me, Harry.”’
The one in the photograph. Coffin thought.
‘He thought she was dangerous, I thought he was wrong.’
‘Does she have a name, this woman?’
‘Margaret Grayle. You might as well know … we had an affair. Over now, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Coffin, half ironically. In his experience, whenever anyone, man or woman, admitted to an affair it was always claimed to be over. It might be or it might not. It was in his mind to be wary and sceptical of this lady. ‘You had better give me her address.’
‘Oxford. But you should find it in Harry’s papers.’
‘In case I don’t.’
A sigh came across the line. ‘If she’s still there, it was Owls House, Raven Road, Oxford.’
Not sure if I believe that address, thought Coffin, but he wrote it down.
‘And have you told the Met about Miss Margaret Grayle?’
‘Did I say Miss? She is married. And no, I haven’t said anything. The Met have good men on the case, they will find Harry’s killer. And it won’t be Margaret.’
Not in person, Coffin thought, but she might have hired someone. Or been pressured to help get rid of him by associates she might have in the pharmaceutical racket. The body cut into five pieces, that sounded like a professional job.
‘Was Harry having an affair with her too?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Ed gloomily.
‘We’d better meet sometime and you can tell me what it is you do know.’ Coffin tried to keep the irony out of his voice. ‘Meanwhile, I have a very nasty murder on my hands here in the Second City, so I can’t give your affair all my attention.’
Then he moved the conversation back a step. ‘Wait a minute … you said as far as you know, Margaret was not having an affair with Harry … Does that mean you think she was but can’t prove it?’
‘It was just an idea I had, can’t put it any stronger, and it could have been wrong at that.’
‘And did Mary know?’
Silence for a minute. ‘She might have done.’
‘You mean you know she did,’ said Coffin bluntly.
‘She might have guessed … she’s a clever woman.’
‘Don’t tell me you are having an affair with her too?’
‘As soon have an affair with a piranha fish,’ said Ed bitterly.
Perhaps both women had joined together to kill Harry. Now that was a picture.
Let me read myself a scenario, thought Coffin. Mary got to know about Margaret, who didn’t love Harry so much after all. (Or had a lot to hide and wanted him out of the way.) So she got together with his wife and they did the job. Wasn’t there a French film with that theme? Was it Les Diaboliques? He had seen it with Stella. But the body being cut into five bits still worried him. It didn’t sound like a female killing.
Still, it wouldn’t do to be sexist.
He must find out if it was physically possible for the two women to have done it. Check on the physical force required, check on where they were at the relevant times. It would explain Mary’s strange need to get into her dead husband’s office. She might want to know what was there that could incriminate either of them.
Not a bad scenario; it needed working on, though.
Wait a minute, he told himself, this is the Met’s job, not yours.
The telephone was bleating away. ‘Are you still there?’ Ed was saying.
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘You’d gone dead quiet. I thought I was talking to myself.’
‘No, I was listening.’ Didn’t hear a word, however. ‘Tell me, who is in charge of the investigation?’
‘Larry Davenport. That was what I was telling you. Nice chap, he’ll get in touch,’ said Ed gloomily. ‘Although some of his juniors are a pushy lot.’ Could have been one of those who left me the rude message on the computer, thought Coffin. ‘He remembers you.’
Paths do cross, Coffin admitted to himself, sometimes to your advantage and sometimes not.
‘He says he grew up in East Hythe and his sister still lives there.’ He added with relish. ‘He’s a useful chap, he’s one that knows where all the bodies are buried.’
Coffin thought that he knew the burial sites of more than a few bodies himself. He pointed this out to Ed Saxon. ‘I’ve always had thoughts about the Cassington murder and what happened to Maisie Deeds … I bet you have too.’
‘Yeah.’ The sound was almost a wince. ‘Well, keep in touch. You’re off to Coventry, did you say? It’s a Tim Kelso there, remember.’ He wanted to get away.
‘Hang on,’ said Coffin. ‘What are the names of the women you have working in this organization?’
‘Felicity Fox in Cambridge, Leonie Thrupp in Coventry and Margaret Grayle is what I call a mobile … lives in Oxford, works where required.’ Ed Saxon put the receiver down hard.
Two of those names had earned a question mark: Fox and Thrupp.
Coffin heard the bang. ‘I hit a nerve there. Can’t be the Cassington lad or Maisie, so what?’ he asked himself. ‘He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it, and it isn’t just a tumble in bed that his wife doesn’t know about.’ He considered what Saxon had said. ‘I must take a look at Thrupp in Coventry. Then there was a question mark for Fox in Cambridge which was the centre for the Anglia outfit of TRANSPORT A. So one of the ancient university towns had a question hanging over it. Ancient but not innocent?
He thought for a moment about Stella, perhaps even then undergoing surgery. Hope she doesn’t have her nose altered. I like that nose.
He looked at his diary. He could go to Coventry almost at once. It would mean a shuffling of appointments, but Paul Masters would do that for him, and he could spend some of the time beforehand studying the records left behind by Harry, which would not be a long job.
He could tell already that either Harry had not kept many or he had destroyed them.
The names of those with question marks were made a note of and he would be checking on them. In Coventry he would be seeing Leonie Thrupp and the man operating in that area. What was it now? He turned back to his own notes:
Tim Kelso in Coventry.
Peter Chard in Oxford.
Felicity Fox in Cambridge, which was the East Anglia area.
Joe Weir in Newcastle, which Ed Saxon, more romantic than Coffin
