A Double Coffin

‘Can be. She’s very strong, is my Jaimie, but we do get across each other,’ he said sadly. ‘I expert we will split up. She says I’m a dreamer, not focused and too repressed.’

‘She does love you.’

‘I daresay it is true … she’s very focused herself.’

‘What does she do?’

‘A writer … freelance journalist … she says I am a table for one permanently reserved.’

‘She has a good turn of phrase.’

‘She’s very clever; she’s on to a good story at the moment.’

‘Oh?’

‘No, she hasn’t said much, probably afraid I’ll talk too loudly. Something from the past is all I know.’ He had seen Coffin notice his arm and he smoothed the sleeve down in a protective way. ‘Never keep a cat,’ he said lightly.

‘We do, but it doesn’t scratch.’ Not quite true because Tiddles not only put out a sharp paw on occasion but had been known to bite as well. Lovingly, Stella always said, but Coffin wondered.

When the telephone rang, Stella, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. Her voice registered surprise. ‘It’s for you, Martin.’ And she handed the telephone over.

‘Jaimie, hello. Yes, I’ll be there … d-down …’ He was stuttering again. He turned to Stella: ‘It’s Jaimie, I asked her to pick me up here.’

Stella nodded. ‘She’s on the way then?’

‘Down below, mobile phone.’

Stella decided to be gracious; she was also curious. ‘Ask her to come up for a drink.’

Martin stood up, a wary look on his face. ‘Thank you, I know she admires you. She would I-love to come.’ Once again he stammered.

They heard him clattering down the stairs, the door open, then silence.

There was a long wait.

‘She doesn’t want to come,’ Coffin said.

‘No, in spite of admiring me so much … Wonder what she’s like.’

‘Tough, I guess.’

‘Wonder if she gave him those cuts on his arm?’

‘You saw them?’

‘Of course, and no cat did them. She did. Love and hate.’

Coffin stood up. ‘I think they are coming.’ He held up a hand. ‘Listen.’ Someone fell up the stairs, then laughed an apology, getting only silence in reply.

Martin was first into the room; he was followed by a tall, young woman with a mane of fair hair, unbrushed, wearing dark jeans and a dark sweater. She had a small, lovely face, but she looked cross.

Proudly, Martin introduced her: ‘This is Jaimie.’

She held out a hand. ‘Jaimie Layard.’ The hand was not directed at anyone in particular.

Stella took the hand, pressing it gently before returning it to its owner. ‘Jaimie is a pretty name, but unusual.’

Jaimie’s face did not change, but she was willing to provide some information. ‘I took the name myself, I got it out of a book at the time – I was aged eight. I was christened Jessamond and it wasn’t right for me, I didn’t want to go through life as Jessamond. Jaimie did me, I might have chosen anything though. I don’t see why you shouldn’t change your name as you grow.’

‘Actresses do change their name,’ said Stella. ‘I use my own, but it might have suited me to change it. And if there had been another Stella Pinero on the boards, then I would have had to change. Couldn’t have two of us.’ She smiled at Jaimie. ‘A professional matter. You are a writer?’

‘Journalist.’ Jaimie accepted the glass of wine that Coffin was offering to her.

‘Which paper?’ asked Coffin.

Jaimie drank some wine. ‘Freelance,’ she said after a pause.

‘Martin says you are working on a story?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s something or nothing. I may drop it.’

How does a freelance journalist live, if she drops her story without getting it into print? Coffin asked himself. Jaimie, although plainly dressed, was not poorly dressed, her clothes were expensive, the bag thrown over one shoulder was beautifully shaped and of very good leather. Even her hair was designer-unbrushed. Then he remembered her name was Layard. Money, there. He remembered something else about the Layard family too: soldiers, fighting men all, Jaimie looked a fighter.

At the moment, she looked a cross, aggressive fighter who was not pleased with Martin, not pleased to be dragged up the tower, and even less pleased to meet a policeman and his actress wife. Maybe she suffered from jealousy and if so he had a fellow feeling.

The telephone rang on the table by his side. He picked it up.

‘This is Dr Bradshaw … May I speak to John Coffin?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It really is John Coffin himself? This is such a very confidential matter.’

Coffin covered the telephone. ‘Stella, I will take this call downstairs. Please excuse me, everyone.’

In the kitchen, he asked what the call was all about.

‘First, here is the telephone number of the journalist.’ Jack Bradshaw read it out. It was a local number. ‘But I have not succeeded ever in talking to her directly, you get the answerphone and later she rings back.’

A phone in a rented room. Coffin thought. But we could trace it easily enough.

‘Her name.’ Jack went on, ‘did I say, is Marjorie Wardy?’ His voice dropped.

Coffin held the receiver to his ear: And I might already know who she is.

‘Can you describe her?’

‘Tall, wearing dark spectacles, with curly black hair.’