A Grave Coffin

‘Sharp of you. Yes. In that file of papers, you will find a note in Harry’s own writing. He wrote, capital letters: ASK COFFIN. So I have asked you.’

‘And how long have I got?’

‘I could say: As long as you need. In fact, hurry, please, we are under pressure.’ He moved his hands together as if washing. ‘Just get a whiff, we will do the rest … and don’t forget you will have back-up from the Met. Well, in theory, anyway,’ he ended doubtfully.

Coffin picked up the files on the table. ‘Right. I’ll take these, see what I make of it. Then I will come back to you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Ed.’

Ed Saxon watched him go, then sat down at his table, and stared at his hands.

Coffin walked out into the sunlight. What do you make of all that, Coffin, my boy?

And how much of it did you believe?

Ed Saxon wants something from me, and somehow I don’t think it is just who killed Harry Seton. A difficult character, old Ed, I was never quite sure when I was with him when we worked together, and I don’t feel any more sure now. An ambitious and successful man. He had been successful himself, head now of the police in the Second City of London. Married to a well-known actress and as happy as it was in his nature to be.

What Stella would say when she heard was: Why was he doing it?

Why had he accepted the investigation into corruption, which might involve old colleagues? He had already recognized a few names in a first quick run-through of the list before he left.

Just curiosity, he told himself. Not a complete answer, but it would do for now. He had also, although he was not sure if Ed Saxon knew this, received a request, order really, from on high to undertake what he was asked to do. This he had queried.

‘Why, sir, why me?’

‘It does seem a relatively unimportant job … I say relatively, as it has its own importance,’ the voice had said smoothly. They were talking on Coffin’s private line. Untapped as far as he knew. ‘But we want you to do it.’

‘Don’t think about that now,’ he told himself. ‘Enjoy the walk.’

He was walking, just walking, enjoying the air and the sun. He was on Waterloo Bridge, walking south before he realized it. He loved the view down the river and up the river, he even enjoyed the massive block of the National Theatre. His own Second City had some good views of old docklands but nothing to compare with this.

Coffin stood for a moment looking at the water running fast beneath him. The Thames was supposed to be a clean river now, but it seemed pretty murky to him. It must be several millennia since it had been a clear, leaping stream. Perhaps the Romans had seen it that way, but it must have been changing even then. The same river ran through his Second City of London, but his London, once bombed and battered, was now full of old warehouses containing new businesses of the sort that was not dreamt of when St Paul’s was built: computers, mobile phones and video recorders for midget television sets. There were health farms, slimming clinics and teachers of Chinese medicine, as well as small factories which were busy one day and gone the next. Life moved on in the Second City.

He had cut short his visit to Stella, and the reason for this was that he had his own problems back home in the Second City. In particular, a number of missing children. Four now. There was no rest for anyone in the Second City till the children were found. Dead or alive.

And what about the children who aren’t missing but who must be sheltered from the knowledge of this?

He had pointed out this investigation in the Second City to the man from the Home Office when he was requested to agree to what Ed Saxon would be asking of him, and had been told to get on with it. Deal with both investigations, he could have what help he needed.

Coffin got an ironic pleasure in discovering he was persona grata in the highest circles, when in the past he had been such an unorthodox, troublesome, unloved policeman. Time and its whirligigs bringing in its revenges, as Shakespeare had remarked.

He put his hand in his pocket, where he felt the bunch of keys that Ed Saxon had passed over to him. On impulse, he put his hand up for a passing taxi.

‘Three, Humper Place, off Fleet Street,’ he said.

‘I know, gov,’ said the driver, slight reproof from one who knew his Knowledge.

He could have walked from where he was, but he wanted a space to think while the taxi crawled through the London traffic.

A right into Fleet Street, another right and there was Humper Place.

‘Doesn’t look good, gov,’ said the cabby, breaking into his thoughts.

Two red fire engines and a police car blocked the way.

Coffin paid the cab off and walked forward.

Number three, Humper Place was smouldering.

The fire seemed to light up something in his mind: Wait a minute, he told himself, supposing I am being asked to investigate this corruption business because the Second City is involved?

2 (#ulink_b31bc520-c3b5-5536-bfa5-4584391ed018)

A small crowd of people stood at the kerb, with the air of having fled from the building in a hurry, but even as he looked they were disappearing into a small bar at the end of the cul-de-sac. The Queen’s Arms, it proclaimed itself, with a large portrait of a crowned lady who might have been Queen Victoria or Mary, Queen of Scots, since she was long since faded into a gentle blur. You could see the crown, however.

Coffin walked towards the police constable stationed at the door of the building. He did not identify himself.

‘Can I get in there?’

‘No, sir, sorry, no chance.’ The constable was young, blue-eyed and with red hair.

Coffin stared up at the building. It looked to him as though the fire was out, the flames had died down.

‘I need to get in urgently.’

Coffin was still assessing the scene. It might have had the making of a nasty fire, but it had been controlled and the building looked solid still. There was an outer fire staircase which could be used. He nodded towards it. ‘I could go up there. It’s mostly smoke now, isn’t it?’

‘You can have a word with the Chief Fire Officer, that’s him over there.’ The constable nodded to a large, uniformed man standing by a car. ‘I can’t give permission, out of my power.’

‘Yes, I understand that. Where did it start?’

‘Top floor. Or so I’ve been told.’ The fire was certainly damped down, but there was still smoke and heat. Coffin was both curious and anxious. Had the flat to which he had the keys been damaged?

If so, was it by a genuine accident or by deliberate attempt?

If it was arson he was very interested indeed.

He strolled towards the Chief Fire Officer. The man glanced towards him without interest, then turned away to speak to one of the firemen. It was then that Coffin realized the disadvantage of being anonymous. For years now, he had had quick attention to his questions, he was not used to being ignored. In short, he had grown into being the Chief Commissioner of his force and was now going to have to shrink back in size.

He stood there thinking the problem out: a certain duplicitous honesty was his best line. If the fire had not happened, then he would have slipped in and out with no one noticing. If anyone had asked, just one of the forensic team. But no one would have asked.

Slowly he advanced to the Chief Fire Officer, who went on talking, then finally addressed him over his shoulder.

‘That your car there?’

Coffin looked towards a car parked at the kerb. Before he could speak, the Chief Fire Officer said: ‘Move it. Shouldn’t be there.’

Coffin bit back the comment that the car appeared to be perfectly parked and in no one’s way, but contented himself with saying politely that it was not his car. He could, however, see someone sitting in it, but decided not to mention this.

‘Is it safe to get into the building yet?’