Wives are supposed to be kept from too much knowledge, painful knowledge, that is. Or that’s Ed Saxon’s philosophy.’
Are you sure, thought Coffin cynically, wondering if he could believe her ignorant. I think he doles out the painful bits as it suits him, and if he let you know about this office then it suited him.
He was, he feared, a natural cynic where Ed Saxon was concerned.
He nodded his head. ‘I know Ed has his ways.’
‘I came today to look round. I didn’t have a key but I thought I could get in. I would have done too.’
Coffin believed her.
She made a gesture with her hands. ‘Well, you saw … when I got here there was the fire brigade and the police.’ She nodded towards the talkers and drinkers near the bar. ‘So I followed this lot in here.’
She had sat in the car watching, Coffin commented to himself, a careful, cautious woman. He liked the way she used her hands. Stella would have approved of that: what you do with your hands on the stage is so important, they give you character or take it away. Never walk on the stage without knowing what to do with your hands and never let them droop.
He could see that Mary Seton would never walk on to her stage with drooping hands.
She must have picked up his thoughts. ‘I know you are married, I have seen your wife act. I admired her.’
‘Stella’s in Los Angeles at the moment.’
‘You must miss her.’
‘I do, of course, but we agreed when we married that she must be free to follow’ – he paused – ‘well, whatever the theatre demands. I wouldn’t want her to lose by being married.’
‘It applies to you too.’ She sipped her sherry. ‘But men don’t expect to lose by getting married, it’s just an extra, nothing to get in their way.’
Coffin gave her a cautious look.
‘I don’t think most policemen’s wives have happy marriages,’ she went on. ‘Stella is lucky.’
Coffin thought that Stella was not so much lucky as good at fighting her battles, probably he would have been as selfish and demanding as any, but Stella had not allowed it.
‘She deserves it,’ went on Mary Seton. ‘She is so talented.’
‘I think so,’ said Coffin, glad to be on solid ground at last.
‘I made my own career – I own a small chain of fashion shops, I don’t think Harry minded, or if he did it didn’t show. It meant he didn’t see so much of me as he might have done … I have to travel a bit.’
The noise from the group at the bar interrupted them; loud laughter and a small bit of horseplay with Miss Miniskirt doing most of the pushing; she was not one to overlook. Coffin decided.
‘Jolly, aren’t they? They aren’t worried about the fire, or why it was started. Harry was destroyed and now someone has had a go at destroying what he was working on.’ She turned her head towards the window; Coffin saw the glint of tears on her lashes.
‘We don’t know that it was arson.’
‘Oh, we do … it started on the top floor, Harry’s floor.’
Coffin had been looking out of the window, from where he could see that the fire engines were drawing away. He would probably be able to get into the building quite soon, if the top floor was not too hot. Or wet.
‘I want to have a look round myself, so I am hoping that it may not have been destroyed.’
She looked at him and shook her head.
‘They didn’t let me see Harry’s body. Just his face, so I could identify him, the rest was wrapped in sheets.’ There was no mistaking the tears on her cheeks now. ‘So I suppose they had a reason.’
You insensitive ox, Coffin told himself, all this bitter talk she’s been throwing at you is because she is bloody unhappy. She loved the man.
There was another burst of laughter, and Miss Miniskirt swept past. ‘Going to inspect the ruins,’ she called out.
Mary watched her go; through her tears, she said: ‘She spent a lot on that suit but she wasted her money: it doesn’t fit her. Didn’t you notice the sleeves?’
Coffin shook his head, he had not noticed the sleeves. All right, he had thought the black suit expensive, so he got that right.
‘You think I’m a bad-tempered cow, all right?’
‘No, I think you are a very unhappy woman.’
There was a pause. ‘I loved him. I didn’t always like him, but I loved him.’
There was silence.
She stood up. ‘I’m going to follow that woman. See if I can get into the building? Are you coming too?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what our chances are.’
‘I am going to get in, I saw a fire escape. I shall go up that.’
‘I saw it too.’
‘I was working it all out as I sat in the car.’
‘Why are you so anxious to see Harry’s office here?’
Mary slowed her pace, they could both see the woman in the miniskirt arguing with the police constable now on solitary duty.
‘Because Ed Saxon didn’t want me to. I only got the address because I read it upside down on his desk. What about you?’
‘Work,’ said Coffin evasively. ‘An investigation.’
‘Are you working on Harry’s death?’
‘No, the Met are handling that, of course …’ This was true, although he would be privy to what they turned up and in return they would want to look at anything he got. A strange position to be in, he thought, never happened before. It made him feel two-headed.
Mary looked at him sceptically, but she said nothing, moving ahead of him towards the office block. The woman in the miniskirt was still talking to the police constable. She seemed to be arguing fiercely.
Both of them had their backs to Coffin and Mary Seton. Without a word, Mary put her foot on the bottom rung of the fire escape, gave Coffin a meaning look, and ran up, leaping from step to step.
Coffin followed her. He was agile himself but she was nimbler. Good mind too, Harry Seton had been a lucky man. Only his luck had ended. Older than Mary. Hadn’t there been a first wife? He had memories of hearing of one called Elsa. Elsa he had never met, but he was willing to admit that she had been pretty and lively and clever, as with Mary. Did one always marry the same woman? What had happened to Elsa? Had she dropped Harry or the other way round?
These questions flashed through his mind with speed as he went up the staircase.
