left alone.
‘What’s the story about the death?’
‘Surprised you don’t know. Casey and Gus were part of a company, avant garde little group called Boxers, they were touring Australia. They were in Sydney for a month. Gus ran a little class within the company, he likes teaching. One of the kids fell for him. A lad, of course, they were pretty bisexual, that company, some tours are. I’ve looked round on occasion and thought: Not a proper man here. Anyway, this lad hung around Gus, that sort of thing.’
‘So?’
‘Gus said he didn’t encourage him. Well, perhaps he didn’t. Two schools of thought about that. And then Nell moved in and kind of mopped him up. So they say. Anyway, it got pretty messy,’ Stella said. ‘He was found dead.’
‘Where?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might.’
‘In a car park adjoining the theatre. In a car, from the exhaust. It could have been suicide. But there were bruises, enough for doubts. Was he attacked, or was he not? Brilliant chap. Got all the medals and loads of praise. Gus came in for a lot of criticism, and some suspicion. Was he jealous, people asked, and if so, what sort of jealousy: sexual or professional or both?’ Stella thought a bit more. ‘He and Nell broke up amid tears and blows.’
‘When was this?’
Stella made a guess. ‘Not so long ago, but before Casey went out to Los Angeles and the part in the soap we all know about, and Gus struck it big in Shakespeare. Say a couple of years.’ She shrugged. ‘So one’s sort of forgotten about it, and thinks those two ought to have done. That long.’ She looked across the room to where Gus was ordering himself a drink. She frowned. Back on that again? She would have to keep an eye on Gus.
‘Was the truth about the death ever established?’
‘I don’t think so, I don’t really know.’ Stella sounded faintly surprised she should be expected to know. ‘It was in Australia.’
Far away and long ago.
‘Nothing to do with you.’
‘No, of course not.’
Across the room, John Coffin could see Gus inserting himself into what he clearly hoped was a neutral group, neither on his side nor Casey’s, or who perhaps had never heard the gossip, anyway. Coffin felt sorry for the man. He knew what it was to feel a pariah: all policemen did. Sometimes you felt an alien in a hostile world.
‘I believe you set this up on purpose. Arranged the whole thing,’ he accused Stella.
Stella pursed her lips together. ‘It’s time they made it up. But I wanted Gus. I tried to get him to do a new play about Proust and then Othello. It was going to be a double on jealousy, but he said no.’
‘You’re a dangerous woman, Stella, and you could have created more of a situation than you realize,’ he said, observing Nell Casey’s rigid stance.
The party in the bar was increasing in size rather than diminishing as word got round that not only Nell Casey was there but Ellice Eden also. Max from the Deli round the corner, who ran the bar as a private venture, never minded staying on late. He was a man of business who nursed his profits carefully.
Nell and Gus stood at different ends of the room but were without doubt the two most courted members of the party, twin suns with their own powers of attraction. People drifted back and forth between them. Ellice Eden sat by Stella and held his own court.
In Murder Street, the real name of which was Regina Street, the small body of this particular victim had already been neatly packaged and any mess tidied away, ready for burial. It had been efficiently done. The murderer was a tidy, efficient person.
Regina Street, which knew its name but did not rejoice in it, harboured a floating population in its crowded houses, most of which had been subdivided into what the landlords called ‘studio flats’. This meant one room with a midget kitchen and a shower room tucked into a cupboard. Most of them were let furnished, this bringing in the most profit for the smallest outlay. Very few people stayed long, especially when they got to know the local name for the street, and observed the tourist coaches studying them. There were one or two old inhabitants.
One was called Jim Lollard and as he was an old dock-worker who had lived there since before the war, he was generally regarded by those of the inhabitants who noticed him at all as having been unloaded from the Ark. He was the only one who had a whole house to himself, and the interest to devote to it. His house was the one freshly painted and with a single bell with but his name underneath it. Since he had retired with a nice lump sum and a steady pension from the Dock Labour Board, he had spent most of his time decorating his house, inside and out, and tending his garden. He took evening classes in carpentry and upholstery and was willing to do odd jobs for anyone. At a price.
‘His house is his hobby,’ said Mimsie Marker tolerantly. Mimsie sold newspapers outside the Tube station at Spinnergate and knew all the old inhabitants of the district, being one herself.
But she was wrong. His house was not his hobby but his life’s work. His hobby was murder.
He was well known to the police. As a murder addict, he frequently reported crimes that had happened, or were about to happen, as well as some that had never happened and were never going to happen.
He never bothered with a substation, but always directed his attention to the headquarters of the new Force in the big building a stone’s throw from Spinnergate Tube station. Thus his name and his face were known even to John Coffin, from whom, because of his rank, all but the most august criminals were sheltered.
‘You’ll cry wolf once too often, said the sergeant on the desk one day, leaning across to Jim Lollard.
‘What do you mean?’ Defensively.
‘You’ll call murder and we won’t believe you and it’ll be you. You’ll be the victim.’
Lollard drew back. Aggrieved. ‘I’m doing a citizen’s duty. I could report you for saying that.’
‘You do,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now hop it.’
Lollard was stung into further speech. Truth to say, he had had it prepared and meant to get it out. ‘You don’t take account of what you’ve got in this district. Polyglot, that’s what it is. Muslims, Hindus, the Irish. You want to watch them. I do.’
‘We’ve got special units dealing with that,’ said the sergeant.
Lollard was not to be stopped. ‘I’ve got it all on paper, don’t you worry. I keep a record. And I’ll see it gets noticed.’
‘Oh, pop off, dad.’
‘You lot wouldn’t know a crime coming if it got up and waved its hand at you,’ Lollard flung angrily over his shoulder as he departed, nearly knocking over in his anger the only other regular caller at the station, a young freelance-journalist always hopeful of a story. So to make up to the young man, Jim Lollard took him for a drink at the Rip and Vic, which although expensive had good beer and an atmosphere that jelled with his own.
That had been some months ago, but the comment
