Coffin’s Ghost

Coffin saw that Stella had laid out the best silver, chosen by and paid for by her out of film earnings. He picked up a fork and balanced it in his hand. He liked the stuff, good style, as you would expect from Stella, but not the sort of thing that a copper could afford. Like, yes; pay for, no.

The china was old Minton, apricot and gold. They did not have a complete set, never had had, bought it at an auction, but enough to use for a small dinner.

George turned one plate over to examine the back. ‘About 1880, I’d say, the colours are right. Nice stuff.’

Stella was pleased. ‘You are clever, George, they come from a house in Shropshire. Not a complete set, of course. Let me give you some wine. Claret or hock?’

The soup was vichyssoise and the toast that was served with it was crisp and hot. Cold soup, hot toast – Max’s idea.

George took hock.

She doesn’t know, thought Coffin, that it is possible that a few years ago he killed a woman.

And later yet another.

Something I know, and she doesn’t. (Or does she?)

And all the time, he had waiting for him on the doorstep of a battered women’s refuge, four limbs: two legs and two arms.

The remains were wrapped in brown paper. There was no torso and no head.

‘Delicious soup,’ said George, crunching toast.

Stella took advantage of the good mood of both men to start a delicate introduction to what she had in mind for them. They worked together as a team so regularly that when asked to dinner as a pair by someone like Stella Pinero they knew it was business.

An interesting story, Coffin thought, studying George’s face. Did George guess that he knew? And did George care?

After all, it was only what the police, at the time, thought. Never got outside publicity. Oh, the deaths, yes, but not George’s connection.

He was a bit of a comedian, Coffin decided, watching George with Stella.

Of course, it was all a soap on TV. Coffin had watched a lot of television in his private room after his operation, and enjoyed it more than he had told Stella. She had been in some of the shows.

Not the deadly, killing-off-the-ladies one, that George had produced and, some said, written.

Only TV, just a bit of script, but it told you something about a man.

When they left (rather later than Coffin cared for, that was the theatre for you), George Freedom suggested to Robbie that they walk home rather than go to the cab rank by the theatre.

‘I’d like a stroll, take a look around.’

Gilchrist yawned, said he was tired, but why not. The air might wake him and he had work to do.

‘I used to live round here once,’ said Freedom. ‘I was working on a local newspaper. That was before I decided there was more money to be made on television.’

‘If you can do it.’

‘But we can … Place has changed a bit. I had a grotty little flat over Drossers Lane Market. Let’s go that way, it’s on the way home.’

Of course, it was all changed now. Behind Drossers Lane was the new Pepys Estate, an area of small terraced houses with one block of flats. Central to it was Pepys Park, an attempt at urban prettification, although the spirit of Drossers Lane seemed to hang around it still and resisted prettiness.

Even the grass looked sad and the shrubs and small trees did not flourish. It was much loved, however, by the small gangs of roving boys that were also part of Drossers Lane, indeed of East Hythe itself. The police were always being called to Pepys Park.

‘Changed now,’ said Robbie Gilchrist.

‘Don’t suppose Drossers Lane has changed, still full of pushers and pimps and policemen looking for a catch,’ said Freedom. ‘You could eat well there, though, greasy spoons maybe, those cafés, but they turned out good grub for not much cash. Bet they still do.’

Freedom stepped forward confidently and Gilchrist saw he did indeed know the way. They stepped out together through the night, walking off Stella’s good wine. Freedom stopped at the head of one dark road.

‘Knew a girl who lived around here. Bit of a bitch but a real goer.’

He stared into the darkness.

‘There it is, Barrow Street … Never liked the place.’

‘You know it then?’

‘Said so, didn’t I? Once.’ He turned away. ‘We don’t have to go down it. There’s a better way home.’

Gilchrist yawned again. ‘How’s Mariette?’

Mariette was the moveable wife that they had had in common.

‘Fine,’ said Freedom. ‘Don’t see much of her these days.’

‘Who’s she with then?’

‘You tell me.’

Gilchrist changed the subject. ‘How did you think our host looked?’

‘All right,’ said Freedom, who never noticed anyone but himself. ‘Lucky to have her.’

Chief Inspector Phoebe Astley said: ‘He looks better, doesn’t he? More himself.’

The two of them were standing in the car park of Police Headquarters after a long day, ending in a meeting of the officers dealing with the latest crime.

Murder, it looked like.

She admired the Chief Commander although he could be the devil to work with. She was talking to her immediate boss, Archie Young, whom she also admired, but differently. There was, she had to admit it, a strong sexual element in her feeling for John Coffin (sternly held in check these days, of course, but still there), but not so with the chief superintendent.

‘Thinner,’ said Archie Young. ‘Thinner,’ he said again, a shade enviously. He gave his own waistband a tug. He was losing his hair and putting on weight and envied the Chief Commander’s apparent power to resist both processes. Didn’t diet either, nor take much exercise. There was the dog, of course. Coffin did walk the dog.

No, you’re not thinner, thought Phoebe. She was solidly, but attractively, built herself, and after a threat of a nasty illness a year or two ago, rather welcomed her solidity as a sign of health. She wore her usual working garb of a well-cut dark jacket with jeans. She admired the way Stella dressed, but clocked the price and did not seek to emulate her. ‘Suits him.’

‘He’s never been ill before. Not that I remember.’

Coffin had been ill before, of course; Phoebe did not know everything.