had never lived much. He might find out what they knew of the story of the three students. He looked down at the front steps. No real sign of blood.
Blood.
He had got his life settled: he had got someone reliable to clean his place in Mrs Brocklebank, who, he now realized, ‘did’ for most of the road, and who had really acquired him rather than the other way round; and he had arranged for two newspapers to be delivered daily, and had settled on a milkman who also sold bread and eggs. You could live on bread, milk and eggs if you had to. Everything was in train. The only drawback was that Mrs Brocklebank would not iron his shirts. Or anything of his.
‘I do Brock’s and that’s my lot.’ It was the first time he had realized there was a living Mr Brocklebank; he had supposed her to be a widow. She had the vigorous healthy look of a woman who lived for herself alone.
He tried drip-drying his shirts himself, but he liked the cuffs ironed. He tried ironing them himself. It was easy if you didn’t scorch them. He did scorch them. Quite often. Too often.
He sought help.
Mrs Brocklebank surveyed the burnt offerings without sympathy. ‘It’s quite simple if you keep the heat on the iron adjusted.’
‘I do keep it adjusted. But it leaps up.’
‘I’m not a laundress myself.’ She considered; Coffin waited hopefully. ‘I suppose you could try Sarah Fleming. Sal has a good hand with the iron, she ought to have with the practice she gets looking after that brood of hers, and she’s usually glad to earn an extra pound or two.’
He left the arrangements to her, with the result that she took away his washing on a Monday and it reappeared, neatly packaged and with the bill, on his doormat every Wednesday. Mrs Brocklebank acted as banker.
Occasionally messages came back through Mrs B.
‘Sal says you need a new blue shirt. The cuffs are frayed and it’s not worth the trouble of ironing.’
Sal obviously had high standards. He bought a couple of new blue shirts.
‘Sal says could you try not to get lipstick on your collar.’ This message was delivered with a slight smirk. ‘She says it’s hard to get off.’
‘It’s red ink,’ said Coffin, lying.
Living as a bachelor, and at the moment wifeless, he was not celibate. But he felt it was his business and not Sarah Fleming’s. Sal, he decided, could look after her own affairs, if she had any apart from laundry, and leave his alone. Old witch.
Two weeks had passed. There was no news of either William Egan or his son-in-law but the daughter had taken herself off to Spain. It might mean something, or it might mean no more than that she had had enough of both father and husband. The general feeling was that she had a right to such a reaction.
But the Pitts had arrived home and No. 22 was looking lively. Windows opened to let the sun in, new curtains and a big car parked outside the door. John Coffin had not met them again yet, but had seen them once or twice as he passed and given a wave. Whether he was remembered or not he was unsure, but diplomacy and good manners prevailed, so that he got a wave back. Edward Pitt was tall and handsome, every bit the diplomat. With white hair he looked older than he probably was, just as his wife looked younger. Irene Pitt was still youthful, a pretty, curly-haired woman with bright eyes and skin with a shine on it. But the beauty of the family was the daughter, a slender, leggy creature of fifteen years. She had joined a smart London girls’ school and disappeared on the train every day to her studies. There was a younger boy who had been recruited to the local public school, and heaven help him there, said Mrs Brocklebank. She added the information that Mr Pitt, although retired from the Foreign Service, was going to join the foreign bureau of a London newspaper, and that Mrs Pitt, who was an economist, intended to find some work too. She was a lot younger than her husband. There were also a dog and a cat to join the household but they were at present in quarantine.
That concluded her head count, but she added the news that the Pitts would be giving a party for friends and neighbours to celebrate their return.
Nothing was said about the bad character of the house, but Coffin felt it hung there like a grim smile on the face of a friend.
No sign anywhere of William Egan, but his son-in-law had been spotted once down by the river. He had got on a bus and disappeared in the direction of Woolwich before he could be stopped.
The contact who claimed to have seen him, a GBH man of many violent episodes and many incarcerations, now going straight, said he was just standing by the river staring at the Cutty Sark.
Thanks,’ said Coffin over the telephone to Bernard Jones. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open for him myself. I think I know his face. Red hair with a matching moustache on Place, as I remember, and a bit of a bent nose.’
‘You’ve got the man. And it was his wife who bent the nose. With her handbag. Like father, like daughter.’
Bernard Jones was his hot line to what was happening inside Greenwich; it was always useful to have one, especially as he himself had more than one case on his hands. Crime was really bubbling in South London.
His career was at an interesting point. He had recently been appointed to head a small group of detectives based in South London and charged with the overall investigation of all serious crimes in the area. The Tactical Activity Squad it was called, known as TAS. It was a period when such bodies bearing impressive initials were appearing on all sides. He and TAS were a part of the times. He was assisted by a chief inspector, who was his deputy, and by a very young and sharp inspector, and by three even younger detective-sergeants. He found himself relying more and more on Inspector Paul Lane. The authority of TAS overrode the local CID structure, which had lately been the subject of an inquiry. He was well aware that he and his team were not popular and that to see him rubbed out by a man of known violence would cause very few tears.
‘Thanks, Bernard. What about a drink at the Painted Parrot at the weekend?’ An arrangement was made. It was Wednesday and he was home early for once.
He went to look out of his window. Not very likely that either Egan or his son-in-law, Terry Place, would be walking down Church Row, but you never knew. His luck might be in.
Round the corner from Queen Charlotte’s Alley came a girl, tall and slender, with bright auburn hair tied in a ponytail with a white bow; she was pushing a pram and was accompanied by a young boy who was holding her hand. He was hanging on to the skirt of a small girl. Behind them came a youth, also red of hair, clearly related, carrying a bundle.
There was something about that bundle that looked familiar to John Coffin.
The whole procession came to a stop outside No. 5. Then the lad approached the house, and he heard the bounding of feet up the stairs and the noise of something bouncing against his front door.
He counted up to ten, then went to look.
Yes, his washing. The girl pushing the pram was Sarah Fleming. She had a bright, clever face, with the promise of beauty, she looked about sixteen, but was no doubt older. Her clothes were simple, jeans and a shirt, but she wore them with style, yes, that was it, she had style.
And if the rest of the bunch, the little ones, were not her own offspring, then they were her brothers and sisters.
Queen Charlotte’s Alley was a short cul-de-sac bounded at the end by Deller’s soap factory. Deller’s no longer made soap on the premises; thus the air was not so noisome as previously, but it was still a working concern with heavy lorries rumbling in and out of the yard all day. Queen Charlotte’s Alley was not a quiet street, and never had been throughout its two hundred years of life, because the little workmen’s cottages had housed the large families of the times, many of whom had worked in the foundry which had stood on the site where Deller’s was built. In those days there had been access straight through from the alley.
Now there was only one large family in the street and that was the Flemings. The other houses, and there were but six, were nearly all occupied by young couples