cabinets, had not been disturbed.
‘It’s the heads that are important,’ he said, coming back to Phoebe.
Looking at the ring of tiny skulls, Phoebe thought she had worked that out for herself.
‘Question the man Joe thoroughly. I get the feeling he may know something.’
‘That will be done, sir.’
‘I’ll go to the post-mortem with you,’ said Coffin. He felt he should; the dead woman had asked for him as she died. It was the least he could do for her.
‘Thanks. I hate that place.’
‘So do I.’ Who didn’t? As a young policeman he had attended post-mortems as duty demanded. He hated the ice cabinets, with their freight of bodies, the trays on which they emerged to lie on metal tables with drip trays underneath.
Coffin looked round for Stella, only to find that she had done a disappearing act, and not a theatrical one; she was nowhere to be seen.
She was outside in the car, reading.
‘I shall always bring a book with me when you take me out to dinner, then I can read it when you go off.’
‘You seem to have got one.’
‘I found it in the car.’ She held it up: David Copperfield
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