LITMIR.BIZ

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Joanna.’

      ‘Yes, Joanna. You were looking down at your shoes so hard that you didn’t notice an old friend.’

      ‘I was trying to make up my mind about them. Someone said they were kinky.’

      ‘Kinky?’

      Joanna studied what Stella was wearing: the shoes were black patent, shiny, high-heeled, with just a hint of something in the white line that ran round the toe.

      ‘That person was not a friend,’ said Joanna severely. ‘Stella, you could never be called kinky, nor anything you wear. Even by putting them on, those shoes ceased to be kinky.’

      Stella looked at Joanna with caution. She was never sure when Joanna was laughing at her. She probably was doing so now, but never mind, she was glad to see her. If surprised.

      ‘You work here now?’

      ‘In accounts.’

      ‘Oh yes, you always were into figures.’

      They looked at each other and laughed. The two had met in the early days when Stella was working in Greenwich and Joanna Kinnear was taking her final exams in accountancy, and they met again when she had discovered that Joanna was doing the accounts for the private hospital that had attended to Stella’s facial requirements (mention not the words ‘uplift’ and ‘beauty surgery’). And now here she was in a big hospital, wearing a white coat and looking important. She probably was.

      Joanna saw her look. ‘Even hospitals have bills and accounts to keep,’ she said with amusement. ‘In fact, they are big spenders.’

      ‘Why are you wearing a white coat, though?’

      ‘Oh, I just like to look a big shot.’

      Stella accepted the explanation while not believing it. She knew enough about modern hospitals to know that white coats were out of fashion, laundry costs presumably. No, there was more behind it than Joanna was saying, but not for Stella to enquire.

      ‘I’ve lost my husband.’

      ‘Medically, or emotionally?’

      ‘Practically. He came in to see a skull . . . a baby’s skull.’

      ‘Oh, the dead babies’ room.’ A nerve twitched in her cheek, as if it wanted to be scratched. Stella felt she wanted to scratch it for her, but you don’t scratch anyone’s face for them.

      ‘What?’

      ‘That’s what we call it.’ She put out her hand. For a moment, Stella thought she was going to scratch that itch, which was still twitching away, but no, the hand was being offered to her.

      ‘Come, I’ll take you there.’

      Down a long corridor, and then a right turn, and across a courtyard.

      Of course, museums are always in bloody awkward places, thought Stella, picking her way across the uneven paving stones. If she broke an ankle, as seemed likely, at least she was in the right place to get it fixed.

      A uniformed constable stood outside double glass doors, surveying them blankly. He was a new recruit, fresh in the Second City; he thought he might know Stella’s face, which reminded him of a television drama he had watched, as indeed it might, since Stella had performed in it. The other woman he definitely did not know, but in his opinion she was too tall to be a woman, although well built.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ said Joanna. ‘Trouble. Might have guessed it, since your husband is here.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Stella.

      She addressed herself to the constable. ‘I am Mrs Coffin. I want to speak to my husband.’

      The constable’s blank expression did not change. Intensified rather.

      ‘She is,’ said Joanna. ‘I can swear to it.’

      Now there was doubt in his face.

      ‘I’ll be off,’ said Joanna. ‘Give me a ring.’ Over her shoulder, she called. ‘Take my advice: break in.’

      The alarmed young officer advanced towards Stella. She was saved by the door swinging open to let Sergeant Dawlish pass through.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Coffin. Can I help you?’

      ‘Can I see my husband?’

      ‘He’s a bit tied up at the moment.’

      A comment that Stella rightly interpreted as meaning her husband did not want to see anyone, not on the job. Not even her.

      Coffin called, ‘Is that Dr Merchant?’

      When he saw Stella, his face changed.

      ‘You forgot me.’

      ‘No.’ He took a step forward. ‘Don’t come in, love.’

      But she was already level with him at the great swing doors and could see beyond. Her view of the body was blocked by the police photographer busily taking pictures of the dead woman and the place of her death. Although she could not see the face, she could see the shoes and knew it was a woman lying there.

      ‘Who is she?’

      Coffin did not answer.

      ‘That means it’s someone I know.’

      Coffin gave a little shake of his head.

      That didn’t say yes and didn’t say no,’ complained Stella sharply, but inside herself she was saying, By God, yes it did. I know this dead person, dead woman, I know it’s a woman . . . But who is it?

      Ignoring her husband, she pushed past him into the room. ‘Who is this doctor you thought I was?’

      Coffin muttered something about skulls, a paediatrician.

      Stella had taken a pace within the room. She could see the half a dozen or so skulls that had been made into a macabre ring round the dead woman’s head.

      ‘Doctor . . .’ she said scornfully. ‘You don’t need a doctor. I don’t know what this doctor will tell you, but I would have thought you could have seen for yourself.’

      ‘Each of these little creatures was malformed . . . no normal baby has a skull like that.’

      Dr Merchant came strolling up with the ease of one who knows that there is no hurry. All his specimens were dead.

      ‘Mr Coffin, I am sorry if I kept you waiting . . . I had to come across from the university, a committee meeting.’ He looked around him. ‘I am the curator of this little museum, one of my subsidiary jobs. The Jordan Jones Museum, a Victorian doctor and donor. Not much used now, ways have changed, but he left a bit of cash too.’ He gave a half-smile, ‘But I see you managed all right without me.’

      Coffin said tersely, possibly with a touch of grimness, ‘We managed.’

      Merchant advanced to look. ‘Poor soul, poor soul. How was she discovered?’

      Joe had found her in fact and called security, but Phoebe preferred to put it her way. ‘We had arranged to meet here.’ Phoebe Astley was short.

      Merchant looked his question.

      ‘She was helping me with my enquiries.’

      ‘Poor woman, poor woman. And yet, you know, you could almost have predicted a violent death for her. There are some people like that. And if they miss it one way, then they get it another.’

      ‘You know who she is?’

      Dr Merchant almost gave a friendly smile. ‘Of course. There is no more efficient gossip mill than a hospital.’ He added, half thoughtfully, ‘Her husband cuts my hair.’ He ran his hand over his designer trim, layered and shaped. Everyone has his own vanity.

      ‘You know him?’ asked Phoebe Astley.

      ‘He does some private

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