The Coffin Tree

‘Word has got around.’

Coffin nodded. Thought as much.

Timpson was cautious enough to say nothing more: if he hadn’t been told, he wasn’t to know. He knew how to be blind, deaf and dumb when he had to be.

‘This unit needs the right top man. Or woman. I think it ought to be a woman, I’ve worked with her before and I think she has the right qualities. You are chairing the committee and I will withdraw when she is interviewed, seems fairer.’

What’s fairer got to do with it, thought Timpson. ‘Sure,’ he said aloud. ‘Of course, we have to consider all three candidates.’

‘Of course we do.’

They seemed to be understanding one another and Coffin was satisfied. ‘Have another drink?’

‘My round.’ It gave Teddy Timpson an obscure pleasure to buy a drink for the chief commander whom he both liked and found alarming. He cast around for something to say that would end the meeting on the right note. ‘Saw Miss Pinero on the telly last night,’ he came up with. ‘She’s brilliant.’

‘Brilliant,’ agreed Coffin with a tight smile. He knew he had got what he wanted. He stood up. ‘I must go. Another appointment.’

‘They’ve done excellent work,’ he said to Superintendent Archie Young just an hour later on this same day, two weeks before the crucial committee for Phoebe. They were in his own home in St Luke’s Mansions; in his flat, not Stella’s, which was on the ground floor. They still kept the two going which was perhaps one of their mistakes. Didn’t happily married people live under one roof? Or did you only meet the survivors? From Coffin’s tower he could see over all his turbulent territory, make out the roof of his headquarters where a new floor had been planted on top of the building, not adding to its beauty but certainly providing much needed space. And if he tried hard enough, he could see the top of one of his new universities and one of the hospitals – the big new Second City General Hospital. When he looked out, he tried to admire the charm of what he saw and not think about the terrible responsibility that they represented.

‘You have to hand it to the blokes who trail through financial records and know what’s going on.’

‘More so when equally clever minds are doing their best to hide it.’

Archie had climbed the career ladder quickly: the next promotion, already in line, would make him chief superintendent. He was clever, and sensible enough not to be too clever; a steady, reliable man.

‘It’s their job,’ said Coffin, without much admiration; they had landed a mess on his lap.

They had talked about this several times before, but always in this unofficial way. At the moment, since Stella was in New York (or so he believed), and Archie Young’s clever, high-flying wife was absent on a course in Cambridge, they were eating together. A modest meal sent in from the local fish and chip shop which did a splendid order and deliver service.

Coffin handed out the chips and fish which they were eating in his kitchen. In his youth, in that far away and long ago London, he would have eaten out of the newspaper but he graduated long since to the white porcelain which had been chosen, and not by Stella, and to pouring out some red wine which was about the only thing that stood up to fried cod. (Once it would have been a pot of strong tea, and still was for many and why not?)

‘I had a session with Teddy Timpson today. He was agreeable.’

‘He usually is.’

‘Yes, no trouble there. I think we’ll get the right head for this little unit.’ Even to Archie Young who knew so much about him by now, he was careful about naming Phoebe. People could tell a lot about the way you spoke of a person.

And there is always a hidden agenda, the subtext.

‘By the way, your own promotion has gone through. You’re up, Archie, but keep quiet for the moment.’

Archie Young allowed himself a flush of pure pleasure and wished he could smoke, but the Coffin establishment was a No Smoking house. Coffin did not go back to the main subject of their meeting until they had almost finished.

John Coffin commanded a police force small by the standards of his big brother the Metropolitan police force which towered over him; small by the standards of some of the big north country forces; he knew that the Met joked about the Toy Town City force but he could afford to ignore that now because he was feeling his own powers.

Rivals and even friends had expected him to fail, but he had built up a very good set of teams from the mixture of local units he had inherited. He had created his own promotion panel which he watched over while allowing it independence. But he had seen to it that the weaker officers were weeded out and clever, hard-working men like Archie Young got fast promotion. He had men and women around him now that he both trusted and liked. ‘I’ve kept you up to date: it seems that drug profits and other illegal monies are being fed into British banks. The powers that be …’ even to Young he did not name them. That might come later, but he was still bound by an oath of secrecy, ‘… are worried that it could damage the whole banking system.’

‘Money’s money,’ said the pragmatic Young.

‘Apparently not. Might seem so to you and me but the City says not …’ The City in this context meant the bankers and financiers of the First City of London, the money establishment. ‘We seem to have been given a special part. It looks as though a group of banks here in the Second City have been targeted. I suppose they thought we’d be grateful. They had us down for a collection of innocents.’

Young accepted this silently for a moment, then said: ‘I bet I could name the banks.’

‘I bet you could.’

They had three banks whose origin was far flung and international, but which gave a good rate of interest on savings and so were much used by the small depositors of the Second City.

‘Not only us, of course. The cash is being spread around widely, and as I’ve let you know, action is being taken.’

‘Sure.’

‘But it’s up to us to clear out our own little pigsty … A lot of the money is being laundered here.’

Archie Young chewed a bit of cod which was unexpectedly solid; he could see the cat eyeing him hopefully. ‘Acting on your instructions …’

‘And your own wits,’ said Coffin quickly.

‘And my own wits,’ went on Archie, ‘I’ve had a couple of men out there working on it.’

He put his fork into his food and began to stir it round as if he didn’t see it at all but something quite different.

‘It’s been a tough game to play, John.’

The use of his name, so rarely used even between the two friends, was significant.

‘Yes, it hasn’t brought them luck.’

Two men, two deaths.

Felix Henbit who had died of an overdose of sedatives and drink. Suicide? Or accident? No one could believe in the suicide.

Mark Pittsy who had died in a car crash.

Apparent accidents, both of them.

‘Rotten luck,’ said Archie, ‘some cases are buggers.’ He shook his head. ‘You get a run of accidents like that sometimes and I hate it.’

‘We have a problem, Archie,’ thought Coffin, but he did not say it aloud. Instead: ‘I’m not happy.’

‘Who could be?’

‘Felix Henbit had a wife.’ He made it a statement; he had liked Felix but kept his distance.

‘Yes, likewise Pittsy; not long married. Also a sister in Cleveland who seemed a bit remote.’

‘I’d like to meet Mrs Henbit.’

‘I think you should. She’d appreciate it, a nice girl who’s bearing up well. All the usual support groups have been in touch to see how she was getting on.’ Mary Henbit had been bleeding inside but hadn’t let it show too much.