do,’ said Coffin. Phoebe’s area of responsibility touched upon that of Inspector Lodge. They did not like each other, but there was respect.
‘I went round to Percy Street, the body had gone by then. I was told why they had thought it was Stella and got you round there, although I am bound to say I would not have thought it was her for a minute.’
‘There was another factor …’ he could hardly bring himself to call it a reason.
‘The handbag? I was told about it and what it contained.’
‘That was why I was brought round at speed,’ Coffin said gloomily. ‘I understand it, the bag has gone for forensic testing, and I am supposed to be going through Stella’s things to see if the one she owned, her bag, is still there. But I am not doing it because I am perfectly certain the blue Chanel bag is the one and original.’
‘Could be,’ said Phoebe, ‘but I shouldn’t let it worry you, it’s just a dirty trick. We’ll sort that one out, don’t worry. Her bag was used to create the illusion, someone wanted to distress you.’
‘Someone succeeded.’
‘But it wasn’t Stella, and I am surprised that the illusion held for as long as it did. Once the body was moved and taken round to Dennis Garden for examination.’ Phoebe picked a loose piece of tobacco from her lips, and smiled slightly. Professor Garden, an academic from the local university, was a pleasure to cross swords with. ‘Once Dennis got it on the table – even before, I should guess – he knew not only was it not Stella Pinero but that it was not a woman. Too flat, no breasts.’ She went on talking, giving him time to start breathing again; he seemed to have stopped. How long can the brain go without oxygen? ‘The pelvic structure, of course. Quite different, you can always tell.’
‘I suppose that, unconsciously, I saw that too. I knew it wasn’t Stella.’ Coffin went to the window to stare out. He could see across the road to the big car park where his own car had its privileged place; looking beyond was a large modern school where he had once given away the prizes, and further away the roof of the University Hospital where Dennis Garden taught and operated on the living and gazed upon interesting corpses with whom he was able to set up a relationship at once intimate yet impersonal. He fancied he could see one of those discreet, black-windowed ambulances turning in now to deliver another customer for Dennis’s attentions. Coffin turned back to Phoebe. ‘I suppose as Lodge called you in he thinks there is some terrorist connection.’
‘His antennae are twitching,’ said Phoebe.
Coffin came back to sit at his desk. ‘That needs thinking about.’ He tried to wave away Phoebe’s cigarette smoke. ‘I wish you’d put that out.’
‘Fag finished.’ Phoebe crushed the cigarette out on the sole of her shoe, then threw the stub away. The need for the counter irritant was over: Coffin was back on the job.
‘Pity about the face,’ said Professor Dennis Garden. He sounded genuinely moved. ‘The hair was a hairpiece on a band. Very good quality,’
‘It does make identification difficult,’ agreed John Coffin.
‘Not only that, but from what I can make of the bone structure, he had a graceful, pleasing face. Small-boned altogether, or he would never have got into the jeans,’ Garden said in a regretful tone.
‘Strange there wasn’t blood,’ observed Coffin. ‘Not much on the hair or hairpiece. What do you make of that?’
‘Not much at the moment.’ Garden was giving nothing away. ‘I have not examined the body properly yet.’
‘There was not too much blood in the room where he was found, but he was probably killed there. Interesting in itself. I wonder why?’
Professor Garden smiled happily. ‘Your problem, my dear, not mine. I deal with only this end of the affair. It’s for you to fiddle out the rest. If you can.’ He waved a hand to an attendant. ‘Seen all you want? Right, let’s put this poor fellow away to rest.’ The attendant wheeled the trolley to the refrigerated cage. ‘I shall have to be at work on him later, but I promise you I’ll do it delicately.’ His pale blue eyes glinted with amusement at Coffin. ‘Bit below you, isn’t it, to be taking an interest in a simple case like this?’
‘I always knew it wasn’t my wife,’ said Coffin bleakly. He knows all about it, every last detail, probably seen a copy of the photograph, or a drawing, or heard it with every elaboration and joke that his colleagues’ humour could devise …
‘Of course, of course. Very nasty moment it must have been. But soon over, you knew at once it was not Stella.’ He crossed himself carefully. Amid a myriad of other interests in Dennis Garden’s life was a feeling for a god. He was not always sure which god but he knew it was one to keep on good terms with. Besides, he liked Stella (inasmuch as he could admire any woman, his tastes not going that way), and wished her well. He would not have enjoyed doing a postmortem on her. He had an idea already that he was not about to enjoy this one.
‘What about the hands?’ Coffin asked.
‘Ah, you saw the significance of the gloves?’
‘One of the ways I knew it was not my wife,’ said Coffin. ‘I knew that Stella would not wear white gloves with jeans. So, what about the hands?’
‘You were right to be worried; the fingers were cut off at the knuckles.’
Coffin nodded. ‘No fingerprints then? What about the thumb?’
‘Even the thumb has gone … Whoever did it was taking precautions about identification … But don’t worry too much, science is wonderful, something might emerge that helps.’
But he was glad it was not Stella’s body they were discussing. He was skilled in morbid anatomy; he taught it, even enjoyed doing so, but one does not want to cut up one’s friends. Although there is always pleasure in a job well done. Already he had it in mind that he would identify this body for the police. No one got the better of Dennis Garden. Anyway, damn it, the face – he knew how to reconstruct the face. He had a sense of knowing that face.
He saw the Chief Commander to the door. What was she doing though, the beautiful and talented Stella, wandering away without warning to her husband when their marriage was supposed to be a notable success?
Not a man you could play around with, he considered, watching the Chief Commander’s retreating back. There was something to the set of Coffin’s shoulders that suggested he might not be easy.
Coffin summoned Inspector Lodge to see him. Lodge arrived with speed, suggesting to Coffin’s anxious mind that he had been expecting a call.
‘You went round to Percy Street very fast. Was there any special reason?’
The Todger took it quietly. ‘I wondered if we might have a terrorist there.’
‘Any other reason?’
The Inspector became even quieter. ‘Always interested when something like this turns up … it’s my job.’
Coffin waited.
‘In confidence, we have had an insider working here, I thought it might be my plant.’
‘And is it?’
Lodge shrugged. ‘No identification yet.’
‘Is your insider a man or a woman?’
‘A man,’ he said with reluctance. How he hated to part with information. Coffin thought.
‘So it could be the dead man?’
‘I am waiting to find out more, see who’s missing, run checks, but yes, I think, yes.’
‘And why was he dressed up like my wife? With a handbag containing a photograph of Stella? Any views?’
Lodge looked away, then back so that his eyes met Coffin’s bleak gaze.
‘Ah,’ said Coffin, understanding