Coffin’s Game

‘But it’s Stella,’ he protested. Stella’s privacy, how could he invade it?

‘If Stella is in danger – and I think that photograph on the dead man suggests she is – you have to find her.’ She filled both glasses again, almost emptying the bottle. ‘Can I help? Want me to do it?’

‘No. Thanks, Phoebe, but no.’ He stood up. ‘I am probably going to hate myself for what I am going to do.’ He held out a hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’

In the bedroom, Stella had a pretty white painted desk, very small, where she kept her private letters, as opposed to the professional ones which her secretary at the theatre kept on file. Very few letters, but he put them aside to be studied. A postcard with a view of the Tower of London, a scrawl on the back which said: ‘See you, love and remembrance, A.’

There was a blue leather diary with notes and reminders of engagements, mere initials which he could make nothing much of at the moment.

A big white card with letters in gold, advertising the Golden Grove Health Hydro, was tucked under the blotter but near to the telephone. The telephone numbers in neat gold print had been copied in large pencilled letters in the margin.

Coffin was aware of this trick of Stella’s: she was short-sighted so that she sometimes wrote the telephone number she wanted out in bold letters to be seen while she dialled.

Worth a shot, he thought. It was late evening but they would probably answer. Wouldn’t want to miss a booking.

‘Good evening,’ said a soft girlish voice, ‘the Golden Grove Hydro. Can I help you?’

He introduced himself. ‘I think my wife, Stella Pinero, is staying with you. Can I talk to her?’

There was a pause. ‘But Mr Coffin,’ the soft voice was plaintive, reproachful, ‘she cancelled. You yourself rang to say she could not come.’

Coffin put the receiver down, only too aware that whoever had rung, it had not been him.

He dialled Phoebe Astley’s number. He had to talk to someone.

PROFILE OF THE AVERAGE TERRORIST (#ulink_da442ba6-b06b-5ca9-828d-e0a127704ac3)

There is not an average terrorist. Remember that fact.

They come in all shapes, sizes, ages and sexes. Do not think you will know one by the look in their eyes. You may live next door to one, or have sat next to one in the tube. One may be a friendly neighbour, or drive your local taxi. You could even have married one.

Do not believe that you will be able to read that face, whether it is one you love or hate. The face is a mask, the mask will not be dropped; love will not do it, nor hate, nor amusement; the wearer has been trained not to drop it. A terrorist who drops the mask is a dead terrorist.

As a genus they are not long-lived, owing to the hazards of the craft (Carlos Marighella, author of the guerrillas’ Mini-manual died young, shot dead). You will not find many old terrorists, although there must be some, probably sleepers, the hardest to spot. Occasionally a survivor, an ageing member, will be put into cold storage to be defrosted and brought up to room temperature if needed for use.

The terrorist may be a college graduate or relatively uneducated. But he or she will almost certainly be a person of some intensity. This might become apparent in conversation. Certain keywords like ‘state’ or ‘nation’ or ‘police’ might provoke reaction in the untutored terrorist. The trained one will know how to join in the majority view. On the surface. Any relationship will be on the surface. Truth need not come into it.

You will not know them by their table manners: if you ask them to dinner, they will not eat you. As far as possible they will have been trained to sink into the background. But this in itself is interesting to watch and may be a sign to make you alert.

Some terrorists are groomed to be front men. Shouters, these are called, and are probably the least dangerous of all, although this can never be certain. It may be that one of the chief functions of the shouter is to flush out your own sleepers.

Remember, there are no safe defenders of the faith, whatever the faith, yours or theirs. Conviction, whether inherited or taught, is always dangerous.

Alan Ardent

Chapter 3 (#ulink_fd877291-90a6-5100-9e5f-aec33adf05cd)

Coffin and Phoebe Astley met over a drink in Max’s. It was late, but Max never closed when there was custom; he stayed behind the bar, serving their late meal and drinks himself and listening to the gossip. Except for Mimsie Marker, who sold newspapers outside Spinnergate tube station, he was the best informed man in the Second City.

‘I didn’t ring, so who the hell did? But the girl stuck at it, apparently keen to remind me of what I had not done.’

‘So what will you do about it?’

‘Don’t know yet. Doesn’t seem much point in banging on about it to the health place, any more than grumbling at the Algonquin. What she meant by booking in, I don’t know.’ Coffin was eating a ham omelette. He had found to his surprise that he was hungry. Phoebe had a large sandwich in front of her.

Max was watching them with interest from behind his long counter which was covered with a white linen cloth. He had been dealing with an exuberant wedding party, and was presently working out his profit margins while he kept an eye on Phoebe Astley and the Chief Commander, an old friend.

Phoebe put her hand on Coffin’s. ‘Look, don’t worry too much … Stella is good at looking after herself. And she’s a fighter.’ Phoebe was one herself, and she recognized another. ‘She’d fight for you, too. Perhaps she is doing that.’

‘Think so?’ Coffin finished his mouthful of omelette. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

Phoebe took a long, thoughtful drink of coffee, then said: ‘That photograph, however contrived, means trouble for Stella and, by transference, for you. And if she thought that, then she’d be out there doing something about it.’ She took another drink of coffee and nodded towards Max, who came hurrying over with the pot, showing no sign that he wanted to close up for the night. Probably been reading my lips, Phoebe thought, and wants to know what is going on. She had long suspected Max of supplying news to the media. In the nicest possible way, of course – he was a nice man – but for money. Money and Max had a close and old relationship. ‘That’s all, just an idea, something or nothing.’ Then she lit a cigarette.

‘Thanks, Phoebe.’ Coffin knew support when he heard it. And it was true enough, a happening like the dead body with Stella’s bag containing that photograph would do no man’s career any good. He hoped a lid could be put on the news, but while his close colleagues would probably keep their mouths shut, there was no hope the story would not get around. With embellishments. ‘In a way, I hope you’re right. But I wish she had not just cleared off. She could have told me where she was going.’

‘She did.’

‘But it wasn’t true.’

‘Give her a break. It’s not much of a lie. May even be what she intended to do, until something happened. Came in the way. So maybe she tried the health place, perhaps to hide, and it didn’t work out.’

Coffin gave her a measured look. Things must really be bad if Phoebe was being so kind. He thought about it for a moment. ‘So what else have you got for me?’ he asked.

‘You could tell, could you? I must have a more revealing face than I ever knew.’ She frowned. ‘Something I picked up in the car park back at Headquarters … it’s about the body found in Percy Street. It looks as if there is some doubt about the identity.’

‘But I thought the identification as one of Lodge’s young men was positive.’ God knows that had been bad enough, but in a way, out of his hands.

‘The clothes were identified,’ said Phoebe. ‘Not the man.’

Coffin said, slowly and heavily, ‘There are, of course, many ways of identifying a man other than through his underclothes.’

‘You’ve got it. Once Garden got down to work on the body, he could see that it didn’t fit any of the details provided by Lodge: age, body weight, length of bones, even hair colour … all wrong.’

‘What is Lodge doing about it?’

‘Archie Young has taken over, it no longer being entirely within Lodge’s sphere.’