Coffin in Fashion

As he had planned, he sat on the wall in the sun and smoked a cigarette. He was experimenting with Turkish cigarettes, on the grounds that they represented a kind of luxury and he ought to know about luxury. He could not afford any other kind.

‘I’ll be around for a bit if you want me,’ he said as he left the house. ‘It’s my evening class tonight.’

He got the baffled look of incomprehension he expected. This would have been intensified if he had said, not: Yes, it’s woodwork; but: Actually, it’s genealogy.

To take his mind off the small body in the house behind him, he thought about his genealogy class and his reason for taking it.

He had a good sound practical reason, or so he told himself, but it might have been self-deception, he might just have been indulging a private fantasy.

Several years ago he had been searching for a long-lost sibling. About whom he had been told by an elderly relative. Another and younger child of his mother who had been put out to adoption. Or lost. Sometimes he thought deliberately lost. He had been on the hunt for this lost brother or sister. At one time he thought he had a good lead through a friendly butcher’s, one of whom might have adopted this child. But that had come to nothing. He had gone on with the search to no purpose.

Now he had a new approach: he would dig back into the family history and see if something emerged that way. To teach him how to do this basic research he was attending classes on the subject at the local Adult Education Centre on Charlton Hill. Mrs Lorimer believed his real reason was that he fancied the class teacher.

He did like the girl, it must be admitted, but his heart was still locked in a love-affair of long ago. Long to him, that is, a matter of six years, although when he worked on his genealogy it counted as but yesterday.

As he sat there smoking, he looked down the road to where the Belmodes factory was just visible. Old inhabitants, of whom he was beginning to know a few, had told him that before it was Belmodes making clothes, it was a furniture factory that did not survive the war.

One cigarette and then another. He took a stroll up the road and then back again, vaguely seeking entertainment. He could have thought about the case he was working on, but there had been three fruitless days on that and he wanted a change. He could have thought about his evening class, but even that did not attract at the moment.

The working day was over at Belmodes, but there were still women about, popping in and out of the shops. He was bound to say that they looked cheerful and not toilworn. Whatever it was Belmodes was clearly not a sweatshop. A small crowd of onlookers was standing to stare curiously at his house with the sinister activity within. Somehow, they knew there was a body found.

Walking on her own was a girl he recognized. He had seen her only that morning at the bus stop where he changed buses. As a matter of fact he saw her every morning. She was an exceedingly pretty girl and she wore the short skirts he liked. So this was where she came.

He stood up, not without the hope of attracting her attention. As she drew level their eyes met. She looked first surprised, then pleased.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

Gabriel blushed. ‘I’ve seen you at the bus stop.’

‘I know. I remember.’

‘Did you notice? I didn’t know … Do you live here?’

‘More or less,’ said Coffin grimly.

Gabriel’s gaze flickered to the police car. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I’m not sure.’

She accepted the cautious reply for the dubious currency it was. A childhood in Paradise Street had accustomed her to both police cars and evasive replies.

‘The police is the police.’ She had her portfolio of photographed designs under her arm; she was already experiencing the first feelings of guilt about what she was doing to Rose. She gave Coffin a wave, then walked on. ‘One of them behind you wants you,’ she said over her shoulder.

The uniformed man walked down the path to John Coffin and sat down on the wall.

‘You’re in luck.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘The body is only half yours. You share it with next door. The whole parcel is part under your floor, and part under next door. Looks as though it may have gone in that way.’

‘That house is lived in.’

‘A year ago it wasn’t.’

‘A year, eh? As long as that?’

‘The lady doc says so. And it’s upset her. A boy it is, young kid. And so she thought it might be the Humphreys boy. His red boots have turned up locally, so it all fitted in. But no: this one’s been in too long.’

And yet Coffin had thought it might be even longer. The dried-up-looking parcel he had seen had looked as if more years than one had browned it. Done it to a turn.

‘Apparently there’s something in the soil round here that dries out tissue but also darkens. Too much of something or the other, the doc says.’ His tone was respectful.

Dr Mary MacMiller was a newcomer, but one to be handled carefully; she had a sharp way with those who presumed on her sex and good looks.

‘Clue to identity?’

The other policeman shook his head.

‘So now it’s Who, When, How?’

‘The usual three.’

‘Well, it’s your case,’ said Coffin cheerfully. ‘And not mine. I only live here.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_4f263a40-4306-5730-a42d-31a7250d3e44)

When Gabriel saw the women workers going into Belmodes in the mornings, she marvelled at the work they turned out. In a time of full employment such as they were enjoying, Rose Hilaire had had to take what workers she could get. What she got were a few young girls and a group of middle-aged women coming back to work after years of running a home. The miracle was that Rose had welded them into a team, and one with a sense of responsibility as well as high standards. Looking at them as they streamed in and stamped their time cards and took off nylon headscarfs and tweed coats, she could hardly believe the delicacy and precision of the work they would presently produce. When she sat in the rest-room and watched them eat their sandwiches (Rose was planning a canteen, but had not built it yet), she was always pleasantly surprised that no crumbs and grease got on to the delicate fabrics. But they never did.

‘Gabriel – can I tell you something?’

She took a long drink of hot black coffee and swallowed two aspirins. She had a bad headache and a worse case of bad conscience. A restless night’s sleep had not eased her mind at all. She had a small art room at Belmodes where she was meant to design, but in fact she wandered around restlessly when ideas ran short. She was at present in the rest-room.

‘What is it, Shirley?’

Shirley was one of Rose’s best workers; she could cut a pattern like an angel, and get more dresses out of a given length of material than you would think possible. Rose, no mean exponent of that art, had trained her herself.

Shirley had been born around the corner from Paradise Street but was busy easing herself out of its influence. She was ambitious. If Gabriel eyed Rose enviously, then Shirley was probably eyeing Gabriel. As far as Gabriel could see, she had enormous talent and style, but had no formal training in design. This might or might not matter, Gabriel was still marking time on this one. The two young women usually eyed each other warily.

‘It’s about Steve … well, and what happened yesterday. Should we say anything to Rose? You know, say how sorry we are. Or should we say nothing? You know her better than we do.’

The whole muttered conversation in the workrooms that morning had been about the body found in Mouncy Street and the connection of the dead body with Steve Hilaire.

Everyone knew how he had been taken down to the police station with his mother late yesterday afternoon. They also knew he had come back.

‘Not sure about that.’ Gabriel hesitated. ‘Don’t know.’