Cracking Open a Coffin

‘Josephine works at Star Court House,’ said Stella.

‘Ah.’ Coffin knew Star Court House, it was well known as a home for battered wives and children. He walked past it occasionally, just to see how it went on, but one did not enter unless invited. Not if you were a man and especially if you were a police officer. No one had so far asked him to Star Court House. ‘You do good work, but you’ve had your troubles.’ There were outbursts of violence in and around Star Court House at intervals; it attracted the very physicality it dealt with.

‘Haven’t had nearly so many incidents since one of the local gangs took us under their protection … No, since “Our General” started looking after us, we’ve felt safer.’

‘Oh, she’s down there, is she?’ Star Court was well south in his district, right down the bottom of Swine’s Hill and near the river. He hadn’t known Our General’s territory stretched so far, he had placed her in Spinnergate, that was gangland.

‘Been a real good friend. We owe her.’

Certainly interesting, he thought, but he was stepping carefully, because Star Court House did not welcome police interference, and he was surprised to be invoked. ‘Shall we all have a drink?’ He could see Max, who ran the bar, eyeing them hopefully. ‘Or we could have lunch, Stella?’ He managed to keep reproach out of his voice, because the arrangement had been a picnic lunch together.

Stella raised an eyebrow at Josephine, who shook her head so that the chiffons moved and waved about her head.

‘I have to get back. I promised. We’re short of help today. There’s a court case and that always drains us.’ Then she gave a smile. ‘On the other hand, a cup of Max’s coffee would be nice.’

Behind the bar, Max, a well-known local figure and owner of the nearby delicatessen (but this was recession and you needed as many jobs as possible), heard and started moving the cups. ‘Espresso, Miss Josephine, as usual?’

So he knew her, Coffin thought, but Max knew everyone. Still, it was his own job also to know everyone, how had he missed Josephine?

Josephine sat down but did not wait for the coffee before beginning. ‘I’m a volunteer worker at the hostel, most of us are, the hostel can’t afford much trained staff. We all muck in. It works mostly …’ She paused. ‘We had a girl, a student from the university who came in one day a week, she helped in the office, typed letters, saw that bills got filed if not paid, that sort of thing. She cooked if necessary, we all do everything … She’s gone … We’re worried about her, we think she’s missing and might be dead, and the girls, that is all of us who work there or live there, have sent me round to say.’

‘What was the name of this girl?’

‘Amy Dean, Amy to us.’

The coffee arrived and Max, who had certainly heard every word spoken because he always did, set the cups down carefully.

‘I know about Amy Dean,’ said Coffin.

‘Ah, I suppose that’s something. We thought the police were being shifty. So what are you doing?’

‘Action’s being taken, you can count on that.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Stella, leaning forward eagerly, as if Coffin was her pet and deserved a pat on the head. Like Bob.

‘Because it’s the second time.’ Josephine picked up her cup. ‘Another girl who helped at the centre was killed. Last year. She was murdered. And we don’t like it.’ She drained her coffee. ‘We think that’s two too many.’

Coffin absorbed what she had said, then he said: ‘One would be.’

‘I agree there.’

‘But Amy could turn up any minute.’ Only, like Josephine, he did not think she was going to.

Josephine was silent. ‘No,’ she said.

‘But thanks for telling me.’

Josephine drew her flutter of clothes around her, touched Stella lightly on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for helping,’ she said, and departed.

Coffin leaned forward. ‘I see your part in this, Stella, you brought her in. Don’t tell me you are also a helper at Star Court? No? Well, tell me, who is Josephine?’

Stella’s eyes grew round with surprise. ‘She’s Josephine. You don’t know Josephine? You mean you didn’t recognize her? She was the great model of the ’fifties and ’sixties, everyone knew her, her face was on everything.’

He thought he did recall the name and now he considered it, he could see it explained the way Josephine held herself and moved. ‘So what’s she doing at the Star Court?’

‘Oh well, she’s been down, you know, right down, touched the bottom … she had a bad time, drugs, drink, she went through it all, got beaten up herself once or twice.’ Perhaps more often than that, from all Stella had heard. ‘And I think she’s paying back all the help she got herself.’

‘So she doesn’t work any more?’

‘I don’t know what she lives on,’ said Stella, answering the unasked question. Not much, she feared.

‘She’s right, though, we ought to look into the case of the other girl.’

‘She’s got a conscience, has Josephine.’

‘You’re not suggesting that she had anything to do with it?’

‘Of course not. I mean she cares about people.’

‘It’s more complicated than she realizes.’ He drew a pattern on the cloth with his spoon. ‘Do they have lads, male students, working at Star Court?’

‘Shouldn’t think so, they avoid the male down there and you can understand it. Even the security staff is female.’ Ah yes, Our General, Coffin thought, no doubt supplied by her, wonder how they’d perform as Valkyries. Stella went on: ‘Why? Is a male student missing too?’

‘Could be,’ said Coffin. ‘It’s complicated.’ He could tell her that Martin Blackhall was missing, but he decided not to. Stella could be discreet, but not always.

He meditated the problem: a university and a refuge for battered women, two institutions at opposite ends of the social picture, yet reaching out touching hands to each other. Bloody hands.

He sat silently for a moment, his own problem sitting on his shoulders. Who knows how long he’d be able to help anyone? Stella looked at him with big, soft eyes. For once she seemed in a sympathetic mood.

He was badly in need of someone to go to for advice, but unluckily she was the very last person he could ask.

‘What’s up?’ said Stella. ‘Feel like more coffee? Or a glass of wine?’

Yes, definitely in a sympathetic mood, but it was no good.

‘Sorry,’ he said to Stella. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’

‘Me too, I have a board meeting: your sister’s trying to cut our money.’ Letty Bingham kept the theatre on a rolling budget. Funds were tight at the moment, the theatre was doing well, but this was a recession, and Letty had other interests, other responsibilities. Stella liked and admired Letty Bingham, a beautiful, well-groomed woman whose clothes and way of life she admired and even envied, but Letty was sharp about money. They had battles; sometimes Letty won and sometimes Stella. No bones broken, but you had to struggle. ‘I have to fight it.’

‘You’ll fight.’

They both stood up. Stella reached down for the dog’s collar. ‘I’ll take Bob.’

‘He’s yours.’

Philippa, hurrying home, after what had been a very satisfactory and heart-warming meeting with Marcus (she called him Marcus and she was Philippa), went into Max’s the Deli on Old Church Street, hard by the theatre and St Luke’s, where she walked into her Brunnhilde.

Lydia Tullock was buying smoked salmon roulade and a half-bottle of champagne.