Cold Coffin (25 page)

She looked like a schoolgirl too, so thin and young. On impulse Stella put an arm round the thin shoulders and gave a friendly hug. As she did so she felt a shiver run through Nat's body.

Stella let her arm drop away, and said nothing more until they were in her office with the coffee ordered. It was a small room, crowded with all the impedimenta of an active theatrical life: programmes, scripts, books and photographs, many photographs.

The coffee came, hot and strong, as Stella had promised. Why was she taking this trouble with the girl? Not her usual way of managing things at all. Cool detachment at work, with all sensility and emotion reserved for home.

But this girl worried her.

‘It was all the heads,' she said suddenly. ‘It's all been wrong since the Neanderthal heads were found in the pit. Babies' heads.'

‘You saw them?'

‘No, but cousin Margaret did. And she saw one head was not so old. That worried her, I think.'

‘Why would it do that?'

Natasha shrugged. ‘Don't know . . . But she was clever. Sensitive, picked things up.' She raised up her cup and began to drink the coffee. ‘I think she was checking if that other skull had come from the museum.'

‘And had it?'

‘I don't know. You must ask your husband that. It was the babies' skulls that she didn't like. Don't blame her, poor little souls. Babies can have a thin time if they aren't lucky.'

‘Yes, I know that,' said Stella. She remembered the child of one of the singers in a musical she had starred in; the kid used to come to rehearsals and performances in a box turned into a cradle. That child usually looked well fed and loved, but she knew of others that were not, while at times even that infant had a pinched, anxious look out of order with its age. Some animals had that look too.

‘If she hadn't gone looking in that museum, she wouldn't have been killed.'

‘You think so?'

‘She was seen by the wrong person. Or maybe she said something that alerted that person.'

‘Could have been something like that . . . but these killings seem arbitrary, as if the killer just went after anyone.'

‘Oh no, there's always children involved.'

Stella was silenced.

‘Hadn't you noticed? And then she was laid out with all those children's skulls around her.'

‘Did you see her?' Stella was surprised.

‘No, but I've been around the hospital enough to know one or two people.'

‘Yes, I know one or two, just casual friends.'

‘Oh, friends . . . who knows who's a friend? Friends can be just as murderous as enemies, if they feel like that. I dare say Margaret thought he was a friend . . . always so helpful, lifting and carrying, opening the doors, keeping order . . . till he killed her.'

Stella looked at her quietly. ‘Who are you talking about?' A picture came into her mind. A figure politely opening doors, moving trolleys, mopping floors. ‘Are you talking about Joe? Are you calling him the killer?'

‘Oh, Joe, poor Joe, how did he get dragged in?' She shook her head. ‘I may not be the killer, but I am the murderer. There, I am confessing.'

‘She said she was confessing, that she was the murderer.' Stella stroked the cat who was on her lap while keeping an eye on Gus who was watching her and the cat.

‘That's very unlikely,' said Coffin.

Hesitantly, Stella said, ‘I think she was accusing Joe.'

‘He was checked over for the murder of Dr Murray and cleared.'

‘And you think it is one man for all the killings?'

‘Not just me,' observed Coffin mildly. ‘The judgement of the whole Crime Forum.'

Stella put the cat on Coffin's knee. ‘You have a go. I'll soften up Gus.'

Coffin checked Gus with keen, policemanly eye. ‘He looks calm enough.'

‘I wouldn't like to leave them alone together.' She patted Gus. ‘I think you ought to see Natasha. Interview her.'

‘Why me? Phoebe Astley could do it. Another woman. If it's really necessary at all.'

‘I think she'd trust you.'

Coffin said slowly, ‘She might be unwise to trust a copper. Yes, I'll see her, but she'll have to wait her turn, I'm busy tomorrow.' He smiled at his wife. ‘It'll be your turn to take Gus for his morning walk.'

‘Isn't it always?'

The next morning was misty and chill. Gus showed only a moderate enthusiasm for his morning exercise (recommended by the vet, no friend of Gus who had given his leg a nip), but he consented to be dragged forward on his leash. He became more interested as he realized that several new scents had been added to various trees and lamp-posts during his absence. One smell in particular was promising: near ovulation it said, and soon ready to mate. He must keep a look-out.

‘All right, Gus,' said Stella, pulling on the lead. ‘We all know you are keen to perpetuate your genes, but not here and not with that lamp-post.'

They moved on, with Gus now taking the lead. He had remembered a walk from the past. He began to smell water. He liked a swim. It was an occasion of innocent pleasure causing your mistress the utmost alarm and disorder, since there is nothing more difficult to handle than a wet dog.

Stella did not resist; he was on the leash, and even Gus could not get in for a swim when tethered. A visit to the canal was a quick and easy walk, so she could soon be home and back at work. She too liked the canal. There was a certain romance to it; neglected and unused now, it belonged to the Second City's industrial past.

The mist began to lift as they came along the canal, which curved out of sight in the distance. Two people were standing on the bank, just on the curve. To her surprise, she recognized Natasha. She was wearing trousers and a long dark coat, while her companion was a man, more lightly dressed. They seemed to be arguing, and he had his hand on Natasha's arm.

Then, to Stella's alarm, she saw Natasha jump into the canal, followed at once by the man. She recognized Natty's husband, Jason. Grabbing her mobile phone she dialled 999 and shouted, ‘Man in the canal,' as she ran.

The man's head appeared on the surface, then disappeared again. Natasha did not show.

Stella wrenched off her shoes, disentangled herself from Gus, then jumped into the water, striking out towards the spot where they had gone down with the thought: I wish I was a stronger swimmer.

She heard a splash as Gus came too.

Ahead of her she saw the man's head surface. He was struggling, no swimmer he, to remain afloat, but something was pulling him down.

‘Natasha,' she gasped. ‘Hang on, I'll do what I can.' Peering through the water, she thought she could see the girl, but even as she looked she slid away, dragging the man with her.

But so it would have been if Gus had not got hold of the man's collar. No lifesaver, just a dog grabbing something that floated. An extra large fish, maybe.

Stella came level with the man just as Gus was considering dropping this awkward catch; he changed his mind, puzzled but willing, as his mistress said, ‘Stay, Stay,' loudly while getting her arms round his catch.

Stella could hear the police arriving, in the distance but getting closer. She had just enough mirth and breath left in her to wonder what the police would make of their Chief's wife in the water with dog and man.

She had no idea how she looked with hair streaming, weeds on her face and mascara spreading round her eyes.

‘There's a girl still in there,' Stella managed to get out as, struggling and choking, the three of them – dog, Natty and Jason – were dragged out of the water by the police.

‘Did she jump or was she pushed?'

Stella managed to put the question at last to the Chief Commander as he drove her home from the hospital where she and Gus had had to stay until passed fit and well.

‘They separated us,' said Stella with some indignation.

‘Dogs aren't allowed in hospitals, you know that,' said Coffin patiently. ‘Even heroic rescue dogs.'

Gus had spent an hour in the nurses' sitting room, before a fire, having been praised, dried and given some biscuits. He was glad to be praised since he had often known grumbles when he returned from total immersions, dripping and smelling. He smelt now.

Coffin glanced down at him. ‘He could do with a bath.'

‘Do I smell as bad as him?'

‘Pretty near. That canal could do with cleaning.' He looked at Stella assessingly.

They did give me a few injections in there, against everything from cholera to the plague to white dog disease as far as I could make out,' admitted Stella, answering his unspoken question.

‘What's white dog disease?'

‘I don't know. I just made that up. I thought it might make you laugh.'

‘No, I'm not laughing.' He knew how close she had come to losing her own life. ‘I love you, Stella.

‘You can't stand by and watch someone drown.'

‘No. You can't. And that's why I love you. But once is enough. Promise me. A quiet life from now on.'

Stella reached out to touch his wrist. ‘A fairly quiet life, I promise.'

Coffin took his eyes off the road for just a second to give one of those fond, half-smiling looks that she loved.

CI Astley came in from the outer room where she had been talking with Paul Masters.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I should have told you' – never use the word ‘forgot' had been one of the earliest bits of training – ‘that forensics found a letter inside an inner pocket of Natasha's jacket.'

‘A suicide note?'

‘Looks like it, sir. But unluckily the blue ink has run so badly that it is impossible to read, but forensics are hoping to bring it up.'

Coffin digested the information. Then he said, ‘Have you seen Larry Lavender lately?'

He didn't know what answer he expected, but he got nothing. Phoebe just shook her head. She had known for a long while that silence is a good answer to some questions.

Aren't we all wondering? she said to herself. ‘Oh, there's one thing, sir. I had a quick look at the letter myself to see what I could make of it. Nothing, except for one large letter W, written so firm and hard it tore into the paper.'

It was impossible to work out the word, but Phoebe thought it might be Wergild: Anglo-Saxon body price. But maybe she was being imaginative.

15

Will Christmas ever come?

Death is a chancer, unexpectedly slipping under the fence to join the party without a ticket. All the murder victims had been taken by surprise. Natasha, who claimed to be the killer, had opened the door to death.

But one victim, Marie Rudkin, was pushing death back. And Larry Lavender was conducting his own fight.

‘There is something I should have told you.' Stella's voice was urgent. ‘Today, in the hospital, while I was waiting to be set free . . . it felt like that . . . I heard one of the nurses say to another that Mrs Rudkin was sitting up and taking food and talking.'

‘Glad to hear it.' Then, delicately, because he did not want to upset Stella on this day of all days, ‘Did you get to tell her not to talk about knowing who attacked her?'

‘I haven't seen her alert again yet. She was unconscious, on a life-support machine, when I called back. I haven't been since.' Didn't really have a chance this morning . . .

I was waiting, Stella said to herself, till she was conscious. And now she is.

Stella looked at Gus sleeping by the fire with the little cat lying across him. ‘I'm going to the hospital myself, Gus, so you keep the home fires burning. And don't answer the telephone.'

Gus rolled a lazy eye at her. As if I would, it said.

Stella made her way to where her car stood. She was very tired and her limbs felt heavy, but she knew there was a strength inside her that would not let her down. She would drive to the hospital; she would see Marie Rudkin, and if Marie wanted to talk and felt able to do so she could talk to Stella.

That way lay safety. What two people knew was safer than only one. There was a fallacy in there somewhere, but she clung to the thought.

As Stella set out for the hospital, Larry Lavender was sitting waiting for the consultant to see him. In the ordinary way, Larry would have been glad because she was a lovely-looking lady, just the sort he fancied, but he was discovering that there was nothing like anxiety to lower the libido.

This was the day when she would deliver the results of the last test. He dreaded it. He felt she would be giving him a judgement of death approaching. Oh, she'd wrap it up, suggest treatments, palliatives, to hold things up. What was the phrase: Remission? He was aware that this worked for some people, but he just knew it wouldn't for him. He was about to be doomed.

So he sat there on the bench and waited for Dr Lemming to arrive. ‘Come on, lady,' he muttered. ‘Let the axe fall, I promise not to scream.'

Still no consultant. He felt like standing up and crying, I am going home, I am cured, I am better.

Indeed, he felt in much less pain. He wasn't sure if this gave him hope or not.

Then his beautiful consultant appeared round the corner, carrying several folders under her arm, and beckoned him to follow her.

In one of those folders, he concluded, was his life and death.

He went in, she closed the door behind him, and smiled, ‘Now, Mr Lavender.'

Some twenty minutes or so later, Larry Lavender came out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Then he took a deep breath. He felt he could do with a double whisky, no, a triple whisky, but being in the hospital he would have to make do with with coffee.

He swung right in the direction of the coffee-shop. As he did so he saw Stella Pinero come through the entrance. Ah, there was a woman, he reminded people. He watched her gossiping with people, then he avoided eye contact.

Stella hurried into the ward. Marie Rudkin was in a small room to the left of the swing doors, lying propped up against pillows. She smiled at Stella. ‘Hello.' Her husband was sitting by her bed, holding her hand. ‘So here I am, back in the world.' Her voice was weak, but clear.