Cold Coffin (24 page)

He led Gus back up in the lift, through his outer office where Paul Masters held sway, assisted by the couple of secretaries. Masters greeted Gus with pleasure, getting in return a measured careful look together with a slight wag of the tail, but when Masters followed them in with a bowl of water and biscuit bones, he got a more enthusiastic reception.

Masters retreated. Gus took up his usual spot under the Chief Commander's desk, where Coffin settled himself for the morning's work.

‘Oh Paul, when's Lavender coming in?'

‘About midday . . . I thought that would suit you? I can ring back and change it.'

‘No, let him come.'

On the desk in front of Coffin, Masters had arranged a neat pile of newspapers, the locals to one side, the London broadsheets in the middle, and the popular scandal and picture papers to the right.

Coffin figured in all of them. He read each story carefully: ATTACK ON POLICE CHIEF, CRITICAL ATTACK ON DISTINGUISHED CHIEF COMMANDER, down to WATCH IT COPPER.

The burden of each story, however, was supportive of him, jokes apart. He had to accept that he made a good butt for jokes, but there was more praise than mockery.

‘I might have got a peerage out of this if the House of Lords wasn't being abolished,' he said to Masters.

‘You might get one of those working peerages, sir.'

‘Yes, I doubt I'd get away without work coming in.' Coffin pushed the papers aside. ‘Wonder what Lavender made of his press.'

‘He wasn't named.'

‘Better get down to work before Lavender arrives Coffin looked at Masters. ‘Something's up, I can see it in your face.'

‘Lia Boston's husband wants to see you.'

‘Not sure I want that. It's going to drive Larry Lavender even further up the wall of protest. Isn't he leading the team into the Bostons' killings?'

‘Boston insists on seeing you.'

‘He's not exactly my favourite criminal, and I think he knows that. He's a devious bugger.'

‘He trusts you. He thinks you are honest.'

‘So is Lavender.'

‘He admits that, but he thinks in certain circumstances Lavender might stitch him up. You wouldn't.'

‘Well, thank him for that vote of confidence. Not quite sure what to make of it coming from him. And he's in those “circumstances”, is he? Come on now, you know what he's talking about.'

‘No, sir. But knowing Boston, I can guess: something illegal that he's guilty of.'

‘Which covers a wide range.'

‘He says that the whole of CID and the uniformed lot have marked his card.' He hadn't put it as politely as that. They certainly had his name marked in red, an honour well earned over the years.

‘Where is he now?'

‘Downstairs, upright. PC Diver on the front desk wouldn't give him a seat.'

‘First time he's been upright in years.'

‘He made that joke himself, sir.'

‘You went down to see him,' accused Coffin.

‘Yes, he's always good for a laugh, and I speak as one who has helped put him away more than once. Anyway, I really went down to see he was stowed away somewhere where he won't meet Larry Lavender and give him an interview for the press.'

‘Show him in now, then. Let's get it over before Lavender bowls in. And be here yourself, and take notes. I want a witness.'

He sat watching as Tom Boston came in, prepared, as Coffin could see, to be aggressive. Good, Coffin thought, aggression I can handle. He was a short man, with a crest of thick hair, always beautifully dressed. Had his suits made in Milan, so fable had it. Not London tailoring anyway, Coffin reckoned, jacket lapels too curving and swoony, jacket itself too loose, and trousers beautiful and dancing free. Nothing Jermyn Street about them.

He waited. Let Boston speak first. Then he remembered that the chap had lost his wife and children in a terrible killing.

‘I'm sorry about Lia and the children.'

‘That's what all you lot say first off. Said it when they took me into identify Lia and the kids, but then they changed back as if they thought I'd done it.'

‘You're not under any suspicion, Tom.'

‘I bet they wish they could pin it on me.'

‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Why did you?'

Tom Boston leant across the desk. ‘Sympathy minute over, is it? No, I came because I had something to say to you. One of Lia's friends told me that Lia said I knew something about this serial gunman. Perhaps that's why Lia was killed, she said, looking at me as if it was my fault. What I want to say is that I don't know anything, never did and never said anything to Lia. She was making it up, like she did sometimes.'

‘She must have had something to go on,' said Coffin.

‘That group of friends of hers . . . I never liked them.' He shook his head. ‘Got it from them.'

Coffin studied Boston's face, probably not lying, but he was a professional, you couldn't tell. He was on the fidget though.

‘You didn't come just to tell me that.'

Boston swallowed and began to mutter something.

‘Speak up.'

It was more a case of spit it out. As well as Lia, Tom had a wife across the Channel, in Germany. He had married Sophy first, so the marriage to Lea was bigamous. Tom could see that this was illegal, but he was inclined to sniff at it. ‘Don't know why we married, we could have lived together, everyone does, and then no bother. But now . . .' He shrugged his shoulders; one was slightly out of kilter with the other, Coffin noticed, which perhaps explained the expensive tailoring.

‘It gave you a motive for killing Lia,' filled in Coffin.

‘Only to you lot. Not to anyone in the real world.' He had tears in his eyes. ‘And you know what? I had to identify my wife and children. Well, I knew them all right, blood and torn-apart faces and all.'

‘Before you go, can you give me the names of the friends of your wife?'

Tom looked vague. ‘One is called Letty, and another Sheila, I don't know more.' He pursed his lips. ‘She talked about the Walkers . . . had a capital letter, the word did, I could feel it. She was good with words, my Lia.' The tears ran down his nose.

‘What did you make of that?' Coffin asked Paul Masters when Tom Boston had taken himself off.

Coffin was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Those women must be interviewed.'

‘Done so already, sir.'

‘Again. They may be important.'

They could be at the heart of something. He knew not what, but it had death in it.

The Walkers, he thought. Well, let's have a go, let's try walking with them.

Larry Lavender arrived in time, early in fact, because he wanted to have a few probing words with Paul Masters on the state of the Chief Commander's morale. Not that he expected to get much out of Masters, whom he classed as a high-grade Chief Commander supporter, but he had known Masters a long while. They had worked together once and he had long fancied Masters's wife, who had proved to be one of those who make beckoning noises but are untakeable. He had suspected Masters of having put her up to it.

With all this behind him, he thought he would be able to read Masters.

‘How's the CC?' this being how he spoke of Coffin, although not how he thought of him. A hiatus there. He liked him, admired him even, but sometimes felt he could kill him. Someone would kill Coffin one day, he was convinced, and it might be his wife. Now Stella Pinero . . . she was something else again. Lavender would not want her dead. He wanted her to die of old age. Something that his own wife – they were apart now, and might remain that way as far as he was concerned – had cattily remarked was approaching fast. Horrible woman, his wife, not the adorable Stella, and he could not now remember why he had married her, except for feeling it had to do with male lust.

‘The Chief Commander's in a good mood,' said Masters, which was more or less true.

‘Be the better for seeing me.'

‘Of course, Larry.'

‘Knock and go in?'

‘Just go in. He is expecting you. No need to knock, he's very democratic.' Masters smiled.

Lavender smiled back, straightened his back and marched in. ‘Hello, sir.'

‘No need for sir,' said Coffin, standing up. ‘We've worked together in the past.'

‘Thanks for seeing me.'

He's nervous, thought Coffin. Never thought I'd see Larry Lavender nervous.

‘Thought I ought to come and talk things over.' He waited for the Chief Commander to speak, but since he did not, Lavender went on, ‘Explain what happened and why.'

‘I think I know.'

‘I don't think you do, sir.' He was determined to get that ‘sir' in again. ‘I'm good at what I do, I think you'd give me that, sir, I get results. But do they get noticed? Yes, in the records and in the convictions, but the big crimes, the ones that get in the papers . . . the big murders: the Rugely murder, the Fraser Dean kidnapping, the Service strangler, my great-uncle's case . . . they are yours, or they get your name on them. Yes, right, you were the one, sir, who saw through any deceit or camouflage to the right killer, but I was on the team of at least one of those cases, and we would have got there . . .'

He's definitely nervous. Coffin summed up. Why?

Then an illumination lit up his mind: he knows something I don't, and it's for me. In my favour. Very much in my favour, or he wouldn't be so edgy.

Not the newspapers, they'd had their say. TV, that's it. What was that programme called?
This Week in the World
. Always got good ratings.

‘Did you pick up anything about a group called the Walkers?' he asked.

‘Don't think so. Why?'

‘Just wondered. I heard them mentioned.'

Larry Lavender shook his head. ‘That's your style, sir, you pick up something and run with it.'

‘Is that how it looks?'

‘You were like a cancer, sir, growing inside us.'

Real, bitter feeling there. Coffin took in his face. ‘Are you all right, Larry?' he said gently. ‘No, I can see you're not.'

He went to the drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky.

‘Come on, have some of this.'

‘I'm not allowed,' groaned Lavender.

Stella, too, came across the Walkers. The name came up in one of her meetings with Letty and Sheila. The word just came in to their conversation. Not exactly a club, nor an institution, more of an occasion. Not like the Royal Garden Party, more like all getting on the right train together.

There was certainly a feeling of movement there. After all, the Walkers presumably walked.

Stella walked herself; she did not have to walk to work because her theatre and her home were part of the same Victorian complex of buildings, but sometimes she crossed the road to the ancient churchyard, older by far than the church, and now a peaceful small park. You walked over the dead, and Stella for one knew it, although not everyone did, but the grass was thick over their bones and to her it never seemed sacrilege. Sometimes she took Gus, but he was never allowed to pollute the grass; for that purpose she led him down the road to a large patch of rough ground by the old canal. And she took a little trowel and plastic bag. In the old churchyard Gus had been known to look longingly at one of the monuments that survived but he had been trained to do no more than look, tempting as they must seem to him and his back leg. She had already done the shopping for him, as required, and when she got home this evening there Gus would be. It was to be hoped he would like the cat. Tolerate, maybe; perhaps like was expecting too much.

She took a deep, happy breath. At times, as this morning, she walked round it. The Second City was not overly full of grassy open spaces. Especially one that was almost your own space with no one else there.

But today there was someone, a young woman sitting on the bench by the tree. She had a lovely face, half hidden by dark spectacles. There was a bruise down one side of her face.

‘Natty? It is Natasha, isn't it?'

The girl looked up. ‘Yes, thank you.' Her voice was low and hoarse. ‘Miss Pinero.'

‘Are you all right? Can I do anything.'

‘No, thank you. I'm fine.'

She certainly didn't look it.

That's a nasty bruise on your cheek.'

Natasha touched her cheek with a forefinger. ‘I banged into something.'

So you did, thought Stella, what was it? A tree or a fist? Gently, she said, ‘I don't think it's a good idea to sit out here in the cold.' There was a damp wind too.

‘I was just having a rest . . . I've been for a walk.' Natasha stood up, straightening her back in way that made it clear she didn't want sympathy. It was obvious that she was not going to respond to Stella's implied questions on the lines of: What's up? And who hit your face?

‘Right. Well, take care. It's really cold today.' Her coat and dress looked too thin for the day.

Indifferently, Natasha said, ‘I didn't notice. It's peaceful here in the park. And they're all dead, aren't they?'

‘Long dead,' agreed Stella.

Stella hesitated. It was not her business to act as Sister Samaritan to anyone, least of all to a girl who was pushing her away. Besides, she had a bundle of work waiting for her in the theatres. So she walked on to get into her own world again, not this chilly, achingly strange one in which Natasha seemed stuck.

But her kind heart, which for professional reasons she kept hidden, made her turn round.

Natasha was still standing where she had left her. Stella took one pace towards her.

‘Have you ever seen the theatre backstage?'

Natasha shook her head silently.

‘Come with me now. I'll give you a look round, and we can have a cup of coffee. No need to worry – I've trained them to make a decent cup.'

Natasha stood looking at Stella. Suddenly, she said, ‘Yes, please.' Like a schoolgirl offered a treat.