your own.
Dressed in her street clothes, Stella sped through the back corridors of the Pinero Theatre, ignoring a wave from Jane Gillam and a cheerful shout from Adam Fisk, who had played Lord Chiltern, to join them for a drink – they were going on to Max’s for a meal afterwards. ‘Can’t manage tonight,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Have a lovely time.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ said Adam to Fanny and Jane. ‘She always comes at the end of the run. Tradition.’
‘Her husband, I expect,’ said Jane.
‘Why do you say that?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Just think so.’
Stella stepped out into the open air, took three deep and calming breaths, then walked briskly to where she lived with the Chief Commander in the tower of the old church now converted into the theatre. There was one good thing about living on the job: you did not have far to walk home.
She let herself in, switched on the light that illuminated the winding stair and listened, in case Coffin had come back, then walked up the stairs into silence.
There was no cat or dog to greet her, both animals of the earlier generation had died within a few months of each other, as if, rivals and enemies as they were, they could not endure life without each other. And although Stella had often cursed the old cat, a battered old street cat, for waking her in the morning with its paw on her face, and grumbled at the dog for demanding that late-night walk, she missed them, too. They had been replaced by a sturdy white peke called Augustus, but he had declared himself Coffin’s dog who must go where the boss went, so he was off now with Coffin on his travels.
She made herself a pot of coffee, prepared a sandwich with cheese and, defiantly, a crisp spiced onion, something no performer would normally do, which she sat at the table in the kitchen eating. The strong hot drink together with food helped her to clear her mind.
‘I don’t see the way forward yet, but I know I need to think it over and I will do that best on my own.’
She could not talk it over with her husband because it was his career that could be ruined.
‘I am not a fool,’ she said aloud. ‘I know it is not the sexual element that would do him in – society is not so unsophisticated – nor the fact that I look as though … No, I won’t utter what it looks as if I am doing. And it’s not that, even, it’s the security side that would destroy him.’
She drank some coffee. The darkness outside seemed to creep in behind her eyes so that she could not see. ‘Emotional mist,’ she said in a loud voice, shaking her head.
She went down the stairs to the large sitting room one floor below and poured herself a large glass of whisky which she then carried upstairs. She had seen tired detectives come back to life after a slug of it, so she guessed it would do the same for her.
As she sipped it, she heard a rustle at floor level. She turned slowly to see what was there. A small grey mouse sat staring back at her. In the old days the cat had brought them in as an unwanted present for her mistress. This one must have made its way there under its own steam, or be a survivor. She found that thought comforting.
‘Hello, friend,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you are safe with me tonight. I know how you feel: trapped in a hostile world.’ She drank some more whisky. ‘Fear not. Appearances to the contrary,’ she added, ‘I won’t eat you.’
The mouse slid quietly away on his own business. He was a resident, knew the ways of the house, would not be seen again for some time.
Stella finished her whisky, then took herself upstairs to her bedroom. Off the bedroom was a small dressing room contrived out of a corner of the room.
She looked at her clothes hanging in a neat row behind a glass door. She changed into a comfortable trouser suit, packed a small bag.
One more task and the most painful: a lying letter. She hated deceiving her husband, partly because she was a naturally truthful person – which all actresses must be, since nothing shows up more on the stage than falseness – but also because the Chief Commander had a sharp eye for an untruth.
Dearest,
A late call from Silverline Films for the part of Annie Burnett, the prosecutor, in their new detective drama series. My agent says I simply must try for it … I am flying out to New York overnight.
Give me time. I will get in touch. I have to think.
Truth will out, she told herself, as she wrote the last words.
Then she scrawled: ‘I really want this chance’. Again the truth; she did want such a chance, if offered. Her career had been on hold lately, and Coffin knew she fancied this part. Heaven knows, she had talked about it enough. He would believe her, accept the letter.
‘All my love,’ she ended.
Then she went across to the fax machine which lived on a shelf from which the messages popped out and slid to the ground. None there at the moment.
She wrote a note for her assistant in the theatre – Away for a few days – and the same to her co-producer, both of which she then faxed out to them.
Hardly had she moved a step away when the fax rang and a message spilled itself out in front of her. Slowly, feeling heavy with premonition, she bent down to pick it up.
IN THE NEXT MINUTE THE TELEPHONE WILL RING. ANSWER IT.
Stella picked up her bag and turned away. That was one bell she would not answer.
She was at the door when the telephone rang. It became hard to breathe. She hesitated, knowing that she wanted to ignore it, but she was like a rabbit before a stoat. Stuck, frozen.
But you never knew with telephone calls. Perhaps it really was a summons from her agent. She knew it would not be John Coffin. He was driving down the M40 – probably, she didn’t really know where he was. He had a professional knack of disappearing. The thought went through her mind as she picked up the telephone; if he can disappear, so can I.
She held the receiver in her hand without speaking.
‘I know you’re there, Stella. I can hear you breathing.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Silly question, it was supposed to be secret, but it was this man’s life’s work to get at secrets.
A laugh came back as a reply. ‘I want to meet you, Stella. I think you need to see me to take me seriously. This is serious.’
Stella did not answer.
‘Come on, Stelly, I won’t eat you.’ He laughed, and Stella felt sick. ‘Meet me at Waterloo, under the clock. Remember, that, Stelly? It was always the same place, wasn’t it? Be there.’
Stella stood there, still clutching her bag. ‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t.’
She picked up her bag, went down the staircase and out of the door.
Outside, in the night air, she looked around in case anyone was there.
Silence, quiet. Not a mouse stirring.
A whole day after Stella had gone away, John Coffin, Chief Commander of the Police Force of the Second City of London, let himself into his home. He was back some twenty-four hours before he was expected, and meant to have a quiet time working. He was accompanied by the white peke Augustus who had appointed himself dog-companion to Coffin and insisted on going everywhere he could with him. Coffin had gone away after the bombs had exploded; his departure had not been unconnected with that happening. His assistant, Paul Masters, kept him in touch.
Coffin was glad to be back; he had observed that the play running at the Pinero Theatre was no longer An Ideal Husband which meant, he hoped, that he would find Stella at home.
He put down his bags and ran up the stairs, calling out: ‘Stella, I’m back.’
He was