LITMIR.BIZ

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days, nearly three days,’ Jim Dean spoke sharply. ‘That’s too long.’ He reached into his pocket to pull out a small photograph. Black and white, not new, a little battered as if it had been carried around. ‘That’s my Amy. Look at her.’

      Coffin looked. ‘Can I take this away?’

      ‘Not that photograph, I’ll give you another …’ He reached in his pocket. ‘Have you got a child? No, of course, I heard, tragic … I want her found, she’s got to be found. Your lot can do it. You and I know how it goes, you can see they make a push.’ Coffin saw his eyes were bloodshot. ‘It’s day two, into day three, and she’s my child. I want her found.’

      Sir Tom said: ‘That goes for me too, I want my son found.’

      Coffin turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see things get started.’

      ‘I’ll walk you across the campus, the gate may be locked now.’

      At the gate, which was closed, a security man stood. The Rector nodded and got out a key. ‘I’ll do this, Bill, thank you.’

      ‘Right, sir.’ The man stood back, but he studied John Coffin’s face as if he meant to remember it.

      With the key in his hand, the Rector said: ‘Dean thinks my boy has killed his daughter. I don’t believe Martin did it. That’s another reason I wanted you here. Dean wasn’t so keen.’

      He put on a good act then if that’s so, but Coffin did not say this aloud. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

      He walked back through the streets to the big new police buildings in Spinnergate. Not much of a walk but an interesting one, with plenty to observe. He passed the Great Eastern Dock, once the place where furs and timber from Russia and the Baltic arrived and now a wall of new apartments, well lit up on this autumn evening. On his right was the new hospital, an ambulance going in and another speeding out with all lights flashing.

      He walked on, there was the Old Leadworks Art Gallery, said to be prospering in spite of the recession. Past Rope Alley, scene of a notorious killing of a girl, avoiding the turn to Feather Street and the junction which led to St Luke’s Mansions where he lived himself, walking fast to the unpretentious but efficient blocks of his own headquarters where he would find someone on call in the CID rooms.

      And they would certainly know he was on the way, the message would have been flashed ahead that WALKER was coming.

      It came back to him with a shock then that he had seen Dean not so long ago without taking in who it was. A figure in a pub (the Lamb and Lion, much patronized by his Force), talking to a face he knew. Yes, Harry Coleridge. Not one of his admirers. Dean had left with a laugh, slapping Coleridge on the arm and calling, ‘Keep me in touch with the barnyard.’ Just a flash of memory but it was interesting. Yes, that was the authentic Dean touch, friendly, bantering but sharp.

      He was still studying the photograph of Amy Dean, a sensitive face but possibly a troubled one, and weighing up the interview with the two fathers last night, while waiting for Stella to arrive. He was thinking too about that earlier case of the death of a student around which there had hung an unpleasant smell as of people not telling all they knew; he had called for the file on this before leaving his office last night. One of the good things about his now automated life was that he could summon material on his screen at any hour of the night or day. No waiting about as in the old days.

      On the screen he had read the details: Virginia Scott, twentyish, a third-year student of sociology, her body had been found outside the departmental library, partly concealed from view by bushes.

      She had been badly beaten up, and had died from shock. The post-mortem had turned up the news that there were old bruises as well as new on her body. No one had been charged, but there were rumours she had been beaten up by her boyfriend. The name of the student was Martin Blackhall. Nothing could be proved against him. She had had other boyfriends, in and out of the university, and she liked older men.

      He was mulling this over and drinking his now tepid coffee when Stella Pinero walked into the bar.

      Bob got up, nearly heaving over the table the better to let off a stream of happy barks and embrace his beloved mistress.

      ‘Down, Bob.’

      Stella Pinero kissed John on his cheek and patted Bob’s head, all one lovely flow of motion that only an actress could have achieved. Coffin felt that if she had patted his head and kissed Bob it would have looked as elegant and meant as much. Kisses were not tokens of affection to Stella but a sign that she knew you were there and could speak later. Her turn first. Relations between them were still strained.

      He knew better than to deliver more than a modest peck back nor to praise her appearance although she looked lovely, she had cut her hair short and tinted it red for a part she was rehearsing on TV and it suited her. He suspected she had known it would or a wig would have been ordered for the television series. A flourish of Guerlain came with her. Over the years he had learnt with some amusement that she wore Mitsouko with jeans and Chamade with skirts: it was a Mitsouko day.

      With her was a tall, thin figure draped in what looked like rags and tatters until you saw the rags were of jewel-like colours and glittered here and there with gold thread. Then you realized you were looking at a carefully put together composition. A turban of soft chiffon scarves framed a thin face with huge brown eyes.

      A striking face, so bony and yet so strong that it was hard to say if it was beautiful or ugly, it could be both.

      Coffin stood up.

      ‘This is Josephine,’ said Stella, as if this explained everything: her late appearance, and the slight fluster in her manner now. ‘She knows you, of course.’

      Josephine held out a long, thin hand, heavy with rich jewels, every one of them false.

      ‘She wants to talk to you, she has something to tell you.’

      ‘You don’t know me, no need to pretend,’ said Josephine, ‘no one knows me now.’ Her voice was deep and sweet with the remains of strong cockney accent overlaid with something transatlantic. ‘I was in New York and San Francisco far too long, but I’ve come back to my roots now.’

      Life with Stella had trained his nose to scents. He knew a Chanel from a Dior, and he detected Josephine’s: oddly enough, she was wearing pine disinfectant.

      Not a doctor, he thought, and definitely not a nurse. She was tall, he was tall himself and her eyes were level with his; Stella only came up to her shoulder. She appeared to be very thin, but with every movement she made he was becoming aware that inside that flutter of draperies was a body that knew how to move.

      As well as the pine disinfectant he had caught the whiff of distinction which, like decay, has its own particular smell. Josephine was or had been Someone, but who? Stella acted as if he ought to know.

      ‘Josephine works at Star Court House,’ said Stella.

      ‘Ah.’ Coffin knew Star Court House, it was well known as a home for battered wives and children. He walked past it occasionally, just to see how it went on, but one did not enter unless invited. Not if you were a man and especially if you were a police officer. No one had so far asked him to Star Court House. ‘You do good work, but you’ve had your troubles.’ There were outbursts of violence in and around Star Court House at intervals; it attracted the very physicality it dealt with.

      ‘Haven’t had nearly so many incidents since one of the local gangs took us under their protection … No, since “Our General” started looking after us, we’ve felt safer.’

      ‘Oh, she’s down there, is she?’ Star Court was well south in his district, right down the bottom of Swine’s Hill and near the river. He hadn’t known Our General’s territory stretched so far, he had placed her in Spinnergate, that was gangland.

      ‘Been a real good friend. We owe her.’

      Certainly interesting, he thought, but he was stepping carefully, because Star Court House did not

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