once a day at least) and a Pekingese of impeccable breeding if of uncertain temper.
He had been content on this sunny October day. Content was now shattered.
‘Richard Lavender wants to see me? Dick Lavender?’
His visitor nodded; he was a tall, thin man with crest of crisp hair just going grey. His eyes were an odd mixture between green and blue, attractive, Coffin thought.
‘He does. Soon, if you please. Perhaps a first visit this morning?’
John Albert Bradshaw had come with an introduction from the Home Secretary and had laid his card on the table as soon as he arrived. Dr J. A. Bradshaw. Not a medical doctor, he had said at once – political science, Edinburgh. Coffin had the notion that this information was proffered to establish status. I am an important person in my own right, Dr Bradshaw was saying.
Coffin was interested, intrigued even, at what amounted to a royal command, from a great old man, but he played for time.
‘I have a lot on hand at the moment, and I was thinking of going away on holiday.’ Coffin did not take many holidays, too few, his wife Stella said, and they were going to have these few days on the Italian lakes. Or were they? Would he get away?
‘You’ll get away, he’s thoughtful about that sort of thing. He goes away himself sometimes, he has a cottage in Fife.’
The Thane of Fife had a wife, but where is she now? recited Coffin to himself. Why did I think of that? And why this sudden quick wince of foreboding? And why do I think of his wife? Damn Macbeth. Shakespeare and Macbeth get everywhere. Aloud he said: ‘I didn’t know he was still alive.’
That got a reprimand. ‘Indeed you did.’
‘Yes, yes …’ He did, of course, it was his business to know if the distinguished and important inhabitants living in his Second City of London were alive or dead. He was responsible for their safety.
Part of the job. He had taken on the task of policing the Second City of London some years ago now and had made a success of it. He had melded together the lively and criminous districts of Swinehouse, East Hythe and Spinnergate, with violent histories that went back before William the Norman, and helped them to live, not only with each other but with the new, up-and-coming areas like Evelyn Fields and Tower Hills. He had been a success, been acknowledged as a success, had a happy marriage with a well-known actress and had come through the threat of a serious illness. But nature had nudged him on the shoulder and said, in that sly, familiar way it had: OK, so you survived, but you may not come through next time.
It was a rough old world out there, the denizens of which had in their times troubled the Romans, the Normans and all rulers from the Plantagenets to the House of Hanover.
‘You are quite right, I did know … but I never expected to meet him. And he wants to see me?’ This was a surprise. He had made some good friends in his years as Chief Commander, and collected a few enemies. Which was the old man? They had never met, but Coffin knew you can make enemies without meeting them.
‘Most anxious.’
He heard himself ask: ‘Has he got a wife?’
‘Widowed. Married twice, widowed twice.’
Coffin stood up and went to the window. ‘I did see him once, I was only a kid, and he came through Greenwich … Election night, it was. The last big one he fought. Was he PM? I was too young to know. He looked like a film star.’
His visitor nodded. ‘Remember it myself.’
‘So what is it about?’
His visitor rose. ‘He will tell you himself. Shall we go?’
Coffin stood up, his dog stood up too. ‘Can he come?’ He looked doubtfully at Augustus. ‘He’s no trouble, well behaved.’ This was not true, but he had agreed with his wife Stella to offer this lie.
His visitor had a car waiting, he held the door open for Coffin and Augustus to get in. The car was an antique, a Rolls built in a style not used for many decades. Upright and sturdy with huge wheels and great windows, Coffin felt as if he was entering a hearse. Inside, the seats were covered in dark-grey brocade with a small silver flower holder by each seat. There were no flowers. On the air was a very faint smell of lavender and dust.
Coffin sat down, removed Augustus from the seat to which he had leapt, and stared at the glass barrier that separated him from his companion who was doing the driving. The car, old though it was, started without fuss and glided forward with an ease which was a testimony to the engineering which had produced it.
As a passenger. Coffin found you had to be prepared for the rolling motion which came with the steady regal progress through the streets. It was a bit like being on board a great liner; you could be travel sick. He also had to bite back a strong impulse to wave at the passers-by as he was driven along. Against his will, he found himself bending forward from the waist. Damn it, he was bowing.
He felt archaic, he was living in the past. Was the old man living in the past? Well, I wondered if he was dead. Coffin reminded himself, so perhaps he is.
But he had been practical and shrewd enough in his day, or so the political memoirs said. Feared too, a magnificent, mesmeric figure. And a great drinker. Other pleasures as well, if all that was told was true.
Now he was a memory, but alive. Alive, and still enough of a power in the land to call in the likes of John Coffin when he needed help.
The car carried him through one of the more pleasant districts of his Second City to the riverside, where a modest block of flats overlooked the Thames. He had been here only once before, so the view was fresh to him. He could see across the water to an area of trees through which a large building just showed its roof. He did not recognize this either, but he decided it was a public park with a municipal building inside it, perhaps a museum or a picture gallery or one of the new universities. It did not look industrial, although it was true that many commercial enterprises were moving out of central London and establishing themselves in something as near a great country estate as they could achieve.
The car stopped and he stepped out into the chill, sunlight air. He nodded across the river. ‘Do you know what that building is?’
‘The Central Bank of Arabia,’ said his companion briefly. ‘Lovely building. Empty though, of course, since the bank went broke.’
Sign of the times, Coffin thought, banks created wonderful buildings for themselves, then could not pay their bills and went out of business.
‘It was built as a prison in 1850 by Victorian reformers. Out of use as a prison a hundred years later, that is when the bank bought it.’ He added without a smile: ‘Himself admires the view, but I am never sure if he remembers it is no longer a prison.’
Not great on memory, then. Coffin thought. ‘Does he remember who he is himself?’ Better to establish that fact at once.
‘He remembers who he was,’ said his companion tersely.
‘An old Prime Minister.’
‘A former Prime Minister,’ corrected Dr Bradshaw tartly.
Significant difference. Coffin thought, as he approached the flats’ entrance. I am being taught my lines.
I’ll have to leave the dog in the car … Stay, Augustus.’ The dog looked at him thoughtfully, seemingly content to stay where he was in the great car.
A small white van was parked nearby. ‘Belongs to the old man’s niece,’ said Jack Bradshaw shortly. ‘Uses it for shopping. Ferries himself in his chair sometimes.’
As he walked into the entrance lobby Coffin was remembering what he knew of the origin of this block of flats: they had been built by a housing association to provide pleasant, medium-priced homes for retired professionals. The rents were not high, nor meant to be.
The entrance hall was in line with what you might expect from this policy, being plain, with stone-coloured