A Dark Coffin. Gwendoline Butler
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into his borrowed home. ‘Might come to that,’ he said to himself. ‘Oh God, so it might. Take a sharp knife and cut someone out. Hara-kiri of the soul. God, I must be drunker than I thought.’
He picked up the telephone and although it was late, he rang his own home. ‘Lou, I’ll have to stay on a bit longer … things have happened that mean I must be around. No, just a continuing investigation.’
He had not told her that he was hunting for Merry, it was a name he preferred to leave unspoken, a bad word between them. He had the horrible feeling she liked Merry the better of the two of them and would have wished to have been his wife.
He had another drink while he thought about the dead couple, the Macintoshes. In the morning, if he was still there, and you never knew, he would talk to John Coffin.
He took a drink to bed, head against the pillows while he sipped it. Merry was right, Harry was the drinking twin. As he drank, he thought about his Louise. She was so tall and slender and desirable. Clever, too.
He finished the drink, put the glass on the floor beside the bed, wondered briefly what high sexual jinks the bed had known when Stella had used it, he did not underrate the Chief Commander.
Enjoying his mildly lascivious thoughts, envious ones too, he slipped into sleep.
Tomorrow would come whether you like it or not; he might hide, like Merry, but he could not run away. Things would have to be said.
Stella took a shower, washing off the scent of Jolie Madame and replacing it with fresh verbena. Then she knotted the towelling robe and emerged to confront Coffin.
‘Come on, what’s up?’
He was standing by the bedroom window, holding the cat, and staring into the night. Neither seemed happy.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were dead silent on the way over from the theatre, and didn’t say a word to Harry. Bit rude, I thought.’
‘I’m worried.’
‘What about?’
He could have said: the trouble on the streets, the child in hospital who may be lamed, your man in Rome, and my own personal little worry, but he said: ‘When I touched the back of the chair where the man Joe Macintosh had been lying, my hand came away with blood on it.’
‘Oh.’ Stella absorbed this news. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know, not yet. Maybe nothing. He may have cut himself.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Harry was odd.’
‘He was upset. He knew them, after all.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘You can’t think he had anything to do with it … he was with us all the time.’
‘Not all the time,’ said Coffin in a careful voice, not meeting her eyes as he put Tiddles down on the floor.
‘Besides, it was suicide, there was a note.’
‘So there was,’ said Coffin. ‘I noticed.’
Stella leaned back against her pillows. Oh, come on, come to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’ She held out her arm. ‘Dearest, I know you are full of worry, let me help.’
He sat on the bed beside her. ‘Tell me about Jack in Rome?’
Stella opened her eyes wide, then laughed. ‘Oh, come on, you aren’t thinking anything … No, you couldn’t. We were acting together.’
‘But he keeps telephoning.’
Stella allowed herself a luxurious pause. ‘Perhaps he had a little thing about me. Doesn’t mean I had one back.’
Coffin groaned. ‘Oh, Stella, Stella, Stella.’
‘Perhaps a tiny, tiny one, but nothing to count. Truly, am I a liar?’
‘I know what you are,’ he said slowly. ‘A tease.’
She leaned forward and took his hand in a firm grasp. ‘But never with you, never with you.’ Or this time round, she told herself. I was a devil in the past and punished both of us, but you were no angel either. ‘We are truly married, my dear, and I would never risk breaking that bond.’
‘I believe.’
One worry gone. Only three to play for now.
DS Davis and DC Armitage had finished their survey of the death site in the theatre, the SOCO had observed and made notes, photographs had been taken, and the two detectives drove back to their Swinehouse office. They were not luxuriously housed, but the canteen was clean and efficient so they went there for a late cup of tea. Davis could always eat, so he had toast as well, while Pat Armitage drank her tea and wished that smoking was not forbidden almost everywhere.
‘See you upstairs,’ she said, picking up her cup. In the office she could smoke if she was careful about it.
While she drank the tea and gave a grateful draw on the cigarette, she studied the notes and photographs which were already on her desk. She would say one thing for their current SOCO, he was speedy. He would soon move on, SOCOs did if they were good. She had done the job herself for a spell and not found it life enhancing.
She studied the photographs with care, it paid. All right, this was a suicide, they had the note which said so, but the postmortem was still to be done, and anyway, the Chief Commander was involved. So take care, Pat, she thought.
Davis returned as she spread the photographs out on the desk. ‘You smell of smoke.’
‘You smell of toast.’ She had her elbows on the desk and was leaning over the pictures. ‘You know, you are quite right, the man does look surprised.’ She raised her head. ‘I suppose the moment of death can be a surprise even when you have planned it.’
‘We don’t know that he planned it, maybe she did and didn’t tell him.’
Pat Armitage picked up the suicide note, now a neat plastic envelope. The coroner would want to see it. ‘It’s signed by him. JM.’
‘They both had the same initials.’
‘True, but I don’t think a woman would do it that way.’
The note said: IT IS BEST TO END IT AND GO NOW.
‘Bit bleak,’ said Davis.
‘Probably the best way to do it if you must.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? If you must. Can’t imagine doing it myself.’ She stared at the note, which was on yellowing paper, none too clean. ‘Maybe she didn’t want to.’
‘Well, we will never know.’
‘I take it you don’t believe in the after life?’
‘Some of the bodies I have seen, then I hope not. I would definitely not want to know them again.’
Then he came out with the great question that no one had so far voiced: ‘Why on earth did they do it in a theatre?’
The hospital which housed the mortuary where the two bodies lay was associated with the very new University of Swinehouse, making the third in the Second City. The university had previously been Swinehouse Polytechnic until recent reforms had upped its status, and was housed in the old buildings. The hospital was not new either and the mortuary itself was old, but the new buildings to house the medical school were almost complete. Mr Garden worked in the mortuary but had a fine new office.
Time conscious as he was, Mr Garden got on with things, he was a quick worker. Apart from being what he was, an egoist of the first class, he had no irritating tricks as he worked: he did not hum, nor did he crack foul jokes – the general opinion was he knew no jokes, obscene or otherwise. But he was very interested in the human body, which he admired.