to look sinister and blank at the same time.
Coffin drew Stella away. She was still hanging on to Bob’s leash so he took it from her. Bob was sniffing at the dummy, growling softly under his breath at the same time. As Coffin took his leash he snapped and gave a high bark.
‘Shut up, Bob.’
‘Do be quiet, Bob,’ said Stella in a weak voice. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours.’ Then she started to laugh.
Coffin gave her a little shake. ‘Shut up, Stella, and calm down. I am going to take you upstairs, give you a strong drink, and then you are going down to your own place with Bob and sleep well.’
‘Can’t I stay up there with you?’ Soft little tears were beginning to appear in her eyes. ‘I’d feel so much safer.’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Stella with determination.
‘Don’t be silly. Shall I telephone Lily to come over?’
He poured her a large glass of whisky, sat her down on his big comfortable sofa, sat himself next to her, and watched while she drank it.
‘Better now? Right, I’m taking you to your place, and I’ll wait with you while you settle yourself in.’
Stella stood up. ‘Stay the night?’
‘No, better not. Come on.’ He took her arm.
‘We shall have to pass … that thing.’
‘You needn’t look. I’ll lead you past.’
‘I’ll see, I know I will.’
‘Pretend you’re blind.’
She started to laugh. ‘Oh, you do cheer me up. Thank you.’
They went down his turret staircase together. ‘You’ve got this place nice, John.’
‘I know.’ He did know. It felt like home. He had his carpets, his pictures, not many, but collected with love, and books, plenty of those.
He put his arm round her when they got to the cloister and led her past the figure.
‘Still there?’ asked Stella, pausing for a moment.
‘Yes, it hasn’t got on a bus and travelled home.’
Stella laughed again. ‘The last bus went an hour ago.’ But she kept her head up and walked past bravely. ‘Here I go, poor blind Stella.’
‘Good girl.’
He opened her door for her and Bob nipped inside briskly. He had had enough of the night.
‘Want me to come in?’
‘No, I’m all right. Seen worse, after all.’
‘You have.’ She had once found a severed hand in her refrigerator.* He kissed her gently. They always kissed good night; Stella kissed everyone. But this kiss felt different.
‘I do love you, John.’
‘Good night, Stella.’ It was better to leave it there. For the moment, anyway.
Her door closed and he heard her lock it. Then he walked over to the dummy again.
Now he was on his own, he went over to the main switch that controlled the lights in the cloister and switched it on. Then he walked back to the mannequin.
It was smaller than a man, but it had been carefully put together. Whose clothes? Bought at some charity shop, he speculated.
An unpleasing object. Hello, Paper Man. I can’t say I like the look of you, but what are you doing here? What is your purpose?
Not just to frighten Stella, he thought.
But Stella had been wrong. The Paper Man had got a face. Pinned to the oval of white paper was a tiny photograph. It looked as though it had been cut out of a newspaper.
He knelt down to get a closer look. He recognized the face of Fred Kinver.
With careful fingers, he searched the pockets of jacket and trousers: they were empty. No, there was a piece of paper in one of the pockets. It was a cleaning ticket.
He took off the cap, which had rested on a stocking stuffed with newspaper. The cap went back on. The whole of the dummy would have to be gone over by the forensic people to see what they could pick up.
The jacket interested him. It had been cleaned (the charity shop would demand that before it was resold) but it was made of thick, rough tweed to which anything like strands of cotton or hair would cling. He thought he could see some fibres that had stuck to the front of the jacket.
He touched one gently with his fingernail. The small strand clung on, stickily. It was a natural fibre.
Coffin leaned back on his heels. ‘Well, Paper Man, I believe you may have given away a little bit more than you t
hink.’
The next day was quiet. The police put extra patrols on the street and police cars circled the area methodically, with special attention to the Planter Estate.
Named after a long dead Labour MP who had lived locally, the Planter Estate was no happy memorial to anyone.
This estate on the edge of Leathergate, running towards Spinnergate, had a bad reputation which was thoroughly well deserved, as even the inhabitants themselves recognized. Planters experienced more break-ins, more muggings, more violent assaults as well as more rapes, more incest, and more murders than any other district. Crime was its principal industry and it exported it as well.
It was an unlovely area, built some thirty years ago by a hopeful architect who had not foreseen what his bleak blocks and walkways could produce. He had not seen the crime wave coming. If he had, he would not have designed as many underground passages and rat walks as he had done. But he had got a prize for it at the time, and several subsequent contracts for similar work. The estate was due to be demolished soon by a housing authority despairing of keeping the roofs waterproof and the windows in repair. So it was to be blown up, if it didn’t fall down first.
It was one of those areas in his bailiwick which gave Coffin the most trouble.
There was another but much smaller area behind the Spinnergate Tube Station, which was called Dean’s Park. It was known locally as DreamLand. It was the local drug alley. Planters oddly enough did not go in for drugs so much. Its natural vitality hurled itself into straight violence in pursuit of getting what it wanted. Fights between Planters and Dreamers were a regular part of the scene. Great dogs, Alsatians, Rottweilers, Dobermans and any mix of all three, were a feature of both districts, these formed packs and fought too. To the death sometimes.
There was disagreement about whether the Planters were worse than the Dreamers, but the general police view was that the Planters were violent but were human beings while the Dreamers were animals. Opinions differed on how to handle them. Some police thought you ought to go in hard and strong and let them know you were there, while others thought you should take it all quietly and keep the level of tension low. But either way was wrong sometimes, and hot weather always made it worse. It was hot now.
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