beaten up by her boyfriend. The name of the student was Martin Blackhall. Nothing could be proved against him. She had had other boyfriends, in and out of the university, and she liked older men.
He was mulling this over and drinking his now tepid coffee when Stella Pinero walked into the bar.
Bob got up, nearly heaving over the table the better to let off a stream of happy barks and embrace his beloved mistress.
‘Down, Bob.’
Stella Pinero kissed John on his cheek and patted Bob’s head, all one lovely flow of motion that only an actress could have achieved. Coffin felt that if she had patted his head and kissed Bob it would have looked as elegant and meant as much. Kisses were not tokens of affection to Stella but a sign that she knew you were there and could speak later. Her turn first. Relations between them were still strained.
He knew better than to deliver more than a modest peck back nor to praise her appearance although she looked lovely, she had cut her hair short and tinted it red for a part she was rehearsing on TV and it suited her. He suspected she had known it would or a wig would have been ordered for the television series. A flourish of Guerlain came with her. Over the years he had learnt with some amusement that she wore Mitsouko with jeans and Chamade with skirts: it was a Mitsouko day.
With her was a tall, thin figure draped in what looked like rags and tatters until you saw the rags were of jewel-like colours and glittered here and there with gold thread. Then you realized you were looking at a carefully put together composition. A turban of soft chiffon scarves framed a thin face with huge brown eyes.
A striking face, so bony and yet so strong that it was hard to say if it was beautiful or ugly, it could be both.
Coffin stood up.
‘This is Josephine,’ said Stella, as if this explained everything: her late appearance, and the slight fluster in her manner now. ‘She knows you, of course.’
Josephine held out a long, thin hand, heavy with rich jewels, every one of them false.
‘She wants to talk to you, she has something to tell you.’
‘You don’t know me, no need to pretend,’ said Josephine, ‘no one knows me now.’ Her voice was deep and sweet with the remains of strong cockney accent overlaid with something transatlantic. ‘I was in New York and San Francisco far too long, but I’ve come back to my roots now.’
Life with Stella had trained his nose to scents. He knew a Chanel from a Dior, and he detected Josephine’s: oddly enough, she was wearing pine disinfectant.
Not a doctor, he thought, and definitely not a nurse. She was tall, he was tall himself and her eyes were level with his; Stella only came up to her shoulder. She appeared to be very thin, but with every movement she made he was becoming aware that inside that flutter of draperies was a body that knew how to move.
As well as the pine disinfectant he had caught the whiff of distinction which, like decay, has its own particular smell. Josephine was or had been Someone, but who? Stella acted as if he ought to know.
‘Josephine works at Star Court House,’ said Stella.
‘Ah.’ Coffin knew Star Court House, it was well known as a home for battered wives and children. He walked past it occasionally, just to see how it went on, but one did not enter unless invited. Not if you were a man and especially if you were a police officer. No one had so far asked him to Star Court House. ‘You do good work, but you’ve had your troubles.’ There were outbursts of violence in and around Star Court House at intervals; it attracted the very physicality it dealt with.
‘Haven’t had nearly so many incidents since one of the local gangs took us under their protection … No, since “Our General” started looking after us, we’ve felt safer.’
‘Oh, she’s down there, is she?’ Star Court was well south in his district, right down the bottom of Swine’s Hill and near the river. He hadn’t known Our General’s territory stretched so far, he had placed her in Spinnergate, that was gangland.
‘Been a real good friend. We owe her.’
Certainly interesting, he thought, but he was stepping carefully, because Star Court House did not welcome police interference, and he was surprised to be invoked. ‘Shall we all have a drink?’ He could see Max, who ran the bar, eyeing them hopefully. ‘Or we could have lunch, Stella?’ He managed to keep reproach out of his voice, because the arrangement had been a picnic lunch together.
Stella raised an eyebrow at Josephine, who shook her head so that the chiffons moved and waved about her head.
‘I have to get back. I promised. We’re short of help today. There’s a court case and that always drains us.’ Then she gave a smile. ‘On the other hand, a cup of Max’s coffee would be nice.’
Behind the bar, Max, a well-known local figure and owner of the nearby delicatessen (but this was recession and you needed as many jobs as possible), heard and started moving the cups. ‘Espresso, Miss Josephine, as usual?’
So he knew her, Coffin thought, but Max knew everyone. Still, it was his own job also to know everyone, how had he missed Josephine?
Josephine sat down but did not wait for the coffee before beginning. ‘I’m a volunteer worker at the hostel, most of us are, the hostel can’t afford much trained staff. We all muck in. It works mostly …’ She paused. ‘We had a girl, a student from the university who came in one day a week, she helped in the office, typed letters, saw that bills got filed if not paid, that sort of thing. She cooked if necessary, we all do everything … She’s gone … We’re worried about her, we think she’s missing and might be dead, and the girls, that is all of us who work there or live there, have sent me round to say.’
‘What was the name of this girl?’
‘Amy Dean, Amy to us.’
The coffee arrived and Max, who had certainly heard every word spoken because he always did, set the cups down carefully.
‘I know about Amy Dean,’ said Coffin.
‘Ah, I suppose that’s something. We thought the police were being shifty. So what are you doing?’
‘Action’s being taken, you can count on that.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Stella, leaning forward eagerly, as if Coffin was her pet and deserved a pat on the head. Like Bob.
‘Because it’s the second time.’ Josephine picked up her cup. ‘Another girl who helped at the centre was killed. Last year. She was murdered. And we don’t like it.’ She drained her coffee. ‘We think that’s two too many.’
Coffin absorbed what she had said, then he said: ‘One would be.’
‘I agree there.’
‘But Amy could turn up any minute.’ Only, like Josephine, he did not think she was going to.
Josephine was silent. ‘No,’ she said.
‘But thanks for telling me.’
Josephine drew her flutter of clothes around her, touched Stella lightly on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for helping,’ she
