LITMIR.BIZ

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or would not be vandalized. Last week, some hand, which had in his opinion to be masculine and under fifteen, possibly half of that, had scratched on it several phallic symbols. They might have been cacti or bananas but he thought not.

      He could hear voices from the hall where his entrance adjoined that of Stella Pinero in St Luke’s Mansions.

      A light silvery voice was saying: ‘They didn’t worry about where the lavatories were in the Globe.’

      Stella Pinero could be heard loud and clear, her voice rarely failed to hit its mark: ‘I don’t think they had lavatories in the Globe: they just used the back wall.’

      They were standing in the hall, Stella in brown trousers and a cream shirt with a blue scarf tied round her hair. With her was what could only be their new neighbour: a tall, grey-haired man in a suede jacket as pale as his hair. He too wore a blue scarf, but his was knotted round his neck over his matching shirt. He looked distinguished. Was distinguished, since Coffin recognized him as a famous photographer.

      Stella turned round.

      ‘Oh, you’ve got Tiddles.’

      ‘Have I?’ He looked. He had. Tiddles had come down the stairs behind him, and was now discreetly emptying himself out of the room in the way cats have.

      ‘You know Sir Harry, don’t you?’

      ‘By reputation.’ He held out his hand. Harry Beauchamp, recently knighted, was famous for his photographic portraits and revealing group and street scenes. He had an eye. Younger than Cecil Beaton and older than Snowdon, he looked set to beat them all.

      ‘And I know you,’ said Sir Harry, giving him a tight, hard shake. ‘Saw you in court when Edith Martiner came up for trial. She did it, of course.’

      ‘Oh yes. She was lucky to get off.’

      ‘I was doing a series of photos of different types of women. She was a type all right. Wouldn’t have liked to be shut up in a room with her. Thought she’d eat me as it was. Wonder what’s happened to her.’

      Coffin, who knew, said nothing.

      ‘I heard she went to Tibet, beat up a soldier and got shot.’

      It was not quite the story Coffin knew, but it might have been truer than the version he had. There were so many ways of telling the truth.

      ‘I’d be surprised if she’s dead … I thought you were our new neighbour,’ he said.

      ‘Dick? I’m going to share with him. You’re getting us both.’

      Over his head, although tall Sir Harry was shorter than she was, he met Stella’s amused, informed smile. Always do, always have, her lips breathed: a twosome.

      ‘Sir Harry’s going to do some photographs of our Work in Progress. One of the Sunday supplements is taking it. Lovely publicity for us.’

      ‘Take some of you, if you like,’ offered Sir Harry. ‘Got any good crimes going? I like a bit of background material.’

      There was a screech of brakes and an angry shout from outside.

      ‘That’s Tiddles crossing the road against the lights,’ said Stella with resignation. ‘He will do it.’

      As Coffin got in his car, he saw a middle-aged man and woman standing on the pavement. He knew the woman’s face, he thought she worked in the theatre for Stella. He thought they were studying him, but he did not hear what they said.

      ‘Is that him?’ asked the man.

      ‘Yes. He’s late to work today. Very punctual as a rule.’

      ‘He looks that sort.’

      ‘You won’t—’ she hesitated‘—do anything, will you, Fred?’

      ‘No. I just wanted to see him. Get to know his face.’

      ‘How can that help, Fred? How can it help Anny?’

      ‘It helps me,’ said Fred Kinver. He strode forward, feet heavy and fast on the ground, he had always been a mover, played football in his youth in the days when there were such things as wingers and a man had to be able to run. She had a job keeping up with him.

      ‘Walk on,’ he commanded.

      ‘They’re doing what they can, Fred.’

      ‘Doesn’t it matter to you that the police haven’t got the man that killed your daughter yet? It matters to me. I screamed when they told me.’

      ‘I heard you,’ said Mrs Kinver. ‘You kept it up.’

      ‘You just sat there quiet.’

      ‘Everyone grieves differently.’

      ‘I’m not grieving. Not just grieving. I’m working at it. That’s why I wanted to see his face. You can get at that one. Get through to him. I feel better now I’ve seen that. I shan’t let him alone.’

      ‘Walk on.’

      They walked on. Beyond St Luke’s Mansions where Coffin lived and the theatre was rising, past the new police building, down the slope of Feather Street where the Zemans and the Annecks and the Darbyshires lived and where the small dairy, home to Jim Marsh and his father, clung to the bottom of the slope.

      ‘That’s where he lives,’ whispered Mrs Kinver, ‘the boy who found Anny.’

      ‘That tart’s son,’ said Fred Kinver mechanically. He strode on.

      I am vengeance, thought Fred Kinver, and I will have my way.

      Jim Marsh looking down from his high window saw the two of them and picked up what Fred Kinver was feeling. Something about the hunch of Fred’s shoulder and the way his head was thrust forward. Vengeance personified, he thought, and his own imagination caught fire.

CHAPTER TWO

       Tuesday morning through to evening, May 30, to Wednesday, May 31

      Five, nearly six days after the finding of the body in Rope Alley felt like three months in Leathergate and the neighbouring area of Spinnergate, for unease spread over here too. Murderers came from anywhere, this one could be far away by now, but he could be local. Was most likely local, everyone said, because of knowing about Rope Alley, dark even in sunlight and with several hiding places in it as well as a quick exit at each end.

      ‘I think it’s as bad about the boy as anything I’ve ever heard. I mean … him finding her. After his mother.’ The elder Mrs Zeman spoke to her niece. They were sitting over the tea-table, Mrs Zeman favoured a strong blend of Darjeeling, procured at her own special shop in Brook Street. She sipped her tea which was piping hot, just how she liked it. ‘His mother,’ she repeated, between sips. ‘It must have reminded him.’

      ‘She killed herself, Aunt Kay.’

      Her niece had her own small pot of Earl Grey; as with so much of their life together there were carefully defined boundaries. Tea was one of them. Coffee, decaffeinated or not, was another.

      Aunt Kay Zeman sniffed. ‘She always was unreliable.’

      ‘She managed that all right.’

      Mrs Zeman did not relent. ‘I’ve always thought it was an accident.’

      ‘And he didn’t find her. No one did.’

      Not for several months anyway, until the river finally delivered her on a muddy bank down the estuary. But of course they knew where she’d gone and where she’d gone in: she left plenty of evidence around. It had never been Clare Marsh’s idea not to punish someone. The only thing was, reflected the niece, she had punished plenty of people who didn’t deserve it.

      ‘Not entirely the husband’s fault,’

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