‘You think these men are killers?’
‘Not perhaps themselves, but there are contract killers …’
Coffin was silent while he thought about it. No doubt Larry Davenport had contract killers on his list. But contract killers who went to the trouble of depositing the trunk and limbs in a South London park seemed unlikely, he thought. Something more personal there.
‘Harry Seton was killed.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Does the name Pennyfeather mean anything to you? Do you know him?’
‘Never heard of him.’
Coffin nodded, wondering if this was true. He would go on asking.
Without prompting – perhaps, thought the sceptical Coffin, to move the subject away from Pennyfeather – Tim Kelso explained what they did: when a drug was reported fake or a copy, either by a suspicious doctor or patient, then Tim and Leonie went out to trace the source.
‘Like looking for a fish in the sea … but you get to know the signs. It’s low-key work, but we are supposed to be invisible more or less. It may sound, as if this drug business is a cottage industry but it is not, not now. There is a good brain behind organizing drugs and outlets. It makes money. We are meant to go round and clear up local manufacturing units and carriers, but others spring up.’
He looked at Coffin, his face more serious than ever. ‘That’s why Harry Seton was sent out: someone knew what we are doing almost as soon as we know ourself.’
‘And you think Harry found out who this was?’
‘We all think that, and now you have arrived to find out what Harry knew. Well, good luck to you, sir.’
For the first time, like a soldier in battle, but remembering to strike the right note, he acknowledged Coffin’s rank.
Coffin felt that he was the beast with two heads: he was to find the traitor in the camp, but, because one thing led to another, it might be that he would be helping to find Harry Seton’s killer.
He was studying Tim Kelso for clues, to see if it was him. Coffin did not believe that faces necessarily told you much, he had met too many good liars in his time to believe in frank faces. Even an expressionless one was not a sign of guilt, although it could be irritating.
Tim Kelso’s face was serious and tired. But he did not seem anxious, his hands were still, nor did his feet fidget.
‘Harry came round here, went through everything, probably checked my bank account and Leonie’s too, I expect. I have an overdraft, if that is of interest. I don’t know about Leonie, you will have to ask her.’
‘I will do.’
‘I drive an old car, have been in the red for years and probably always will be. I don’t believe I would bother with that if I was coining in dirty money.’
‘You could have other accounts.’
‘Harry could not find one, I am sure he looked. I never go to Switzerland, by the way, and I last went to Jersey when I was ten.’
‘And the name H. Pennyfeather means nothing to you?’
‘You asked that just now, and I answered, never heard it before. Doesn’t sound real.’
Coffin had thought the same himself. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ But he was suddenly irritated. ‘Shut up and listen: I want all the help I can get; if you have any to give let me know, otherwise keep quiet.’
Tim Kelso was silent for a minute, then he said: ‘Well, H. Pennyfeather doesn’t mean anything to me – Harry asked me the same question. So it did to him … I liked old Harry, I don’t like what happened to him.’
‘I am not primarily concerned with his death. That’s for the Met.’
‘I know: Larry Davenport. I know him. I believe he knows the Second City, sir.’
‘Yes.’ And the Second City might be deeply involved in this drug racket. Harry Seton must have thought so and made a report to that effect, but not to Ed Saxon.
Does that mean I have to put Ed Saxon high on the list of suspects? If so, no wonder he was uneasy.
You could go mad doing this job, he told himself. Perhaps Harry Seton had gone mad.
He showed Tim Kelso his copy of Harry’s map of Coventry with the ringed area. ‘Mean anything to you?’
‘Like Pennyfeather, you mean?’ But he bent his head over it. ‘I think the circle links up all the chemist shops in Coventry which were selling suspect drugs on the last clear-up we did. They were home-made jobs. Brand name ANTAC, drug was hantidine. They contained substantial impurities. We cleared them all up, and the chemists concerned got into such trouble as we could hand out.’
Tim was quite good and informative when he wanted to be.
‘But Leonie knows more about this than I do, she went round the shops locating those that had the drug.’
‘Where did they get them from?’
‘Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? They weren’t too keen to answer that; again, Leonie can tell you more, but there seemed to be a stall in Coventry marketplace, if you can believe it. Not there now, of course, moved on. Because no doubt other drugs will pop up. But see Leonie Thrupp.’
‘And where is she?’
‘Down the corridor. Next door. You’re lucky we are both in, and that is because it is what you might call a quiet time. If we get word of another outbreak like the false ANTAC then we are out shopping.’
Coffin got up. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Just us, and the pharmacist who analyses the suspect drugs … he works in the Hale Road Hospital of St John, you can find him there.’
‘Right. Let me have copies of all your records, please.’
Kelso looked thoughtful, like all policemen, he hated handing over his records. But he turned to a shelf behind him and handed over a thick yellow envelope. ‘Here you are.’ Being a careful man, he had his own copies.
‘Thank you.’
At the door. Coffin paused: ‘And Margaret Grayle, do you know her?’
‘She’s Oxford. Know the name. That all?’
‘For the moment,’ said Coffin.
Leonie Thrupp had a question mark by her name, remember that fact.
She wasn’t in her room. But presently she appeared down the corridor from the staircase direction. She was no beauty, but trim of figure, and well dressed in a neat suit.
‘You looking for me? You can’t get in, the door’s locked. I was just down in the road because I heard a dog whining so I went to see. Shut in a car, poor brute.’
‘Did he stop whining when he saw you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I spoke to him and rapped on the window and he wagged his tail.’
‘He’s my dog, he likes company.’ Coffin felt an explanation was demanded: Augustus was, after all, not a poor brute. ‘I didn’t want to bring him, but he stowed away when I wasn’t looking.’
‘Come in, sir. I imagine you want to talk, to ask questions. We knew you were coming, supposed to be secret but things never are.’
She led the way into her room, which was smaller and less tidy than her boss’s. It also smelt of cigarette smoke, although there was a no-smoking notice on the wall. So Coffin guessed it was not only charity to dogs that had taken her to the street but the need for nicotine. Come to think of it, the smell of cigarettes was coming from her rather than the room.
‘Funny thing, these operations are usually a cottage-industry business, but not now.’ So Tim Kelso had said, thought Coffin, they seemed anxious to make it clear to him. He watched her face as she went on. ‘The place can be flooded with cheap, parallel fake drugs, groomed according to season. I won’t swear he’s got a factory somewhere, but I think he must have … Or she,’ Leonie added thoughtfully.
‘You think it might be a woman?’
‘Women can make things,’ she said sharply. ‘Pretty good chemists, some of them.’
‘I am prepared to accept a woman,’ said Coffin gravely.
Leonie looked at him, then laughed. ‘I’m a pig, but you get like that in this business. Women are not really popular and certainly not mates. They miss all the locker-roo
m larks, you see. Don’t care for them, in fact. Now your wife is an actress, I happen to know.’
‘Plenty of people know.’
‘Ah-ha, now you’re defending her. Yes, I admit I said that just to see how you reacted. She’s famous, admired, and I think she’s marvellous, but I bet you wish she was at home more cooking your supper. Isn’t that what you think?’
The absence at the moment of the much-missed Stella almost silenced Coffin, but not quite.
It’s like being in a robbers’ stronghold here, he thought – no, like a commando HQ, they live by their own rules. Probably have to.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think like that. Tell me, why do you think that Harry Seton put a question mark by your name in his notes?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t see me last time he came,’ she suggested.
‘He came more than once?’
‘Oh, he was trawling round. Didn’t Tim tell you?’
Coffin did not take up that gambit. ‘So he did not see you last time?’
‘Well, now I think back, I believe he did.’
‘Did you have a disagreement?’
‘Can’t remember what we talked about … we had a drink in a pub near the hospital because he was going on to talk to the pharmacist, but there was nothing to it.’
‘Go on, you might find you remember more.’
After a pause, Leonie said, ‘I can hear your dog whining again.’
‘He can wait. So can I, while you think about that question mark.’
‘I wouldn’t necessarily know, would I?’ She moved restlessly in her chair. In a child you would have called it fidgeting.
‘Go on thinking.’
She shrugged. ‘Just a thought …’
‘Let’s have it.’
‘He seemed worried that I had bought a new car.’
‘Oh.’ Getting information out of Leonie was like peeling an onion, the effort made you cry. He did not cry. ‘What sort of car?’
‘Just a second-hand car from my brother.’
An old Ford, a little Metro? ‘What sort?’
‘An old Porsche, my brother was getting rid of it.’
‘How old?’
Reluctantly, she said: ‘Couple of years.’
‘Are you surprised you earned a question mark?’
‘No.’
With genuine interest, Coffin asked: ‘What does your brother do?’
‘He’s an estate agent.’
‘He must be a successful one.’
‘It’s rich country round here, and there are still big estates. Yes, he is successful. And if you are dealing with successful people then you have to look successful yourself.’
‘Hence the Porsche. So what did he upgrade to? A Bentley?’
Even through the window, Augustus’s wails could be heard. Coffin went to the window and waved. Augustus stopped at once. Company was on the way.
‘So being the third owner of a Porsche, because my brother didn’t buy it new, it had been in an accident too, so it’s a repair job, puts me in as prime suspect, does it?’ said Leonie.
‘Thanks for helping me.’ Coffin made for the door. ‘Am I far away from the hospital with the obliging pharmacist?’
‘He’s a decent sort, so don’t go suspecting him, and if it’s any comfort to you, he always looks dead broke.’
Looks are deceptive, Coffin thought, you don’t look like a Porsche owner. Not even a second-hand Porsche owner.
‘Out of the city centre, back towards the motorway and you will see the hospital. There are signs.’
‘Thank you. By the way, where is your brother’s office?’
‘Warwick.’ As Coffin got to the door, she added deliberately: ‘And he has an office in Oxford too.’
‘Not called H. Pennyfeather, is he?’
‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘And before you ask again, I do not know anyone called Pennyfeather … What is this with you and Harry Seton? He asked the same question.’
She closed the door firmly behind him.
Coffin got in his car, where Augustus at once climbed on to his lap. ‘She’s a powerful lady, Gus, and I see why she got a question mark from Harry Seton. She gets one from me.’ He put the dog on the seat beside him, then started the car. ‘What do you make of her, Gus? And Kelso?’
He didn’t know what to make of them himself, but he got the scent of group loyalty.
He sat there thinking and he remembered what Tim Kelso had said, or nearly said: It started as a small operation, we were to go in, clear things up and get out, but it hasn’t worked out like that.
It really was like a war: you chose a group of people for a particular task, limited, you hoped. There were difficulties and the group were welded together by loyalty. Before you knew it, you had a private army.
The Hospital of St John was easily located on the main road out towards the motorway, just as Leonie had told him. Nor was it difficult to locate Dr James Rexan in his laboratory. Although as he pointed out, Coffin was lucky to find him there.
‘I was just leaving. I have a meeting in London tonight.’
‘Just a few questions.’
‘Ask away,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but make it quick because I am late already.’ He was a tall, muscular young man with a crop of fair hair.
He answered Coffin’s questions easily and even fluently. ‘My part is simple. I am just a journeyman doing the analysis of suspect drugs. Samples come in to me and I deliver a report. Sometimes the counterfeit medicines are easily identifiable: if tablets, they look wrong; if powder or liquid, then the powder is too coarse or too fine and the liquid the wrong colour. Mostly though, and increasingly so as the counterfeiters get cleverer, I have to do a complete analysis.’
‘Do you have much to do with Tim Kelso and Leonie Thrupp?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I deliver the reports but not by hand, if very confidential then I send them by messenger, otherwise I usually fax them together with any great thoughts I might have that seem useful … that’s not often, they are the detectives, it’s their job to go out and find where the stuff is coming from. Also who makes it,’ he added wryly. ‘Must be a good chemist as well as good at business. There’s money there, has to be.’
‘I think so too.’
‘And don’t look at me like that, I’ve never felt tempted. I like to be on the legal side of things.’ He grinned at Coffin. ‘Answering the question you haven’t asked.’ He had started shovelling papers into his briefcase, battered, as seemed to be the case with most of his possessions from tweed jacket to brown shoes. ‘We all knew what Seton was doing up here: looking for the snake making money.’
Still smiling, he said: ‘Sorry to be in a hurry, but I must be off. London calls.’
‘I’m going that way myself.’
‘You can follow me if you like: you ask me questions on your mobile, and I will answer on mine.’
‘Doesn’t sound a safe way to drive down the motorway.’
‘Who said it was?’ He led the way out, his interview finished, whatever Coffin had planned.
Hadn’t planned anything, Coffin thought as he followed the tall figure out to the hospital car park. Just trying to see what turned up.
Dr Rexan’s car was as well used as the rest of his possessions. ‘But it goes,’ he said, watching Coffin’s eyes. ‘Look, I had better explain something: my meeting in London is with a doctor at St Thomas’s. My child is in there, she has cancer. My wife was killed in a car accident. I was not driving. And what I want to say is: Yes, I could do with money, everything I have goes to and for Chrissy, but if you have a child as sick as that, somehow you want to stay legal. I can’t explain, but I do.’ He got in his car. ‘And if you want to know if anyone offered me money, then the answer is, No.’ He started the car. ‘But if I wanted it, I would know how to get it.’
Coffin opened his mouth to speak, but the car was already on the move: ‘I shall want to speak to you about that statement.’
‘Sure … but n
ot now.’ A wave of the hand and he was gone.
Coffin walked over to his own car, and got in beside Augustus. ‘I am baffled but not beaten, Gus … he is one on his own, that young man.’
He drove out of the car park and headed south. No sight anywhere of the red car which might or might not be going to London. You couldn’t believe all you were told.
But whatever that young man is, Coffin said to the sleeping dog which he was letting lie, he is not a member of the local commandos.
As he drove, he tried to assess what he got out of this trip to Coventry. Not too much, except the strong conviction that Tim Kelso and Leonie Thrupp might not like each other very much, probably did not, but they fought on the same side. Why did he keep thinking in terms of a war?
He didn’t see himself coming in as a crusader.
Then, as he drove further south, inevitably the Second City and its problems came to the forefront.
First and most painful were the murdered boys. Nothing could be more important than to find the killer. He wondered how. Inspector Devlin was getting on.
It was not the only problem of the Second City force: there was an important fraud case, involving mortgages and borrowed money, just coming to the boil, and, in addition, the Home Secretary had just announced his intention of visiting the Chief Commander, taking lunch with him, and viewing the Second City. That had to bode ill.
His mind summoned up a picture of the Home Secretary’s well-known face. They had met once and liked each other, or so Coffin thought. There was humour in those dark-brown eyes … if a politician could afford humour, but he doubted if the man had invited himself to lunch just to share a joke.
Could it have anything to do with this drug scam? Surely not. Pharmaceuticals were important, but not that important.
The face of the politician faded, and instead he found himself remembering the dead boys, and he was once again looking in their grave.
Back in the Second City, Inspector Paddy Devlin was consulting anxiously with Chief Superintendent Archie Young. The chief superintendent had been something of a patron to her as she climbed the professional ladder. She knew also that he was a friend of the Chief Commander.
‘We will have to tell him,’ she said. ‘Shall I telephone now? Get him on his mobile?’
A Grave Coffin Page 8
