Friday, June 16, through to Saturday
The death of Mrs Zeman cast a cloud over the community of Feather Street. In her time she had quarrelled with most of them, but always made it up again. She was a respected and even admired figure. It was a tense time even though Feather Street did not, of course, know of the sinister letter to John Coffin from the Paper Man.
Now they felt they had two sadnesses to mourn: first the murder of Anna Mary Kinver and now the death of Kay Zeman.
Instructed in tact by his superiors, Detective-Inspector Archie Young had decided to leave the Zemans alone until after the funeral, but a discreet eye was kept on the household. Dr Zeman handed his work over to his assistant for the time being, Timmy Zeman kept to the house, and only Felicity went off to her clinics as usual, she said you couldn’t ignore sick children no matter what. And, naturally, Arthur the white peke went out for his walks also as usual. He could not be ignored either.
Councillor Mary Anneck was absent from several of her committees and her son Peter and her daughter and the daughter’s boyfriend held back from playing loud pop music. Only the dog Edie carried on with life as normal, taking her walks and snarling at Jumbo. Jumbo spent a lot of time in his kennel where Philippa had tethered him as a mark of mourning.
The dog Bob, on the other hand, got even more walks, petting and extra tidbits because everyone was sorry for him. So much Kay’s dog, they said, he loved her, he must be missing her. He was living the life of Riley.
The Marshes, father and son, carried on much as before, but Chris Marsh had concluded that the Zemans would not be drinking as much milk as before and, unasked, cut down his delivery to both households to one pint a day. Jim walked the dogs as always, since dogs have their own ways of getting their revenge if walks are denied them. Feather Street valued its carpets and furnishings too much to make life awkward for their demanding pets. Anyway, Jim, who respected the animals, would have done the job.
Feather Street had a thoroughly uneasy feeling about the death of Kay. Shouldn’t have come just now, they thought. She wouldn’t have wanted it. She would have wanted to stay around and protect her beloved grandson Timmy.
On the other hand, the communal but largely unexpressed view was that it was lucky for Val. Oh, she was miserable, in spite of their quarrels she had loved the old lady. They were pretty sure she had loved her, that is, but she had certainly been a barrier to her affair with Leonard Zeman.
They knew all about that business even if they did not talk about it much. On the whole they thought it would be nice for Leonard to have Val as his wife in place of that Felicity who was never home looking after son, dog or husband, but always absent doing good elsewhere, one presumed. Feather Street was public-spirited but thought home should come first.
Over coffee in her kitchen Councillor Mary Anneck said as much to Phil Darbyshire. They were back from the funeral.
‘Val’ll get some good out of it. Leonard will divorce Felicity.’
‘Do you think so?’ She crumbled one of Mary Anneck’s famous dry shortbread biscuits. Biscuits in the Anneck household were either dry and stale or soft and stale. She was noted for it. Philippa had made the coffee herself, so it was hot and strong.
‘They’ll come to some arrangement.’ With annoyance Phil saw Mary Anneck pour water into the coffee to weaken it and then milk to cool it. Good food was wasted on Mary, she actually preferred the poor stuff. ‘Kay was the real stumbling block for Leonard. For Val too, probably. Emotionally, I mean. Marvellous the control that old lady had over them all.’
‘I liked her, though, didn’t you? I was terrified of her when we first came to live here, but after a while I saw all the warmth and mirth under the sharpness.’
Oh, she was a warrior all right. They don’t build them like that any more.’ Long years on public committees had taught Mary the art of the cliché. She spoke in well-used clumps of words, knowing she did it. It was a kind of shorthand and it saved her the trouble of thinking when she was miserable or disturbed as she was now. She didn’t want to think there was any connection between the death of Kay Zeman and the death of Anna Mary Kinver, but she couldn’t help wondering underneath.
Phil said it openly: ‘You don’t think she thought Tim had killed the girl and that brought on the heart attack?’
‘She’d never believe he did it.’ Mary’s tone was tentative. In her opinion, Kay Zeman could easily believe her grandson guilty of rape and murder. In her long life she had seen many terrible things happen to nice people, and known of nice people doing horrible things. Her generation, her race, had had to face that reality. Kay anyway had proclaimed her readiness to believe in the evil of the human animal.
‘She might have known something.’
‘Ah,’ Mary took one of her own biscuits and, finding it hard and dry, absently dunked it in her coffee, now nicely chilled, to soften it. ‘Come on, you’ve got something on your mind. Tell Mary.’
‘Val knows something. She told Stella Pinero she wanted to talk to the police but didn’t know how to set about it.’
‘You just go down and start talking.’
‘She wanted to be sure of talking to the right person, of course. She knew Stella knows John Coffin.’
He was a familiar figure in the neighbourhood. He lived in St Luke’s Mansions, he was often at the Theatre Workshop, he was a friend of Stella Pinero (some said more than that), and Mimsie Marker had pronounced him a good bloke. Not one of your common policemen.
‘Ah. Val say anything to you?’
Phil shook her head. ‘No, that’s what makes me think it’s serious information. Hard evidence.’
About Timmy Zeman? Mary Anneck chewed over the thought. Would Val tell anything she knew about her nephew? Tentatively, she put her own position.
‘I’ve had a word with Peter and Hester, they seem in the clear. Hadn’t seen much of Anna Mary for quite a while. These teenage relationships do come and go, you know. Hester says Andrew, that’s her current boy, never knew Anna at all. Well, by sight, but not to speak to. They do seem a bit tentative about Timmy, though. Something there but I can’t quite get at it.’
If Phil thought Mary was too trusting about her own brood (and she did), she didn’t say so. ‘You’ve got to believe in your own children,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s absolutely vital. Terrible repercussions on family life if you don’t.’ But she knew that you could never be quite sure you saw through to the heart of anyone, not even your own children.
Especially not your own children.
‘Harold knew her too, didn’t he?’ Mary carefully avoided her friend’s eyes as she put the question. A sensitive one.
‘Taught her a bit. Clever kid. He liked her.’ Phil made her voice sound generous, warm.
That was the right way to handle Mary and her query. Sound matter-of-fact, which she didn’t actually feel, by the way. A terrible chasm opened beneath her feet every time she considered Anna Mary and Harold.
Phil put the pot of coffee back on the stove and turned on the gas. She had known Mary long enough to take the liberty. In any case, Mary herself was detached about her kitchen. The Annecks’ kitchen was full of sun and warmth, lined with excellent equipment largely unused, since Mary opened a tin or a frozen packet whenever she could. A tin-opener was her preferred tool. Philippa herself cooked vegetarian style and that was cooking, as she often said with pride. Not many quick cuts with nuts and legumes.
‘So what has Val said?’ asked Mary. ‘Any idea?’
‘She hasn’t said anything yet. Kay dying like that … didn’t seem the time, I suppose.’
Phil has kept a pretty close tab on developments, thought Mary. She was closer to Stella than was Mary herself, who was always so busy with her public duties but yielding to no one in her admiration of Stella as an artist.
‘How did you think Val looked?’
‘Pretty awful. Didn’t look too well at all. I think she’s got a bad cold.’ It was amazing how often grief and misery translated itself into physical terms. ‘Leonard didn’t look up to much either. You can never tell with Felicity, she’s got those steady good looks.’
‘I’d call her hard,’ said Mary. From a spot at her feet, Edie gave a low growl. ‘Kind but hard.’ She dropped a biscuit down to Edie who picked it up to carry to her basket. Presently, defeated by it, she buried it under her blanket. Time would soften it. ‘Lovely funeral, wasn’t it? Beautiful flowers.’
‘Kay would have wanted that.’
‘Did you see Fred Kinver at the funeral? Came to the grave. Not Mrs Kinver, just Fred. I didn’t like that much.’
Phil put down her mug of coffee, you never got a cup at Mary’s, always great thick mugs, and lucky if they weren’t chipped. She had even been known to offer disposable plastic beakers. ‘Yes, I saw. I didn’t care for it either.’
There was a moment while they both sat silent.
Mary said: ‘Wonder what Val’s got on her mind?’
Phil shook her head. ‘No idea. I’d be glad to know. Be glad when we do know.’ If ever. ‘I identify with Val. Don’t you?’
‘Don’t think so, no, I’m sure I don’t. Got too many other worries of my own without taking hers on.’
‘Worrying, though, all of it, isn’t it?’
‘Let’s keep our worries to ourselves, shall we, Phil?’
Phil nodded. ‘Sure … I’ve only said something to you because, well, we’re all in it together.’
The Feather Streeters may have thought their worries were private to them, but it was not so.
Versions of their anxieties filtered back to John Coffin, transmitted by Stella Pinero. He had to assume Archie Young knew of them, too.
The fact was that these anxieties were diffused, personalized reflections of lines of inquiry really being pursued by the police.
They were interested in all the young friends of Anna Mary Kinver. This included the Anneck boys, the Darbyshire kids, as well as Tim Zeman, not to mention others from the disco.
They knew of the work that Harold Darbyshire had done with Anna Mary, and they knew that Anna Mary had said, possibly in joke, possibly not, that he was nice but a bit of a creep.
Solomon Wild was on remand; he would be charged with arson for burning down one floor of the Darling Road Hostel for Men. Not forgotten by any means by the police team, who had the feeling that there was gold there if they could only strike it, he had been questioned several times about the murder of Anna Mary. He had ceased to say that he did it, but had added one crucial detail to what had gone on: Anna Mary had not screamed, nor tried to run away, she had walked slowly towards her killer. So he claimed.
‘She knew him, she was walking towards someone she knew and had no need to fear,’ Archie Young had said. ‘I hate to give Kinver best, he’s been a real pain, poor chap, but he may have been right in thinking she named Zeman.’
This had been said at a meeting on the Paper Man (a report of which would go later to John Coffin), chaired by Superintendent Paul Lane and attended by Archie Young together with several colleagues, one a woman sergeant who specialized in crimes against women.
This figure was so far a secret from the general public, although the Press had, somehow, got wind of his existence.
‘Larry Hemms of Newsworld rang me to ask about it,’ reported Young.
‘How the devil did he get to know?’ said Lane angrily. He liked his security to be tight, and in spite of past experiences really believed it could be managed.
Young shrugged. ‘It’s his job.’
‘Well, I won’t ask how he got the information.’
No, don’t, thought Archie Young, or I might be obliged to tell you. He suspected a young detective-constable who drank in the same pub as Larry Hemms. He had already warned the chap.
‘They haven’t printed anything. But that won’t last.’
‘I’m surprised no newspaper has had a letter,’ said someone.
‘He might get round to it.’
‘Are we assuming that there are going to be other letters?’ said Lane tartly.
‘I am,’ said Young. He was closer to the coal face, as it were, and could feel vibrations coming at him. ‘We’ve had more than one, there’ll be others. He’s that sort.’
Everyone present had photocopies of the two letters. So far there had been no detailed scientific examination of them, apart from a careful fingerprint check. The always busy police scientists had plenty of other work on hand and, not having been asked to give the letters priority, had not done so, but other tests might come later. It depended on what the Paper Man got up to in the future and how important he was judged to be. At the moment there were suggestions about the magazines and newspapers from which the letters had been cut. A couple of tabloids with colour printing, and the Radio and TV Times seemed to have been favoured. Everyone had access to them, nothing unusual to seize on there. The letters had been stuck on to poor quality paper, apparently torn from an old notebook. The same notebook in each case.
The notebook was an old one with yellowing pages. It had been around somewhere for a good few years and got stained with some unidentifiable substance. Not badly stained, just spattered here and there. It had a faintly medicinal smell to it.
‘Are we taking these letters seriously or not?’ asked Lane.
‘I am,’ said Young. ‘I don’t know quite what they mean or why they are coming, but I smell trouble.’
He was in there somewhere, doing something, the writer of these letters, and time would show what it was. Young did not know if he hoped this or feared it.
‘So what does this “one death” mean? Does he mean the death of Anna Mary Kinver? Or some other death? One we don’t know about yet?’
‘You tell me,’ said Young. ‘And one death … that implies death two, doesn’t it?’
The discussion moved back to the murder of Anna Mary. It was at this point that Archie Young made the remark about Anna Mary and Solomon Wild.
As the meeting drew to an end, and the discussion became desultory, Paul Lane quietly turned off the tape-recorder on his desk.
John Coffin, who had played the tape-recording of the meeting as soon as he got it that day, had the two letters from the Paper Man on his desk where he could watch them, almost as if he expected them to burst into active and baleful life. He put a paperweight on them absently while he read the minutes of a meeting on Inner City Crime, which he had chaired, and checked the agenda for yet another on finance. He had an excellent financial adviser but he had learnt from experience that the placing of items on the agenda of a meeting was vital. Near the end, when energy was spent was where to place an item on which opposition could be expected. He had a very aggressive local administration and opposition to the police could be counted on. There were one or two items about police expenditure he was anxious to get through and he did not want any sardonic comments about the cost of riot shields.
It all came back to the division in the community he served that worried him so much. Graffiti on the walls, violence on the streets, a feeling of hate. He loved his London, he didn’t want it to be like this.
Lately, the property owned by his sister where he lived himself in St Luke’s Mansions, as well as the Theatre Workshop and the site for the new theatre, now being dug over, had been the focus for attacks. His own car had been damaged, and the walls of the Theatre Workshop daubed:
Yuppies go home, the message had read, and leave our district to us.
Stella Pinero had caused it to be wiped out, but next day another message took its place.
Give us back our territory, this message had said.
It was gone now, Stella had acted quickly, although she was getting uneasy.
Territory was the heart of it, Coffin thought. Man is a territorial animal. Perhaps even rape was a means of marking his patch.
He put his hand over the letter from the Paper Man. He, and the murderer of Anna Mary Kinver, and people like Solomon Wild, thrown back to community care when the community did not want him and had nowhere to put him, were part of the same problem.
Coffin played the tape of the meeting again, moving it forward to the bit he wanted, and listened to Archie Young’s voice recounting Solomon Wild’s words.
He reflected on Solomon Wild who had reported that Anna Mary had ‘walked towards’ her killer.
He would say that, Coffin thought, if she was walking towards him, and he was the attacker. That is what he would see.
Only the forensic evidence protected him. Another man had been the rapist.
Solomon might have been helping, though. Held the girl down while the rape went on.
It was something to be considered. Ideas sprouted in his mind like weeds after rain, none of them pleasant. He did not live in a pleasant world.
He turned the tape back to the discussion on the letter from the Paper Man. He too had wondered what the phrase Death Number One meant.
He looked at his watch, time had gone fast, the afternoon was drawing to a close, already his secretary had brought in two trays of tea and taken each away untouched. Val Humberstone was due to call on him in St Luke’s Mansions for a drink and a talk later that day.
Was Stella Pinero going to be there? She had set the interview up and would bring Val in, but would probably then tactfully take herself off. That was what he hoped, but you could never be quite sure with Stella, she might feel it her task to stay there and protect Val Humberstone from the wicked police. She said she had no idea what Val wanted to say.
He assumed that it would be something about the death of Anna Mary and the involvement of Timmy Zeman, but it might not be. Val had sat on this communication of hers for some time now, the death of Kay Zeman intervening, but now she wanted to talk.
He took the tape with him, put the letters from the Paper Man (now neatly enclosed in a plastic envelope) in his case, and set out.
He walked home. He was WALKER after all and on foot was a good way to keep an eye on his territory.
There it was, that word again. A good word, a useful word in the right context but dangerous in its content.
He deliberately walked home through Elder Street so that he could see how the Kinver house looked. You could tell sometimes what was going on with the inhabitants from the look of a house.
No. 13 seemed quiet and tidy, the garden needed a thorough weed, but, no gardener himself, this did not worry him. The curtains were drawn back, that was a good sign, the windows all closed, the front door closed. He couldn’t see the back door from the road, but he would take a bet that was closed too. Slight touch of fortress mentality there, but to be expected.
He walked on, realizing that he was both hungry and thirsty. And deeply uneasy.
What about the Kinvers? What about the Zemans? What about Feather Street?
Feather Street was miserable. In Elder Street, unaware that John Coffin had just passed through, things were looking up.
Fred Kinver and his wife were in the kitchen which overlooked the rear garden, thus they had not observed the Chief Commander’s inspection. Here they were eating a cooked high tea of fish and chips, prepared by Mrs Kinver. Fred was eating with appetite at last.
‘I enjoyed the funeral,’ he said, buttering a slice of bread and butter.
‘Oh, Fred, you shouldn’t talk like that.’
‘Why not? I did enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I? One of them is gone.’
‘An old lady, Fred.’
‘They were able to bury the old lady, weren’t they? We haven’t buried Anna Mary yet.’
The police had not yet released for burial their daughter’s body. Mrs Kinver closed her eyes, it did not do to dwell on this fact, nor the reasons for it.
‘Miss Humberstone didn’t look too well,’ observed Fred, not without pleasure. ‘Pass the jam, will you?’
‘Strawberry jam, the make you like, Tiptree. I bought it specially.’ She pushed the jar across. ‘There’s a programme on the Telly tonight you usually watch.’ Not quite true, he had not watched it for days now, but it was worth a try. Normality might never come back, but she knew you must make a play for it. ‘Or there’s that video you enjoy. I like it myself, let’s watch it again.’ She didn’t really like it that much, it was macabre.
Fred’s eyes flicked towards the rack where he kept the videos, those he owned and those he borrowed. ‘Think I’ll pop down the allotment.’ He had a packet of cuttings about John Coffin in his pocket which needed sticking in his album. The library had seen a lot of him lately.
‘Oh.’ She was disappointed. Back to that, she thought; still, he had eaten well and, granted the great misery that still rested on them both, he seemed in better spirits. Not exactly happy, but more positive.
She submitted to being locked in the house if that was a comfort to him, but she had long since provided herself with a key.
If she had to get out, then she would. She always had the fear that some day she would have to rescue Fred from something and that she’d better be ready. He wasn’t the strong one in the family, she was.
The Paper Man was also happy. Things were working the way he wanted, justice was being done all round. He was very well aware that his life was, in its own way, running parallel with that of Fred Kinver.
He too was cutting up pieces of newspaper, pasting what he had cut out on other paper. Making messages.
He too had a spot he called his own in the allotments. Not far from Fred Kinver, very close to Fred Kinver’s.
That same evening, he too was there. Inside Fred’s office, as a matter of fact, although a little later than Fred, and pretty pleased with himself.
He had made up a person, created someone, this person was the Paper Man, and only he knew who the Paper Man was destined to be. Himself and yet not himself.
Almost all would be revealed in due course. He felt himself to be in charge of the scene. He was pulling the strings and the puppets were moving according to his desires.
When Fred Kinver had finished his office work for the evening, then the Paper Man moved in and completed his own, burying it like a dog with his bone as before.
Soon he would have a second death to write about.
Earlier that same evening, the day of the funeral, Jim and Val Humberstone had met in the kitchen, where Val now held sway. The mongrel dog Bob had had an early walk and was now eating his supper at her feet. He had not noticed the absence of Kay Zeman. Out of sight, out of mind, was how he lived, even though everyone thought he might pine.
‘Thanks, Jim. Behaved all right, did he?’
‘Bob’s always a good boy.’ He patted Bob’s head, Bob went on eating regardless, but he moved his face protectively closer to his food bowl. ‘Wouldn’t mind having him as my dog.’
‘I’ll remember that, Jim.’ She pressed her head. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Are you all right, Miss Val?’ He always called her that, he would have liked her a lot if she had not been so keenly focused on Leonard and Timmy Zeman.
‘Got a bad cold, I’d like to take a drink to bed.’
‘Whisky and lemon is good.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes wandered to the tin of drinking chocolate on the side. Hot milky chocolate was more her style. Soothing, sweet. Some of those chocolate cakes that she loved. ‘But I’ve got to go out, unluckily.’
‘Well, don’t bother then, Miss Val,’ said Jim soothingly. Off to have a drink in St Luke’s Mansions with the policeman. There wasn’t much he didn’t get to know about his employers in Feather Street. They were good talkers and quite often shouted, you only needed sharp ears and an accurate memory. He and the dogs were an essential part of the workings of Feather Street. He told the dogs everything, even Jumbo, who was a bastard but not to be blamed for what was not his fault, and thought more of them than the families. The Annecks, the Darbyshires, the Zemans, what were they but a lot of snobs?
He had picked up the whiff of alienation in the air, knew he did not like the police, nor the government, nor a lot of the people he saw around him, but he was not yet sure on which side of the great divide he stood, except he did not think it was with the Feather Street lot.
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I must go. I owe it to Timmy.’
‘Owe Timmy, Miss Val?’
‘Yes, you wouldn’t understand.’ She sighed again, and it turned into a cough. ‘I must. There are some things we have to do, Jim.’
If she must go, she must, thought Jim. He agreed with her that some things had to be done. Like walking dogs, and delivering the milk. Having babies and dropping dead. He thought he knew about what you had to do as much as most … She didn’t look up to it, though, she’d be better dealing with that cold.
Val said: ‘Do I owe you anything?’ He liked to be paid on time, as, who didn’t?
‘No, you paid me,’ he reminded her. ‘Before … before Mrs Zeman died.’
‘Oh yes, so I did.’ She might so easily have forgotten in the confusions of her aunt’s sudden death and the funeral. What a beautiful face Jim had, she thought, like a Botticelli angel, at once loving, yet intellectual and withdrawn. No doubt, this look would not survive his adolescence, but he had it now. He was a good cook too, had some of her best recipes, it was amazing what people were. ‘But there’s this week. I’ll just get my purse.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Val.’
‘Oh, I will. The weekend is coming, after all. You might be glad of it.’
She got her purse, and paid the boy, who nodded gravely.
‘Goodbye, Jim.’ She dragged herself up the stairs to get ready for her meeting with John Coffin. She had a new dress, but possibly the day of a family funeral was not the time to wear it.
Her bedroom was warm in the late afternoon sun which made pools of light on the dressing-table where the shiny dark mahogany showed up the dust of several days. Val sat down and saw herself in the glass.
‘Poor old thing, look at you.’ She picked up the hairbrush, but it felt too heavy to lift and her arm reluctant to do the service. ‘It’s only a summer cold, they are always the worst, although Leonard says that’s nonsense. I’ll have a hot drink and feel better.’
Not hot chocolate, she would have a cup of tea, and something to eat. With surprise, she realized that she had hardly eaten all day. Felicity had provided drinks and sandwiches after the funeral, but she hadn’t touched a thing. She couldn’t eat Felicity’s food while thinking what she did. Tim hadn’t eaten much either, poor lad, but then he had other worries.
The police had set up another interview, oh, politely, of course, but advised him to bring a solicitor. His father too, if he liked. They would be asking for body specimens. Everyone knew what that meant.
‘I can help you, Tim,’ she said to her reflection, ‘but whether you will be pleased with me for doing it is more than I can say.’
Her reflection frowned back at her. ‘I ought to pluck my eyebrows,’ she told her face. ‘I look heavy and dull today.’ It was one of those days all women know when their faces do not belong to them.
Stella Pinero was in the room and looking good. She was an actress and knew how to manage her face.
Even though he didn’t want her in the room and wished she’d go away, Coffin liked the way she looked.
Of course she was there with a purpose, Stella usually was. She might act casually, but she was really walking in a straight line for what she wanted.
Coffin had got home eventually, after his detour round Elder Street. He had thought about viewing Feather Street but had decided Not Today, after all, Val Humberstone would be calling on him, and he wanted to be there. He sensed it was going to be important. The weekend was approaching, but that didn’t mean much to him, these days.
Before he had the door closed behind him, Stella had rung the bell and was in before he could say Hello.
‘I usually love seeing you, Stella, but tonight I am tired and need a shower and a drink. What is it you want? Haven’t you got a play to produce?’
‘In train. I’ll pour you a drink.’ She was wearing white trousers and a cream shirt. ‘I need one myself.’
‘Give me five minutes.’ He disappeared into the bedroom.
Stella sank back in a chair with her drink. She knew from experience that five minutes could mean anything. Soon she heard water running in the shower.
‘You hungry?’ she called out. ‘I’ve got Harry Beauchamp and Dick coming in for a meal. Max is sending something round. Join us.’
‘Thank you, I would, but you might remember that Val Humberstone is also coming round.’
‘But of course I remember. I’m inviting her too. I’ll just wait till she gets here, say Hello, invite her, and then take Harry and Dick tactfully away to check on the wine, they love thinking about wine, and she can talk. Plenty of food for us all, do her good to get out. I thought she looked terrible at the funeral. You weren’t there, by the way.’
Stella got up and carried his drink in to the shower.
‘Here, wait a minute, Stella,’ he protested. ‘Let me get something on.’
‘I’m theatre, ducky, remember? I don’t notice anything like that.’ Or only when I choose to, she thought happily. Men were such prudes.
She took her drink back to the sitting-room, sipped it, then called out: ‘Don’t you want to know why I came before Val? I’m worried.’
Coffin appeared at the door, dressed and carrying his drink.
‘I think I need police protection,’ she said. ‘Or the theatre does. Both of us, all of us. We’ve had more nasty messages painted on the wall. Threatening to burn us down this time, I think they mean business.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘If they burn us down, then they might burn your flat down too.’
‘Now there is a thought,’ said Coffin, sitting down and finishing his drink. ‘That would upset Letty, her investment going up in smoke.’
‘It wouldn’t do much for me.’ Stella stood up, tall and cross. ‘You’d better take this seriously.’
‘I do, Stella, I do.’
‘You’re not doing anything about it, though.’
‘What I can.’ How could he get across to her the complexities he faced? The hostility and suspicion from various groups, the steady pressure of organized pressure groups, and always, of course, the operations of the dirty tricks brigade. Some of the hostility and suspicion came from his own side, too.
‘Not enough, though, I’ll probably have to get beaten up or raped or something before you lot operate. I nearly caught the nasty lout that painted the last messages on the wall, but he ran off. He turned and showed his teeth at me like a dog. Horrid crooked yellow teeth, too.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I shouted Clean your teeth.’
In spite of himself, Coffin laughed. ‘They’ll never beat you, Stella.’ He remembered something. It might suit him to meet Sir Harry. ‘I’d like to have a word with Harry Beauchamp. He may have some useful photographs of Rope Alley.’
‘Bloody policeman,’ she said. Not entirely amiably. ‘I don’t believe you’d care if I did get raped or killed.’
It got under his skin. He gripped her wrist, hard, tight. ‘Yes, Stella, bloody. Police work is bloody. Literally so quite often. It is bloody, terrible, frightful, frightening and unpleasant. You can feel cut off from the rest of the group you live in. You are cut off. I’ve shielded you from all that, Stella. You think you understand, but you don’t.’
They were standing there, still confronting each other when the sound of Max’s voice could be heard from the stairs. He seemed to be talking about Chicken Maryland.
‘Not nice work, Stella.’ Coffin dropped her arm. ‘And it makes me not a nice man, remember that.’
‘That’s Max,’ said Stella. She withdrew her arm, rubbing her wrist.
‘Yes, that’s Max.’
‘Are you coming to eat?’
Hostility was still bristling between them.
‘I’ve told you: I’ve got Val coming.’
‘Leave a note.’
‘I can’t do that.’
From the stairs another voice had joined Max’s, this one talking of chilled white wine.
‘That’s Harry,’ said Stella. ‘I know. Let’s all have dinner right here.’ And she darted towards the door, calling as she went.
I never learn, thought Coffin, she’s done it again. Another party is assembling here.
He reached out an arm and stopped her. ‘Wait a minute. I do take your alarms seriously, and I do mind very much the tensions that are building up. I’m doing what I can.’
Stella leaned forward and kissed him.
A soft voice from the open door, said: ‘Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lot of food piling up on the stairs.’
Coffin drew away.
‘Bring it down here, please. Sir Harry. We’re eating here.’
Max and his youngest daughter, the one they called ‘The Beauty’ (and who had been very beautiful at fifteen but was steadily growing less beautiful with every year that passed, as is the way with some girls), carried in the heated containers. Max had but recently added this delivery-at-home service to his delicatessen, he was very anxious to make it a success because he hoped, when the big theatre was finally in operation, to do the catering for it. As it was, he provided sandwiches and quiches and cream layer cakes of great richness for the bar which was all the Theatre Workshop ran to at the moment.
He was extremely anxious to please Stella Pinero and John Coffin, both of them powerful figures in his world. From his point of view, Sir Harry was a joyful addition to his circle. A patron, indeed.
‘Put the tray of garlic bread on the side, Bella.’ Bella was the Beauty daughter. ‘The salad on the table.’ He rested a big covered dish on a tray on a side table. ‘I brought plates and cutlery, Miss Pinero, I didn’t know how you were placed for them … Shall I lay the table.’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Stella was prancing around holding several bottles of white wine. She seemed enlivened by her quarrel with Coffin whereas he still felt bruised. He had noticed before that she always came out of an altercation in high spirits. Possibly it was all an act.
Stella was acting all the time. He had to consider that.
‘The wine is chilled, no more freezing, please, or it will spoil. The salad is organic. Miss Goldstone said to me that unless all my fruit and vegetables are organic she will no longer eat with me.’ He sighed. Life was difficult, the organic vegetables and salad did not look as neat, pretty and well matched as the old ones, but Lily Goldstone was another star in his heaven.
From the door, he said: ‘And the chicken is free-range. Miss Goldstone says I must.’
‘Why does everyone take so much notice of Lily Goldstone?’ asked Sir Harry, as Max got himself and Beauty out of the room and he himself opened a bottle of wine. His friend Dick had crept quietly into the room and was effacing himself against the wall.
‘Because she’s Lily,’ said Stella simply.
Lily Goldstone, a surpassing actress, an ardent lover (when the mood took her), and affectionate mother and daughter, was a keen campaigner for anything that took her eye. It might be anything. Naturally theatre matters got most of her attention, but other causes from battery chickens to mink coats and Mrs Thatcher might come the way of her attentions.
‘She might be looking in later,’ went on Stella. ‘We have things to talk about. She’s got a new name to put on The Black List and wants Equity to do something about it.’
The Black List was the tally of companies and producers who had let Equity members down. Usually by going bankrupt and not paying them. The list was long. It fluctuated. Names went on it, then came off, then went on again. There was a hard core of names that never seemed to get free, caught in a web of debt for ever. Everyone knew them. You cut your theatrical teeth on the names not to take work with. Didn’t mean you didn’t do it sometimes, though, in desperation and hope that this time it would be different.
‘She’s heard of a production company that engaged a whole cast, jugglers and all for a revival of Kismet, rehearsed for two weeks, played for another two at Bottingham Playhouse and never paid a penny … Second time it’s done it, too. Change of name, of course. Fiesta Productions the first time and Happy Days the second time round. It was Billericay the first time. JoJo Bell was the Equity dep … Naturally she’s indignant. She got on to Lily.’
‘Wasn’t it silly of JoJo to join up?’ Coffin knew JoJo Bell, she had played in an early production at the Theatre Workshop. JoJo had had a part in a long-running hospital series on TV and afterwards had seriously thought of taking a medical degree. She had fantasies about her medical prowess.
‘We all do silly things sometimes, and she’s found it hard to get work with that doctor—nurse image hanging over her. All she kept getting offered were medical parts or invalids, and not many of them. She needed the money, I expect.’
‘I’ve taken some good photographs of this lovely lady,’ said Sir Harry, who never minded praising himself, as he poured the wine. He seemed to have taken over as host, just as Stella was acting hostess, laying the table and telling everyone where they would sit. Tiddles, who had just come in through a roof window, looked morosely around. He didn’t like a crowd, but he did like chicken and had developed a depraved taste for garlic bread. ‘And also the Workshop’s new production of Cavalcade. Lovely crowd scenes. The Master would have been pleased.’ Stella looked gratified.
‘He is pleased,’ said Dick, who was a dogged and unusually open believer in the spirit world.
‘Don’t be a fool, Dick,’ said Sir Harry lovingly.
Coffin sat back and sipped some wine. Val was going to walk into the middle of a party, and although it might be good for her, as Stella had said, it would surely put her off talking. He wanted to know what she had to say in private. Val struck him as a private person.
‘When do you expect Val?’ Stella had read his thoughts. ‘Shall we wait? Shall I give her a ring?’
‘Any minute now. And No to the two other questions.’
Then the telephone rang. He carried his portable telephone to the window and turned his face to listen quietly. ‘Yes, of course. I quite understand. Tomorrow, then? Shall we say the morning?’ In my office. You know where to come?’
Val spoke again and Stella, observing him, thought his face changed, looked graver. ‘Right, don’t worry now. Tomorrow, then.’
‘Val,’ he said, turning back towards them. ‘Doesn’t feel up to coming tonight.’
Stella made a move towards the door. ‘I’m going round there.’
He stopped her. ‘Leave her.’
Chewing on a piece of Chicken Maryland, free-ranging and dead, he thought: A bit like Anna Mary Kinver, who had been free-ranging in her relationships and was now dead.
‘Sir Harry,’ he said. ‘You took some photographs of Rope Alley. For publicity purposes.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Where were they taken from?’
‘From the roof of the old Lead Works. I looked down on Rope Alley.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘Of course. Dick has a complete set of those photographs. Is it in connection with the murder of that girl?’
Coffin nodded. A piece of that free-range chicken had got stuck in his throat. He managed to cough it free. What a way to die, he thought, killed by a chunk of loose-living chicken.
‘They were nearly all taken several days before the murder,’ said Sir Harry gravely. ‘Except for one or two. Not the best.’
‘I know. I just want to see them. They might give me something.’
He had learnt from experience that you must take what chance offered you to start you thinking. These photographs might do that for him now.
After the meal the three of them walked round to the Lead Works Gallery while Stella went down stairs to her open apartment in St Luke’s Mansions to talk to Lily Goldstone about Black Lists. Dick took them into his office, which was a neat little cubbyhole, very quiet and peaceful, and produced a folder.
Coffin concentrated on those taken on the day of the murder.
There were several photographs taken at different times of the day. One was clearly a bright morning, near noon, with well defined sharp shadows. A number of people had been caught walking in Rope Alley. Seen foreshortened as they were, not much detail could be made out. This wasn’t what Sir Harry had been after, he had wanted what he called a bit of urban landscape.
There was a woman with a shopping-bag. She was walking towards the camera. A man in the distance, seen from the back. Another man leaning against the wall. A few other shadowy figures including a boy on a bike. The Alley had been busy that morning.
Another photograph taken in the late afternoon with longer shadows was quieter. A trousered figure at the end of the alley, another one seen just in profile, and a young woman with a child.
A third photograph had been taken at night with a special lens. Only two figures this time: a man walking away from the camera and another leaning against the wall again.
The leaning man could be Solomon Wild, it had the look of him. Blown up, the photograph might yield a more positive indication.
But it was the image of the other man on which Coffin put his finger.
‘That one. I think he’s the same man in all three pictures. Something about the way he holds himself. He must have gone up and down Rope Alley a lot.’
He turned to Harry Beauchamp. ‘May I have these photographs, please? And the negatives?’
‘Of course. Glad to help, aren’t we, Dick?’ His friend nodded, he was a man of few words.
Later that night Coffin took a stroll round the whole complex of buildings about the old St Luke’s Church. He surveyed the work being done on the church itself where the big theatre would go. It was little more than a hole in the ground at the moment, and looked a highly expensive one. He had to hope that Letty was not wasting her money. But probably not. She was already calling it the National Theatre of the New City.
He walked over to the more makeshift buildings of the Theatre Workship where advance posters proclaimed the next production of Cavalcade.
He could see where slogans had been painted and then effaced by Stella. Faint shadows rested on the walls. Shadows of hostility.
He hated this reflection of the divisions in the population where he and his Force kept the peace. They were in the middle and the object of resentment and criticism from all sides and all ethnic groups.
From his upper windows in the tower he looked down upon the quiet streets with the river beyond. It looked so peaceful. He hoped it stayed that way.
Inside her ground-floor apartment in St Luke’s Mansions, Stella checked all the locks on her doors and windows. She listened for a moment. It’s a war, she thought.
But all was quiet. It was after midnight. Saturday.