A Coffin for Charley (10 page)

Annie was both relieved that he hadn't come to tell her that Didi was dead or in hospital and irritated by her neighbours. ‘No, they're mad. What rubbish.'

‘Not mad but a bit anxious. And since I'm on the lookout for a lad who absconded from a care home, I thought I'd have a look-see.' He put the milk in the refrigerator. ‘The flat is empty?'

‘No, it's not empty. Caroline isn't there very much. She travels on business.'

‘She's away now?'

‘I think so. Yes, she is.'

‘Lights have been seen. It's upset the old pair next door.'

Then they shouldn't have been watching. ‘She has a man friend, he's there sometimes.'

‘Oh.' An appraising nod of the head. ‘All right if I take a look? Next door says you have a key.'

Next door ought to mind their own business.

‘I don't know if Caroline would want that.'

‘She'd be grateful if we flushed out an intruder, wouldn't she?'

‘Yes, I suppose so.' Annie produced the key reluctantly. ‘I'm coming with you. But I mustn't be long, my child is asleep upstairs and there's no one in the house. My sister hasn't been home all night.'

He followed her out of the house and up the outer staircase to the flat above. ‘Young is she, your sister? She'll be back. All night party, I expect. There was a big one on a boat on the river last night, I'm surprised you couldn't hear it.'

Annie stood back while he looked over the flat which was empty and quiet as she had known it would be.

‘Told you there was no one here.'

The policeman opened doors and cupboards. ‘She keeps it tidy.'

‘I do that.'

‘Housekeep for her, do you?'

‘Sort of.'

‘One of those career girls, is she?' He opened a cupboard door. ‘He's been here, though.' Inside were male clothes and shoes. ‘That jacket is wet. Damp anyway.'

Annie said nothing.

Politely he took himself off, whether satisfied or not, she did not know. Experience had taught her that policemen did not always tell you what they were thinking.

When he had gone she telephoned Tom Ashworth's office, only to find his answering machine explaining that the office was not yet open but she could leave a message.

She left no message, but tried to call Alex Edwards. His office was open and answering but he was not there. She left no message.

At last, angrily, she telephoned the Creeley house.

‘I want to speak to Eddie.'

‘Speaking,' said a sleepy voice. ‘Who's that?'

‘I want to know where you've been all night and where my sister is. Is she there? Ask Didi to speak to me.'

There was a pause. ‘Look, I don't know what you're on about. I've been in bed all night. I'm still in bed if you want to know, and I haven't seen Didi. A nice girl and that, but she isn't here with me.'

He banged the telephone down and Annie, after standing still for a moment, raged around the house calling upon her numerous gods for help, especially the unknown called Thou.

She was releasing into the world a stream of energy channelled into violence and anger. It would stir up something, it always had done.

Didi tried very hard to be found. She was dead but she kept on trying. The wind blew round her body, the damp underneath seeped through her pretty light dress, pieces of paper and autumnal leaves from the trees by the river settled upon her.

There was no life in her but she meant to be found.

Who will find Didi?

She was lying under a railway arch close to the river, where a narrow patch of rough ground ran down to the water. As train after train travelled overhead bearing commuters into London, the old archway shifted.

Didi rolled forward out into the open air. She was going to be found.

A man going to fish for anything that moved and would bite in the Thames saw her body and thought she was someone sleeping in the rough.

Poor cow, he thought.

Two lads, bunking off from school, skipped past Didi next but took no notice. Only as it began to rain again and they decided school might be best after all, did they give her a second look.

They stared at each other, then one of them galloped over to the man fishing. ‘Mister, there's a dead 'un there.'

‘Never,' he said, not raising his eyes from his rod. ‘She's just getting her beauty sleep. Leave her be.'

But Didi was strong to be found and he rose up to take a look. He had served in the army and knew death when he saw it; he had also seen violent death and knew that too.

He considered quietly sloping away and not getting mixed up but neither the boys nor Didi would permit that.

‘Well, lads, it's a technical problem here: which of us stays and which of us goes for the police.'

He saw the answer in their eyes and sat down. ‘Right, you go. One of you go and the other stay with me.' He turned to the one with red hair. ‘What's your name?'

‘Peter.'

‘And yours?'

‘Darren.'

‘Right, Darren, then you go. And my name is Bill Beasden … Got that? Then tell the duty officer, he knows me.'

‘You a copper, then?' asked Darren, preparing to move.

Beasden grinned. ‘Just known to the police.'

Darren knew the route to the nearest police station, boys in his way of life always stocked that sort of knowledge as a necessary item, but he had a certain natural reluctance to setting foot inside. He had been in there once and the man on the desk had said he didn't want to see him in there again and no more nonsense about Aliens Landing. So when he saw a tall man walking towards the entrance accompanied by a rangy-looking dog, he thought he had an ally.

‘Sir, sir?'

‘Yes, what is it?'

‘Are you a policeman, sir?' If he said sir as often as possible, he felt safer.

‘Yes, I am. So what is it?'

The words were said kindly if absently as if the speaker was concentrating on something else. It was not on the dog
who was sniffing round the trouser edge of Darren's jeans with devoted attention.

‘Sir, there's a body down by the river.' He edged away. ‘Nice dog,' he said nervously. ‘What's he called?'

‘I call him Bob,' said John Coffin. ‘He has been called other things.' He wasn't completely convinced about the body. Not all prone figures were dead or grateful to be reported. ‘Sure it's dead?'

‘Her, sir, her. It's a girl.'

‘Right.' All seriousness now, Coffin got a firm grip on Darren's arm. ‘Let's go inside and get the details. Where is she?'

‘Near the arches, the bit near the river. I can show you.'

Darren thought he would rather be on the road, showing, than inside, talking and giving details. He knew details, they got you into trouble. Such as Why weren't you at school? and What's that in your pocket?

‘Yes, you shall do.' Although he knew where Darren meant, knew the rough ground littered with the detritus of urban living like old bedsteads and dead cats. Every so often a group of homeless would set up camp but it was too hostile and bleak even for them. ‘Anyone with you?'

‘My friend Peter. He's still there, with her and Mr Beasden. He was fishing. He said to say it was him and you would know him.'

I've heard the name, thought Coffin, but know him I do not. Beasden had his place in the police world as a highly successful villain, now retired. Allegedly retired.

The officer on the desk was not the one Darren knew, which relieved him. After all, he was doing a public service, wasn't he? Reporting a crime.

Judging by the reception he and his new friend got (he felt this chap could be a friend, but not the dog), he judged he had picked himself a high ranking copper. He began to feel positively pleased with himself.

Excited by his moment of importance, he told what he knew, and found himself sitting in a car driven by his new friend leading a procession riverwards. That dog was there too.

Then suddenly he did not exist any more. They had his name and address, they were getting Peter's, they could both go away home. Would they like a lift? No? Better get back to school, then. The next question was inevitable, you could see it coming, and it speeded their departure: Why weren't they at school?

John Coffin walked over to them both as they left. He patted Darren on the shoulder and murmured something friendly, but the boys could see that his mind was not on them but on that still figure on the ground. A figure already being photographed.

‘I expect we shall want to ask you some more questions, what you saw, if there was anyone around, that sort of thing, but don't worry. You behaved well. Tell your parents and your head teacher. Now hop off.'

Darren looked at Peter and Peter gave him one of his famous expressionless looks back.

‘Come on,' said Darren. ‘Better go.'

They climbed up to the road and turned schoolwards. Darren looked back. Several more police cars had arrived, as well as an ambulance. It was the most exciting scene he had ever been involved in, but he wasn't enjoying it as much as he would have expected. He had a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

There she was, the quiet centre of it all.

‘Interesting, isn't it,' said Peter. ‘I might go into the police, detective work, I'd like that. Shall we stay around?'

‘No, let's go back.'

‘Go into Woolies for a Coke?'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘Let's get back to school.' He wanted to set his world to rights, to be, for once, a boy in good repute.

Darren walked away. It was all nothing to do with him. They had said so and it was the case.

No one had asked him, but he did know her. He had seen her around with Eddie Creeley and she was called Didi.

In Stella's flat the telephone rang and rang. But Stella was asleep upstairs in her husband's bed.

Upstairs in Caroline's flat Charley put the telephone down.

The day continues

Didi was soon identified. One police officer knew her face; thought she came from Spinnergate but couldn't put a name to her. But that was soon cleared up because Didi had her name with her, almost as if she had guessed it might be wanted.

Her handbag rested in the mud beside her. In it together with a lipstick and piece of tissue was a diary with her name and address in it. With carefully protected hands, an officer opened it, then quietly showed it to the Chief Commander. If the Boss was there, then he had better see.

Diana Dunne, 6, Napier Street. She had signed her name, given her date of birth, and provided her telephone number.

Coffin nodded. Just at that moment, he did not connect her with Annie Briggs, his mind was on the girl herself.

She had been strangled, but there were bruises on her face which might indicate she had also been smothered. Like Marianna.

John Coffin waited, silent but observing, as the police surgeon worked. Dr Foss was a wiry, youngish man. He nodded at the Chief Commander, whom he knew by sight.

‘Well, she's dead.'

‘And?'

‘Strangled manually.'

‘Yes, it looked like that. Hand over her face too. I'd say.'

A protective shield had been set up around Didi's body which was not yet readied for removal to the police mortuary down in Swinehouse, a new building opened only this year. Photographs were still being taken while other
policemen walked carefully with eyes down examining the ground all around her. The full police investigating team headed by a detective-inspector had arrived. They were very aware of the presence of the Chief Commander among them.

The police surgeon, being an independent professional, felt more relaxed: he had his own territory in which he was lord. Accordingly, he felt comfortable enough to take out a cigarette in Coffin's presence and light it.

‘I thought you people were against smoking.'

‘I am. But it helps.'

The two men moved away a few yards into the shelter of the arch. This area too was being examined and they were careful where they trod.

‘How long has she been dead?'

Dr Foss was professionally cautious. ‘Matter of hours. Last night sometime, I'd say. But when they get her on the slab and open her up they will know better.'

Coffin winced slightly, making a note that delicacy was not a feature of Dr Foss's working life. What sort of bedside manner did he have?

The second young woman strangled in the Second City within weeks. A repeat of this sort was something nobody liked. Marianna Manners and now Diana Dunne. ‘The second one this month,' he said.

‘Yes, the Manners girl. She was one of mine.' Dr Foss took a proprietary interest in the victims whose death he was paid to certify. The more important and interesting work on them might be done later by forensic pathologists but he was one who saw them first. ‘Same MOD as the other girl. Manual, neat job.' He sounded almost admiring.

Coffin said nothing, Dr Foss did not grow on him.

‘She didn't struggle.' He added: ‘I had a quick look at her hands. Unmarked. Even the varnish isn't chipped. Of course, she chewed her fingernails so there wasn't much scratch in them.'

Nasty way he had of putting things, thought Coffin. ‘So the killer probably won't be marked?' Marianna Manners hadn't struggled either.

‘No. Pity.'

‘A willing victim?' Coffin said.

Foss nodded slowly. ‘You could say so.'

He delivered himself of a judgement: ‘Looks as if we've got a serial killer here.'

‘Fashionable beasts at the moment,' said Coffin absently. Get a run of killings and everyone cried serial killings. But they were not always. Killers imitated each other.

He could see the time had come to be tactful. It wasn't exactly that he had no business here, all police matters were his business, but the investigating team would prefer him to go away.