Coffin on Murder Street

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Lollard was not to be stopped. ‘I’ve got it all on paper, don’t you worry. I keep a record. And I’ll see it gets noticed.’

‘Oh, pop off, dad.’

‘You lot wouldn’t know a crime coming if it got up and waved its hand at you,’ Lollard flung angrily over his shoulder as he departed, nearly knocking over in his anger the only other regular caller at the station, a young freelance-journalist always hopeful of a story. So to make up to the young man, Jim Lollard took him for a drink at the Rip and Vic, which although expensive had good beer and an atmosphere that jelled with his own.

That had been some months ago, but the comment from the sergeant had rankled. He had seen several suspicious circumstances since then and was convinced that he had his eye on at least one killer and that a mass murder was on the cards. But he had plans. Ideas catapulted out of his mind, one after the other. Get attention, he told himself, publicity is what you want. Set up a scene they can’t ignore. His imagination accelerated.

He saw the newspaper interviews. He would produce his records, show his diary of events. Let them see the kind of scoreboard he kept on the kitchen wall. Sell it, there would be money in it. He’d get on the Wogan Show. He saw himself sitting there, telling the tale.

Two of the items on his scoreboard related to the last two weeks. He always dated them, sometimes putting what the tide was on the river. In his old days as a waterman this had been important to him.

Mr Lilly, what does he do with his cats? Eat them?

And then: A strange fellow in No. 16. Will bear watching, ran one scrawl. What’s he doing here, not our sort, and what has happened to him? He had the darkest suspicions and had told a neighbour who let rooms what he thought. She laughed, but he’d show her. Show her something, anyway, to surprise her; he had his plans made.

Later that night a tentative telephone call came through to the Thameswater headquarters asking if they had any information about a tourist coach that had entered their area earlier that evening but had failed to return to base. Had there been a road accident? Had the coach broken down anywhere?

Sergeant Bond phoned around, but had to return the answer that nothing was known. He had zero to report.

When was the bus last seen? That was not clear, no one seemed to know. They had been sighted in Murder Street.

‘Regina Street,’ corrected the sergeant who lived not far away and did not like the nickname.

And the coach had not called in at the Ripper and Victim pub. But then I wouldn’t myself, reflected the Sergeant. Tourist trap, the landlord overcharges you.

The party in the bar of the Theatre Workshop was showing signs of breaking up at last.

Stella Pinero was speeding it on its way. ‘Come on now, you lot. I shall want you all in for a workout tomorrow early, then rehearsal—’ for she was producing the next play in repertory herself—‘and then there will be a meeting of all of you to hear details of the Festival productions. I will be handing out castings and you will be meeting Stan Odway and Jean Allen who are co-producing.’

The names struck awe in some of those present who started to melt away. Odway and Allen were hot stuff, names to conjure with, and Stella had been lucky to get them, all present acknowledged that, but they were tartars and you needed all your strength to cope.

Coffin, who was tired but had been hoping for a quiet half-hour with Stella, decided to depart himself.

The door opened and a dark-haired girl came into the room. She was carrying a bright-eyed little boy.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Casey, but I couldn’t get him to settle without saying good night to you.’

The child held out his arms and Casey gathered him up.

‘You should be tougher with him, Sylvie.’

Sylvie, who had a charming French accent, started a confused explanation, muttering about something or someone being missing. A favourite toy, perhaps? Coffin raised an eyebrow at Stella.

Nell had rented a flat in The Albion, which was hard by St Luke’s Mansions. The Albion had once been a public house, exceedingly seedy in appearance and not at all respectable, but it was of great antiquity, with cellars that looked as though they could have been there since the Domesday Book was compiled. Geoffrey Chaucer was said to have stayed there and Charles Dickens to have taken his friend Trollope for a drinking session there. Since then it had fallen on hard times, until converted recently into costly new apartments. Owing to the recent drop in property values most of them were as yet unsold, and the owner was turning them into furnished rented properties on short lets. Stella was suggesting them as homes for a number of her visiting stars in the approaching Festival. All expenses tax deductible, as she was pointing out.

‘Her child?’

Of course.’

Across the room, Coffin saw Gus staring hard at Casey and the boy. Casey was picking up her coat and hustling Sylvie out of the room. Stella followed. He moved forward and got the door open for them. The child gave him a smile as he passed in his mother’s arms.

Nice kid, he thought.

And then: So that’s what she brought with her.

And that wasn’t all she’d brought. Long years of experience had made his nose sensitive.

He could smell it, it was all around her: Trouble.