Cold Coffin (20 page)

‘Nothing personal, you mean?' Sheila was sceptical.

‘Nothing personal,' said Letty dolefully.

‘God, I hope not,' said Sheila.

Natasha had been glad to escape from the Walkers' party. As she left the house she had sighted another former Walker, pushing her pram, but not in the direction of Letty's home. An ex-Walker, then.

Innocent of us, really, to think that once we'd had the babies we'd be able to keep up the same comradeship, she thought. Not that I ever got the chance to find out, she added to herself with a shrug.

She gave Maisie (it was Maisie?) a wave and hurried on. Trailing along with her, like one of those fashionable pashminas that every one was wearing a summer ago, came misery. It hung from her shoulders, sagged near her waist, then went off to drape her feet. Misery made breathing and walking difficult.

In the distance she could see the roof of the hospital building where Dr Murray's body had been found, certified dead, and then investigated in the post-mortem.

Oh coz, how could you be a victim? You didn't act like a victim, you didn't talk like a victim. Added to which, she added with a bitter humour that surprised her, you paid a large part of my wages.

A mixture of wrath and repentence rose in her throat so that she had to lean towards the gutter to be sick.

‘Drunken whore,' said an old man, as he hobbled past.

‘Fuck yourself,' said Nat, lifting her head to glare at him. ‘No one else will.' But since she was still vomiting, if he heard it was no more than a mutter. He had a bony, red-skinned face with a large nose.

She straightened up. She felt better and realized that the sickness and the words had been a joint act of cleansing.

She passed the tube station and looked at it longingly. A trip to central London would be so refreshing, purging almost, but she must get back to her own household. In it she had two men in need of her support, one her own husband and the other the widower of Margaret Murray.

There was a big poster advertising Stella Pinero in her latest production at the St Luke's Theatre on the hoarding by the Spinnergate tube:
The Jasmine Summer
.

Lucky thing, thought Natty, she's got everything.

Mimsie Marker saw Natasha walk past. She knew who she was because she knew everyone of interest, which Natasha was at the moment, since her cousin's murder.

Stella Pinero had just bought a paper from Mimsie to read on the underground journey to London. She had disappeared down the escalator, even as Natasha passed by.

Mimsie frowned. One of her informants had told her something that would worry Stella if she knew. Perhaps she did know, but her informant had told her that not even the Chief Commander knew. ‘Buzzing around him like a lot of wasps,' the informant had said.

Stella Pinero also had her informants. It pays in show business to know all the gossip. This particular buzz had been passed to her by a girl who worked in the hair, wigs and makeup department at the theatre. It had not come directly but Edwina (christened Edna, but you don't stay with a name like that if you work in the theatre) had filtered the tale through Stella's secretary, a woman adept at passing on whatever she thought Stella ought to know. About this tale she had hesitated, since it was not theatre gossip although certainly doing the rounds.

‘Like wasps,' she said to Stella as she finished.

‘You can drive me to the station,' was all Stella said. ‘Never anywhere to park there.' But she muttered her thanks as she got on the escalator, well aware that the Eyes and Ears of the Second City in the shape of Mimsie Marker had observed her. Apologetically, she added, ‘I know, these murders are terrible; I was fond of Alice Jackson, and Amy too.'

‘Buzzing round,' she muttered resentfully as she went down and down, clinging on to the escalator rail: Her purpose in going to the other London, to Knightsbridge, was to discuss with the designer the costumes for her next project for millennium year:
The Widow of Windsor
.

‘A musical of all things. How have I got the courage?' thought Stella as she got out of the train, having changed lines twice. She could have taken a taxi but she was in a determinedly frugal mood. Since she was going to spend so much money on a show that might lose a great deal (and Coffin had raised his eyebrows sceptically when it was projected, which made Stella even more resolute for success), economy had to be practised elsewhere.

She cast a guilty look at her new Prada suit, but that was last week. From now on she would be very economical. The thing about good clothes, she affirmed, with the conviction of the true fashion addict, was that they Supported the Spirit, so they were never Money Wasted.

The designer, Edward Crowne, whom she was about to see, was a well-known couturier who had been chosen for his name and fame, and also because the real work would be done by his assistant, Emily Woodhouse, who was very talented.

After greeting Edward Crowne, Stella retired to another room to look at Emily's sketches.

‘Brilliant, Emily, I knew they would be.'

‘Come and have lunch with me, and we can talk.'

‘I would love to, Emily, but I must get back.'

‘I understand . . . you're having a bad time in the Second City.'

‘Won't do the theatre any good. Nothing like a serial killer to put people off a night at a show,' said Stella trying to make light of it. ‘It's worse for my husband.'

‘Must be. Look, if there's anything I can do, if you want a hole to hide in at any time, you can always stay with me.'

‘Thank you, Emily.' Stella managed her first smile of the day. She thought that Phoebe Astley, in one of those offbeat moods she went in for, or was reputed to go in for, might be a better invitee, but it was nice to be found attractive, even if just as one on Emily's list.

Emily looked at her and laughed. ‘Okay, Stella, we understand each other. I was just asking. I thought you seemed a bit off the distinguished copper.'

Back in the Second City, Stella went first to the theatre to hand over the folder of designs to her producer.

‘Swatches of silks and cottons are attached to each design, so you will see what you are getting.'

Fred Fuser touched the silks with a loving forefinger. ‘Beautiful stuff . . . I am going to enjoy working with the costumes.'

‘I may have to cut a few corners.'

‘Not too many,' said Fred earnestly. ‘Quality counts. A soprano sings better in a good silk. I've seen it, heard it, no joke.'

‘You never joke, Fred,' said Stella as she departed to see Marie. ‘I'm off to the University Hospital.' She had been transferred from St Thomas's.

‘You're not ill?' He was alarmed. His professional life was bound up with Stella's. He was going to go far, he knew it, but he needed this production of a big musical this millennium year.

But she was gone.

Stella found Marie Rudkin propped up on pillows, her face white, but her eyes open. She looked pleased to see Stella.

Stella took the hand that lay on the sheet. ‘This is the first time the nurses have let me in. I have tried before.'

‘I know. And you have telephoned every day. They let me know, even if I wasn't allowed to do anything about it.'

Stella sat down by the side of the bed. ‘I haven't brought any flowers,' she said apologetically. She looked around the room; no flowers at all.

‘I don't like them. They make me sneeze, and a sneeze is painful when you have a hole in your chest.' Cheerfully, she added, ‘Better me than the baby.'

‘My husband thinks the bullet was meant for him.'

Marie was quiet. Then she said, ‘It could have been. But I think it was for me. But perhaps the attacker didn't mind who he hit. If he had to hit someone, perhaps I was the best one to get.'

‘I don't suppose your husband thinks that.'

‘If it wasn't painful laughing, I would laugh. No, he wishes it was him, but that's rubbish, of course. He couldn't be spared.'

Marie paused for a moment, then she said slowly, ‘I saw the man who shot me, I remember that, but I cannot remember his face.

‘Not yet. But I think I will remember . . . it's there at the back of my mind. The curtain will lift.'

John Coffin listened to Paul Masters and Phoebe Astley give an account of Larry Lavender's meeting. They had not attended but they seemed very well informed about it.

‘Buzzing about like wasps?' He laughed, but the melancholy inside him since he had set up the Crime Forum, getting the reports from forensics and weaponry, who seemed to have nothing helpful to say on the serial shooter, did not lift. ‘Or is it fleas?'

He leant back in his chair. His desk was piled with papers he must read, and any moment the telephone might ring, but he wanted to hear this. He hadn't decided yet whether to be amused or angry, but any moment a strong feeling one way or the other would rush over him and he would know. One bit of good news had been handed to him, unconnected with the murders – a card from the missing Constable Lumsden to the chief of his station to say that he and his wife were touring the Highlands and the dog was with them. He didn't have much interest in Lumsden, but anything was better just now than a missing constable who might have murdered his wife. And dog. The great British public would probably mind most about the dog.

‘Fleas don't buzz,' said Phoebe.

‘No, they crawl around silently till you scratch. Well, thanks for not joining the crawlers.'

‘We weren't asked.'

‘Ah.'

‘Larry knew we would tell you,' said Paul.

‘We had our spies there, though,' Phoebe nodded.

‘One inside and one out.' This was Paul.

‘You're enjoying this,' said Coffin. They were on his side, but there was a secret pleasure at finding him being buzzed.

‘The meeting was in a pub, after all, a private back room, but with a hatch opening on the middle room. Anyone leaning against it could hear everything.'

‘And who was?'

‘I was, sir,' said Paul Masters. ‘Good beer they serve there.'

‘If you like beer,' said Phoebe. ‘I go for vodka or gin myself.' She was in a very good, bouncy mood.

‘And who was inside?' Coffin wondered what had brought this about with her.

‘CI Alec Gidding from Tutton Street Division.'

‘Oh yes, I know him, of course,' Gidding was always willing to shout his mouth off and be angry, although his anger never extended to his happy married life and the donkey sanctuary he helped run in Leppard Street on the river side. Coffin respected him for that.

‘Larry invited him. Angry man and all that, but he doesn't like Larry. He says Larry once trod on one of his donkey's tails and didn't say sorry.'

‘I'm not sure if I've ever believed that tale,' said Coffin.

‘No, well, it may not be true but it makes a good story, and he doesn't like Larry but Larry doesn't know it.'

‘So he was invited to the meeting?'

‘Yes, and Alec came to me. He does like me; I have never trodden on a donkey's tail.'

Coffin looked at his watch. ‘Nearly time for something to eat . . . Stella left home early to go to London, I think we missed breakfast out.'

‘What about the cat?' asked Phoebe, still oddly the cat's protector.

‘No, the cat has eaten,' said Coffin kindly. ‘Biscuits, fish and milk. Stella left it ready, but I didn't fancy joining her. Let's go to the Leaping Lady.'

‘You did know about this meeting?' accused Phoebe.

‘We can walk, can't we? Just around the corner.'

‘Several corners,' said Paul Masters. ‘Any good asking how you knew about the meeting, sir?'

Coffin laughed. ‘I am a detective, or I like to think I am. Larry Lavender left too many clues. Perhaps he meant to. Not much good organizing an insurrection if the victim doesn't know.'

‘That's very cynical, sir.'

‘I picked up the feeling at the meeting of the Crime Forum.'

A good idea with dangerous implications. In retrospect he could see that he had brought together a group of people who resented his ways.

I've only just grasped it, he thought, as they plodded round to the Leaping Lady (which was by no means round the corner and it had begun to rain). This pair have known for some time. It's not liked when I act as a detective and not the head of the Force. Perhaps they even feel the same, but they're too decent to show it.

‘Sorry you're getting wet,' he said to Phoebe.

‘That's all right, sir, not very wet; it's only just damping down and we're almost there.'

‘You're bloody loyal.' And he wished passionately that Stella was with him.

‘Yes sir,'

The lights of the Leaping Lady shone through the rain. ‘This place used to be called the Heart of Oak,' Coffin said. ‘And don't ask what that meant, probably one of Nelson's battleships. Full of the past down here. I dare say there's a memorial to King Canute if we ask about it.'

The drinkers in the bar, all smartly dressed men and women of the new City, bankers, brokers, accountants, looked as if they would ask if Canute was a new pop group.

There was an empty table in one corner of the room, to which Coffin led the way. As soon as they were seated (and just three comfortable seats as Phoebe noted), the landlord hurried over with a tray. A large vodka and two large whiskies were planted on the table with a smile. ‘Here you are, sir.' Then he bustled off, still smiling.

‘He knew we were coming,' said Phoebe, still accusatory.

Straight-faced, Coffin said, ‘It's the first task of any detective when he comes to a new area to set up his network. Dick here has always been on mine. And as it happens I knew him when we walked the beat together back in Deptford.'

‘So that's how you knew about Larry Lavender's game,' said Paul.