in touch, but it looked at the moment that this was a terrorist killing. How his man had been flushed out, he did not yet know, but it was vital to find out.
‘He was a good man,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who got on to him or how, but by God I am going to find out.’
‘A traitor in our midst,’ said Coffin sadly.
‘I hope not, but we may have to face it.’
‘Let’s meet for a drink sometime soon,’ said Coffin. There was a hole here that needed mending, patching up, and it was his job to do it.
After Lodge had gone, Paul Masters came in with a tray of coffee and file of papers.
‘Hot and strong. And this is today’s list: a CC and Accounts meeting at midday. A delegation from Swinehouse … ethnic problems. And Anthony Hermeside from the Home Office is inviting himself to lunch …’
Coffin groaned.
‘Yes, good luck, sir. I have all the notes you will need to brief you on him in the folder. Oh, and Hermeside doesn’t drink.’
He departed in polite good order. He had arranged what he could, smoothed Coffin’s path and now it was up to the Chief Commander.
Coffin drank his coffee, which was, as Paul had said, hot and strong, there was cream to go with it and a new sort of chocolate biscuit, all confirming once again that everyone knew everything and quite possibly more than could be known – rumour always magnified a story – and he was being offered comfort.
He drank some more coffee, gazing at a corner of the room where it seemed to him a part of his own mind was circling.
‘Ever been betrayed?’ he asked this self.
‘Many times and oft,’ Old Sobersides up in the corner, who seemed to know more about his life than he did himself, came back with. ‘And you just have to get on with it.’
He had asked for a report on the body in Percy Street to be delivered quickly, and it was now on his desk.
The report, put together with speed by Sergeant Mitchell said:
The body is that of a white male, probably aged between thirty-five and forty. He was not dirty, he had not been living rough, nor was he undernourished. His hair, beneath the wig, was dyed.
Cause of death was a neat stab wound which had not bled profusely. We will know more about this when the pathologist reports.
It appears that he had been killed in the room where he was found. Blood traces, cleaned up but still to be seen, indicated this. Forensics are working it now.
Also, it is clear that he had walked there, wearing the clothes in which he was found. A video of him rounding the corner out of Jamaica Street shows him on the afternoon of the day within twenty-four hours of which he died. He was alone.
A first search of the rest of the house has turned up nothing except bomb-damaged furniture. Bed linen and towels in a cupboard in the upper bedroom, along with some old clothes.
A copy of the relevant part of the video is attached.
It was a blurred dark picture but one in which a figure, wearing jeans, swinging the Chanel bag over a shoulder, could be clearly seen turning the corner.
Good work, Mitchell.
He studied the picture again. Yes, there he was, centre picture, clearly shown. The end of the street was more blurred.
Well, that was it, for the moment.
Taking advice from his darker, grimmer self, Coffin did as he was told and got on with the job, following the appointments laid out in his diary and pointed to by Paul Masters.
Used as Coffin was to the dead times in an investigation when nothing seems to move forward, he found it hard. In a way, it was Inspector Lodge’s case if the dead man was indeed his man. Equally, because of the involvement of Stella, Coffin ought to keep out. He did not intend to do so.
He worked through the day, keeping his head down to avoid the interested eyes and hints of sympathy, but his temper was not improved by either.
Paul Masters had accompanied him into one committee meeting to keep the notes.
As they entered this last meeting together, Paul Masters passed on one more message to the Chief Commander. He was sensitive to his chief’s moods and knew at once that he would not be pleased at what he was about to learn.
The message was in a sealed envelope, but nevertheless, through his own channels, Paul knew what was in it.
‘From Chief Superintendent Young, sir. He wanted you to have it soonest.’ You might need a strong drink when you’ve read it, instead of this committee of ways and means.
Coffin went into the room, already full of committee members, took his place at the head of the table, surveyed them bleakly, muttered an acknowledgement, then opened his letter. Why is it, he was saying to himself, that even colleagues you liked and respected (not always the same thing by any means) turn into trouble when they become committee members?
He read the letter quickly. ‘Thought you would wish to know that the dead man has been identified as Peter Corner, who was working undercover for Lodge. He had taken a job as office assistant and manager of the firm of builders repairing the house in Percy Street where he was found. He was identified by his underclothes, which had not been changed when he was dressed up as a woman. He had an invisible coded number, as is the rule, inside his pants.’
Coffin looked up from the letter. He could already tell that the bad news had been saved until last. ‘Lodge has sealed off the room which Corner rented in Pompey Land, Spinnergate. He found some notes there in which Miss Pinero’s name was mentioned.’
Damn, damn and damn, thought Coffin, even as he opened the meeting in a polite, calm voice.
Archie Young had scribbled an additional line or two himself which Paul Masters was not privy to since it had not been typed and thus was out of the chain of communication.
‘Series of photographs of Stella, taken in a bar, in company with an unknown man.’
Damn again, so the dead man had been watching Stella. Of course, she knew a lot of men, met them in the way of business.
Old Killjoy, his other self, who had come along with him and was nesting in the corner of this room, said sceptically: So?
Still, if there was anything bloody to come out, he would rather Archie Young knew than anyone. Not sure about Lodge, though.
He became aware at this point that the committee was waiting for him to speak. He forced his two selves to fuse, and took up the duties of a chairman of a difficult committee which must get down to business.
It was the last committee of the day. He considered telephoning Archie Young, but knew, suddenly, he wanted to be at home. He collected the dog, who had spent the day with the two secretaries who were his devoted slaves, put him in the car with his briefcase and overcoat to make the short journey back to the old church tower which still dominated the Pinero Theatre complex.
He parked the car, dragged
