Coffin’s Ghost

‘You’d better tell the police when they ask questions. If you think it’s important.’

‘Might be, mightn’t it?’ and Fanny took herself down the stairs and out the front door.

Mary made her way to the communal sitting room where Ally and Miriam were sitting companionably side by side, smoking and watching TV. The boy, watching too, no longer looked evil, but just like any unsettled child who had seen too much of life for his age.

Someone, Miriam probably, had made the room tidy, picking up the knocked-over furniture and restoring the cushions to the sofa. Someone else, again probably Miriam, had made a pot of tea and yet another person, and this time probably the boy, had managed to get a bag of chips which they were now passing from hand to hand in a peaceful and friendly fashion.

They had been joined by one of the new arrivals, Betty, who had come in last night and was still nervous. She seemed to have been welcomed into the group and was certainly getting tea and a sympathetic chip.

‘You shouldn’t be eating chips, Miriam,’ Mary reminded her. ‘You know what the doctor said.’

No one bothered to answer this comment, although Betty looked even more nervous.

And who could blame her, Mary thought. What a welcome to the Serena.

The chip bag was waved in her direction, and absently she took one. The vinegar and salt were harsh and strong but somehow it was tasty. The programme they were watching didn’t look bad either.

At this point, Billy slipped off the sofa and, ignoring his mother’s request to sit still and stop being a regular nuisance, went to the window.

‘There’s men out there in white suits like ghosts,’ he announced loudly.

‘Scientists, forensic ones,’ growled his mother. ‘Seen on the telly.’

Mary went to the window to look. Three men in hooded white cotton outfits were on their knees.

‘What are they doing round the side of the house?’ demanded Billy acutely. ‘The bits were found on the steps.’

Mary had been wondering this herself. ‘They have to study the ground all around.’

A sudden burst of laughter from the sofa drew the boy back to the television screen, muttering that it was a waste of time out there.

Mary, who had been thinking this herself, moved away from the window and towards the door.

As she touched the handle, Miriam said, over her shoulder and not looking at Mary, not taking her eyes off the television screen: “They found a handbag there, round the side of the house.’

Mary swung round, walked over and deliberately planted her body between them and the television screen. Impolite, pushy, irritating, but essential, as experience had taught her.

‘Where’d you get that from?’

Miriam gave a little nod of her head sideways. ‘Betty told me.’

Mary looked at Betty, who shifted her shoulders uneasily – alarm came promptly to her.

I must be gentle, Mary reacted at once, I am not always gentle enough here.

No, perhaps gentleness isn’t right. What is needed is to give to each what they need, and that is harder, because you have to be intelligent and responsive.

Words, she said to herself sadly, you use too many words, girl. ‘Where did you learn that, Betty?’

Betty looked down and fidgeted again. ‘The copper told me,’ she whispered.

‘The one on duty outside?’ said Mary doubtfully. It didn’t sound likely.

‘I was at school with him,’ Betty whispered. ‘We lived next door. My brother was his best mate.’

‘Right …’ Mary hesitated, wondering whether to say anything. ‘Perhaps he didn’t mean you to tell anyone else.’

Betty was silent. ‘Only told Miriam. She asked.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Miriam, again without turning her head. ‘You can trust us: we won’t tell our stories to the newspapers or TV. Unless they pay us.’

‘Ha, ha.’ A mirthless comment from Mary as she left the room; she never found it easy to know when Miriam was joking. No doubt Miriam could have said the same of her. We don’t understand each other, that’s the truth of it, she thought, giving Miriam a last look: an enigma wrapped up in a thick cosy cover of flesh, and inside not cosy at all.

That helped explain the boy. And probably why she was here in the refuge.

From the policeman to Betty, from Betty to Miriam, and from Miriam to me, this was the channel of communication.

Mary walked down the stairs wishing she could talk to Phoebe Astley. Phoebe always gave a straight answer to a question. If asked if the dead woman was Etta, Henriette Duval, who had worked in the refuge, she would answer Yes or No.

If she could. Answers did not always come easy.

And if asked further if it was possible her killer could be a member of the Second City Force, Phoebe would answer that too. But with circumspection.

Mary paused on the stairs to look out of the window. She ran her finger down the glass. Outside it was beginning to rain, the rain would come through this window.

The Serena Seddon House needed money spent on it, money it did not have. It was as comfortable and welcoming as it could be made inside, and that was what counted. Outside in Barrow Street it aimed for anonymity with no blue plaque displaying the name and just a discreet Number 5 on the door. And you had to come up to the door to see that.

The partners of the battered women had been known to come looking for them so being unnoticed counted. Even so, the house was known in the area and not loved.

Number 5 had been built at the end of the last century, it had celebrated its centenary, but it was showing its age. And who could blame it, Mary thought, since it had been a private home, home to a doctor who had been a police surgeon, and afterwards a dentist’s surgery, afterwards rented as home to the new Chief Commander of the Second City, one John Coffin, and then left empty for a clutch of years.

Now it was a home for the fearful and the dispossessed. Interestingly, in the time of its first occupant, the doctor, it had got the reputation of being the home of Jack the Ripper: Dr Death.

Mary Arden walked down the stairs. There was a WPC sitting on an upright chair in the hall.

‘You all right? Would you like a more comfortable chair?’ If there is one, Mary thought, even as she asked the question.

‘No, thank you, Miss Arden. This one does me.’

‘Is it true that a handbag was found outside the house?’

‘I haven’t heard, Miss Arden.’

And wouldn’t say.

Mary opened the front door to breathe in the cold, damp air. Phoebe Astley, who had been talking to the forensic team, swung round to look at her.

‘Hello, you advance guard, or doing the questioning yourself?’