A Double Coffin

‘Take a tank to stop that one,’ said Gillian.

Coffin stood up politely as she came in. ‘Thank you for coming round straight away.’

‘You’re the boss. I have plenty of work on hand, the Pickles case to begin with, but I walked right across.’

‘It’s something I have promised to do myself.’ He paused. ‘But I need help.’

He told her the story, complete with names and personal impressions. She knew the name Lavender, she said, it was in her schoolbooks, and she knew he wasn’t dead, but she had never thought of him as a live person moving around the London scene, somewhere between a ghost and a memory.

Now it turned out he had a secret. Either that or he was nursing a little madness.

‘I believe I have met Dr Bradshaw … He gave a lecture at the John Evelyn Public Library on the writing of history.’

‘Sounds incredible, doesn’t it? Can you believe it?’

‘Yes, I think I can. People do have family secrets. Traumas buried deep. I am not saying I believe it was all as Richard Lavender said – he may not remember accurately, he may be indulging in a fantasy, hanging on to a false memory. It happens.’ She thought about the story, then said:

‘But something is there.’

Coffin trusted Phoebe’s judgement. ‘I believe you, I feel the same. But whatever is there is bloody, murky and deep-buried.’

Phoebe said: ‘But I can’t think why he wants to dig it up. He knows all sorts of things come out in a murder case.’

‘He wants to repent, to make amends,’ Coffin explained. ‘Also, there is a young journalist going round asking questions as if she knew something.’

‘Now that is interesting.’

‘And the Grand Old Man wants to get his story in first. He still has a lot of political sharpness.’

‘I wonder what part Jack Bradshaw has in all this? Could he have fed this story to the old man?’

‘I don’t know what his purpose could be.’

‘He’s writing Lavender’s life: a tale of murder would certainly take it to the top of the bestseller list. But who’s to know about motives?’ She added thoughtfully: ‘He looks to me like a man who could keep a secret.’

‘The old man trusts him.’

Phoebe said: ‘Well, we will do what we can. An interesting problem, quite different from anything I have ever done before. I think I might enjoy it. No idea where to start.’

‘I’m damned if I know either.’ He got up and started to walk round the room. ‘I don’t know why I said yes, but he still has power to command, that old man.’ And then he said guiltily, ‘And I have to admit the idea of tracking down a multiple killer from the past had its attraction for me. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes, sure. I’ve always understood you more than you knew.’

There was a silence between them.

‘We could have ruined each other once, Phoebe, you know that? We nearly did.’

‘But we didn’t.’ She smiled.

‘No. We drew back. I wonder why?’

‘Natural sense of preservation, I suppose,’ she said lightly.

‘No, I think it was something other … we didn’t want to lose what we valued in each other.’

Phoebe smiled again. ‘I would remind you that we didn’t meet for about ten years after that. Small value.’

And when he just gave a smile back: ‘How’s Eden?’ she asked.

Coffin shifted his mind away from this dialogue with Phoebe to consider Eden. Phoebe had shared a flat with Eden in her first weeks in the Second City. Eden had then managed a shop selling expensive fashion clothes; when it folded she had taken a job in the theatre in the costume department. ‘Oh, doing well, as far as I know.’

Eden was small and very pretty. The theatre gossip was that she was in love with Martin. Not difficult to believe.

‘She’s happy working in the theatre. Did you know her name was really Edith?’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Phoebe. ‘I met her mother once and she did not look the sort of woman to call her daughter Eden. Come to think of it, I heard her call her daughter Edie. Of course, I thought it was short for Eden.

‘Has it occurred to you that you yourself might be at risk? That you have been drawn into this investigation to drag you into trouble?’

‘Yes, it has occurred to me,’ Coffin said soberly. ‘I always look for things like that. A suspicious nature after years on the job.’

‘So?’

‘I am going ahead.’

‘I thought you would say that.’ Phoebe hitched her shoulder bag over her right arm and gathered up her document case with her left. It was raining outside so there was a raincoat as well. ‘And you want me to make a start? Not sure where I do that, never done this sort of case before. You could call it historical research.’

‘I hope we can continue to think of it that way …’

‘I might enjoy it. I have always liked thinking about the past.’

‘Think of it as writing one chapter on “Death in the Old East End of London before the first Great War” … Begin with the written records.’

‘Death certificates?’

‘And the old local newspapers … Most of them have folded, so see what the Second City Public Library can do for you.’

‘You need a scholar not a police detective,’ said Phoebe, giving her bag another hitch, she seemed to be treating it like a weapon.

‘Pretend to be one.’

‘I can’t give all my time to it. I have plenty of other work on hand.’

‘Wouldn’t expect you to. I’d call it important but hopeless … You may never get anywhere.’

‘As long as you know.’ They eyed each other. ‘I will make a start.’

He handed over his folder with all the notes he had made. He did not say to her that he had identified the woman journalist who was on the prowl as Jaimie, a girlfriend of a promising young actor, partly because he wanted to think about that and partly because he wanted her to make the identification for herself.