Coffin’s Game. Gwendoline Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ Stella was not there, either.

      Finally, he did what he should have done at first, but disliked doing: he telephoned her London agent. He knew that Doria Jones thought he was bad for Stella’s career, that he kept her cooped up in the Second City when she ought to be adorning the London or New York stage. In short, she thought Coffin was a chauvinistic, oppressive spouse.

      Doria’s secretary answered his call, saying in her polite but chirpy voice that Doria was out of town and would not be back until the late evening.

      In the evening, he worked on papers and prepared a speech he had to give at an official dinner. That done he had a meal, then a drink, and fell asleep. Then, late as it was, he telephoned Doria at home.

      She replied in person, sounding surprised to hear him. She had a soft, sweet voice and always said that Stella was her favourite client – which may have been true.

      ‘No, darling, I don’t know where Stella is. I did not send her an urgent message. Definitely not.’

      She was willing to go on talking about this, but Coffin was not. ‘Thanks, Doria, I got it wrong. My fault. Sorry I bothered you.’

      He put the telephone down. ‘Stella, damn you, where are you?’ Coffin’s life had ruled out trusting people. Stella was an exception. He still loved and trusted her, but he wanted to know where she was.

      Coffin did not sleep much that night. ‘If I have lost Stella, either physically or emotionally, because she wasn’t what I thought she was, I would not die. I would go on, because I have learnt how to survive, but I would be shrunken.’

      In the dawn he went down to the kitchen and made some coffee, which he sat at the table drinking. The sky outside was pink with light. He couldn’t see the mouse but he heard a rustle by the window.

      ‘Could she be dead?’ he asked himself. ‘If what I heard in Melly House was true, then the company she is mixing with might easily kill her if they scented danger.’ He felt a groan rising inside him. ‘I am part of the danger, although God knows I don’t want to be.’

      It was not all his fault though, and he knew that, too. Stella had to bear her share.

      ‘When she gets in touch, comes back, we will work this through somehow,’ he told himself. He finished the coffee, made toast, put some cheese down for the mouse, then ate the toast standing by the window watching the sun slowly rise into view.

      He felt better. At intervals he told himself that he would certainly know if anything had happened to Stella. He would sense it. Would he, though? Wasn’t that precisely the sort of fallacy he would discourage in other people?

      On the other hand, he would be told, someone would tell him, he was the person who was told things, he was in a position to know what was happening.

      Anyway, Stella would telephone soon. Or walk in the door, then they could talk things over. ‘I don’t blame you for anything, Stella,’ he would say, ‘but I must know.’

      Didn’t that sound pompous, precisely the sort of comment that would make Stella stamp out of the room in a rage? Phrase it better, Coffin. You will when you see her, it will happen.

      ‘You may never see her again,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

      The information appertaining to Stella – lovely professional phrase that, if a little pompous – was nothing much, merely her name on a list, but it had been fed to him so discreetly, almost anonymously and without comment. He had been observed, though; notice taken, as you might say.

      He was surprised to find that during all this inner conversation he had driven himself to work and had arrived, safely, too, in his office.

      He sped through the outer office where two uniformed officers manned the defences, then with a brisk good morning to them he entered the inner office where three people worked – his assistant Paul Masters, and the two secretaries: Gillian, and the new girl, Sheila, who had replaced the elegant Sylvia – before hurrying into his own room which was empty and quiet, and smelt of furniture polish with a touch of disinfectant. Pine, he thought.

      ‘Got back early,’ he announced, as he passed through to his work-laden desk. The usual files to read and initial, a larger than customary folder of letters to sign (and there would be more when his secretary came in, but she was tactfully leaving him for a few minutes), and the notes of telephone calls received and to be returned.

      A call from Archie Young, but no message. Coffin frowned. This was unlike Archie who was always businesslike and not mysterious. He rang his secretaries; Sheila answered.

      ‘Do you know anything about these calls from Chief Superintendent Young?’

      Sheila Heslop had been with him for six months now, more or less taking charge of the outer office and organizing Gillian, who was about to take study leave. In a quiet way, she organized the Chief Commander, too.

      ‘He rang me first to see if you were in, sir,’ she said carefully. ‘I suggested that he speak to Inspector Masters, but he said he wanted you. I think he had something he wanted to talk to you about.’

      ‘Oh, well, I expect I will be here.’

      ‘I rather think he might be ringing again,’ she said, with what might have been a touch of nervousness. This made Coffin answer her sharply.

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘Just a feeling, sir.’

      Coffin looked at his watch. Still early, still time for Stella to ring.

      He took up the report on the bombings in the Second City, which came with photographs and a video of the bombers.

      In two seconds the phone went. Coffin picked it up eagerly to hear Archie Young’s hesitant voice. ‘Something you ought to see, sir. A body … Percy Street.’

      ‘I’ll drive you round, sir,’ Archie Young had said. ‘Unless you would rather use your own driver?’ He could see someone had better drive the Chief Commander. Coffin had a new driver – not a member of the Force; police officers cost too much to train to be used as chauffeurs.

      ‘He’s away,’ said Coffin. ‘Thank you, Archie, you drive.’

      So tense he felt sick, Coffin let Archie Young lead him into the house in Percy Street. There was a ring of fellow officers there, the SOCO team, the police surgeon, and Inspector Lodge.

      With automatic good manners he nodded towards them all, but did not speak. He looked at the body lying on the floor, the terribly damaged face staring upwards. He saw the handbag lying on the floor.

      He walked forward, forcing himself to study well what he saw. He stared for some minutes before turning away. ‘No, that is not my wife. Yes, she wore jeans like that; yes, she had such a handbag, but the body is not hers.’

      Inspector Lodge met Coffin’s eyes with a meaningful stare: I hope you know what you are doing.

      Archie Young muttered something about the material in the handbag.

      ‘I don’t care what is inside the handbag. That is not my wife,’ said Coffin in a quiet voice. ‘It is not Stella.’

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