A Coffin for Charley Read online

  GWENDOLINE BUTLER

  A Coffin for Charley

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishersLtd

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers

  Copyright © Gwendoline Butler 1993

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  Gwendoline Butler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780006478904

  Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2014 ISBN: 9780007545421

  Version: 2014-07-02

  ‘So I said to Charley …’

  Traditional theatrical cover-up when the

  speech drops dead.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Keep Reading

  Also by the Author

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  A brief Calendar of the life and career of John Coffin, Chief Commander of the Second City of London Police

  John Coffin is a Londoner by birth, his father is unknown and his mother was a difficult lady of many careers and different lives who abandoned him in infancy to be looked after by a woman who may have been a relative of his father and who seems to have acted as his mother’s dresser when she was on the stage. He kept in touch with this lady, whom he called Mother, lodged with her in his early career and looked after her until she died.

  After serving briefly in the army, he joined the Metropolitan Police, soon transferring to the plain clothes branch as a detective.

  He became a Sergeant in 1958, and was very quickly promoted to Inspector a year later.

  By 1969 he was a superintendent and nine years later became Chief Superintendent.

  There was a bad patch in his career about which he is reluctant to talk. His difficult family background has complicated his life and possibly accounts for an unhappy period when, as he admits, his career went down a black hole. His first marriage split apart at this time and his only child died.

  From this dark period he was resurrected by a longish period in a secret, dangerous undercover operation about which even now not much is known. But the esteem he won then was recognized when, in the late 1980s as the Second City of London was being formed, he became the Chief Commander of its Police Force. He has married again, very happily, to an old love, Stella Pinero. He has also rediscovered two siblings, a sister and a brother.

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday. Towards the river

  Darkness.

  The two people stood facing each other. The girl with her back to the wall, the man looking at her, legs apart. He held out his hands.

  ‘I never like being killed,’ said the girl. She moved her hands forward as if to protect herself. She had long beautiful nails, painted bright red; on her left hand was a deep, diamond-shaped scar. Almost as if she had been branded.

  ‘It’s happened to you before?’

  ‘Several times. I’m the type, I suppose, and I never enjoy it. It’s so awkward. They never get it right.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The killers.’

  ‘Oh, I will get it right. Think of all the things I’ve been doing … Watching you, admiring you, loving you, hating you. I’ll get it right.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘I’ll get it so right you’ll never know you are dead.’

  Quite a promise.

  Darkness absolute.

  ‘Shall we move in for the kill?’

  But he wouldn’t be killing her just yet. For that, she would have to wait. Wait in hunger, wait in darkness.

  Light.

  One light, a spot above the dressing-table, focused on the lovely face of Stella Pinero, actress, now for a single rocky year Mrs John Coffin. An up and down year. But she forgave her husband. As always, she had contributed her share.

  I must put a bit more lipstick on; I’m looking pale. I blame last night. Possibly blame was the wrong word, not one to be associated with the evening before. Sex was good for you and improved the complexion, but sometimes fatigue made you pale.

  The dressing-table had its full equipment of make-up, sticks of colours, pots of creams, tubs of powder, sprays of scent, Stella took a professional interest in her looks.

  She smiled reminiscently as she considered the night. That was a bit of the up and down. A quarrel and a reconciliation.

  It had been her fault. Probably her fault.

  A rocky year. Right to marry, of course, but they had difficulties.

  All the same, she’d enjoyed the twelve months and she rather thought he had too. Not a man to want a quiet life was John Coffin. He thought he did, thought of himself as the reserved scholarly type more interested in editing his rakish mother’s rakish memoirs than anything else, but in truth he liked a battle. Or anyway, a bit of a skirmish. Wouldn’t have become a policeman else, would he?

  Well, he had had one big battle but not with her, and won it. His management of his Police Force in the Second City of London had come in for criticism on various grounds—not of inefficiency, it was agreed that he was very competent, but because with some people he was too friendly and with others too remote.

  And then there was his relationship with her (well, that had sorted itself out) and his connection with his highly successful sibling Letty Bingham, property tycoon and owner of St Luke’s Theatre Complex which contributed handsomely to Stella Pinero’s income.

  Or had done. This recession was biting sharply into Letty and so into Stella. It had taken a year or two for the slump to hit the theatre but it had done so now.

  Property developers were not popular in the Docklands of the Second City where they had erected great office blocks and compounds of luxury flats which the local population resented. This had counted in the whispering campaign against John Coffin, but he had face
d up to it, and also to the overt criticism of his Police Committee, and he had won.

  But it had not made for an easy first year of marriage.

  I was sensible to keep on my own flat, Stella decided. If the Queen can have a separate bedroom, then I can have a separate flat. Somewhere to hide when things got too hot. Also, she was performing this season in St Luke’s herself as well as producing two plays and she liked to have her friends in after a performance or after a particularly gruesome rehearsal and her friends did not always fit in well with the murder and mayhem that was part of her husband’s life.

  They loved it, of course, but she found their questions difficult.

  She lived in St Luke’s Mansions which had been converted from the tower of an old Victorian church which had fallen into disuse. The St Luke’s Theatre Complex was adjacent. The main theatre in the round was in the old church itself while a theatre workshop had been built across a small courtyard.

  I am attractive, she told herself, and I am a well known, if not exactly a famous, actress. Which is why that man watches me.

  Hangs around, follows me, watches me.

  Like all actresses, she had had followers, men who called with flowers, met her at the stage door, wrote little notes. It was part of theatrical tradition, the Stage Door Johnny. She had liked it, even found some of the men attractive; she was no prude.

  But this was different.

  She went to her window to look out. The dark-coated figure was not to be seen but he was probably there. She never got a good look at his face because he wore a hat which he pulled low, and dark spectacles.

  Not a pleasing sight.

  So that’s it, she said to her reflection. I’m a femme fatale. The fatale bit did not please her.

  She could tell her husband who would certainly act. What was the point of being married to a policeman if you could not call upon him when you were alarmed.

  She was alarmed.

  John Coffin, Chief Commander of the Second City Police Force, looked out of his window in his office. He got a better view from the sitting-room of the tower in St Luke’s Mansions, where he lived, sometimes with Stella and sometimes without her, but his view had improved since one tower block of council flats had been knocked down before it fell down so that he got a distant view of the river. He enjoyed looking out …

  It was something he did quite often. Partly because it gave him pleasure to look down on this London which he loved (although he would not have admitted to the feeling) and partly because (and again would he have admitted it?) he liked to keep an eye on it.

  It was a rough world down there and famously criminous. New wealth had not changed old ways. There were groups of streets where Victorian Peelers had refused to go except in pairs; there were still streets in which constables on the beat liked to feel they had good back-up. But he did not allow NO GO areas. Everywhere was policed.

  It was the Queen’s Peace he was responsible for keeping and he trusted she was grateful. Whispers had come to him about the next Honours List, so he supposed she was. He already had the Queen’s Police Medal, awarded when he took up his present position.

  If he did get an honour it would be a surprise since he had had several close brushes with his local MP and the Police Committee. The fact that they then passed what amounted to a vote of confidence in him did not mean they loved him the better.

  Within his authority he had the old boroughs of Spinnergate, Leathergate, Swinehouse, and East Hythe, whose very place names testified to their antiquity. The Vikings had got as far as these four Anglo-Saxon settlements in their ravages up the Thames, the Norman warlords had swept in replacing the old English landowners, but the indigenous population had survived and their descendants, spiced with immigrants from every land within the old Empire, were there now, tough, wily and ready to cause trouble. They had never been particularly law-abiding and recent events had done nothing to change their mind. New money had poured into the district in the last decade turning old warehouses and dockside buildings into offices and luxury apartments, and the old poor still in their terrace houses or council housing were resentful. Ill-feeling had turned to wicked mirth as the new rich became victims of the recession.

  He had in his bailiwick several hospitals, a university, numerous schools, and a high number of bookmakers’ shops. One legal casino and one illegal gambling house that moved on and reopened as soon as it was closed down. He had at least two brothels which called themselves Party Clubs, a flourishing transvestite night club, and a variety of religious foundations including chapels, churches and one man who was building a replica of Stonehenge in his back garden. Very handsome it was too, if necessarily on the small side. Its creator, Mr James Eldon, told the local press that he was not a Druid or worshipping a Bronze Age goddess, his motives were purely æsthetic: he just fancied it. He had invited the Chief Commander to a glass of nettle wine and a view of his henge.

  Coffin had not gone but he had warmed to Mr Eldon as one of the most harmless of his eccentrics.

  As he continued looking out of his window, he knew that at any one time he had in his area any number of juvenile delinquents, several rapists, a clutch of child molesters, numerous sexual deviants more or less within the law, at least one murderer who was known but against whom they could not get proof, one killer who was about to be arrested, and possibly more than he cared to think about that were secret and undetected in their murders.

  It was these last ones that worried him most.

  He turned away from the window with a yawn. Tarts, rogues, evil-doers and saints, he had them in his care. He had known one saint himself but she was dead; it was really just as well because otherwise he might have been obliged to send her to prison.

  He yawned again. Detective Chief Inspector Young looked at him with sympathy. He was tired himself having been up all night on a murder inquiry.

  ‘It’s the heat,’ said Coffin. He was talking to Young because he was dealing with the case, which was a sensitive one in which an MP had been, still was, involved. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said: “It’s nothing to do with you who I fuck or who I don’t. Push off.”’

  ‘Nice fellow.’

  ‘No witnesses,’ said Young briefly. ‘He knew I couldn’t quote. He was drunk,’ he added in a neutral voice.

  Job Titus, MP. He had started in one political party, crossed the floor of the House to join another, and finally set out his own stall. No settled party, continually changing his opinions, an Independent, very popular in his constituency, but as someone once said: ‘Of no fixed abode intellectually.’ A drinker, famous for it, violent, and famous for that too, and twice divorced. ‘Where does he get his money?’ people asked. ‘Where does he get his energy?’ others said. He had a crest of yellow curls and bright blue eyes. A political gigolo.

  ‘And the girl’s dead?’

  ‘And the girl’s dead.’

  Silence for a short space.

  ‘How was she killed?’

  Young pursed his lips. ‘There was a bit of doubt at first, but the informed opinion is that there was an attempt to strangle her and then she was smothered. Manually. Hand over her mouth and nose.’

  Marianna Manners had been a ballet dancer, out of work, but hopeful of joining a big London company. Meanwhile she had tried for all sorts of other parts because she could act a bit and one thing could lead her to another. In her case it looked as if it had. She had a wide circle of friends and lovers, one of whom might be Job Titus, MP, but there was no proving it. She had said Yes to her friends, he said No to the police.

  ‘Nasty … And Job Titus?’

  ‘No evidence that points to him in a strong way. He’s been seen drinking in the Balaclava Arms talking several times to one man and that makes me wonder.’

  The Balaclava Arms in Spinnergate had a bad reputation. It was known as Drinking in Hell.

  ‘And he knew her. And she claimed it was more than that. They both lived in Swinehouse in the same block of flats. An
d I’d love to get him for it.’ He didn’t say the last sentence aloud.

  ‘Yes,’ said Coffin, agreeing with what hadn’t been said. ‘That’s it for the moment, then?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What sort of a girl was she?’

  ‘Nice-looking, of course. Well made-up, well turned out. Quite expensive clothes. One strange thing for a girl like her … she had badly bitten fingernails. Didn’t really try to cover them up, either. No varnish or anything like that. Almost as if she didn’t care.’

  The two men had a friendly relationship which stretched outside working hours because their wives were friends. Stella Pinero and Alison, the ambitious, brilliant young wife of the Chief Inspector, had met at an official party and taken a great liking to each other.

  The police service being what it was, Coffin and Young had to keep a certain distance at work (although well aware that the married lives of both had come under female discussion), but it made for friendliness.

  It enabled Archie Young to say: ‘Annie Briggs has been in again.’

  Coffin frowned. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘She thinks she’s being watched.’

  ‘She might well be.’ He walked to the window again to look out. ‘Haven’t been any death threats lately, have there?’

  ‘No. None that I’ve heard of. But they’re a grudging lot, the Creeley clan, and they never forget. Pity they came back from New Zealand, I was a lot happier when it looked as though they’d emigrated. But they’re back and in the same street, the same house. Well, the boy is, there’s only him left now, he came back and moved in.’

  ‘Wonder how he managed that?’ Property being what it was.

  ‘Never sold it. Just moved back in.’

  Coffin was curious. ‘What sort of household does he run there?’

  ‘Not as bad as you might think. It was very mucky, the tenants not having been as careful as might be, but the young one, grandson Eddie, has been painting and gardening. He’s on his own at the moment although the odd cousin has been to stay.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’