A Grave Coffin

There was a map of Coventry with some street names marked in pencil. One area had a ring drawn round it. Attached to this were some scribbled notes which seemed to be of times and routes. It looked as though Harry had set off early and driven there.

Against the name H. Pennyfeather, he had put a query. And Coffin had a question mark in his own mind there. Did he know that name or not? Half a dozen further names were just recorded and given a tick.

Did this mean they were passed as all clear, whereas Pennyfeather was not? Or did the tick mean that they had been interviewed and Pennyfeather had not been at home.

Or did it mean something else altogether? Coffin ground his teeth and worked on.

A photograph was attached to one of the pages. It was the photograph of a woman.

It was not a photograph of Mary.

He saw a youngish, smiling face, with a smart, short haircut and large earrings. The woman was wearing a dark business suit. It was not a posed, studio photograph, but appeared to have been taken at a meeting of some sort, since he could see figures in the background. M. G. was written there.

Coffin worked through the papers, assessing them quickly. There was a similar group with a map of Oxford, and another of Newcastle. In each case, the map was marked, and it came with a list of names, some ticked and one or two with a question mark.

Thrupp in Coventry, and Weir in Newcastle, each had a question mark, as had Fox in Cambridge and H. Pennyfeather, but with no place name. So that made four in all. Sex not clear, but Ed Saxon had said he had a few women working for him. Possibly M. G. was one of them, although he hadn’t named her.

He sat thinking about TRANSPORT A and its problems which high authority thought stemmed from the Second City, curse it. Thus was I lumbered, he thought.

When the phone rang, he had a premonition it was going to be Ed Saxon, and so it was.

‘How are you getting on?’

‘I haven’t got far yet.’ Not anywhere, really. ‘It looks as though I’ll have to go to Coventry first … You know about the fire?’

Ed Saxon admitted he knew about the fire. ‘I had Mary in here.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She said she’d met you. You seem to have made an impression. Not easy on that one, she’s a hard case. What she wanted was what you’d expect, to find how near we were to getting Harry’s killer. Not too near, I had to tell her. She didn’t take it well.’

‘I can’t blame her.’

‘Who’s talking about blame? But she was casting plenty of it around, she blames me in particular. And she isn’t far wrong. After all, I chose him for the job.’

‘It may have nothing to do with that, you know.’

‘You’ve got an idea? What? What is it?’

There was silence. Coffin could hear Ed striking a match for a cigarette, the man was in a pressured state.

‘Have you any idea, something you’re not telling me?’

‘No, Ed. And the Met are investigating Harry’s death, remember? Not me. But I shall have to make contact with them.’

‘Yes,’ said Ed, as if the idea did not please him.

‘I am beginning to get the feeling that Harry knew he was about to be killed.’

‘Oh God, is that your great thought for the day?’

‘It’s a start.’

‘Where did you get it from? Out of the air, I suppose?’

‘No. From you.’

‘Don’t get you.’

‘Oh, come on, Ed. I’ve known you a long time and you don’t change. I think he told you he was frightened, that he knew there was a threat. And he knew who it was from; it was from the figure in your outfit who is profiting from the sale of phoney medicines and drugs. That was why you wanted an outsider like me to carry on the enquiry.’ There was another reason, of course, why I actually got the job, but you may not know of it. The Second City is involved.

Wouldn’t Ed know this? Why did he not know? Perhaps he was not fully trusted himself. Wheels within wheels, he didn’t like. Touch dirt and you get dirty, he thought.

Ed was staying silent.

‘And perhaps you thought my investigating skills might have got rusty with the years and I wouldn’t turn up what you feared.’

There was still no answer from Ed.

‘Who was it he suspected? Not you, by any chance, Ed?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Come on, Ed.’

‘He was just guessing, in my opinion … there was a woman … she had been working for us, not in a high capacity, but on this pharmaceutical case – she was investigating likely medical contacts, she’d been a nurse and knew the language. He suspected her. Called her bad. I said, “Don’t go Gothic on me, Harry.”’

The one in the photograph. Coffin thought.

‘He thought she was dangerous, I thought he was wrong.’

‘Does she have a name, this woman?’

‘Margaret Grayle. You might as well know … we had an affair. Over now, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Coffin, half ironically. In his experience, whenever anyone, man or woman, admitted to an affair it was always claimed to be over. It might be or it might not. It was in his mind to be wary and sceptical of this lady. ‘You had better give me her address.’

‘Oxford. But you should find it in Harry’s papers.’

‘In case I don’t.’

A sigh came across the line. ‘If she’s still there, it was Owls House, Raven Road, Oxford.’

Not sure if I believe that address, thought Coffin, but he wrote it down.

‘And have you told the Met about Miss Margaret Grayle?’

‘Did I say Miss? She is married. And no, I haven’t said anything. The Met have good men on the case, they will find Harry’s killer. And it won’t be Margaret.’