Coffin in Fashion. Gwendoline Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ … Do you live here?’

      ‘More or less,’ said Coffin grimly.

      Gabriel’s gaze flickered to the police car. ‘Is there something wrong?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      She accepted the cautious reply for the dubious currency it was. A childhood in Paradise Street had accustomed her to both police cars and evasive replies.

      ‘The police is the police.’ She had her portfolio of photographed designs under her arm; she was already experiencing the first feelings of guilt about what she was doing to Rose. She gave Coffin a wave, then walked on. ‘One of them behind you wants you,’ she said over her shoulder.

      The uniformed man walked down the path to John Coffin and sat down on the wall.

      ‘You’re in luck.’

      ‘Glad to hear it.’

      ‘The body is only half yours. You share it with next door. The whole parcel is part under your floor, and part under next door. Looks as though it may have gone in that way.’

      ‘That house is lived in.’

      ‘A year ago it wasn’t.’

      ‘A year, eh? As long as that?’

      ‘The lady doc says so. And it’s upset her. A boy it is, young kid. And so she thought it might be the Humphreys boy. His red boots have turned up locally, so it all fitted in. But no: this one’s been in too long.’

      And yet Coffin had thought it might be even longer. The dried-up-looking parcel he had seen had looked as if more years than one had browned it. Done it to a turn.

      ‘Apparently there’s something in the soil round here that dries out tissue but also darkens. Too much of something or the other, the doc says.’ His tone was respectful.

      Dr Mary MacMiller was a newcomer, but one to be handled carefully; she had a sharp way with those who presumed on her sex and good looks.

      ‘Clue to identity?’

      The other policeman shook his head.

      ‘So now it’s Who, When, How?’

      ‘The usual three.’

      ‘Well, it’s your case,’ said Coffin cheerfully. ‘And not mine. I only live here.’

Chapter Two

      When Gabriel saw the women workers going into Belmodes in the mornings, she marvelled at the work they turned out. In a time of full employment such as they were enjoying, Rose Hilaire had had to take what workers she could get. What she got were a few young girls and a group of middle-aged women coming back to work after years of running a home. The miracle was that Rose had welded them into a team, and one with a sense of responsibility as well as high standards. Looking at them as they streamed in and stamped their time cards and took off nylon headscarfs and tweed coats, she could hardly believe the delicacy and precision of the work they would presently produce. When she sat in the rest-room and watched them eat their sandwiches (Rose was planning a canteen, but had not built it yet), she was always pleasantly surprised that no crumbs and grease got on to the delicate fabrics. But they never did.

      ‘Gabriel – can I tell you something?’

      She took a long drink of hot black coffee and swallowed two aspirins. She had a bad headache and a worse case of bad conscience. A restless night’s sleep had not eased her mind at all. She had a small art room at Belmodes where she was meant to design, but in fact she wandered around restlessly when ideas ran short. She was at present in the rest-room.

      ‘What is it, Shirley?’

      Shirley was one of Rose’s best workers; she could cut a pattern like an angel, and get more dresses out of a given length of material than you would think possible. Rose, no mean exponent of that art, had trained her herself.

      Shirley had been born around the corner from Paradise Street but was busy easing herself out of its influence. She was ambitious. If Gabriel eyed Rose enviously, then Shirley was probably eyeing Gabriel. As far as Gabriel could see, she had enormous talent and style, but had no formal training in design. This might or might not matter, Gabriel was still marking time on this one. The two young women usually eyed each other warily.

      ‘It’s about Steve … well, and what happened yesterday. Should we say anything to Rose? You know, say how sorry we are. Or should we say nothing? You know her better than we do.’

      The whole muttered conversation in the workrooms that morning had been about the body found in Mouncy Street and the connection of the dead body with Steve Hilaire.

      Everyone knew how he had been taken down to the police station with his mother late yesterday afternoon. They also knew he had come back.

      ‘Not sure about that.’ Gabriel hesitated. ‘Don’t know.’

      ‘Yes, you do,’ persisted Shirley. ‘You work with her more. And we want to get it right. Do we say something or not?’

      Rumours had been flying around the workrooms all the morning, varying in intensity and accuracy with the character of the speaker. Rose was mostly liked and respected as an employer, but inevitably she had her critics. One of these, a stockroom assistant called Ted Tipper who had clashed more than once with Rose on union matters, had said that he had heard that Rose herself had been questioned about the finding of the red boots in Steve’s sports bag. The general reaction was that perhaps she had, perhaps she hadn’t. Ted was a man working in a factory run by women for women and he appeared to resent it. He had a harried existence.

      ‘Ask Dagmar.’ If anyone was close to Rose, it was Dagmar.

      ‘You know she won’t talk. It’s a fact of life that Dagmar will not talk about Rose. Whether that means she loves her or hates her, I’ve never felt sure.’

      Gabriel ignored that comment. In her opinion Dagmar Blond had total loyalty to her employer and love did not come into it. The roots were probably economic and historical.

      ‘Well, Steve’s back. He’s gone to school, as far as you know. It’s a nothing; I should ignore it.’

      ‘But they’ve found a dead body. And not far away from here.’

      ‘Not the body of the boy who is missing, though. Not the boy from Hook Road School. I mean, the body that’s been found had nothing to do with Steve or Rose.’

      As far as Gabriel saw it, that was how that matter rested, but she could see that the workrooms couldn’t leave it there. They enjoyed the idea, whether they would admit it or not, that their employer might be mixed up with murder. It gave them a thrill. Murder of a child was the English crime.

      ‘I don’t see Rose as a child murderer.’

      ‘I’m not saying so. Of course not. None of us would say that. But she came into work with red eyes. She’d been crying.’

      Gabriel shrugged. ‘Leave it.’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ