be an indication of a disturbance somewhere. Find it, then dig again.’
He took pity on the Chief Superintendent. ‘Come and sit in the car and tell me what’s been going on.’ He himself had had to cancel a dinner engagement with Stella Pinero, who had not been pleased. ‘I hope something has.’
Earlier that day, Chief Inspector Young had received the first forensic reports on the girl’s car. Nothing very helpful, he had thought: traces of the clothes of the girl herself, fingerprints, possibly hers, her father’s (he had acknowledged using the car), and possibly prints of the boy, Martin Blackhall. It would all need to be worked on and checked.
But later, during that afternoon, Chief Inspector Archie Young in company with a woman detective had entered and searched the student room lived in by Amy Dean. This room had been locked for days now, so that when they went in it smelt stuffy. Even sour. Young wondered if there was the smell of drugs; there was certainly stale cigarette smoke.
On the outside it seemed the room was orderly and tidy, but when the drawers and cupboards were opened, there was a different story.
Sordid, dirty, beneath apparent order.
The drawers and cupboards were full of soiled, crumpled clothes. Underclothes, tights, sweaters and jeans, all pushed in the drawers and shoved into the cupboards, not hung up, all disorder and dirt which spilled out in front of them.
Young looked at the woman detective with him who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Bit of a slut.’
Or mute signs of a confused, unhappy girl, who wanted to be dirty?
The diggers ceased their work and came across to the car.
‘Found something, sir. I think you’d like to look.’
The two men got out of the car to hurry across the grass. The diggers had gone down several feet into the Essex clay.
Under the soil was a roughly made coffin.
‘Better get it opened.’ Lane spoke gruffly, more moved than he had expected.
‘No.’ Coffin was abrupt. ‘No, let’s wait until Dean and Blackhall get here.’
‘It’ll mean waiting some time.’
‘No, they should be here any minute. I telephoned earlier.’
‘My God, you were sure,’ said Lane.
‘Yes, I was sure.’
They watched as first one car and then another drew up, from which Sir Thomas and then Jim Dean got out. They watched in silence as the two men approached. Coffin walked over to them and murmured something. Lane saw them nod, then the whole party moved to the edge of the pit to look down at the coffin.
Ropes were fitted and slowly the coffin was drawn up. ‘Open it,’ said the Chief Commander.
Behind them a girl got out of one of the cars and came running towards them.
Tall, slender, in jeans, fair hair floating over her shoulders. Sir Thomas muttered under his breath that she shouldn’t be here, not his idea. ‘Get back, Angela,’ said James Dean.
‘You promised, you promised! I want to know.’
Jim put his arm protectively around the girl. ‘Go back. I promised you could come. I promised I would tell you. But you can’t look.’
A chisel levered at the wood, the coffin opened with a crack.
Day Seven. A long day
Things had changed. In the old days a killer usually left the body lying around. In special cases he might chop it up, put it in a trunk or deposit it around the countryside. The body might be shrouded, the murderer did not always want to see the victim’s face. But a wooden box, that was something different.
Coffin felt that once they knew how that had happened, they would know the killer.
Of course, he could be wrong. He had been in the past.
He was hungry, he was tired. His day had started early and was still going on. He had the beginnings of a headache, and something inside that might be indigestion but felt more like tension. He had lost a button from his jacket, and as he drove home he saw that his hands were dirty with one nail broken, so he must have been down in the hole, moving the earth away with his own hand, and drawing back the wood from the dead face. Had Dean got his hands dirty?
He needed a bath, a change of clothing, and a drink. But more than this, he needed to talk to someone. Someone who could understand his own particular problem.
There was only one such person. And to see him seemed more important than the bath and the drink. Besides, Mat was usually good for a drink, provided you settled for his own special brand. Last time he had visited him the brew had been camomile tea.
He sat for a moment, looking up at the tower of the former St Luke’s Church where he lived. The Post Office had recently informed him that his address was now No. 1, The Mansions, St Luke’s Old Church. He could see his cat Tiddles outlined at one window, so that meant he ought to go in and feed Tiddles.
Which would mean reading any post that might have arrived since he had left and listening to any messages on his answering machine. Suddenly he knew he wasn’t going to do any of that. He waved to Tiddles, turned the car and drove off.
As he waited at a traffic light on red, he meditated on his position. He liked his work and thought he did it well, but he had his critics. He had not set up the organization of the Second City Police Force. This had been the creation of a Home Office Panel specially set up for the occasion. He had just walked into it, but he managed it his way. His way.
He drove south to the old docklands, taking the Blackwall Tunnel under the river, mercifully free of traffic at that time of day, and followed the road into Greenwich, once the home of English kings. After a long period of decline, it had become fashionable again with many of the fine houses enjoying the elegance they deserved. He parked the car in a side street near the theatre where Stella had once worked and then walked towards a street running south.
There it was, a quiet shop, not brightly painted, making no pretences: Matthew Parker, Bookseller. His old friend Mat had retired from the Force and started a secondhand bookshop. Not what you expect from a CID sergeant who never seemed to open a book, but Mat was making a go of it. Although it was late by now, the shop had light in it and was still open. It was always open, especially to Mat’s friends. He treated it as a kind of club.
He pushed at the door, setting the bell ringing. ‘Hello?’ he called out. Mat appeared from an inner room. He was a tall, burly man who was older than he looked. A widower of many years, he dressed for comfort in soft old trousers of no special shade, a thick sweater in a tone of grey (although Coffin sometimes wondered if it hadn’t perhaps once been white) and tan leather slippers.
He seemed unsurprised to see John. ‘Wondered if you’d be in.’
‘How’s business?’
‘Mine’s
