Coffin's Ghost Read Free Page B

got the chance, but it didn’t seem likely with her husband there.
    Stella said she got support from the local university who used the small theatre for their Drama Department, and that the Second City Arts Council had been generous, but that it was a squeeze. ‘We’ve been lucky, we’ve had a couple of good commercial successes which we have sent on to the West End, and in one case to New York. It all helps.’
    Stella led them in to dinner. Max had sent an assistant to set out the table.
    Coffin saw that Stella had laid out the best silver, chosen by and paid for by her out of film earnings. He picked up a fork and balanced it in his hand. He liked the stuff, good style, as you would expect from Stella, but not the sort of thing that a copper could afford. Like, yes; pay for, no.
    The china was old Minton, apricot and gold. They did not have a complete set, never had had, bought it at an auction, but enough to use for a small dinner.
    George turned one plate over to examine the back. ‘About 1880, I’d say, the colours are right. Nice stuff.’
    Stella was pleased. ‘You are clever, George, they come from a house in Shropshire. Not a complete set, of course. Let me give you some wine. Claret or hock?’
    The soup was vichyssoise and the toast that was served with it was crisp and hot. Cold soup, hot toast – Max’s idea.
    George took hock.
    She doesn’t know, thought Coffin, that it is possible that a few years ago he killed a woman.
    And later yet another.
    Something I know, and she doesn’t. (Or does she?)
    And all the time, he had waiting for him on the doorstep of a battered women’s refuge, four limbs: two legs and two arms.
    The remains were wrapped in brown paper. There was no torso and no head.
    ‘Delicious soup,’ said George, crunching toast.
    Stella took advantage of the good mood of both men tostart a delicate introduction to what she had in mind for them. They worked together as a team so regularly that when asked to dinner as a pair by someone like Stella Pinero they knew it was business.
    An interesting story, Coffin thought, studying George’s face. Did George guess that he knew? And did George care?
    After all, it was only what the police, at the time, thought. Never got outside publicity. Oh, the deaths, yes, but not George’s connection.
    He was a bit of a comedian, Coffin decided, watching George with Stella.
    Of course, it was all a soap on TV. Coffin had watched a lot of television in his private room after his operation, and enjoyed it more than he had told Stella. She had been in some of the shows.
    Not the deadly, killing-off-the-ladies one, that George had produced and, some said, written.
    Only TV, just a bit of script, but it told you something about a man.
    When they left (rather later than Coffin cared for, that was the theatre for you), George Freedom suggested to Robbie that they walk home rather than go to the cab rank by the theatre.
    ‘I’d like a stroll, take a look around.’
    Gilchrist yawned, said he was tired, but why not. The air might wake him and he had work to do.
    ‘I used to live round here once,’ said Freedom. ‘I was working on a local newspaper. That was before I decided there was more money to be made on television.’
    ‘If you can do it.’
    ‘But we can . . . Place has changed a bit. I had a grotty little flat over Drossers Lane Market. Let’s go that way, it’s on the way home.’
    Of course, it was all changed now. Behind Drossers Lane was the new Pepys Estate, an area of small terraced houses with one block of flats. Central to it was Pepys Park, an attempt at urban prettification, although the spirit of Drossers Lane seemed to hang around it still and resisted prettiness.Even the grass looked sad and the shrubs and small trees did not flourish. It was much loved, however, by the small gangs of roving boys that were also part of Drossers Lane, indeed of East Hythe itself. The police were always being called to Pepys Park.
    ‘Changed now,’