Coffin and the Paper Man

by Gwendoline Butler

  At the moment both Planters and Dreamers seemed to be off the streets, although watchful local policemen reported that small numbers could be seen flitting around dark corners, which didn’t look promising for peace.

  The figure of the Paper Man was taken into police custody, and might have rested in the corner of a room for ever if the Chief Commander had not issued orders that he was to be ‘gone over thoroughly’. So he was taken to bits and spread out on a laboratory table. Even so, some people thought he was just a silly joke and it was a waste of time. Fred Kinver was quietly watched, but no action was taken.

  The exhumation order on Mrs Kay Zeman was granted and her body removed from its grave to great public and media interest. Nothing much was happening on the international scene, so there was space to spare for crimes in Leathergate and Spinnergate. Never had Coffin more desired some great scandal or upheaval to break out elsewhere. A revolution, anywhere, would have suited him.

  Very quickly, on Tuesday morning, Dr Angela Livingstone reported that she had found traces of the drug Digoxin in Kay Zeman’s body. After so long, such a residue would have been hard to find if she had not known what she was looking for.

  Detectives intensified their search for the source of the drug. A detective-sergeant, assisted by a squad of plain clothes detectives, men and women, was put in charge of this part of the investigation. He reported back to Archie Young, who then passed on all the reports to all interested parties, including the Chief Commander.

  Dr Felicity Zeman denied having handled or used any Digoxin, she worked only in the hospital. This denial was only to be expected, and, in the view of the two officers, Superintendent Lane and Inspector Archie Young, who were handling the inquiry, meant nothing. Just what she would say.

  John Coffin was inclined to believe her. He was already forming an idea about the poisoner. He could almost fit a face there.

  Archie Young had spoken to the doctor at the Elmgate Health Centre himself. He knew that tact would be needed and he went there in as quiet a spirit as was possible to his naturally ebullient and forceful personality.

  The Elmgate Health Centre was new and well built. The centre reception hall flashed with lights. You followed your light, just as on the London Underground or Heathrow. His light, for Dr Jeff Green, was blue.

  ‘I know you’ve got to ask these questions,’ said Dr Green, settling back into his chair. ‘And I’ve got not to answer. But at least I can tell you what I did not prescribe.’ He was a calm-looking man whose patients trusted him.

  Dr Green, who had looked after Val, was able to say that he had never prescribed the drug. Val Humberstone had low blood pressure but was not being given any drugs for it. As Dr Green reported it, ‘she wanted to cure herself.’

  ‘She was having hypnotherapy, I think,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I didn’t mind, it works for some people. She was going to a good man. Miss Humberstone had periods of feeling slightly unwell, it was entirely natural. Any symptoms she showed around the time of her death may have been due to natural causes and not the drug. That could have come later.’

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ said Archie Young, ‘that the murderer deliberately chose a time when she was unwell to dose her?’

  ‘It might have helped mask the symptoms of poisoning. Helped towards the idea of natural death.’

  Young considered this thoughtfully as he left. In fact, in the case of Mrs Zeman it did do that, he thought. Earlier he had seen Kay Zeman’s doctor who had been blandly unhelpful, as might have been expected of a partner of Leonard Zeman’s, but who had denied prescribing Digoxin. Mrs Zeman had had a mild heart condition but had been receiving other treatment.

  On the way out from seeing Jeff Green, Archie Young met one of the Planters gang, and grabbed him by his leather jacket. ‘Where’s your friend Slater?’ Both Slater and Graham had been absent from their usual haunts for some days.

  The Planter, a boy called Tinker, pulled himself away. ‘No idea. Don’t handle me like that. That’s good gear you’ve got there.’

  ‘Tell him I want him.’

  ‘Like I said, I never see him.’

  ‘Do it. What you are coming in here for?’ He was suspicious of Tinker, every right-minded subject of the Queen would be.

  ‘I’ve got a bad heart,’ said Tinker with a smirk. He managed to kick Young as he wrenched himself away. His boot hit the spot where Arthur put his teeth in.

  Young was furious. ‘I could nick you for that.’

  ‘Try it and see.’

  But it was a hopeless encounter and Young knew it. ‘Graham and Slater, I want them both. Tell them that. Or you’ll want more than a doctor.’ Hopeless again, he cursed himself for being stupid. It wasn’t any good getting tough with Tinker, he wasn’t bright enough.

  As Archie Young set down his notes, he wrote, thinking about the poison: ‘A conclusion: another characteristic of the murderer: an opportunist, who saw a moment and took it.’

  Also means he or she was in close contact, possibly daily contact, with the victim, thought John Coffin, as he read Young’s notes. But he had already decided this for himself. It had to be so.

  Both the Kinvers had taken their health problems to a doctor on the other side of Leathergate where it marched with Spinnergate, and he refused to discuss his patients, beyond saying he had not seen Fred Kinver for years. Mrs Kinver had been given a sedative after the death of her daughter, but she had not come back for a repeat prescription. He would have given her one. He was a one man practice and he was busy, so if the Inspector would allow … ?

  Archie Young felt he got nothing there, beyond a feeling that Fred Kinver was too reclusive to be true.

  A general trawl round the doctors of the neighbourhood met with stiff medical resistance, as was to be expected. Records of patients were private and confidential and nothing could be disclosed.

  A check on the pharmacists was more successful. They were willing to provide statistics, at least.

  Young was gloomy when he saw the figures, brought in by his sergeant, Frank Reilly. ‘Half the district must be on it by the look of these tables. Well, we’ll have to go underground a bit. Take the chemists nearest to Feather Street.’ He looked at a map of the area. ‘Only four, and Boots is one, we know they lost no Digoxin in their break-in, but see what you can pry out of one of the assistants. Not ethical, but have a go.’ Frank Reilly was a nice-looking man, at present unmarried after an early divorce. ‘Do it yourself, Frank, see what you can get. Try all three other shops. We have to find out how and who could lay hands on this drug.’

  If this was a real village, he thought, as people are always saying we are, then we’d know who was on the drug. Someone would have told us.

  In spite of what had looked like promising leads, a time of stalemate in both cases, the murder of Anna Mary Kinver and the Zeman poisonings, had set in. They were at that time when both cases could go dead for ever and no one ever be charged. It might be that the police could make guesses, but proof might be hard to come by. In these two cases everyone was making different guesses. Felicity Zeman, poisoner-in-chief? Tim Zeman, rapist and murderer? Fred Kinver, what?

  Stalemate it might have been, but the Paper Man stepped in. He sent out another letter. This went out to a carefully selected group, as if the Paper Man knew whom he wanted to talk to. One went to the Chief Commander at his home address in St Luke’s Mansions, one went to Superintendent Lane, and another to Inspector Archie Young. A fourth was dropped on Mimsie Marker’s stall, she didn’t know how but was highly diverted to have one. And one more was pinned on Felicity Zeman’s gatepost in Feather Street. The make-up was the same as before, letters cut from newspapers or magazine, but the execution was getting sloppier, perhaps because the Paper Man was now writing so many letters.

  Thought you’d seen the last of me, did you? Got one more to go then I’ve done the lot. Ta-ta for now.

  To the police it looked like a confession of murder. It also seemed like a threat.

&nb
sp; The letter stuck on the Zeman house was seen by Jim Marsh who had two dogs with him, Bob and Arthur. These two, although not exactly friends, would strike up a polite comradeship in the interests of a good walk, unlike the pair of Jack Russells for whom it would have been a fight to the death.

  Jim looked at the letter, decided now the time had come, removed it, put it in his pocket and went round to the big new police station. Here, he asked to see the Chief Commander, John Coffin.

  He had the name pat, and rolled it off briskly.

  The man on duty behind the desk was interested and amused, but said: ‘Sorry. He’s busy.’

  Jim was prepared for this. ‘Superintendent Lane will do, then.’ Then he added: ‘For the time being.’

  The constable was just about to open his mouth to say No can do, laddie, when he met Jim’s eyes and decided that this was not the boy to call laddie. ‘He’s busy too,’ he contented himself with. ‘But tell me what it is and I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Inspector Young, then,’ said Jim, sitting down. The dogs sat too. ‘I’ll wait. I’m not kidding.’

  ‘Inspector Young is busy too.’

  ‘I’ll write a note.’ He stood up, took a notebook from his pocket and upon a page wrote message which he then tore out. ‘Give it to him, please.’ And then, because the constable still stood there. ‘He’ll want to see it, you know. It’s your head on the block.’

  There was something about Jim that convinced the constable that if his head was indeed on the block, Jim would be the one to use the axe. ‘See what I can do,’ he said.

  He read the note on his way down the passage, which Jim had intended he should do.

  Addressed to Inspector Young it said simply: I am going to tell you who the Paper Man is.

  Not, the constable noticed, I want to tell you, or I can tell you, but straight out: I am going to tell you.

  Shout it from the rooftops, most like, the constable said to himself. He decided it was entirely in character with what he had seen of Jim Marsh.

  The message found its way on to Archie Young’s desk at last and he read it.

  ‘I’m in a good mood today,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the boy. But let him wait. If he waits long enough, then I’ll see.’

  An hour later, Jim was waiting.

  Two hours later, he was still there.

  Three hours later, he was there.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon Jim got in to see the Inspector. He took the dogs with him.

  In the interval, the constable on the desk, who had a conscience, had given Jim a cup of tea and the dogs several bowls of water. The reception area now smelt strongly of mongrel and peke. At four, the constable went off duty, sneezing, having discovered he had an allergy to dogs.

  Young said: ‘Well, lad, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ll need to have the Superintendent here. I’d like the Chief Commander as well, but the Superintendent will do.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You think I’m stupid. I’m not and I’m not playing games. I could behave quite differently. Tell someone else, the BBC or a newspaper. But I want to do this properly. I have something to show you. And I need a witness. I’m protecting myself.’

  He looked capable of staying in Young’s office all night if he had to, dogs and all.

  ‘Tell me what it is you want to show me. If it’s worth my while, I’ll send a man down with you.’

  ‘No. I know you lot. If you don’t like what I show you, or it doesn’t fit in, then you’ll lose it. Accidentally on purpose.’

  ‘I can see you’ve got a high opinion of us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I want the boss there. I trust him.’

  Jim was beginning to feel desperate, which accounted for the tartness of his tongue. This was not going how he wanted it. It was so important and this fool did not see it.

  Archie Young took a chance. ‘Look, come with me. This is about the Paper Man, you think he’s important. So do I. I’ll let you have a look at our Major Incident Room where you can see how seriously we take the Paper Man, and the murder of Anna Mary Kinver. Yes, I can see that interests you. And we’ve just set up a room for the Zeman poisonings. The two rooms will be in touch with each other. Perhaps you will trust me then.’

  Jim stood up. If this was all he was going to get, so be it. But he hadn’t parted with his information yet.

  ‘Must the dogs come?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was take it or leave day.

  ‘All right. Then when you’ve had a look, you can tell me what you’ve got. Or you can go home.’

  On the stairs on the way to Miriam Room, they met John Coffin, on his way in.

  Bob leapt forward with a joyful bark. A friend, he was shouting, someone who will get me out of this boring building where the smells are uninteresting.

  ‘Why are you so much nicer to me than that other policeman?’ demanded Jim Marsh suspiciously. He was leading the way through the streets. He was carrying Arthur who would walk no further. Bob had attached himself to John Coffin. ‘You’re coming with me like this, letting me show you what I’ve got. Well, not got myself,’ he corrected. ‘But know where something is you ought to see. Something I have found.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve got a bit more time.’

  ‘But you’re the boss man. You ought to be busier.’

  There was a lot of truth in this, so Coffin did not answer directly. Sharp boy, he thought, sharp tongue.

  ‘I’m interested,’ he said. ‘And I think it might be important. I thought something would have to turn up. Be found, as you put it. That in itself would be important.’

  ‘Think so?’Jim sounded intrigued.

  ‘It’s how I see it.’

  ‘Is that how cases are solved.’

  ‘Not really. Mostly by hard work and attention to detail. With a bit of luck.’

  ‘Am I the luck?’

  ‘You could be.’

  ‘I believe in luck,’ said Jim. ‘But I think you have to make things happen too. Or believe in them enough to make them happen.’

  ‘That probably is the recipe for a successful career,’ said Coffin.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of a career. I won’t have one. We don’t in our family,’ said Jim, putting his head down and plodding on. After a few more moments, he said: ‘You haven’t asked where we’re going.’

  ‘Bob seems to know,’ Coffin looked down at Bob, who was straining at his leash.

  ‘Might do. Got a good memory for a dog.’

  ‘Haven’t they all?’

  ‘Depends. Like human beings, some are better than others.’

  Coffin looked up at the sky. ‘I flew over this whole area in a helicopter when I first came here. To see what I’d got. You’d be surprised at the things you see. Not as densely inhabited as you think. Plenty of green, parks, allotments, bits of open land. Pathways, tracks, they stand out.’

  Jim led the way in a confident manner round a corner, down one more short side-street and then across the road to where a patch of open land by the railway embankment near to Brazen Head Docks had been made over to allotments, most with small sheds.

  He said nothing but went straight across to one of the more battered-looking constructions. It had a thick old door but the lock looked useless. Here he stopped, turned round and faced Coffin. ‘This is it. We’re here.’

  Coffin stood back and surveyed the area. The allotment had not received much attention lately, not in the way of gardening. ‘Who does it belong to?’

  ‘Fred Kinver.’

  Might have guessed, thought Coffin. ‘Well? What are we here for?’

  ‘It’s what’s inside. What I’ve found.’

  ‘By chance?’ inquired Coffin sceptically.

  ‘No, I was looking. I thought I’d find something. I’ve been watching Fred Kinver. He’s mad, you know.’

  Jim pushed open the door. He knew how to do it. Coffin followed him in. The room was dark, the small window blocked by
boxes of seedlings struggling for the light.

  ‘Ought to get those tomatoes planted out,’ said Jim, in a disapproving voice. ‘Still, it’s not what he’s been thinking about.’

  ‘And what has he been thinking about?’

  ‘Have a guess.’Jim was busy pulling at a cardboard box hidden amongst some seed catalogues on a table. He laid it in front of Coffin. ‘Here, take a look.’

  Bob and Arthur settled themselves on the earth floor as if they knew the ropes and knew they would have to be patient.

  ‘Does Mr Kinver know you make yourself free of his shed?’ Coffin was opening the box. Inside were two large notebooks, the sort you can buy at any newsagent’s or stationer’s.

  Jim laughed. ‘What do you think?’

  One book was labelled A Murder. Anna Mary Kinver. Coffin turned the pages slowly. On each page were pasted cuttings from newspapers and magazines. Each was concerned with the killing. Fred Kinver must have had his scissors into all the dailies and periodicals over the last few months. He had even got his hands on French, German and Italian papers. The library was going to be angry when it found out what it had lost.

  A man with an obsession, Coffin thought. One he was feeding with rich nourishment.

  The second book was labelled The Police. But in fact it was filled with the life, as far could be culled from the newspapers, of John Coffin. Kinver had even managed to seize some cuttings from earlier cases of years ago.

  Coffin had to admire the man’s industry. As he looked at blurred pictures of himself in his twenties, he understood that this was an extension of the original obsession. Whether it was a sign of healing or an aggravation, he could not be sure. A psychiatrist seemed called for.

  He leafed through them slowly. Finally, he said. ‘Well, thanks for showing me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s not it.’ Jim was amused. ‘All you see there is just a cover-up. Something to explain what he was doing down here. If he had to. I’ll show you the real stuff.’

  He pulled an old chest of drawers which had been used to store seeds, catalogues and bits of garden equipment away from the wall, then he knelt down and lifted a bit of old carpet which rested on boards. Jim pulled at the boards. They came up at once, revealing a hole. At the bottom of the hole was a small tin trunk.