‘Not even from his wife?’
‘No, she said she was used to silence when he was on a case. He might make the odd phone call, this time he didn’t.’
‘Pity she didn’t scream for action.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, Harry was long dead. He could have been killed soon after we met at the Rose Revived. So the medics think.’
Coffin got out the photographs of Harry’s dead body, all five of them, and shuffled them in order round the table. There were five photographs because Harry had been cut into five bits.
Coffin arranged them in the order he thought right: head first, the torso second, the arms next, and one leg … the other leg had disappeared. You had to remember that where this body was found in Deptford Park there were urban foxes.
‘How was he killed?’
Painfully, Ed Saxon said: ‘By degrees.’
‘I don’t think so, even if it looks like it, I don’t think death gropes for you; one bite and you’re gone, that’s how I see it.’
Saxon shrugged, as if he did not care for this way of talking, it might even be meant to be a joke. ‘If you say so.’
‘Where was the body found?’
‘In the bandstand in the park – it is partly boarded in. He may have been killed there, there was enough blood.’ Saxon gave the files another push towards Coffin. ‘It’s all here, medical reports and the forensic stuff, you can read it all up.’
‘I might want to ask the pathologist and the forensic chaps questions.’
‘Sure. You will find names and places in the files, you may know some of the team from when you were in the Met.’
‘Probably younger than I am.’
‘Oh, they stay with us a long time in this business.’
Coffin considered: ‘So you decided that he must have been getting close to the corrupt officer and therefore killed, in this particularly revolting way?’
Saxon stirred in his seat. ‘I had one reason which I have not yet mentioned … We had established a hotline so that he could talk to me. He never did use it except to set up meets. I had hoped it would be more use to us, he wasn’t much of a talker, Harry. It had its good and bad sides. But two days before he probably died he rang, asking me to turn up at the Fisher’s Arms off the Strand. I did and he did not.’
‘Did it worry you?’
‘From then on, I worried.’
‘You didn’t do anything even then?’
‘No. I sat and waited. About the worst thing I could have done. I just left it.’ He added: ‘I had a lot on my mind at the time; there’s never just one worry, is there?’
‘No.’ Probably not, we both have a lot of experience on those lines.
Ed Saxon suddenly clenched his hands and banged on the table. ‘Bloody, bloody business.’
Coffin studied Saxon’s face, tight and drawn: you are full of anger.
Saxon pushed a small bunch of keys across the table. ‘Harry had a room here, but he hired a special place, just off Fleet Street; three, Humper Place. Top floor. These are the keys.’
‘Thanks. Right.’
‘The forensic boys have been there, of course, couldn’t keep them out, but they were required to leave everything as they found it … They got nothing out of it, by the way. You may do better.’
Coffin drew the files on the table towards him. ‘What have I got here?’
‘Apart from the forensic and medical stuff, which I mentioned, you have a complete list of all the people in the unit, whether based in the Wessex, Mercian, Newcastle and Anglian teams. With it comes the evidence of corruption and why I thought it came from the unit. Read it for yourself and make up your mind.’
‘I will do, of course.’
‘You may find Harry had left records in his office in Humper Place, nothing in his room here, and he did his own typing.’
Bet it was a word processor, thought Coffin, the days of penpushing and typing are gone. Harry might have been vulnerable if his machine could be read.
In Saxon’s face, he read the same thought. ‘I’ll check the computer.’
‘I miss the old days when I wrote a report, typed it out and then someone lost it in the files forever. Suited me. Now you know the words are there forever, even if you had deleted them.’
Ed Saxon was still uneasy. ‘And what will you say you are doing here today? You will be noticed.’
Coffin smiled. ‘Never apologize and never explain.’
‘Good.’ Saxon was still uneasy.
‘Now, in my turn, a question: why did you pick on me for this job?’ This tiresome, probably dangerous, bloody job?
‘I knew you were safe, which is more than I can say for all my colleagues … We always did call you the pea-green incorruptible.’
‘Sea-green, I think. And it was from Thomas Stearns Carlisle, and he was writing about Robespierre.’
‘Oh.’ Saxon nodded. He never had read much, Coffin remembered. But someone in his circle must have done … Jason Hull, Coffin suddenly remembered the man, he’d been a reader. Where was he now? Retired, dead?
‘How’s Jason Hull?’ he asked. ‘Do you ever see him?’
‘Dead. Lung cancer, he always did smoke too much. Good man, though.’
‘So, what other reason did you have? There was one, wasn’t there?’
‘Sharp of you. Yes. In that file of papers, you will find a note in Harry’s own writing. He wrote, capital letters: ASK COFFIN. So I have asked you.’
‘And how long have I got?’
‘I could say: As long as you need. In fact, hurry, please, we are under pressure.’ He moved his hands together as if washing. ‘Just get a whiff, we will do the rest … and don’t forget you will have back-up from the Met. Well, in theory, anyway,’ he ended doubtfully.
Coffin picked up the files on the table. ‘Right. I’ll take these, see what I make of it. Then I will come back to you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Ed.’
Ed Saxon watched him go, then sat down at his table, and stared at his hands.
Coffin walked out into the sunlight. What do you make of all that, Coffin, my boy?
And how much of it did you believe?
Ed Saxon wants something from me, and somehow I don’t think it is just who killed Harry Seton. A difficult character, old Ed, I was never quite sure when I was with him when we worked together, and I don’t feel any more sure now. An ambitious and successful man. He had been successful himself, head now of the police in the Second City of London. Married to a well-known actress and as happy as it was in his nature to be.
What Stella would say when she heard was: Why was he doing it?
Why had he accepted the investigation into corruption, which might involve old colleagues? He had already recognized a few names in a first quick run-through of the list before he left.
Just curiosity, he told himself. Not a complete answer, but it would do for now. He had also, although he was not sure if Ed Saxon knew this, received a request, order really, from on high to undertake what he was asked to do. This he had queried.
‘Why, sir, why me?’
‘It does seem a relatively unimportant job … I say relatively, as it has its own importance,’ the voice had said smoothly. They were talking on Coffin’s private line. Untapped as far as he knew. ‘But we want you to do it.’
‘Don’t think about that now,’ he told himself. ‘Enjoy the walk.’
He was walking, just walking, enjoying the air and the sun. He was on Waterloo Bridge, walking south before he realized it. He loved the view down the river and up the river, he even enjoyed the massive block of the National Theatre. His own Second City had some good views of old docklands but nothing to compare with this.
Coffin stood for a moment looking at the water running fast beneath him. The Thames was supposed to be a clean river now, but it seemed pretty murky to him. It must be several millennia since it had been a clear, leaping stream. Perhaps the Romans had seen it that way, but it must have been changin
g even then. The same river ran through his Second City of London, but his London, once bombed and battered, was now full of old warehouses containing new businesses of the sort that was not dreamt of when St Paul’s was built: computers, mobile phones and video recorders for midget television sets. There were health farms, slimming clinics and teachers of Chinese medicine, as well as small factories which were busy one day and gone the next. Life moved on in the Second City.
He had cut short his visit to Stella, and the reason for this was that he had his own problems back home in the Second City. In particular, a number of missing children. Four now. There was no rest for anyone in the Second City till the children were found. Dead or alive.
And what about the children who aren’t missing but who must be sheltered from the knowledge of this?
He had pointed out this investigation in the Second City to the man from the Home Office when he was requested to agree to what Ed Saxon would be asking of him, and had been told to get on with it. Deal with both investigations, he could have what help he needed.
Coffin got an ironic pleasure in discovering he was persona grata in the highest circles, when in the past he had been such an unorthodox, troublesome, unloved policeman. Time and its whirligigs bringing in its revenges, as Shakespeare had remarked.
He put his hand in his pocket, where he felt the bunch of keys that Ed Saxon had passed over to him. On impulse, he put his hand up for a passing taxi.
‘Three, Humper Place, off Fleet Street,’ he said.
‘I know, gov,’ said the driver, slight reproof from one who knew his Knowledge.
He could have walked from where he was, but he wanted a space to think while the taxi crawled through the London traffic.
A right into Fleet Street, another right and there was Humper Place.
‘Doesn’t look good, gov,’ said the cabby, breaking into his thoughts.
Two red fire engines and a police car blocked the way.
Coffin paid the cab off and walked forward.
Number three, Humper Place was smouldering.
The fire seemed to light up something in his mind: Wait a minute, he told himself, supposing I am being asked to investigate this corruption business because the Second City is involved?
2
A small crowd of people stood at the kerb, with the air of having fled from the building in a hurry, but even as he looked they were disappearing into a small bar at the end of the cul-de-sac. The Queen’s Arms, it proclaimed itself, with a large portrait of a crowned lady who might have been Queen Victoria or Mary, Queen of Scots, since she was long since faded into a gentle blur. You could see the crown, however.
Coffin walked towards the police constable stationed at the door of the building. He did not identify himself.
‘Can I get in there?’
‘No, sir, sorry, no chance.’ The constable was young, blue-eyed and with red hair.
Coffin stared up at the building. It looked to him as though the fire was out, the flames had died down.
‘I need to get in urgently.’
Coffin was still assessing the scene. It might have had the making of a nasty fire, but it had been controlled and the building looked solid still. There was an outer fire staircase which could be used. He nodded towards it. ‘I could go up there. It’s mostly smoke now, isn’t it?’
‘You can have a word with the Chief Fire Officer, that’s him over there.’ The constable nodded to a large, uniformed man standing by a car. ‘I can’t give permission, out of my power.’
‘Yes, I understand that. Where did it start?’
‘Top floor. Or so I’ve been told.’ The fire was certainly damped down, but there was still smoke and heat. Coffin was both curious and anxious. Had the flat to which he had the keys been damaged?
If so, was it by a genuine accident or by deliberate attempt?
If it was arson he was very interested indeed.
He strolled towards the Chief Fire Officer. The man glanced towards him without interest, then turned away to speak to one of the firemen. It was then that Coffin realized the disadvantage of being anonymous. For years now, he had had quick attention to his questions, he was not used to being ignored. In short, he had grown into being the Chief Commissioner of his force and was now going to have to shrink back in size.
He stood there thinking the problem out: a certain duplicitous honesty was his best line. If the fire had not happened, then he would have slipped in and out with no one noticing. If anyone had asked, just one of the forensic team. But no one would have asked.
Slowly he advanced to the Chief Fire Officer, who went on talking, then finally addressed him over his shoulder.
‘That your car there?’
Coffin looked towards a car parked at the kerb. Before he could speak, the Chief Fire Officer said: ‘Move it. Shouldn’t be there.’
Coffin bit back the comment that the car appeared to be perfectly parked and in no one’s way, but contented himself with saying politely that it was not his car. He could, however, see someone sitting in it, but decided not to mention this.
‘Is it safe to get into the building yet?’
‘No.’ A blunt refusal.
Coffin nodded. ‘Right,’ he said peaceably. ‘So when?’ Tomorrow, next week, he would have to accept it, and hope that the firemen had not destroyed too much.
‘Can’t say.’
‘I need to get into flat twelve.’ He held up the keys, swinging them a little.
‘You the tenant? You rent the place?’
Smooth, taking manners, thought Coffin, charming fellow. ‘I am part of a police forensic team that has been examining the place.’ It seemed safe enough to say this much. It might easily be common knowledge, passed around the other tenants.
He needn’t have worried. It cut no ice.
‘You can get in with the others when it is safe. Can’t say when yet.’
Reluctantly, Coffin faced the fact that he had got used to being speeded through any obstacles back home in the Second City and that life was tougher outside.
He walked down the road to the pub into which he had seen the rest of the tenants disappear. He noticed that the car was now empty and a figure was walking into the pub. To his surprise, it was a woman.
The Queen’s Arms was old and small and dark, it could have been there since the Great Fire of London in 1666, or even have survived it. Certainly it had survived the Blitz and all the rest of the bombs that particular war had thrown at it. Now it had a large notice advising customers to watch untended bags because of IRA bombs.
Inside it was crowded. Coffin stood at the door, wondering if he could work out who were the tenants who had fled from their offices.
He ordered a drink, which he stood by the bar drinking while he let his eyes study the crowd.
Well, he knew the woman: the back disappearing down the road had been wearing a black coat. So there she was with a drink in her hand at a table in the window.
And oddly enough, she was looking at him. Looking at him looking at her.
He stared down at his drink to break the link, but he could still see her in his mind’s eye: she looked lean, intellectual and sophisticated. She was dressed in black, but not dead black, there was a gleam of leather and the hint of silk at the throat. In other words, she looked expensive. Life with Stella had at least taught Coffin what good clothes cost.
Around him, the crowd of the dispossessed were drinking and shouting at each other.
‘I blame the chap on the top floor.’ This was a stout man in a check suit. ‘We never had anything till he moved in, and then we had the police, and now the fire brigade. And where is he now? It’s him.’
‘It did start there, damn it. I ought to know as I was near it. But I don’t think he’s there any more. I never see him now.’ A pretty, slight girl in the shortest skirt and with the longest hair that Coffin had lately seen walking around London. (‘On the way out, that Loopy Lu look,’ Stella had told him. ‘And it’s time the we
arers knew it, but it’s got to be a uniform for them and they really don’t see themselves. They will be dinosaurs before they notice it.’) ‘I think he’s gone. They weren’t police you saw, they were debt collectors.’
‘Didn’t look like debt collectors to me,’ said Check Suit, ‘more official. And they locked the door.’
‘Trust you to notice that.’
‘They didn’t set fire to anything, though.’
‘Wonder who did? I hope my notes on the report I am writing for Lord Herrington on fiscal controls and the EU aren’t too kippered. I couldn’t bear to do it again, he’s so stupid you have to make it easy.’
This was Miss Miniskirt, so she was the intellectual heavyweight of the two? She was a lawyer, he guessed, so what was Check Suit? Another lawyer? No, a businessman of some sort. Probably he imported or exported something, handbags or lacy knickers.
‘Lord H. is always kippered himself, isn’t he, the way he drinks and smokes? I will say this for the fire people, they got there fast and put the fire out damn quickly. I don’t think I will have lost anything.’
‘The smell of smoke on everything is bad enough,’ grumbled the young woman. ‘And that foam stuff they use as well as water …’ But she didn’t sound too worried. Lord Herrington would have to put up with his smoked report.
The two of them turned away to talk to the rest of the homeless.
While listening to all this, and trying to assess what it told him about Harry Seton’s activities, Coffin had been watching the woman in the window.
The second sense that all long-time coppers develop told him that she was watching him while listening to the man and woman, just as he was.
That told him something.
He met her eyes and this time, she smiled and nodded at him. The moment was flooded over by a burst of laughter from the dispossessed to his right.
Coffin got up, walked across and stood looking at her; he said nothing.
She held out her hand. ‘I know who you are: John Coffin. My husband had a photograph of you. He was in it too.’ Still she kept her hand extended. ‘Mary Seton.’
Coffin took her hand, noting the softness and the shining tinted nails, not what you expected somehow from a copper’s wife, although heaven knew, his own wife Stella was typical of nothing, not even the stage.
A Grave Coffin Page 2
