that woman’s face, he thought, I believe she’s a doctor.
The freezer door had closed itself. Coffin opened it to view what had upset Stella.
Inside was a hand, a hand severed at the wrist. A hard, muscular, slightly grubby hand. A left hand.
Next to the hand was a tuft of greying hair and two teeth.
Coffin closed the door hastily.
It looked as though he knew now where the head of Peter Tiler, local man, former caretaker of St Luke’s, had rested.
Anything involving Stella and her friends was bound to be a performance, and the drama continued in John Coffin’s own towertop sitting-room.
He had led Stella there to continue her recovery while the rest of the party had trooped up behind them. Somehow, a number of the cast from the Theatre Workshop had got there too and were now sitting around, some on the floor drinking coffee, others sipping red wine. A large pot of coffee and paper mugs had arrived from somewhere … ‘The deli round the corner,’ he heard someone say. ‘Stays open till all hours and will do anything for us. Absolutely stage-struck.’ It was good coffee. Coffin patronized the delicatessen himself, but had never had room service before.
JoJo Bell, Charlie Driscoll and Lily Goldstone, these he knew, Lily by sight only but she was famous. Only here were others whom he did not know. What was he doing entertaining them?
He looked about him. There were half a dozen of the cast of the Theatre Workshop troupe arranged in various postures around the room, and someone was coming up the stairs. He opened a window so that they could all breathe.
‘What about my room, my flat?’ Stella was saying. She was lying back on his sofa, pillows behind her head, looking pale and lovely. It was a shock, her expression was saying, but I am being brave and fighting my emotions, this poor weak body will endure. ‘I mean, will I be able to move in? Will I want to?’
‘I’m afraid the police team will have to spend a few days going over it.’ They were probably there now, judging from the distant but familiar noises he could hear through his open window. ‘No, you can’t use it just yet.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever want to again!’
Charlie Driscoll had produced a bottle and some glasses. ‘Have some gin, dear. I always say you can’t go wrong with a gin.’
‘Not neat,’ said Stella. ‘Put something in it.’ But she reached out a hand and Charlie deposited the glass in it.
Coffin thought she was giving the performance of her life, but he wasn’t sure what play it was. Not quite Shaw. Coward, could it be? Yes, more than a touch of Judith Bliss. With a slight but unconscious hint of Mrs Crummles?
‘She’s all shook up with what she saw,’ said Charlie sympathetically.
‘He might have been killed there!’
‘He might have,’ agreed Coffin. But he thought probably not. No sign of blood in the apartment.
‘But I’ve given up my other place.’ It was a wail of despair.
He had a bed he could give her. He thought about it. He knew from his past that he and Stella together made a combustible combination and he was a distinguished policeman now, hoping for his K. Raffish behaviour ought to be put aside. But there was something inside him that always called to people like Stella and always would.
Charlie put his arm round Stella’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got a spare room, love. You can stay there.’
Coffin subsided. Probably just as well.
‘Oh, thank you, Charlie. Are you sure? Just for a couple of nights. Then I’ll go back. I’ve decided: I’m not going to be pushed out.’
‘That’s my brave girl.’
‘But I’ll need a new refrigerator.’
Now Coffin could hear footsteps, voices and a car door opening. Strange how the noises carried on the night air. He could guess what the sounds meant. Only one query: the car would have been an ambulance and the footsteps more ponderous if what they had been carrying had been heavier.
And that was what was worrying him. Why wasn’t it heavier?
A hand could be popped inside a plastic bag and placed in a box. One man could transport a hand. So that wasn’t much of a problem.
But where was the rest of the body?
Some helpful soul had found his whisky bottle and was handing round nips. Strangely, all his unsought-for guests had come provided with something to drink from, mugs, glasses or plastic cups.
He was in the middle of a party, made up of the Theatre Workshop team and sundry hangers-on. He knew few of the faces: Ellie Foster, a middle-aged but still handsome character actress, whom he had seen on television; Roger Clifford, a face he did not know, but young and good-looking; Deirdre Dreamer, tiny but wild-looking, what a colour to have your hair, was it orange or yellow? That youthful couple sitting next to each other, but not looking at each other, were Bridie and Will. They didn’t look happy.
They were very, very young, and seemed to him to lack something of the brio of the rest of his guests. Not so sure of themselves, not able to put themselves across with the same conviction.
Stella observed him and went some way to explaining.
‘They’re our locals.’ Seeing his questioning look, she went on: ‘It was part of the deal here. The Corporation gives a grant to Theatre Workshop and we employ a percentage of actors from the Drama School here. They have Equity cards and all that. They’re good kids.’
‘What’s the matter with them?’ he asked Stella, so young, so talented (or they wouldn’t be in Stella’s company) and in love. But obviously miserable.
‘I don’t know, it’s worrying all of us. It’s not us. We all get on beautifully, we like them and we think they like us.’
The two young people now turned towards each other, and for a moment something glowed between them and as quickly was quenched. Will moved away, Bridie started to chatter brightly, too brightly, to JoJo, who could be heard advocating the soothing powers of camomile tea.
Stella shook her head. ‘It’s not the way love is supposed to take you. Not at first; later, maybe. They’ve got the symptoms the wrong way round. Misery comes later. I suppose you think I’m being cynical?’
He shook his head. ‘I was about to be even more cynical and ask if you didn’t think they were making rather a meal of it?’ After all, they were drama students.
‘No.’ Stella hesitated and seemed about to say something more. Then JoJo bore down upon her, advocating deep breathing as a cure for shock.
Someone will kill that woman one day, thought Coffin, and took a sip of his own whisky. Soon someone was going to be asking him (if they knew who he was, which he doubted) for another bottle, dear chap, and then we’ll be off. Only they wouldn’t be off. They’d be here till he turned them out.
Which he would be doing quite soon for Stella’s sake, she still looked white.
He stood up, to find several pairs of hands reaching up to drag him down again. ‘Oh, don’t go yet, dear chap, the party’s only just beginning. Stay a while longer.’
He had known theatricals on and off for over twenty years now, and they always took over one’s life. And he had never found a way of withstanding them.
JoJo stood up, tall, firm and flat-chested. ‘Sh-sh, you fool. He lives here, he’s the host.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Lily Goldstone in a ladylike drawl. ‘I’m sorry.’
He felt as if he was existing on two levels, up here all was gaiety and life, downstairs a murder investigation was starting. He was host at this party and in command of the Force dealing with the death. A man who had shut the refrigerator