A Grave Coffin

His files had been in metal cabinets, but some drawers had been opened and the papers were on the floor. They were scorched but not destroyed.

‘If they were after Harry’s work, it was a shitty job,’ said Mary.

‘Maybe not, maybe just a warning … to you or to me. How do you know about where the fire started?’

‘I was listening to that workshy crowd who had evacuated the building. All full of joy and even accusing each other of doing the job.’ She had advanced into the middle of the room, and was looking around her. ‘No, you are right … it’s a warning only.’

‘You ought to work for the CID,’ said Coffin, who had also heard the conversation, with admiration. ‘Are you sure you didn’t start it yourself?’

‘I didn’t hate Harry and his work that much …’ She was still looking round the room. ‘But you are quite right: there were times when he was alive … All wives hate their husbands in patches.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said Coffin, wondering if he had better watch Stella for one of those patches.

‘I might well have burnt his office down, but not now he is dead.’ Then she said: ‘He had a period in a clinic when he had a kind of breakdown … did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Drink, mostly. Usually is with coppers, isn’t it?’

‘I can see you admire us.’ But he couldn’t say no, because he had been down that road himself. It was likely that Mary Seton knew it, too.

Coffin looked round the room. It was dampened down by a spray of water from a fireman’s hose, but was not damaged. He was pulling open the drawers of the desk … still warm, but there was stuff inside. Not much but something. He thought that Harry probably hadn’t kept much stuff there anyway. Wise fellow. Not that it had availed him much in the long run.

There was also the computer on a table against the wall, perhaps he was more of a computer man.

It was not a comfortable room, probably the smallest and cheapest (no lift to it) in the building, but Harry had tried for a personal touch: there was a pot plant, now dead, on the desk.

‘Wonder who gave Harry that plant?’ said Mary. ‘Not me. Some fool thought it would cheer the room up.’ She touched the soil. ‘I see he never watered it.’

He may not have had much chance, thought Coffin. Mary read his face.

‘Yes, all right, he died.’

Coffin began to gather up the files from the desk, then those on the floor. He could see traces of the forensic efforts, with pale powder marks distributed freely over almost every surface, desk top, drawers, and the files inside.

Not as many files as he had expected, he would have to ask a few searching questions about what, if anything, had been carried away. No doubt every document had been photocopied. He scooped them up, wishing he had a bag to put them in. Then he saw a carrier bag in the wastebasket. It was from a shop in Birmingham: FOOD GALORE, Reform Street. So someone had been in Birmingham.

Then he turned to the word processor.

Mary, who had stopped prowling round the room, watched him. ‘Harry wasn’t much good at that. I ought to know as I had to teach him what he had to know – the basics, anyhow.’

‘I’m not much good myself,’ said Coffin, ‘but I know how to switch it on.’

The screen glowed blue.

‘The fire doesn’t seem to have hurt it, you can never tell with these things.’

‘It’s on battery,’ Mary pointed out. ‘He travelled around with it. It wouldn’t be touched by any power loss.’

He pressed a key and a list of files came up. They were numbered, not named, so Harry must have kept a key or relied on memory.

He pressed the key for Number One. The first page came up.

In big capital letters, he read:

WE’VE HAD A LOOK AT THESE.

WE KNOW YOU WILL BE LOOKING TOO.

HA HA.

‘Ha ha to you,’ said Coffin, pressing on to page two of File Number One.

It was blank. Someone, possibly Harry, had wiped it clean. A quick glance through the next three files showed these to be blank also.

Frowning, Coffin turned off the machine. Mary, who had been watching over his shoulder, said nothing. ‘I’ll just pack this up and take it with me.’ He looked around for the carrying satchel which was on the floor. ‘Right, that’s it.’ For the moment; he would be back and without Mary Seton. ‘Seen all you want?’

‘Yes, nothing to see really. Hasn’t given me much idea about Harry’s last days. If you learn anything you can tell me, will you?’

Coffin nodded. ‘I will.’

She smiled at him. ‘Of course, I know what that means, you being a policeman. Can I give you a lift?’

‘To the Tower terminus of the Docklands Railway? That’ll see me into my territory. Thank you.’

They were both silent on the short drive; Mary Seton drove efficiently through the traffic, delivering him near the entrance to the Docklands Light Railway, already known by regular users as the Dockers’ Delight.

‘How long does the battery last at full strength on this machine?’ He tapped the computer.

Mary shrugged. ‘About two and a half to three hours when used.’

‘And unused?’

‘I don’t know. Just guessing, I should say about a week or a little more.’

Coffin considered this; the machine he had on his lap registered two hours’ working time left. So it had been plugged into a socket and the power stepped up.

By whom? Also why?

He occupied his mind with this question as Mary drove.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Coffin opened the car door.

Mary leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you. You helped me through a bad patch.’

Coffin was thoughtful as he let the train swing its way through old Docklands. It was a journey he usually enjoyed because it provided a perfect example of the whirligig of time bringing in its revenges: the former run-down, working-class area was now full of smart and expensive flats powered by the new businesses which had moved in. He was satisfied to see history being made. His own Second City partook of both elements, a good deal of it still solid working class with a new dash of upmarket chic in converted factories and warehouses. Crime was about equal in both communities.

But he wondered about Mary Seton. A kiss is just a kiss. Of course, but why me, he asked himself.