LITMIR.BIZ

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London County Council had raised its status, turning it into a Grammar School. Status but not appearance. The architect employed by the old London authorities had a strong house style, a kind of modified Venetian Gothic, so that one red-brick London school closely resembled another. Banbury had gone to such a one himself. So had Connie Shepherd, so had her child. It made a link.

      Coffin came straight across. ‘A workman digging on a site in Lower Thames Street found a foot wrapped in newspaper.’

      The two men looked at each other. Alex had gone white.

      Coffin said, ‘The foreman said a child’s foot.’

      ‘Get across. Both of you. I’ll follow.’

      There was no denying that Alex Rowley had a way of showing awkward emotion. Banbury felt he needed a safety-valve. Marriage might provide it. He seemed the sort that might marry young.

      He had seen them both with Stella Pinero in the Padovanis’ restaurant. Separately. Not together.

      The foot found on the waste ground of Lower Thames Street was that of a child. It was probably that of Sybil Shepherd, but there was no proof. The foot had been severed at the ankle. The search continued. Nothing more was found on that site.

      Shortages of all kinds impeded quick work. Severely rationed petrol meant that most leg-work was literally done on the feet. Lack of telephone lines cut into police communications, creating delays and frustrations.

      Space was one of the shortages at Greenwich Wick police station. Privacy was at a premium. From where he worked in his own crowded corner, John Coffin could see both his boss, Tom Banbury and Alex. Likewise they could see him.

      But at least he had a window. From his window he could see German POWs clearing the ground where a colony of new houses was going to be planted. There could be a bit of Sybil Shepherd there. Who knew?

      He walked over it every day on his way to eat lunch at the Trafalgar Arms public house. He always looked now for evidence of unusual disturbance. Observation counted for so much in detective work. He was exploiting his sharpness of vision.

      But it hadn’t helped so far with the Shepherd child. This search looked like their biggest problem, a harrowing and horrible one. He didn’t see it as more than that then.

      He walked across the cleared ground on the way home.

      His mind was burdened like a pack-horse with bundles of problems picked up in the day, a tightly packed box of private concerns carried with him all the time, and the odd perplexity that was a weight for a while, then put down and of no importance.

      Today he was asking himself if the foot was that of the missing child or, as some thought, a left-over from the Blitz which had defied decay? The newspaper ought to give some help there. Then, if the foot did not belong to the Shepherd child, ought they not to be searching for the girl as alive? Could he trust his boss’s judgement on this? Could he trust his boss?

      As he walked, his mind performed the throwing away act that lightened his burden every night. First out went the worry of his boss: probably nothing there; next went Alex: let that lad get on with his own troubles. Professional problems did not go away, but were deposited more comfortably about his person so he could think about himself.

      He thought: Although I don’t like living at Mrs Lorimer’s and shall get out of it as soon as I can, we are an interesting lot. There’s Lady Olivia for one. Then there’s Chris Mackenzie always composing on the piano, and when he’s not doing that he spends his spare time carving model toys – aeroplanes and motor-cars. These he sells. Gets a good price, he says. Sociable chap. Gave us a drink on our first night here from some Padovani wine, and didn’t complain when a glass got spilt. Said he always spilt a glass himself on principle.

      Mrs Lorimer complained, though, next day and said Alex had spilt some as well. He denied it, but I know he had because it was all over the Penguin I’d lent him.

      He walked on.

      He had plenty to think about. When he got home that night, just over one month since he had arrived in Greenwich, he began to write an aide-mémoire. A misnomer to call it a diary.

      He dated it carefully: April 29, 1946.

      And then at once burst into a flow of words about his own personal and private problem.

      What Aunt Gert told me: that in August 1922, she thinks the third day of the month, a child was born to Julia Fairbain who later became Julia Coffin, my mother. This child was put out to adoption within the next two months. And Gert said she did not know the sex of the child, nor who adopted it. Her sister told her nothing about it, except that the event had taken place. In 1943 just before she died she told Gertie that the child was still alive and had been in touch with her. She wanted the two of us to get to know each other.

      Aunt Gert kept quiet about all this because she didn’t see what I could do. Also, I was in Germany, then in hospital. When she heard I was going to be a detective, she thought I ought to know.

      He raised his head from his notebook; he had chosen a red one as being strong and positive. These qualities might rub off on him. Then he wrote:

      Aunty is still alive and bearing down on me to come up with an answer.

      Query? Aunt Gert is becoming senile. Did she invent the whole story?

      If she did not invent it, then can I rely on the details?

      If she is passing on those details accurately, then did my mother tell the truth?

      He raised his head again. One thing was sure: she had not told much of a story.

      Pinned in the back of the red notebook were the only pieces of documentation that his aunt and mother had produced.

      A picture-card, addressed to his mother, postmarked, Charlton S.E. And dated October 1940. It said:

      Got home safely, so don’t worry. The Blitz won’t get me. I’ll keep in touch.

      The picture on the card was of a church and a road.

      There was also a single sheet of newspaper. The Kentish Mercury for November 1941. It carried various stories. Also a column of births, deaths and marriages.

      That was all he had, and all he would ever have to help him find his unidentified sibling. If he had one.

      I have been to the Kentish Mercury [he noted in his aide mémoire], and read the whole of that week’s papers through. I got no help.

      I have walked around Charlton and I cannot identify the church or the road.

      Think of it as your little hobby, he told himself, when you’re not looking for the murderers of prostitutes, and missing children. Or falling in love with girls like Stella Pinero.

      Stella was not writing an aide-mémoire, but she had one great friend to whom she was writing a letter.

      Thanks for your letter. Funny to think of you in Stratford. You seem to be getting some marvellous parts. Lucky of you to get your teeth into Ophelia. No one’s offered me Ophelia here, but I’m not doing so badly. What do you say to Major Barbara, Trelawney of the Wells, and Amanda in Private Lives? And I stand a good chance of being Prince Charming in the pantomime at Christmas, so beat that. Also, there’s something more in the offing but that’s still a secret and I mustn’t say.

      The Delaneys are super, marvellous management. They’ve got some tremendously good people here. No one I’ve worked with before but names. Edward Kelly, for one. I mean, he really can act. I’m learning a lot.

      There’s another bonus too. Where I live. Angel House belongs to Rachel Esthart. Yes. That surprises you, I bet? Remember how we used to try to be like her. Now I don’t have to try. I feel as though I practically am her, I see so much of her, and she’s teaching me. Proper lessons. We go through my parts. She’s got a room rigged up for a theatre.

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