‘Mary Beaton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael and I …’
The line from the old Scots ballad ran through his mind; he could not remember who ‘I’ was, but he did know that she came to a bad end. On the scaffold, having killed … whom? Her lover or her bastard child?
‘I think we are expected to meet to talk about my husband. Ed Saxon told me you would be around.’
‘I was going to call. But today I wanted to have a look round his office.’
‘The one that someone tried to burn? Yes, I wanted to see it too. We picked the wrong day, didn’t we? Sit down, do. You make me nervous standing there.’
Coffin put his glass on the table, then sat down opposite her. He doubted if he could make Mary Seton nervous.
‘You know, I had no idea the office existed until Harry died … I only learnt then by accident. Wives are supposed to be kept from too much knowledge, painful knowledge, that is. Or that’s Ed Saxon’s philosophy.’
Are you sure, thought Coffin cynically, wondering if he could believe her ignorant. I think he doles out the painful bits as it suits him, and if he let you know about this office then it suited him.
He was, he feared, a natural cynic where Ed Saxon was concerned.
He nodded his head. ‘I know Ed has his ways.’
‘I came today to look round. I didn’t have a key but I thought I could get in. I would have done too.’
Coffin believed her.
She made a gesture with her hands. ‘Well, you saw … when I got here there was the fire brigade and the police.’ She nodded towards the talkers and drinkers near the bar. ‘So I followed this lot in here.’
She had sat in the car watching, Coffin commented to himself, a careful, cautious woman. He liked the way she used her hands. Stella would have approved of that: what you do with your hands on the stage is so important, they give you character or take it away. Never walk on the stage without knowing what to do with your hands and never let them droop.
He could see that Mary Seton would never walk on to her stage with drooping hands.
She must have picked up his thoughts. ‘I know you are married, I have seen your wife act. I admired her.’
‘Stella’s in Los Angeles at the moment.’
‘You must miss her.’
‘I do, of course, but we agreed when we married that she must be free to follow’ – he paused – ‘well, whatever the theatre demands. I wouldn’t want her to lose by being married.’
‘It applies to you too.’ She sipped her sherry. ‘But men don’t expect to lose by getting married, it’s just an extra, nothing to get in their way.’
Coffin gave her a cautious look.
‘I don’t think most policemen’s wives have happy marriages,’ she went on. ‘Stella is lucky.’
Coffin thought that Stella was not so much lucky as good at fighting her battles, probably he would have been as selfish and demanding as any, but Stella had not allowed it.
‘She deserves it,’ went on Mary Seton. ‘She is so talented.’
‘I think so,’ said Coffin, glad to be on solid ground at last.
‘I made my own career – I own a small chain of fashion shops, I don’t think Harry minded, or if he did it didn’t show. It meant he didn’t see so much of me as he might have done … I have to travel a bit.’
The noise from the group at the bar interrupted them; loud laughter and a small bit of horseplay with Miss Miniskirt doing most of the pushing; she was not one to overlook. Coffin decided.
‘Jolly, aren’t they? They aren’t worried about the fire, or why it was started. Harry was destroyed and now someone has had a go at destroying what he was working on.’ She turned her head towards the window; Coffin saw the glint of tears on her lashes.
‘We don’t know that it was arson.’
‘Oh, we do … it started on the top floor, Harry’s floor.’
Coffin had been looking out of the window, from where he could see that the fire engines were drawing away. He would probably be able to get into the building quite soon, if the top floor was not too hot. Or wet.
‘I want to have a look round myself, so I am hoping that it may not have been destroyed.’
She looked at him and shook her head.
‘They didn’t let me see Harry’s body. Just his face, so I could identify him, the rest was wrapped in sheets.’ There was no mistaking the tears on her cheeks now. ‘So I suppose they had a reason.’
You insensitive ox, Coffin told himself, all this bitter talk she’s been throwing at you is because she is bloody unhappy. She loved the man.
There was another burst of laughter, and Miss Miniskirt swept past. ‘Going to inspect the ruins,’ she called out.
Mary watched her go; through her tears, she said: ‘She spent a lot on that suit but she wasted her money: it doesn’t fit her. Didn’t you notice the sleeves?’
Coffin shook his head, he had not noticed the sleeves. All right, he had thought the black suit expensive, so he got that right.
‘You think I’m a bad-tempered cow, all right?’
‘No, I think you are a very unhappy woman.’
There was a pause. ‘I loved him. I didn’t always like him, but I loved him.’
There was silence.
She stood up. ‘I’m going to follow that woman. See if I can get into the building? Are you coming too?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what our chances are.’
‘I am going to get in, I saw a fire escape. I shall go up that.’
‘I saw it too.’
‘I was working it all out as I sat in the car.’
‘Why are you so anxious to see Harry’s office here?’
Mary slowed her pace, they could both see the woman in the miniskirt arguing with the police constable now on solitary duty.
‘Because Ed Saxon didn’t want me to. I only got the address because I read it upside down on his desk. What about you?’
‘Work,’ said Coffin evasively. ‘An investigation.’
‘Are you working on Harry’s death?’
‘No, the Met are handling that, of course …’ This was true, although he would be privy to what they turned up and in return they would want to look at anything he got. A strange position to be in, he thought, never happened before. It made him feel two-headed.
Mary looked at him sceptically, but she said nothing, moving ahead of him towards the office block. The woman in the miniskirt was still talking to the police constable. She seemed to be arguing fiercely.
Both of them had their backs to Coffin and Mary Seton. Without a word, Mary put her foot on the bottom rung of the fire escape, gave Coffin a meaning look, and ran up, leaping from step to step.
Coffin followed her. He was agile himself but she was nimbler. Good mind too, Harry Seton had been a lucky man. Only his luck had ended. Older than Mary. Hadn’t there been a first wife? He had memories of hearing of one called Elsa. Elsa he had never met, but he was willing to admit that she had been pretty and lively and clever, as with Mary. Did one always marry the same woman? What had happened to Elsa? Had she dropped Harry or the other way round?
These questions flashed through his mind with speed as he went up the staircase. He was at the top before he remembered the answer: Elsa was dead.
Curious thing, the mind, why had he just remembered Elsa and her death?
Mary was looking through the glass door, it was darkened, stained by smoke. ‘A bit kippered, but you can see through.’
Coffin was feeling in his pocket. ‘Got a key?’
‘No. I haven’t a key. Harry never gave me one, I wasn’t told about this place, remember? I only found out when he was dead, and Ed Saxon certainly wasn’t about to give me a key. Keep wives out is embroidered on his chest, that one. I was going to break in if I could. So I was always coming up this way.’ She looked down at her feet, ‘I was going to knock my way through the glass with a heel.’
Coffin was sorting through the bunch of keys. ‘You’d have a job
breaking this glass without a wound or two. Good thing you met me.’ He wasn’t sure how much he believed her, but she had a beguiling way with words. ‘Are you sure you weren’t going to bribe your way in?’
She grinned. ‘Somehow, somehow. Maybe, maybe. But I found you. Come on, let’s get in.’
The lock turned easily enough but the door was stiff; it gave way, though, before his shoulder.
‘Here we are. In.’
Harry’s office had not been burnt to bits, or flooded with water. It smelt of smoke and was untidy, but that might have been Harry, not the firemen.
His files had been in metal cabinets, but some drawers had been opened and the papers were on the floor. They were scorched but not destroyed.
‘If they were after Harry’s work, it was a shitty job,’ said Mary.
‘Maybe not, maybe just a warning … to you or to me. How do you know about where the fire started?’
‘I was listening to that workshy crowd who had evacuated the building. All full of joy and even accusing each other of doing the job.’ She had advanced into the middle of the room, and was looking around her. ‘No, you are right … it’s a warning only.’
‘You ought to work for the CID,’ said Coffin, who had also heard the conversation, with admiration. ‘Are you sure you didn’t start it yourself?’
‘I didn’t hate Harry and his work that much …’ She was still looking round the room. ‘But you are quite right: there were times when he was alive … All wives hate their husbands in patches.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Coffin, wondering if he had better watch Stella for one of those patches.
‘I might well have burnt his office down, but not now he is dead.’ Then she said: ‘He had a period in a clinic when he had a kind of breakdown … did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘Drink, mostly. Usually is with coppers, isn’t it?’
‘I can see you admire us.’ But he couldn’t say no, because he had been down that road himself. It was likely that Mary Seton knew it, too.
Coffin looked round the room. It was dampened down by a spray of water from a fireman’s hose, but was not damaged. He was pulling open the drawers of the desk … still warm, but there was stuff inside. Not much but something. He thought that Harry probably hadn’t kept much stuff there anyway. Wise fellow. Not that it had availed him much in the long run.
There was also the computer on a table against the wall, perhaps he was more of a computer man.
It was not a comfortable room, probably the smallest and cheapest (no lift to it) in the building, but Harry had tried for a personal touch: there was a pot plant, now dead, on the desk.
‘Wonder who gave Harry that plant?’ said Mary. ‘Not me. Some fool thought it would cheer the room up.’ She touched the soil. ‘I see he never watered it.’
He may not have had much chance, thought Coffin. Mary read his face.
‘Yes, all right, he died.’
Coffin began to gather up the files from the desk, then those on the floor. He could see traces of the forensic efforts, with pale powder marks distributed freely over almost every surface, desk top, drawers, and the files inside.
Not as many files as he had expected, he would have to ask a few searching questions about what, if anything, had been carried away. No doubt every document had been photocopied. He scooped them up, wishing he had a bag to put them in. Then he saw a carrier bag in the wastebasket. It was from a shop in Birmingham: FOOD GALORE, Reform Street. So someone had been in Birmingham.
Then he turned to the word processor.
Mary, who had stopped prowling round the room, watched him. ‘Harry wasn’t much good at that. I ought to know as I had to teach him what he had to know – the basics, anyhow.’
‘I’m not much good myself,’ said Coffin, ‘but I know how to switch it on.’
The screen glowed blue.
‘The fire doesn’t seem to have hurt it, you can never tell with these things.’
‘It’s on battery,’ Mary pointed out. ‘He travelled around with it. It wouldn’t be touched by any power loss.’
He pressed a key and a list of files came up. They were numbered, not named, so Harry must have kept a key or relied on memory.
He pressed the key for Number One. The first page came up.
In big capital letters, he read:
WE’VE HAD A LOOK AT THESE.
WE KNOW YOU WILL BE LOOKING TOO.
HA HA.
‘Ha ha to you,’ said Coffin, pressing on to page two of File Number One.
It was blank. Someone, possibly Harry, had wiped it clean. A quick glance through the next three files showed these to be blank also.
Frowning, Coffin turned off the machine. Mary, who had been watching over his shoulder, said nothing. ‘I’ll just pack this up and take it with me.’ He looked around for the carrying satchel which was on the floor. ‘Right, that’s it.’ For the moment; he would be back and without Mary Seton. ‘Seen all you want?’
‘Yes, nothing to see really. Hasn’t given me much idea about Harry’s last days. If you learn anything you can tell me, will you?’
Coffin nodded. ‘I will.’
She smiled at him. ‘Of course, I know what that means, you being a policeman. Can I give you a lift?’
‘To the Tower terminus of the Docklands Railway? That’ll see me into my territory. Thank you.’
They were both silent on the short drive; Mary Seton drove efficiently through the traffic, delivering him near the entrance to the Docklands Light Railway, already known by regular users as the Dockers’ Delight.
‘How long does the battery last at full strength on this machine?’ He tapped the computer.
Mary shrugged. ‘About two and a half to three hours when used.’
‘And unused?’
‘I don’t know. Just guessing, I should say about a week or a little more.’
Coffin considered this; the machine he had on his lap registered two hours’ working time left. So it had been plugged into a socket and the power stepped up.
By whom? Also why?
He occupied his mind with this question as Mary drove.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ Coffin opened the car door.
Mary leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you. You helped me through a bad patch.’
Coffin was thoughtful as he let the train swing its way through old Docklands. It was a journey he usually enjoyed because it provided a perfect example of the whirligig of time bringing in its revenges: the former run-down, working-class area was now full of smart and expensive flats powered by the new businesses which had moved in. He was satisfied to see history being made. His own Second City partook of both elements, a good deal of it still solid working class with a new dash of upmarket chic in converted factories and warehouses. Crime was about equal in both communities.
But he wondered about Mary Seton. A kiss is just a kiss. Of course, but why me, he asked himself.
The train stopped at the Spinnergate station which was where he had parked his car on the journey in. His car was still there; he checked to see if all the wheels plus wheel hubs were in place, as you were well advised to do in Spinnergate if you left your car alone for any length of time. All present and correct. His force’s pressure on the petty criminal must be paying off.
At last, he thought, as he got in the car to drive home. No joy there without Stella, though, without her it didn’t seem like a home. Even the dog, Augustus, seemed low spirited, but that was probably due to overeating because Coffin just fed when he asked, which in Gus’s case was often.
Gus appeared to greet him with a wagging tail and a small bark of complaint.
‘No, I couldn’t take you with me today. Not today, Gus. Grow up, you are a big dog now and must learn to live alone.’
Gus barked again. He had no intention of learning anything which did not suit him. But he meant to be guileful, since if he was too difficult he remembered that Coffin would g
et Phoebe Astley to look after him. The chief inspector was not gentle and persuasive like Stella Pinero, nor absent-minded and kind like his master, Coffin. No, Phoebe was firm, and strict, leaving a dog with not much freedom.
Coffin fed the dog from a tin of his chosen meat, then he went to see if he had any message from Stella, either faxed or on the answerphone.
The big sitting room was cold and dark. He turned on a light before drawing the curtains at the large window. If he looked out of this window, he could just see the roofs of the University Hospital, where a talk with the head of the pharmaceutical department was something he meant to take. He knew Perry Curtis slightly, but well enough to value his insight and judgement.
Nothing from Stella, but a message from his own office.
‘Paul Masters, here, sir. Could you ring back as soon as possible, please?’
The inspector’s voice sounded tense. Paul Masters administered the Chief Commander’s office with calm skill. He did not readily show strain.
Coffin picked up the telephone and dialled the number that rang straight through to the phone on Paul Masters’s desk.
‘Coffin here. You wanted me?’
‘Ah, yes indeed. Chief Superintendent Young wanted to talk to you … As it happens, he is here now.’
Archie Young spoke quickly. ‘We have the body of one of the missing boys.’
‘Which one?’
‘The last to go missing, the ten-year-old from Percy Street.’
‘He has been identified?’
‘Yes, by his father. We have his body.’ Archie Young hesitated. ‘And parts of another.’
‘How was he found?’
‘In a wooded area by a young couple … looking for somewhere quiet and dark.’
‘How did they come to find the body … was it buried?’
‘Yes, but working free from the soil and leaves … they didn’t see it themselves at first, but they saw a man with his dog staring at something among the trees. He was holding back the dog. Or seemed to be, the dog was in the bushes. He said to them that there was something funny that they ought to look at. The young man did so while the man stood back. He soon saw it was a body, saw the feet, he says … he had his mobile with him and telephoned the police.’
A Grave Coffin Page 3
