A Grave Coffin. Gwendoline Butler
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that means, you being a policeman. Can I give you a lift?’
‘To the Tower terminus of the Docklands Railway? That’ll see me into my territory. Thank you.’
They were both silent on the short drive; Mary Seton drove efficiently through the traffic, delivering him near the entrance to the Docklands Light Railway, already known by regular users as the Dockers’ Delight.
‘How long does the battery last at full strength on this machine?’ He tapped the computer.
Mary shrugged. ‘About two and a half to three hours when used.’
‘And unused?’
‘I don’t know. Just guessing, I should say about a week or a little more.’
Coffin considered this; the machine he had on his lap registered two hours’ working time left. So it had been plugged into a socket and the power stepped up.
By whom? Also why?
He occupied his mind with this question as Mary drove.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ Coffin opened the car door.
Mary leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you. You helped me through a bad patch.’
Coffin was thoughtful as he let the train swing its way through old Docklands. It was a journey he usually enjoyed because it provided a perfect example of the whirligig of time bringing in its revenges: the former run-down, working-class area was now full of smart and expensive flats powered by the new businesses which had moved in. He was satisfied to see history being made. His own Second City partook of both elements, a good deal of it still solid working class with a new dash of upmarket chic in converted factories and warehouses. Crime was about equal in both communities.
But he wondered about Mary Seton. A kiss is just a kiss. Of course, but why me, he asked himself.
The train stopped at the Spinnergate station which was where he had parked his car on the journey in. His car was still there; he checked to see if all the wheels plus wheel hubs were in place, as you were well advised to do in Spinnergate if you left your car alone for any length of time. All present and correct. His force’s pressure on the petty criminal must be paying off.
At last, he thought, as he got in the car to drive home. No joy there without Stella, though, without her it didn’t seem like a home. Even the dog, Augustus, seemed low spirited, but that was probably due to overeating because Coffin just fed when he asked, which in Gus’s case was often.
Gus appeared to greet him with a wagging tail and a small bark of complaint.
‘No, I couldn’t take you with me today. Not today, Gus. Grow up, you are a big dog now and must learn to live alone.’
Gus barked again. He had no intention of learning anything which did not suit him. But he meant to be guileful, since if he was too difficult he remembered that Coffin would get Phoebe Astley to look after him. The chief inspector was not gentle and persuasive like Stella Pinero, nor absent-minded and kind like his master, Coffin. No, Phoebe was firm, and strict, leaving a dog with not much freedom.
Coffin fed the dog from a tin of his chosen meat, then he went to see if he had any message from Stella, either faxed or on the answerphone.
The big sitting room was cold and dark. He turned on a light before drawing the curtains at the large window. If he looked out of this window, he could just see the roofs of the University Hospital, where a talk with the head of the pharmaceutical department was something he meant to take. He knew Perry Curtis slightly, but well enough to value his insight and judgement.
Nothing from Stella, but a message from his own office.
‘Paul Masters, here, sir. Could you ring back as soon as possible, please?’
The inspector’s voice sounded tense. Paul Masters administered the Chief Commander’s office with calm skill. He did not readily show strain.
Coffin picked up the telephone and dialled the number that rang straight through to the phone on Paul Masters’s desk.
‘Coffin here. You wanted me?’
‘Ah, yes indeed. Chief Superintendent Young wanted to talk to you … As it happens, he is here now.’
Archie Young spoke quickly. ‘We have the body of one of the missing boys.’
‘Which one?’
‘The last to go missing, the ten-year-old from Percy Street.’
‘He has been identified?’
‘Yes, by his father. We have his body.’ Archie Young hesitated. ‘And parts of another.’
‘How was he found?’
‘In a wooded area by a young couple … looking for somewhere quiet and dark.’
‘How did they come to find the body … was it buried?’
‘Yes, but working free from the soil and leaves … they didn’t see it themselves at first, but they saw a man with his dog staring at something among the trees. He was holding back the dog. Or seemed to be, the dog was in the bushes. He said to them that there was something funny that they ought to look at. The young man did so while the man stood back. He soon saw it was a body, saw the feet, he says … he had his mobile with him and telephoned the police.’
‘And the man?’
‘He disappeared into the dark.’
Coffin put the telephone down slowly. ‘I’ll be in,’ he muttered. ‘We will talk it over then.’
When one question bothers you, there is always another one weighing on your mind.
There was one way of getting an answer to one problem.
He rang the Home Office man who had urged him so persuasively to investigate the pharmaceutical problem for Ed Saxon.
‘Tell me straight: why was I picked for the job?’
There was some silence. ‘You stand high, Chief Commander, you have a great reputation.’ Then he added carefully: ‘And of course, we both know Humphrey Gillow.’
‘Did Ed Saxon want me?’
‘He was very glad to get you.’ That came quickly. ‘You’d worked together before. In fact, he said that Harry Seton had named you as a good person in trouble.’
Oh yes, old friends. ‘Had he got a choice? I mean, did you have a list of suitable names?’
Silence again. An answer probably brewing up there, but taking its time.
‘So it was just me?’ And wasn’t I lucky with Harry naming me and everything. ‘But there was a special reason. So let me guess: something to do with the Second City.’
‘Yes, there is reason to believe that an important connection of this outfit is in the Second City.’
One question answered brings another right out. ‘So why did you not tell me straightaway.’
‘We wanted you to approach it unbiased, with an open mind.’
So it wasn’t me that was so wanted, it was the place I came from. I knew Ed Saxon wasn’t being straight with me. I could tell it in his eyes.
There was something else too; I shall find out.
He put Augustus on his leash, and set out to walk with him through to his own office in the police headquarters not far from Spinnergate tube station.
The Second City, created out of old dockland London, with a long history behind it, a town before the Romans came, a city to greet the Normans, so large and rich by the time Napoleon was defeated that the Prussian General Blucher cried out in envy: ‘What a city to sack.’ Hitler thought it might fall to him too, but was disappointed in his turn.
Now the Second City, its four districts