Wednesday evening, June 28, before dark
‘Do you think he means it?’ asked Archie Young.
The Chief Commander, and Inspector Young and Superintendent Lane were standing together, consulting with the Chief Superintendent of the uniformed branch. They were in front of the Kinver house and were visible to anyone looking from a window of that house.
They were not alone, the police were gathered in force around the Kinver home. Further down the road a police van with full radio and telephone communications was stationed, and tucked away round the corner was a vanful of armed policemen. Several armed men had already been placed at points of vantage on roofs or at nearby windows to cover as much as possible of the house. Round the back, in the garden, two men lay hidden in the bushes. All this had been done very quietly but at great speed.
Completely out of sight were two ambulances.
Beyond this again, and prevented by a police cordon from coming closer, was a crowd of onlookers and pressmen.
‘Do you think he’d really do it?’ said Archie again.
‘Certain of it,’ returned Coffin. He hadn’t liked the note in Fred Kinver’s voice at all.
The Chief Superintendent started to move his feet restlessly. Lane took this for a sign of tension, which it may or may not have been.
‘We can’t let him kill any more people,’ he said.
‘I have the greatest confidence in Inspector Lee,’ said the head of the uniformed branch. ‘He’s had a lot of experience, he was down at the Docks when the SS Athena was under siege. He knows what to do. He knows what to say.’
‘But Kinver isn’t talking.’
‘He will in the end. This is what it’s all about: watching and trying and trying again.’
All three men were aware of the Chief Commander’s presence and wishing he was safely tucked up in bed, or in New York, or in Brussels, anywhere but here.
Lane, although no longer as close to the man as he had been once, still read him better than the others. He’s not with us on this, he thought. He’s seeing things differently. He had known that happen in the past with Coffin, and it always meant something explosive in the air. He remained watchful of his boss as well as the Kinver house: you needed four eyes in this business.
Coffin stayed quiet. He too had been on these watches before and knew how to conserve his energies. He did not think Fred Kinver was murderous tonight, but he might very well be suicidal.
‘Is Fellaton coming down?’ Fellaton was the Home Office psychiatrist called in on these occasions.
‘Yes, sir. Lee asked for him at once. He’s on his way over. He was at the Barbican at a concert so he hasn’t got too far to come.’
Far enough. Long enough, it seemed to those waiting as the time passed and Kinver did not appear or answer his telephone.
When Professor Fellaton appeared, wearing a dark suit and looking serious he gave the quartet a bare nod and passed on to the radio car.
‘Hope he gets on with it,’ said Lane gloomily. ‘The longer it lasts, the worse it’ll be.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said John Coffin. He made his way over to Fellaton, a man he had met once before and on a similar occasion. A young man had shut himself and his young wife into his caravan, threatening to shoot them both if an attempt was made to arrest her. She was wanted for shoplifting. Professor Fellaton had concluded that she had sought arrest in order to escape from her violent husband. That episode had ended well, although the marriage, presumably, had not.
‘Anything you want,’ he said to Fellaton, ‘just let me know. Any back-up you need.’
‘Let you know.’ Fellaton’s famous gruff manner was well in evidence. ‘I’ve been briefed. Expect to manage. Ought to be able to talk him down.’ He was not precisely an optimist but he was a professional: he knew what he could achieve.
Coffin stayed for a while, then returned to the trio of watchers. They had now withdrawn to the shelter of a tree where mugs of coffee were being handed round.
Coffin took his mug, moving a few paces apart to lean against the comfortable tree-trunk. He remembered once, during that long-ago war, finding comfort in an air raid in the feel of the bark of a tree. It had smelt of continuing life and warmth in the face of a situation of considerable alarm and tension. He felt that way now; he needed to think.
Presently his eye caught a movement at one of the windows of the Kinver house. Fred Kinver threw open the window and appeared in the opening.
‘Here we go,’ said Archie Young’s voice behind him.
Fred Kinver was shouting something, the words difficult to hear. Professor Fellaton slowly came forward.
‘Now you lot keep quiet,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me and Jack Lee.’
As Coffin watched the scene, saw Fred waving and shouting from the window, heard the quiet voice of Lee relayed on speaker urging Fred to calm down and take his time, they had all the time in the world, a uniformed constable touched his arm. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a call come through for you.’
The news he heard was bad: two gangs of youths, the Planters and the Dreamers, had appeared on the streets and were on the rampage. Windows had been broken, cars overturned, fires started in the gutters and left to burn. The fire brigade had been called out to two incidents already, others could be expected. One man injured, he had a broken leg, a woman had been burnt rescuing her cat.
In addition, in what appeared to be a spontaneous but separate movement, the district of East Spinnergate which touched Leathergate down by Rope Alley was putting on its own passive but determined demonstration in favour of Fred Kinver. Citizens were flooding on to the streets, milling around, not yet aggressive, but angry. At any moment the whole scene could erupt.
As the evening went on, the gangs of Planters and Dreamers split into smaller groups. One group of Dreamers broke into Boots the Chemists again in search of drugs that they could inject, sniff or drink. Four youths from Planters stole a car and drove themselves round the streets and then turned towards St Luke’s Mansions. They were singing as they went. Stella Pinero heard the singing.
From the car stationed in Elder Street, Coffin had sent a message summoning the Chief Superintendent of the uniformed branch and they had gone back to the police headquarters to take control. Reserve units were called in, and a flying squad got ready to rush to crisis spots. Additional men were held back to be used as needed.
It was all according to long-prepared plans. Coffin and Chief Superintendent Ward knew what had to be done and got on with it. For the moment, restoring the civil peace of East Spinnergate and preventing disorder spreading to Leathergate and Swinehouse and East Hythe must come first.
Inspector Lee and the Professor were dealing with Fred Kinver and already the message had come back that it was going to be a long night.
In the course of the evening, having toured the disaffected area, Coffin went back to his office. He read all the reports of the action that were arriving on his desk. He had done all that could be done, now it was his part to be the still, controlling centre.
He drank some coffee. It was daylight outside, not much past the longest day of the year.
On his table was the preliminary report on the Paper Man for which he had asked from the Forensic Department. He pulled it towards him. It might make interesting reading.
He sat there, reading, while Stella was hearing the singing outside. She could not pick out the words, but she did not like the voices.
Presently his secretary, one of the lay assistants, came in with a fresh supply of coffee. She had a serious look on her face.
‘Good of you to come in. Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?’
‘I felt I ought to be here, sir, with all this going on,’ she said gravely. Her long thin face seemed to drop several inches. ‘Must face it together.’
Coffin took some more coffee. ‘We don’t have a revolution on our hands, Edith, although we may yet have a riot.’
She nodded her head in a doleful fashion. ‘There’s a lot of sympathy for Fred Kinver. Oh, by the way, the material from the Pedloe Street Allotments has been collected. A message came in while you were out.’
‘I believe there was a bit of obstruction, but nothing to stop them.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t know the details, although there’s talk about a diary, a sort of confession, wasn’t it, sir? Feelings are mixed about the poisonings but there’s a lot of sympathy for the reason behind it.’
Coffin took his coffee to the window. He could hear a police siren and then an ambulance.
‘I wonder if they would feel so sympathetic if they had read that diary?’ he said aloud.
Edith looked puzzled. ‘You mean … not someone to sympathize with?’
‘I think that diary shows a devious and cunning mind at work.’
‘Sir?’
‘Practical, too. Full of revenge, oh yes, and malice and hate.’
Edith looked frightened, as if what she had heard was something she would prefer not to understand. ‘I’ll take the dirty cup. Would you like me to bring in a sandwich or two?’ Her instincts were always those of a kind nanny.
‘Yes, later, please.’
‘Ham or cheese? Or beef?’
‘Anything you like.’
Coffin drew towards him the report on top of the pile. It was the forensic report on the dummy of the Paper Man. He had asked for it to be rushed through and accordingly this had been done. For once, he thought sourly.
He ran his eye over it. Almost at once, his gaze fell on a passage about the contact traces. A criminal is at risk the minute he or she touches anything.
The jacket worn by the dummy had been recently cleaned and there was a chemical residue to prove it. But in the pockets were minute shreds of tobacco together with flecks of paper, all of which had survived the cleaners. It looked as though the original owner had been a smoker who rolled his own cigarettes.
But on the front of the jacket were vegetable traces, probably from leaves, so perhaps he had been a gardener too. Also on the front of the jacket were hairs. These had been identified as dog hairs. Grey, white, and tan. These hairs, distributed over the front of the jacket, bore no sign of having been subjected to cleaning fluids and so might be presumed to come from the person who had put together the dummy.
There were plenty of dogs around, of course, thought Coffin. The Planter Estate and Dreamland were full of dogs, not to mention Feather Street.
He drank some more coffee. In No. 13 Elder Street, a siege was going on, because Fred Kinver, on what looked like solid evidence, was about to be arrested for the poisoning of the Zemans. In Leathergate and East Spinnergate there was civil disorder because a lot of his fellow citizens thought he was guilty but justified.
No sooner do you get a case set up in what looks like concrete, thought Coffin, than it begins to crack apart. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.
His telephone rang. He expected it to be either Lane or Young reporting on the siege in Elder Street. Over, he hoped. Or else Chief Superintendent Ward telling him the streets were quiet. Judging by the noise he could hear through his open window, this did not seem likely.
In St Luke’s Mansion, Stella Pinero heard the singing stop.
The voice on the telephone for John Coffin was that of Dr Angela Livingstone from her office in Leathergate.
She sounded nervous. ‘Sorry to bother you.’
I hope you won’t be, thought Coffin. He made a noncommittal noise.
‘I tried to get hold of Superintendent Lane or Inspector Young but they are not available.’
‘Occupied with other things.’
‘I can imagine.’ She had got over her nerves and was speaking with more confidence. ‘Look, I’ve heard about what is happening in Elder Street … Of course, I don’t know what evidence you’ve got, but there’s something I ought to tell you. I ought to have drawn attention to it earlier’—But I do find Lane obnoxious and this obscured my judgement. She did not, however, offer this excuse aloud. ‘The Digoxin tablets of which I found traces were blue in colour. They are more normally yellow. It can, of course be given in injections. Pediatricians use it that way.’
‘So?’
‘I think therefore that these tablets were a proprietary brand, much used in veterinary work.’
‘You mean they are given to dogs?’
‘That’s right, though other animals have it, too. But it is in wide use for animals.’
‘Thank you,’ said Coffin. He put the telephone down.
The crack in the case had widened.
He went back to the window. The air seemed quieter, which might be a good sign. He returned to the telephone and asked to speak to Inspector Lee in the radio van.
‘How are things?’
‘No strong developments as such, but Kinver is talking. He might let his wife out. He’s half suggested it.’
‘Would that be a good idea?’
‘Depends. Might mean he’s going to give up. Or might mean he’s thinking of killing himself.’
Coffin considered the situation. He ought to be in two places, if not three, at once, but he had to choose. He knew without much thought what his choice would be.
‘I’m going to be out of touch for a little while,’ said Coffin. ‘You can always reach Ward, and you have plenty of back-up.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘There is something I have to do.’ And I want to do it myself.
His code name was WALKER and he was known to take tours around his own territory. Unobtrusively dressed, walking fast, he liked to see for himself.
Before he left, he managed to talk to Chief Superintendent Ward, who reported that he thought he had things under control, though you could never be quite sure what would break out, but he didn’t need the troops in just yet. A gang of the Planters was on the loose but he’d soon have them. He sounded confident.
But then he always did, thought Coffin, as he walked on soft feet downhill towards Feather Street, it was what had brought him promotion, but it was not always justified.
The summer sky was beginning to darken but it was by no means night yet. He walked down Feather Street, which was quiet, and turned into the front garden of the house where the Marshes, father and son lived. He had a hope that Jim was at home, a light shone from the hall.
Jim himself opened the door. He looked startled to see his visitor.
‘Are you on your own, Jim?’
‘Dad’s upstairs. He’s asleep. He said he’d seen all the riots and demos he wanted and was tired.’
‘It was you I wanted. I want you to tell me which vet the Zeman dogs were sent to.’
‘Mr Dibbin. Just round the corner from here.’
‘Is he home?’
Jim shrugged.
‘Take me there.’
‘What, me?’
‘Yes, you, Jim.’
‘Well, I hope he’s sober,’ said Jim with philosophy.
John Dibbin was indeed sober. Coffin wondered if Jim had maligned him. He had already decided not to believe all Jim told him. An inventive mind there.
He introduced himself and asked for a word in private. ‘In your consulting room?’ There was a strong smell of disinfectant and dog in the hall, not unpleasant but individual, a smell you would know again. ‘You wait here, Jim.’
Jim, standing outside heard nothing of what went on inside. After a bit, he put his ear to the door. He heard Coffin say:
‘So you are, in fact, casual about how many tablets you hand out? And consequently, how many you have lost.’
Jim giggled. You could say that again.
The door opened and Coffin appeared. ‘Don’t go, Jim.’ He took a grip on Jim’s arm. ‘We’ll walk together. You heard that, did you?’
‘Just that last bit.’ Jim strode forward, up the hill to Feather Street. ‘It’s just the last bit of proof you needed, isn’t it. Fred used to do odd jobs down there. I suppose he helped himself to the Digoxin. And the tin trunk, smelt like Mr Dibbin, didn’t it, that trunk?’
‘Possibly. You seem to have heard a lot.’
Jim slowed down. ‘Well, maybe I listened to a bit more than I said. Still, it’s where Fred got the stuff.’
‘He could have done,’ said Coffin, ‘if he’d wanted to, or needed to. In fact, his wife had a supply.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’
‘But I don’t think he used the drug from either source. In fact, I don’t believe he used anything.’
‘Oh.’ Jim sounded shocked. ‘But the diary, what about that? And the letters?’
‘He didn’t write those. Oh yes, he collected those cuttings about me, that was the genuine Fred Kinver effort, but the rest … a fabrication, Jim, by someone too clever by half. You can tell a lot of things from forensic evidence, which often contradicts what you get from other sources. Dogs’ hair on a jacket on a dummy. Hairs from dogs like Arthur and Bob. But the most valuable evidence is what you see for yourself. I told you how I went in a helicopter over all this place. I saw then all the little paths and tracks across the Feather Street gardens, and I thought: Anyone who wanted to could get from any one of those houses and into the back door of another. Quite a little network of communication to anyone who had the freedom of them. I saw that myself.’
‘Well, good for you,’ said Jim cockily.
‘And I also saw your face down at the allotments when you got out that box. You were pleased. Too pleased with yourself, Jim, and not quite clever enough. The person who finds a box like that is likely to be the person who put it there.’
They had stopped under a tree in Feather Street, Jim with his back to it.
‘You were the Paper Man, Jim, you made up the dummy and put Kinver’s diary in the shed. You wrote that diary. It was your style, not his, and you betrayed yourself with every sentence. Too clever, Jim. It was all too clever, poisoning the Zemans, one by one, in their own food. I don’t suppose they noticed you coming and going. And I’m told you’re a fair cook. If a lethal one. I’m not sure yet in what food you put the poison, but I guess chocolate pudding, chocolate cake and chocolate biscuits, because chocolate would hide the taste and colour. And perhaps you put a touch in the gazpacho soup as well. It was your luck that the Zemans took your chocolate pudding out of the freezer that night, and Dr Felicity’s luck that she only had time for a spoonful of soup. No, don’t run, Jim.’ Coffin reached out an arm and gripped him. ‘We have a police car following us. I took that precaution.’
‘They deserved it,’ screamed Jim, losing control. ‘Fred Kinver was a rotten father to Anna, he didn’t deserve her. And Tim Zeman killed her, I know he did, or as good as. I was there. And the rest of that rotten family would have got him off. I would have done for the lot if my father hadn’t got there too soon. I wish I’d poisoned him as well, and I would have done if I could have, I know he did for my mother. I hate them all.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And I found Anna, remember that, I found Anna Mary, I saw what she looked like, heard what she said, it was him, Zeman, that gave me a right.’
A dark car drew up to the kerb. Coffin pushed Jim in. ‘Get in. I’ll deal with this in my way and in my own time.’ He was without sympathy: he was aware of a thick band of anger inside him. Jim Marsh deserved whatever was waiting for him. He was no killer from a sense ofjustice, just a killer.
On the car telephone he spoke to the radio car in Elder Street and instructed the unit there to call across to Fred Kinver that he was not suspected of mass poisoning.
‘That ought to bring him in quietly.’
A report awaited him when he got back to his office from Chief Superintendent Ward that all was quietening down nicely.
All quiet.
Quiet for Stella Pinero too. The quietness of being shut up in a room with someone of whom she was terrified.