‘Was Harry having an affair with her too?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Ed gloomily.
‘We’d better meet sometime and you can tell me what it is you do know.’ Coffin tried to keep the irony out of his voice. ‘Meanwhile, I have a very nasty murder on my hands here in the Second City, so I can’t give your affair all my attention.’
Then he moved the conversation back a step. ‘Wait a minute … you said as far as you know, Margaret was not having an affair with Harry … Does that mean you think she was but can’t prove it?’
‘It was just an idea I had, can’t put it any stronger, and it could have been wrong at that.’
‘And did Mary know?’
Silence for a minute. ‘She might have done.’
‘You mean you know she did,’ said Coffin bluntly.
‘She might have guessed … she’s a clever woman.’
‘Don’t tell me you are having an affair with her too?’
‘As soon have an affair with a piranha fish,’ said Ed bitterly.
Perhaps both women had joined together to kill Harry. Now that was a picture.
Let me read myself a scenario, thought Coffin. Mary got to know about Margaret, who didn’t love Harry so much after all. (Or had a lot to hide and wanted him out of the way.) So she got together with his wife and they did the job. Wasn’t there a French film with that theme? Was it Les Diaboliques? He had seen it with Stella. But the body being cut into five bits still worried him. It didn’t sound like a female killing.
Still, it wouldn’t do to be sexist.
He must find out if it was physically possible for the two women to have done it. Check on the physical force required, check on where they were at the relevant times. It would explain Mary’s strange need to get into her dead husband’s office. She might want to know what was there that could incriminate either of them.
Not a bad scenario; it needed working on, though.
Wait a minute, he told himself, this is the Met’s job, not yours.
The telephone was bleating away. ‘Are you still there?’ Ed was saying.
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘You’d gone dead quiet. I thought I was talking to myself.’
‘No, I was listening.’ Didn’t hear a word, however. ‘Tell me, who is in charge of the investigation?’
‘Larry Davenport. That was what I was telling you. Nice chap, he’ll get in touch,’ said Ed gloomily. ‘Although some of his juniors are a pushy lot.’ Could have been one of those who left me the rude message on the computer, thought Coffin. ‘He remembers you.’
Paths do cross, Coffin admitted to himself, sometimes to your advantage and sometimes not.
‘He says he grew up in East Hythe and his sister still lives there.’ He added with relish. ‘He’s a useful chap, he’s one that knows where all the bodies are buried.’
Coffin thought that he knew the burial sites of more than a few bodies himself. He pointed this out to Ed Saxon. ‘I’ve always had thoughts about the Cassington murder and what happened to Maisie Deeds … I bet you have too.’
‘Yeah.’ The sound was almost a wince. ‘Well, keep in touch. You’re off to Coventry, did you say? It’s a Tim Kelso there, remember.’ He wanted to get away.
‘Hang on,’ said Coffin. ‘What are the names of the women you have working in this organization?’
‘Felicity Fox in Cambridge, Leonie Thrupp in Coventry and Margaret Grayle is what I call a mobile … lives in Oxford, works where required.’ Ed Saxon put the receiver down hard.
Two of those names had earned a question mark: Fox and Thrupp.
Coffin heard the bang. ‘I hit a nerve there. Can’t be the Cassington lad or Maisie, so what?’ he asked himself. ‘He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it, and it isn’t just a tumble in bed that his wife doesn’t know about.’ He considered what Saxon had said. ‘I must take a look at Thrupp in Coventry. Then there was a question mark for Fox in Cambridge which was the centre for the Anglia outfit of TRANSPORT A. So one of the ancient university towns had a question hanging over it. Ancient but not innocent?
He thought for a moment about Stella, perhaps even then undergoing surgery. Hope she doesn’t have her nose altered. I like that nose.
He looked at his diary. He could go to Coventry almost at once. It would mean a shuffling of appointments, but Paul Masters would do that for him, and he could spend some of the time beforehand studying the records left behind by Harry, which would not be a long job.
He could tell already that either Harry had not kept many or he had destroyed them.
The names of those with question marks were made a note of and he would be checking on them. In Coventry he would be seeing Leonie Thrupp and the man operating in that area. What was it now? He turned back to his own notes:
Tim Kelso in Coventry.
Peter Chard in Oxford.
Felicity Fox in Cambridge, which was the East Anglia area.
Joe Weir in Newcastle, which Ed Saxon, more romantic than Coffin could have guessed, had wanted to call by the area’s old-English name of Deira.
He did not know any of them, but none had won a question mark, whatever it might mean, good or bad, from Harry.
Just as he was thinking that he ought to get in touch with Inspector Larry Davenport, who was investigating the murder of Harry, the man himself was on the telephone.
‘Hello, sir. Remember me, Larry Davenport … Inspector, CID now.’
Ed Saxon must have telepathy, Coffin told himself, or else he knew you were about to ring.
‘We both have an interest in Harry Seton.’
‘So we do.’ Coffin was brief. Let Davenport be expansive if he liked.
‘Thought we ought to get in touch, sir.’ You help me, I’ll help you, the breezy voice hinted. ‘We’ve got East Hythe in common, too, sir. Nasty business about the boy.’
‘It is. Not too good about Harry Seton. How are you getting on?’ Bet you won’t tell me.
Neither did he. ‘Not much to say, unluckily, at the moment … Have you got any help for me, sir?’
‘Not yet.’ After all, this was not his case.
‘We ought to keep in touch, don’t you agree, sir?’
Of course, Coffin thought crossly. ‘How did he die? Anything new there?’
‘Blow to the head … then cut up when dead. Freshly dead.’ That was the kind of detail that Davenport relished.
‘Would it have taken a lot of strength?’
‘Well, no, but a frail old lady couldn’t have done it. What there would have been was a lot of blood. All over the place, and we are keen to find that place. Haven’t yet.’
Like Devlin in the Second City, thought Coffin, a nasty parallelism, but police work could be like that.
‘How did the body get to the park, and then to the bandstand?’
‘Must have been by car, not something you could carry through the street wrapped in brown paper … it was wrapped, by the way, but in a sheet. The park gates are open all night, in fact, I think it’s years since there was a gate. The bandstand is derelict, never used. As for the rest … well, there are urban foxes round there, a real, rough breed down by the river. I heard they had mated with wolves from Russia.’ He laughed heartily at his own joke.
‘I’ll keep in touch.’ Coffin did not laugh.
Paul Masters came back with Augustus, both of them refreshed by their walk. Augustus bustled up smelling of dog, and grass and earth.
‘Had a good time, did he?’
Augustus answered for himself with a feathery wagging tail, and positioned himself at Coffin’s feet ready for another walk.
‘Oh Paul, I may be away from the office for about two days, but I will get back sooner if I can. You can always get me on my mobile … And I will phone you as and when.’
Paul Masters was too discreet to ask any questions, but having copied the files for Coffin could make a guess what it was about.
He also had his own private theory: he ge
ts fidgetty when She is away.
‘I’ll see you get to know everything important, sir.’
‘And nothing that is not.’
Goes without saying. But he did not say it aloud, contented himself with his polite, enigmatic smile (Go on smiling like that, his wife had said, in that tart voice that occasionally made him feel like straying, and they will think you are hiding the secret of the Third Man, or was it Fourth and Fifth) and went away. He knew his smile, which he had worked upon before perfecting it, was a good, workable professional tool which would see him through many a crisis.
‘And you can wipe that smile off your face,’ said Coffin, as the door closed behind Masters. ‘I’m getting fed up with it.’ He too had watched its progress during the last few months.
He gathered up his papers, put Augustus on the leash, then walked homewards at such a pace that Augustus began to lag behind, pointing out that he was a peke with little legs, not a bloody Great Dane.
Back at his home in St Luke’s, he fed the dog, and considered making himself a meal. He was a passable cook if the frying pan and the grill were used. Then he stopped, changed into something more casual than his dark working suit (Makes you look like a coroner’s favourite pathologist, Stella had said once, which had rankled) and prepared to go to Max’s restaurant. Not the one in the theatre, but the bigger and grander one round the corner. Max, as chef and proprietor, had started small and was getting bigger every day.
He went down his winding staircase with Augustus following him at every step. He manoeuvred himself to the door before shutting in a protesting peke face.
‘Don’t go on like that, Gus, or I will buy you a cat to keep you company.’
In Max’s newly redecorated restaurant, the proprietor stood in a welcoming way at the door. Max had got plumper and greyer and more prosperous in the years since he had set up; over these same years, his family had shrunk, then grown again. The daughter they called the Beauty Daughter had married and gone away, then another daughter had departed, leaving numbers seriously low, but now both girls were back without husbands but with several offspring.
Max approached Coffin with a sympathetic smile. He knew that Stella was away, everyone knew, and he let Coffin see that he understood loneliness. Not that he suffered much from it himself, especially at the moment with four grandchildren taking up what felt like unofficial residence, but still … a man could imagine.
He led Coffin to a table nicely placed near the window. ‘Miss Pinero not back yet?’ he said, as he handed Coffin the menu.
As if you didn’t know. Coffin muttered inside, as he took the menu. He pretended to study it, but he always ate the same thing here: that which Max recommended – it was wisest.
‘The brill is very good tonight.’
‘Right, brill it is.’ Coffin closed the menu. ‘Salad with it, please, and claret to drink.’
Max looked sad at the choice of claret with brill, an expensive Montrachet would have been better, but he sped away to serve the fish.
‘The chef has poached it with a little basil,’ he confided as he offered it to the Chief Commander.
Coffin ate the brill, thinking wistfully of the days when fish was fried and served with chips. You could still get such meals in the right places, but not where the Maxes of this world ruled the menu. He wondered what Stella was eating in Los Angeles, or if she was eating at all, since she might now be under the surgeon’s knife. She had refused to let him know when the operation was to take place because she didn’t want him to worry.
Strange idea of worry she must have, he decided, since I am worrying about her all the time. Not the nose, Stella, he said again over a mouthful of salad, nor the mouth: I love both of them.
As he ate, he mulled over the two big problems on his mind: the pharmaceutical affair which Ed Saxon had delivered to him, and the missing boys. Since one had been found dead, he had to assume the others also were.
What was the list
Charles Rick, missing since mid-May, the second boy to go and not yet found.
Dick Neville, a fortnight earlier, he was the first, and he went the first week in May. May Day, in fact. Was that important?
Archie Chinner, the last week in June, the last to go and the first to be found.
Matthew Baker, last week in May. A month before the next boy went. Was that important?
Who knows, he thought to himself, with some anger. You never know until it is too late.
Across the room he could see a table of the cast of the play now in rehearsal at the Stella Pinero Theatre in the St Luke’s complex of the theatres. This was the main theatre, created out of the old church, but in addition there was now the much smaller Experimental Theatre and the Theatre Workshop. The last two theatres received grants from the local university in return for allowing its drama department to use both theatres.
He knew from Stella that the play under rehearsal was one of Pinter’s: The Homecoming. She had had it in mind for a long while, but had handed the production over to a friend, Alec Macgregor, always known as Mac. Mac was at the table too, and waved to Coffin, whom he had got to know well over the years. He was a tall, slim man with a mop of grey hair and bright, dark eyes. A fond parent had left him a pleasant fortune, so it was likely that he was paying for the dinner, and not the cast who probably could not have afforded it, since Max’s prices had risen with his success. Coffin knew that Stella was not a lavish payer, although Equity rules did not allow too much stinginess.
As he waved back, he saw that Mac was getting up and coming over to him.
‘How are things going? Heard from Stella since you got back?’
‘She rang up and I spoke to her yesterday.’ He thought it was yesterday, with all the pressures on him events began to run together. He was beginning to worry about his memory. Could you get Alzheimer’s through stress? No, it was congenital, wasn’t it, and the one thing he knew about his mother was that she was both long-lived and articulate. About his father he knew much less, and that was down to his mother too, since she had never been quite definite about who his father was. Give birth and move on, had been the name of her game. ‘Stella’s enjoying herself, going to the theatre every night.’ That was more or less true. ‘How are you and the production?’
‘That’s what I wanted to say and what you must tell Stella when you next speak with her – she was a bit vague about her movements to me. I think we are going to make a good thing of this production. I had my doubts, I must admit, at first.’ He fixed Coffin with a intent brown gaze. ‘It’s a play that needs a middle-aged cast, it’s about the angst of ageing … or that’s one of the things it’s about; you can’t pin things down with Pinter, the play makes itself, don’t you agree?’
Coffin bowed his head but said nothing.
‘And this is such a very young cast, all under thirty, but they are going great guns.’ Mac had had a spell in the navy and on occasion it showed. ‘Such a joy.’
‘She will be pleased; I expect her back before you get on stage, so she will see for herself.’ No doubt wearing dark spectacles.
‘Give her my love.’
‘I will do.’ The love was quite platonic and no threat to Coffin. Mac had a beloved house guest of his own, and although the name and character might change, the sex never did. But he was reputed to have the kindest heart in the business and any lost kitten or stray dog could find a home with him.
‘Must get back to my young party, or they will be ordering more champagne, and it’s my treat.’ But he said it with a cheerful laugh. ‘We’re celebrating. They don’t know it, but I do. See that lad at the end of the table? The one with that crest of yellow hair? He’s the love of my life, I never thought to find one, but there he is, trying to act a rough old man of fifty, bless him.’
Coffin could almost hear Stella’s reproving voice: ‘Another love of your life, Mac, how many does that make?’ But he said nothing, just smiled.
‘It’s to be hoped he loves cats, for I am rather we
ll provided with them at the moment: six, my dear, and a pregnant tabby.’
‘Isn’t it more important he should love you?’
‘No, just to look at a creature like that is enough, or sometimes enough. I don’t bully them.’ And he gave his wide, generous smile as he turned away.
You really are a nice man, thought Coffin, and he shook his head. Kind, but reckless, Stella had said.
Max was advancing with his coffee, together with a sorbet which he had not ordered and did not want but would be obliged to eat under Max’s eyes.
Max planted the coffee pot and the sorbet down in front of Coffin and stood back, watching. ‘A lemon sorbet, very refreshing …’ He hesitated, then said: ‘Sir … ?’
Coffin looked up from his sorbet, at once alert. ‘Yes, Max?’
‘Of course, we are all anxious about the disappearances of the four boys, fearful, I might say, sir, in my case, since my two grandsons are here now. One of them goes to the school, the junior part, he is still a little boy, eight, nearly nine, but a clever boy, with lots of older friends … a good sign, that … we keep an eye on him.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
Max hesitated, while Coffin wondered what was coming.
‘My grandson, Louie, told his mother that he saw one of the boys, Dick Neville – he knew him, they live near to each other in East Hythe – he saw Dick walking away with a man the day he disappeared.’
‘Has he told anyone of this?’
Max shook his head. ‘Only his mother, who told me.’
Coffin tried to remember what he had learnt of the sequence of events; Dick Neville had been the first boy to go missing, in early May, two months ago. May Day, with people on holiday.
‘When did your grandson tell his mother about this?’
‘Only this week.’
Coffin sat considering what he had heard. The boy must be questioned, of course.
‘He is not a liar,’ said Max heavily. ‘He knows to speak the truth. And he is clever.’
‘Why has he been so slow?’
Max raised his shoulders in an expressive shrug and waved his hands. ‘He is not a liar, but he is only a little boy … nothing was discussed in front of him at home, perhaps he did not think it mattered what he saw.’
A Grave Coffin Page 6
