Coffin Knows the Answer (17 page)

Authors: Gwendoline Butler

BOOK: Coffin Knows the Answer

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âI'm glad because I'd been wondering if Amy's murder was because she knew Victor. He was in her class.' Her big blue
eyes studied them. âSee what I mean.' She patted the dog's head so that he rolled round to look her in the face.

âWas he a boy you taught too?'

âI'm not a teacher â¦ I work in the office. She was Amy, Amabel really but she preferred it short. I'm Deborah.'

Coffin knew where he had to go.

âDeborah, may we take a look at Amy's room?'

The girl looked away, then down at her hands.

âWe won't disturb anything.'

She still said nothing. Coffin had the feeling that unless he kept the conversation going she would disappear.

âYou lived together, didn't you, Deborah? You shared the house?'

Deborah nodded. Still wordlessly.

âI promise you we will be careful â¦ we won't disturb anything. Come with us to watch.'

He had got through at last.

âYou don't understand â¦ I haven't been in her room since she died. I couldn't.' Phoebe said something under breath. âNo, truly â¦ I took the two detectives to the door when they came but I stood outside, I didn't go in â¦ I think they photographed everything â¦ some things they took away â¦ I was told what, but I tried not to listen. When they went, I locked the door and I haven't been back. I suppose it seems mad to you.'

âNo, not mad,' Coffin protested gently. He looked at Phoebe.

âIt was sensible,' she said at once. âI might have done the same myself. Do you feel up to going in now?'

Deborah took several deep breaths as she hugged the dog to her, then she nodded. âI'll unlock the door â¦ let you in.'

âThank you. If you would.' In fact, Coffin had a key, handed to him by the original investigating team. Just as well that Deborah did not know how much of the house's equipment was stowed away in the box in the Record Room, neatly labelled and ready to be used if necessary. In a neat
package were the underclothes that Amy had had on when she was killed. He wondered how Deborah would feel if she knew.

The young woman drew the room key from her pocket. âI was meaning to open up tonight â¦' she said in a matter of fact way.

âGood for you.'

It was a pretty house with light flowered curtains at the windows to match the white paint and soft blue walls that ran up the staircase.

âIt was time.' He felt she was keeping her tone deliberately dry. âI might not have managed it â¦ I saw her when she was dead. I had to identify her.'

Phoebe put her arm round the girl's shoulders.

âBetter me than anyone else,' said Deborah.

They had arrived at the door at the top of the staircase. Deborah put in the key, slowly turned it, then pushed at the door.

âIt smells in here,' she said.

It did. Any room shut up for more than the odd day takes on its own smells. Here it was a mixture of cosmetics, sweet and a bit sickly and feminine scents coming from the clothes flung here and there on the bed and chairs.

âNothing an open window won't clear,' said Coffin cheerfully. He did not offer to open the window. It was Amy's room still, her presence was strong. âDo you want to go? I promise you that we will take care.'

âNo, I must stay.' I am the protector, her tone said.

Coffin nodded; he accepted this.

The room was tidy in a casual kind of way as if the owner expected to be back to put things in greater order. The bed was made but a dressing gown of pink silk with a matching nightdress lay across the bed ready to be put away.

Coffin heard Deborah draw in her breath as she looked but she did not move forward. Just stood still.

âOK?' queried Phoebe.

Deborah nodded slowly, three times as if in exorcism of what she saw.

On the bed table a line of books stood, they were a catholic collection: Rankin, Reginald Hill, Armistead Maupin, and a clearly much loved and often read copy of
Bleak House.

âAlmost his best book, I've always thought,' said Coffin, looking at the Dickens.

âOh, do you think so?' She went over to touch the books with a gentle forefinger.

âFor my taste, yes.'

âBetter than
David Copperfield
? Amy always said so.'

âI agree.'

For her part, Phoebe was looking at the dressing table on which were tubs of cream for the face, eye make up, lipstick â¦ famous names: Dior, Lancome, Arden. A spray of scent caught her eye:
l'Heure Bleu,
by Guerlain.

âDamn it,' Phoebe said to herself. âI would have liked this woman, we used the same scent.' She couldn't afford it very often, but when she could, then it was what she bought.

âI like the Guerlain.' she said aloud.

Deborah laughed for the first time. âSomething I didn't agree with Amy on; I'm a flowers girl. Lavender or rose. Simple, eh?' Her voice was stronger. She went over to the window which she threw open.âAmy wouldn't have wanted the window closed forever. And I think I ought to do a bit of dusting.'

âLooks all right to me,' said Phoebe. I'm starting to sound more and more like Les Henderson with his soothing remarks, she told herself.

In fact, the room was dusty, not really dirty, but it looked neglected. And why not? The woman who had slept in this room was dead. Murdered, one of a series of victims.

She knew well what her part was at this moment: it was to keep Deborah diverted from Coffin. He would also, of course, want her intelligent observations on the room, the house and Deborah to add to his own.

What else he was looking for, she did not know.

Then she heard the Chief Commander give a surprised exclamation. âStella, that's Stella.'

Behind the row of books on the bed table, propped up against the wall was a photograph. Unframed but placed so that Amy lying in bed could see it.

It was certainly Stella. A theatrical photograph, taken, as Phoebe remembered, when she was acting in a Coward play. She looked lovely. And genuine. Although it was a piece of theatrical publicity for Stella dressed for the part in a wisp of satin and pearls, she looked genuine and honest and free.

A marvellous way to look even if you are acting, thought Phoebe.

âOh yes,' said Deborah, âthat's Miss Pinero. Amy was such a great admirer of hers. She went to see every play she was in that she could get to. And of course, the theatre here was a great treat to her â¦ I'd forgotten she had that photograph.' She picked it up. âGoodness, it's lovely, isn't it?'

Coffin agreed fondly it was a beautiful picture. Also, he remembered but did not mention what Stella had said at the time. âHe was a lovely man, don't think I'm saying otherwise, but he said to keep my head as the light was better for me that way â¦ I knew what that meant - sagging, wrinkles â¦' Coffin had protested that she had no wrinkles and did not sag. Anywhere. But Stella had burned on, temper hot: âAnd he said he'd loved me since he was at school. School! You can imagine how old that made me feel. I'm not sure he didn't say nursery school.' Coffin had muttered something soothing. âWell, possibly not nursery school but school. But he did turn in a lovely photograph.'

Deborah held the photograph to her. âI must look after this.' She smiled at Coffin. âI know she is really Lady Coffin but to me, and to Amy, she's Stella Pinero.'

âThank you,' said Coffin humbly. âDo you know, she is to me too.'

They did not stay long after that. Deborah seemed glad to see them go. But she was polite.

âTell me if there is anything I can do, I want to help any way I can â¦ I told the other nice young woman who came so. She understood â¦ I loved my sister.'

âOf course you did.' Coffin hesitated: âDid Amy â¦?'

âYes,' said Deborah. âI know what you're going to ask me, I've already been asked by your officers, twice at least. Yes, she did have a boyfriend, in fact more than one, but nothing special â¦ I gave Superintendent Miller their names.'

Both the Chief Commander and Phoebe had read the names with addresses and little character assessments. Nothing much, these reports. Deborah was just putting a little flesh on the bare bones.

Coffin was thoughtful and Phoebe quiet as they left the house. The street outside was quiet too. She wanted to say something but she waited until they were in the car.

âDid you get anything that helped?' she asked eventually. âDid you get what you wanted?'

âI might have done, I'm still thinking about it.'

So I was just padding, thought Phoebe. Didn't matter whether I was there or not. Right, she thought, well, I'm going to give him a bloody big shock.

She reached into her pocket. âYou saw the photograph of Stella that was on the bed table.'

âGo on, what are you leading up to, Phoebe?'

âBut you didn't see this one. Neither did Deborah. It was under the pillow. I just saw the edge, I saw it sticking out. I don't think the bed has been touched since Amy rushed out that last morning.' Phoebe handed over what she had to Coffin. âDeborah didn't see me and I thought you 'd rather she didn't see this.'

Coffin took it. âGood Lord,' he said.

Chapter 16

âGood Lord,' said Coffin again. He was looking down at what she had given him. âGet in the car.'

âShall I drive, sir?'

âYes, better maybe.' He moved from behind the wheel. âJust to the end of the road. Find somewhere quiet then stop. I want to think.' He was looking at a photograph of himself. He couldn't place where he was, but he must have been leaving a meeting. A snapshot really, but taken by whom?

Amy Buckly herself, perhaps. One thing he did know was that he had had no idea it was being taken. This picture, unlike Stella's, which was a posed, studio photograph, was a stolen likeness.

âGood Lord,' he said again. âI'm repeating myself, I don't usually do that.'

âIt's shock.' Phoebe said.

âIt certainly is: you don't expect to see your own face looking at you when you are investigating a murder.'

âYou weren't surprised to see Stella.'

âShe's a public figure.'

âSo are you.' But she knew what the rub was.

âThis is not a professional photograph,' he said grimly.

Ah, there it was, thought Phoebe. And it was under the girl's pillow too.

âThe sister didn't see, and neither did Miller's investigation team.'

âIt's evidence, of a sort. Not to be moved.

âWell, sir. You are the chief officer of the Police Force investigating the murder, and I am one of the CID officers working on the case. So I reckon if anyone has a right to remove it, then we have.'

âIt must all be recorded, where we found it, when, the lot.' Then he added: âDamn it.' He was always uncomfortable
when evidence was overlooked. How could they have missed this?

âYou don't have to tell Stella.'

Coffin allowed himself a small laugh. âShe'll get to know. You know the Second City: breathe a bit of news in one end and it's coming out the other twice as loud by the end of the day.'

âSooner sometimes, âagreed Phoebe who had often played her own part in that happy game. âStella won't mind about her own photograph.'

âI shall tell her everything in the end.'

âOf course, you will.'

Phoebe had found a quiet spot near a small park. A large green lawnmower with a man sitting on the top was cutting the grass.

âHe's making a noise.' Coffin sounded grumpy.

âIt's called cutting the grass.' But she made the joke in a subterranean whisper. There had been times in their relationship when you could make jokes about the Chief Commander aloud but at the moment it behoved her to watch her mouth.

âWell, push on, it's Mary Rice's home next â¦ she died ten days after Amy. I wonder what won her that honour.'

âChance. Bad luck.'

Coffin looked at her soberly, as she negotiated a turn in the road away from the park; she seemed to know where she was going.

âChance?' Do you really think that? I am beginning to think that there was not much chance about the killings.

The second part of this statement Coffin suppressed inside himself. Without either side knowing it, he and Phoebe were conducting a silent dialogue.

âWell, the victims didn't know it was going to happen to them when they walked down that particular road at that particular time â¦ and the killer just took what was coming to him. That's what I mean by chance.'

âA very vivid exposition of it too, Phoebe. You are lucid. It's one of the things that makes you a good detective. Where are we, by the way, and where are we going?'

âTennyson Street, sir. That's the address.'

âAfter the poet, unless he was the local builder.'

âNo, round the corner is Dickens Road and Shakespeare Street next to that. It's a literary district.'

Tennyson Street was a terrace of late Victorian houses which had been badly bombed, then rebuilt so they were now no period at all, but they looked comfortable and well cared for.

âShe had a flat here, top floor, but she worked in inner London. I called here myself just after the killing.'

âI thought you knew the way.' Coffin was staring up at the plain faced brick house. âShe lived alone? Or so the notes said.'

Phoebe nodded. âMost of the time. The odd boyfriend. No one there when she died.'

âThere's someone there now. I saw a curtain move.'

Coffin rang the doorbell and a man toiled up from the basement. He recognised Phoebe and nodded. âThat poor girl's place? Right, you go on up. I won't offer to come, my chest is bad today.' He was breathing noisily. Behind him came a rangy terrier dog who studied them with aggressive eyes. âIt's all right, he doesn't bite.'

âI wouldn't count on it,' said Phoebe as they climbed the stairs. âHe looked keen for a nip.'

âOr even a big bite. Did you see his teeth? Kept well sharpened.'

There was one door at the top of the stairs, where a card said: Miss Rice. Please ring the bell.

They did not have to ring the bell. The door was opened for them by a sturdy lady wearing denim trousers and a long apron.

âThank you,' said Coffin.

âKnew you were on the way up. Fred rang from below to tell me. Security, you see, he looks after us.'

I don't know about Fred, thought Coffin, but I bet the dog could do a good job.

âHe knew who you were, of course, he wouldn't just send anyone up.'

âAnd you?' Coffin was polite.

âYou don't know me? I'm Mrs Rice, Mary's mother. I've come round here to tidy things up. You have to do that, don't you, when someone dies?' Her eyes filled with tears. âEspecially if they go so sharp and soon and unexpected as my poor girl did.'

âYes,' said Coffin gently.

They all went to the small sitting room which already looked empty. Clearly, Mrs Rice was a fast worker. Several large black plastic sacks showed where she had stowed objects away. Books and clothes seemed to be most of what was there.

âYour lot came in and took away everything they wanted,' she said to Coffin.

âOf course,' Coffin was soothing this time.

âGave me a list of what they took â¦ nothing much really, not that Mary had much, bless her, and she'd only been in this place a few months. I wanted her to stay with me but no, she wanted her own place. Of course, I knew why she wanted it, I don't live such a sheltered life that I didn't realise she liked to have a boyfriend around sometimes. So, did we in my day, but we mostly did it in the old car or in the shed behind the gas works. Now they want a bed and breakfast after these days and good luck to them, I say, and why not?'

It was quite a speech.

While Coffin was listening, Phoebe had been walking round the room, trying to assess what she saw.

Not much, was the answer.

She couldn't get much of an impression of the sort of person that Mary had been but that might be because Mrs Rice's cleaning and effacing hand had already passed over the room.

Liked a bit of sex, according to her mum, but was not looking for a long term partner, enjoyed the company of her friends, and was keen on her work. Good at it, Phoebe judged, since she could not see how you could enjoy working on computers if you were not good at it. She had a small portable and a printer on a desk in the corner of the room.

No pictures of the boyfriends, so either Mary had not collected pictures of past lovers or the police teams had taken them away.

Mrs Rice did not seem to be the type to edit them away: a cleaner, yes, a censor, no. In fact, there had been a gleam in her eye that suggested otherwise.

âIt's a bit bare, I know, but I've cleared out a lot of the clutter. Mary did like her odds and ends. I haven't thrown them away, of course.' She looked at the plastic sack, âbut I've put them away. Till later.'

âI understand,' said Phoebe. âLater, you might really want to look over the things that you've packed away.'

Mrs Rice nodded. âSuperintendent Miller understood too when he came.'

âDid he? When was that?'

âDay before last. Just a sympathy call.'

On the wall was a theatrical poster, large, old and yellowing. It advertised a pantomime. A tiny girl, dressed as a fairy, was shown dancing, dancing, dancing.

Lorry Love.

âThat was her,' said Mrs Rice. âMary was Lorry Love.'

Another poster, more recent, was close to it.

âShe looked a dear,' said Phoebe.

âYes,' said Coffin. âAnd she had talent too, I remember.'

âHer dancing career didn't last once she got bigger â¦ too tall, you see. After about ten, no one wanted her. She minded a bit at first, but she got used to it. Did other things. Clever girl.'

âA shame,' said Coffin.

âShe never got a big part, often in work though,' said
her mother, her voice proud, âYou know she was once in a pantomime as a child with Stella Pinero.'

Coffin hadn't known this, nor could he visualise his Stella as either Cinderella or the Fairy Godmother. She might have made a splendid Wicked Fairy, though.

They were granted a tour of the apartment which revealed something of the young woman who had lived there: she kept it tidy, she was her mother's daughter after all, she had some possessions but not many to judge by the few that her mother had assembled, her real life was lived elsewhere.

âNo pictures of the men she knew.'

âI expect her mother cleared them away,' said Phoebe.

âNo, I don't think so, she did it herself. Tidied each one away when his time was up.'

âCold.'

âNo, just someone who knew how to run her life.'

âWhile she had one,' Phoebe said, with some bitterness.

Mrs Rice appeared to ask if they would like a cup of tea. âGot the kettle on the boil. You both look as though you could do with something. Not a very jolly business, what you've got to do.'

âNo, it isn't,' agreed Coffin. âYes, thanks for the offer. We'd like it, wouldn't we, Phoebe?'

Surprised, Phoebe agreed they would.

âNot Mary's tea or sugar,' said Mrs Rice, âjust some of me own I brought round. Wouldn't use Mary's, wouldn't seem right somehow. Call me fanciful, but that's how I feel.'

âI know how you feel.'

She wasn't sure if she did, but it seemed the right thing to say.

âI wish I had some idea who killed the girls â¦ I'd tell you if I did.'

âI know you would. If anything comes to you that might be helpful let me know.'

âShe makes a good cup of tea,' said Phoebe, as they left. âI
didn't know what to make of her quite. I thinks she knows more about her daughter's life than she lets on, protecting her, I suppose.'

âBit late for that. But you might ask her. Call again and see what you can get out of her,' suggested Coffin.

âOK, I will. If I can. She might be covering up for her daughter. It's what mothers do.'

âSome mothers,' said Coffin, thinking of his own mother and her disappearing act. âActually, go back in now and see if she will talk to you. I think I alarm her.'

âWhat? More than me?'

âI think so. I'll sit in the car and wait.'

Phoebe was longer than Coffin had expected. When she got back she quietly tucked herself in the driving seat and drove off without saying a word.

Then she said: âShe thinks her daughter may have known the serial killer.'

âWhy?'

âApparently Mary said something like âOh it's him,' when they were talking about the serial killer one day.'

âIs that all? she didn't give a name or a clue as to who she was talking about?'

âNo.'

âYou'd think her mother would have asked for a bit more detail.'

âShe also thought he had help. She said that much.'

âDamn lot of use that is to us.'

âShe didn't know her daughter was going to be killed. But we agree, don't we? About the helper?'

âPossibly,' said Coffin, who did not feel like agreeing with anything until he had spoken with all the forensic and scientific experts to see what they had to say. Not that he would necessarily agree with them either.

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