Coffin's Ghost Read Free

understood by her husband who gave a cheerful grin in return.
    ‘As long as it’s business.’
    The two men had moved into similar apartments in a renovated and restored warehouse in Spinnergate. The building now called The Argosy, was in Rickards Passage and had once housed imports from the East. It still smelt of spices, so George and Robbie claimed. Friends (or enemies, it was sometimes not easy to be sure which) for decades, they were also business associates who worked together in the theatre: George Freedom was the money man and Robbie Gilchrist was on the artistic side, choosing the plays, and then supervising the production. They had had a string of successes. Likewise failures. They had both married the same woman, she had left Gilchrist for Freedom. Coffin wondered about their relationship.
    ‘Well, good luck to you. Shall I stay home and eat with you or clear off and eat at Max’s?’
    It would be the same style of food anyway as Stella had almost certainly ordered the meal from Max’s since this was their local restaurant. Max always did his best for Stella, whom he admired.
    ‘Oh stay, darling, and give me support. I want to try to launch a Festival of Spinnergate and if they will help it would be an enormous boost. I have already spoken to Robbie and he sounded keen.’
    ‘If I won’t be in the way.’ He was aware that his presence, what he was and his position, made some people self-conscious, ill at ease in his company. ‘I don’t think they like me much.’
    Stella shook her head. ‘That’s their professional look: No like, no trust. I think that’s better than the pros who are all over you, all jovial and friendly, and you know it’s all an act. At least with George and Robbie what you see is what you get.’
    Coffin said he would probably enjoy it. ‘Remind me which is which, I get them confused.’
    This was not strictly true: he possessed a pretty good idea of George Freedom. They had met. He did not like him. Mutual.
    Stella was ready. ‘Freedom is the small, stout one, with a quiff of dark hair. Not a grey hair to be seen.’
    ‘Dyed?’
    ‘Probably. But well done. And Robbie is the tall thin one, bald as could be, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He tried a wig once but said it was too hot and itched. That was when he was married to Mariette, it was to please her. Didn’t work, she went off anyway.’
    ‘He was lucky there,’ said Coffin, who recalled Mariette vividly. Mariette you did not forget.
    ‘Yes, I think so.’
    Stella was silent for a moment, then she said: ‘You heard about Georgie’s problem?’ But of course, he had.
    Coffin said, Yes, he had heard.
    She said hesitantly: ‘It was when you were ill, so I wondered.’
    ‘I heard about it, though. I wasn’t ill, just an operation.’ Did he say that aloud? Yes, he obviously did because she answered.
    ‘Yes, just an operation.’ They opened you up with a sharp knife, saw what the damage was, tidied up a bit of this and that, then closed you up again. A picnic. You enjoyed it.
    The operation was made necessary by an attack, but she did not mention this: Coffin was touchy about it.
    She was never ill herself. Performers never were. Provided she still had a voice, Stella knew she would crawl on to the stage and do her bit. Voice? Even when that went she would mime her part.
    Slowly, she said: ‘George knows he was lucky not to go to prison for much longer.’
    Coffin said he had had a good lawyer.
    ‘Not the end of it, of course. There’s going to be an appeal. Damages, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t think of him as violent, would you? Of course, he isn’t really, he was justunlucky, an accident, a terrible accident, a little push and . . .’ Stella shrugged. ‘She had a thin skull.’
    Still has, Coffin pointed out, she wasn’t dead, was she?
    ‘No, not dead,’ said Stella, ‘but her mind – they call it brain damage . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Then there’s his stepdaughter too. That’s another problem,