the job herself for a spell and not found it life enhancing.
She studied the photographs with care, it paid. All right, this was a suicide, they had the note which said so, but the postmortem was still to be done, and anyway, the Chief Commander was involved. So take care, Pat, she thought.
Davis returned as she spread the photographs out on the desk. ‘You smell of smoke.’
‘You smell of toast.’ She had her elbows on the desk and was leaning over the pictures. ‘You know, you are quite right, the man does look surprised.’ She raised her head. ‘I suppose the moment of death can be a surprise even when you have planned it.’
‘We don’t know that he planned it, maybe she did and didn’t tell him.’
Pat Armitage picked up the suicide note, now a neat plastic envelope. The coroner would want to see it. ‘It’s signed by him. JM.’
‘They both had the same initials.’
‘True, but I don’t think a woman would do it that way.’
The note said: IT IS BEST TO END IT AND GO NOW.
‘Bit bleak,’ said Davis.
‘Probably the best way to do it if you must.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? If you must. Can’t imagine doing it myself.’ She stared at the note, which was on yellowing paper, none too clean. ‘Maybe she didn’t want to.’
‘Well, we will never know.’
‘I take it you don’t believe in the after life?’
‘Some of the bodies I have seen, then I hope not. I would definitely not want to know them again.’
Then he came out with the great question that no one had so far voiced: ‘Why on earth did they do it in a theatre?’
The hospital which housed the mortuary where the two bodies lay was associated with the very new University of Swinehouse, making the third in the Second City. The university had previously been Swinehouse Polytechnic until recent reforms had upped its status, and was housed in the old buildings. The hospital was not new either and the mortuary itself was old, but the new buildings to house the medical school were almost complete. Mr Garden worked in the mortuary but had a fine new office.
Time conscious as he was, Mr Garden got on with things, he was a quick worker. Apart from being what he was, an egoist of the first class, he had no irritating tricks as he worked: he did not hum, nor did he crack foul jokes – the general opinion was he knew no jokes, obscene or otherwise. But he was very interested in the human body, which he admired. If his detractors had realized this, they might have liked him better.
He dealt with Joe’s body first, and then Josie’s. His face was not one which allowed much expression, but he pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow as he took it all in.
‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘Interesting.’
He removed his overall and gloves, washed, then went into his office. His secretary. Alma Flint, who had been taking notes, had once worked in Coffin’s office, which he felt made a link with the Chief Commander. He found him attractive but tried not to make it too obvious. A little touch of the obvious was not a bad idea, the most surprising people responded on occasion, but one did not stick one’s neck out.
He looked at the clock, a pretty little ormolu thing he had picked up at an auction. Nine o’clock, he had started early, having a midday lecture to undergraduates to give. ‘Bring me some coffee, Alma.’
The carpet beneath his feet was a rich confection of colour made for him in Portugal. On the wall was an oil painting he had done himself. Coffin had never been here. Yes, he should see it.
‘Alma,’ he said, as he poured the coffee from the thin china pot. ‘Get the Chief Commander on the line. I want to see if he could come round here. It’s about the PM on the couple found dead in his wife’s theatre.’ He liked Stella too, but no bedding her!
Coffin had been at work for a couple of hours, engaged in routine administration, when the call came through. His secretary filtered calls as a rule with a fine discrimination, but she let this one through.
‘Have you got time to come round? It’s walking distance. But quicker if you drive, of course.’ This was Garden’s notion of a joke. ‘Drink before lunch. Have a light lunch, I can lay it on. I thought you might like the PM report in person.’
‘Can’t you fax it?’ Somehow I never like the idea of a meal in a mortuary.
‘In my room in the new wing, of course,’ said Garden as if he read his thoughts. ‘I think you will find this one interesting. And bring that nice Inspector Trent with you. Did I get the name right?’
‘You did,’ said Coffin without emphasis, but he took in the interest. ‘But I am not sure if I know where he is at the moment.’
In fact, he knew very well; Stella had called in on her way to an audition to ask Harry if he wanted anything, there wasn’t much food in the flat – and reported that he was stretched out on the bed, dead asleep, with a whisky bottle on the floor beside him. ‘But it wasn’t quite empty,’ she had reponed with careful honesty.
‘I don’t know what to make of him,’ Coffin had said, and Stella had replied: ‘Why don’t you find out?’
‘I might ring Greenwich and ask, I still know a few people there.’ Even though the old friends had gone, dead or retired. This one of cancer, this one gone to live in Spain. What do old coppers do, he asked himself, they don’t retire, they just disappear.
He must have repeated that he was ‘Not sure’ because he heard Garden say: ‘Oh, what a shame. I thought you were friends.’
‘We worked together once. It was a long time ago.’
‘I thought he had such an interest in this case.’
‘Where did you pick that up?’ The thing was not to react to Garden, but he could not always manage to hold back.
‘Oh, I hear things, words get passed on. I thought he knew the old couple.’
‘I believe he did, once. A long while ago.’
‘I think he would be interested in what I have found.’
There was no denying a kind of sneaky laughter there. It was true what people said of him: a real bastard. Death was not a subject for humour.
‘Of course, the report will be going out to the investigating team, but you know yourself, that takes time.’
So it wasn’t just a double suicide?
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Fine, lovely, after one, then?’
The conversation was over.
Coffin went to his window to look out at the scene below. It was something he had done often in his years as Chief Commander of the Second City of London, where he was responsible for keeping the Queen’s Peace in a stretch of old
