LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Do I look as bad as that?’

      ‘Pretty well, love.’ She put her arm round him. ‘I know you are in trouble … Come on, let me bind your wounds.’

      They walked the few yards to their tower.

      ‘It’s not just the child, although that’s bad enough, nor worry about the riot – they probably have a right to kick up a stir,’ said Coffin awkwardly, after a pause.

      ‘No?’

      He didn’t say anything more, but took a deep breath.

      ‘You want to answer or not?’

      ‘I usually tell you everything.’ Usually, but not quite always. I am not, for instance, going to tell you that I am sick inside about the man you met in Rome, Rome for romance, and who telephones you all the time. ‘In the end.’ It was a lame, doubtful finish.

      ‘So not yet?’

      ‘I think that’s about it. Not yet.’

      Too powerful, too horrible. Too much his. Not to be spoken of too soon.

      ‘You’re glum, that’s what you are,’ said Stella lightly, opening their front door, and stepping up the stairs. Right you are, her back said; her elegant swaying step said, I accept silence. Only not for ever. ‘Glum and tense.’

      ‘Not cross.’

      ‘Very, very angry inside. I can feel it … Never mind, I don’t mind a bit of tension in a relationship, it shows it’s alive.’

      She gave him a sharp look as if she might have doubted it otherwise. He did not respond.

      Their living room smelt stuffy and hot, so Stella threw open the big sash window. The big tabby cat jumped on to the windowsill from the high branch of an overhanging tree and purred at her. ‘You’ll kill yourself one day doing that jump, cat. You’ll get it wrong and fall.’

      The cat ignored this, which he knew could never happen. Not to him. To the dog, possibly, or to another cat, but not to a brave cat. He knew that jump as well as he knew his name, and the certainty that, any minute, his mistress was going to give him his supper.

      Coffin walked over to his desk. Amongst all the other communications, there was a message on his answerphone from the office.

      ‘Harry Trent called from Greenwich. Inspector Trent. He will call again. He said it was personal.’

      Stella, having fed Tiddles and also the dog, had returned. ‘Shall we eat in or go out?’

      He looked at her without seeing her.

      ‘Answer, please.’

      In a very little while, Stella’s quick temper would show itself and that tension which she claimed to like in a relationship would prove itself very alive and very active. Boiling oil might come into it somewhere.

      ‘Out.’ Then he thought about Harry Trent trying to reach him on the telephone on some personal matter. ‘No, here.’ And then, to hell with Harry Trent, out would be better. He liked Harry Trent, no question about that, a good man, and he had enjoyed working with him, but he was a man after whom trouble came trailing. Perhaps he was always so anxious himself. ‘No, let’s go to Max’s.’

      Over the years, the simple café with which Max had started out had flourished and altered its name from Max’s to Maxi’s and was now Maximilian’s. Still Max’s to Coffin, though.

      ‘I’ll just go and change, then.’ Stella was cheerful at once. She loved changing her clothes, being in the theatre, putting on costume, taking it off, changing make-up was no hardship to her.

      ‘Be quick then.’ Or Harry Trent might slip in his call before they escaped. He wanted to escape.

      ‘You could do with a fresh shirt yourself.’ There was gentle but loving reproof in her voice, that rich voice that could express anything she wished it to.

      But Harry Trent got in while he was still halfway clothed; he heard the bell and hoped she had not.

      ‘Don’t answer that,’ he called to Stella. But she already had.

      ‘It’s for you.’ And she handed him the telephone.

      ‘Harry? Thought it might be you.’

      ‘Is this a good time to talk?’

      Coffin caught his wife’s eyes, buttoning his shirt with one hand as he did so. ‘Not too good.’ But this was Harry, a man he had worked with and trusted. ‘Make it quick.’ But that sounded rough. ‘Are you in trouble?’

      ‘Difficult to talk on the phone. I need your help. Can we meet and talk?’

      Coffin thought. ‘Later maybe, I’ll have to think. Things are complicated.’

      ‘You mean about Swinehouse? I might be able to help you there.’

      Coffin felt his eyebrows shoot up. What was Swinehouse to Harry Trent? And it shouldn’t be. He was surprised, resentful and possessive. He hated the riot, at the moment, he hated Swinehouse, but it was his. What was Harry doing on his territory. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Quite close. I’m having a meal at a place near you. Maximilian’s, it’s called.’

      ‘Ah.’ Ah, indeed. What was Stella going to say? ‘I know the place. Hang on, will you?’ He covered the phone while he spoke to Stella.

      She was surprisingly understanding, and possibly even interested in Harry. Anyway, she made no opposition to meeting him.

      ‘He can sit and watch while we eat, I suppose. And you can talk and I won’t listen … there’s bound to be someone there I know, there always is.’ A good proportion of the floating population of performers working or rehearsing or just about in St Luke’s Theatre ate in Max’s. ‘What’s he in trouble about?’

      ‘Don’t know. But he seems to think it’s one I can share in.’ Or was it that Harry thought he could pass it on to Coffin?

      ‘How well do you know him?’

      ‘We worked together on and off on various cases when I was in Greenwich. He’s much younger than I am and was a very junior officer. I got to know him a bit, not well, perhaps, but he was quiet about himself. Reserved, I suppose, didn’t talk about himself.’ He didn’t really want to talk about Harry; he added thoughtfully: ‘Not a happy man, but then he got married and that seemed to cheer him up. Or for a bit. But it didn’t mean he talked more, he said almost nothing about himself and his wife. Unlike some.’ But Coffin hadn’t been a talker himself, so he understood that side of Trent. In a company of men, it was really better to keep a still tongue. Who said men were not gossips? Coffin knew better. ‘But I liked him and trusted him. Yes, we were friends, but I was senior-ranking officer and that drew a line.’

      Max’s was crowded but Harry had a seat in the corner from which he could see the door and anyone coming in, so even if they had wanted to avoid him, it couldn’t have been done.

      He stood up when he saw them and waved his hand. That was Harry, discretion was not and never had been in his character. Coffin saw a man with broad shoulders, brown eyes and hair with no touch of grey. He looked as untidy as Coffin remembered him, but he found himself glad to see the man and held up his own hand in acknowledgement.

      Naturally Max, who had greeted them because he loved Stella and somewhat feared John Coffin, took it in. ‘A table near your friend?’

      Stella smiled, and Coffin realized with a pang that while Harry with his stocky figure and crest of hair might be no beauty, might be untidy, while his suit could do with a brush, yet the hormones were all there and what he did exude was a still-youthful maleness. Stella never minded that in a dinner companion.

      ‘I’ll go for a walk, then come back, I’d like a look round,’ he said efficiently. ‘Don’t want to interfere with your meal.’

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