Annecks were the owners of No. 10 and the Darbyshires lived in No. 13. They had Jack Russell terriers, brother and sister, who hated the sight of each other, fought whenever they could and had to be exercised separately at different hours. The families had worked out a rota of dog departures and entrances and a bell was rung before setting out to make sure the enemies did not meet. They were suspected of having killed a cat apiece. These were the families that knew each other best in Feather Street. Mrs Anneck was a local councillor, Harold Darbyshire worked in the Bank, and everyone knew Dr Zeman.
They were all very busy people, fond of their animals but not good at exercising them, so they were walked accordingly to a strict timetable by Jim Marsh, the son of the milkman (C. Marsh, Daily Deliveries, who had not always been a milkman but had been into Flower Power and Love is All and being a Free Soul, only a man must live), who was hoping to be a vet. He was a kind of professional dogwalker, and, as a matter of fact, it was he who had found Anna Mary’s body. With him at that time was the better behaved of the Jack Russells, but even so he had had to pull back the dog from licking at the blood on the pavement.
The dog-walker was a quiet, thin boy, over eighteen but looking younger, who loved the dogs, but even he found this hard to bear. When he got home, he was sick in the kitchen sink before preparing a meal for his father. His mother was dead.
The policeman who had brought him home had been kind but not really understanding. The ride in the police car had been interesting, although not enjoyed by the dog he was walking.
‘You know, Mum,’ he said—he still spoke to his mother sometimes, although she had been dead some months now, and she seemed to pay more attention than she had in the past. ‘It was bad. Bad.’
He too had heard the words that Anna Mary had spoken.
Coffin, having completed his call to Archie Young, prepared to depart for yet another committee meeting, this time one he would chair. He was a desk man these days, and the novelty had worn off with only the boredom remaining. But he was learning how to turn the boredom to his advantage; he could convert it into a kind of anger, and spread it round the committee so that they all shared the desire to get on with the matter in hand speedily. If you enjoy a committee meeting, was his dictum, you are doing it wrong.
He walked down his winding staircase in what had once been the bell-tower of St Luke’s, wondering if his car, left parked overnight in the street, would or would not be vandalized. Last week, some hand, which had in his opinion to be masculine and under fifteen, possibly half of that, had scratched on it several phallic symbols. They might have been cacti or bananas but he thought not.
He could hear voices from the hall where his entrance adjoined that of Stella Pinero in St Luke’s Mansions.
A light silvery voice was saying: ‘They didn’t worry about where the lavatories were in the Globe.’
Stella Pinero could be heard loud and clear, her voice rarely failed to hit its mark: ‘I don’t think they had lavatories in the Globe: they just used the back wall.’
They were standing in the hall, Stella in brown trousers and a cream shirt with a blue scarf tied round her hair. With her was what could only be their new neighbour: a tall, grey-haired man in a suede jacket as pale as his hair. He too wore a blue scarf, but his was knotted round his neck over his matching shirt. He looked distinguished. Was distinguished, since Coffin recognized him as a famous photographer.
Stella turned round.
‘Oh, you’ve got Tiddles.’
‘Have I?’ He looked. He had. Tiddles had come down the stairs behind him, and was now discreetly emptying himself out of the room in the way cats have.
‘You know Sir Harry, don’t you?’
‘By reputation.’ He held out his hand. Harry Beauchamp, recently knighted, was famous for his photographic portraits and revealing group and street scenes. He had an eye. Younger than Cecil Beaton and older than Snowdon, he looked set to beat them all.
‘And I know you,’ said Sir Harry, giving him a tight, hard shake. ‘Saw you in court when Edith Martiner came up for trial. She did it, of course.’
‘Oh yes. She was lucky to get off.’
‘I was doing a series of photos of different types of women. She was a type all right. Wouldn’t have liked to be shut up in a room with her. Thought she’d eat me as it was. Wonder what’s happened to her.’
Coffin, who knew, said nothing.
‘I heard she went to Tibet, beat up a soldier and got shot.’
It was not quite the story Coffin knew, but it might have been truer than the version he had. There were so many ways of telling the truth.
‘I’d be surprised if she’s dead … I thought you were our new neighbour,’ he said.
‘Dick? I’m going to share with him. You’re getting us both.’
Over his head, although tall Sir Harry was shorter than she was, he met Stella’s amused, informed smile. Always do, always have, her lips breathed: a twosome.
‘Sir Harry’s going to do some photographs of our Work in Progress. One of the Sunday supplements is taking it. Lovely publicity for us.’
‘Take some of you, if you like,’ offered Sir Harry. ‘Got any good crimes going? I like a bit of background material.’
There was a screech of brakes and an angry shout from outside.
‘That’s Tiddles crossing the road against the lights,’ said Stella with resignation. ‘He will do it.’
As Coffin got in his car, he saw a middle-aged man and woman standing on the pavement. He knew the woman’s face, he thought she worked in the theatre for Stella. He thought they were studying him, but he did not hear what they said.
‘Is that him?’ asked the man.
‘Yes. He’s late to work today. Very punctual as a rule.’
‘He looks that sort.’
‘You won’t—’ she hesitated‘—do anything, will you, Fred?’
‘No. I just wanted to see him. Get to know his face.’
‘How can that help, Fred? How can it help Anny?’
‘It helps me,’ said Fred Kinver. He strode forward, feet heavy and fast on the ground, he had always been a mover, played football in his youth in the days when there were such things as wingers and a man had to be able to run. She had a job keeping up with him.
‘Walk on,’ he commanded.
‘They’re doing what they can, Fred.’
‘Doesn’t it matter to you that the police haven’t got the man that killed your daughter yet? It matters to me. I screamed when they told me.’
‘I heard you,’ said Mrs Kinver. ‘You kept it up.’
‘You just sat there quiet.’
‘Everyone grieves differently.’
‘I’m
