Coffin and the Paper Man

Coffin, who knew, said nothing.

‘I heard she went to Tibet, beat up a soldier and got shot.’

It was not quite the story Coffin knew, but it might have been truer than the version he had. There were so many ways of telling the truth.

‘I’d be surprised if she’s dead … I thought you were our new neighbour,’ he said.

‘Dick? I’m going to share with him. You’re getting us both.’

Over his head, although tall Sir Harry was shorter than she was, he met Stella’s amused, informed smile. Always do, always have, her lips breathed: a twosome.

‘Sir Harry’s going to do some photographs of our Work in Progress. One of the Sunday supplements is taking it. Lovely publicity for us.’

‘Take some of you, if you like,’ offered Sir Harry. ‘Got any good crimes going? I like a bit of background material.’

There was a screech of brakes and an angry shout from outside.

‘That’s Tiddles crossing the road against the lights,’ said Stella with resignation. ‘He will do it.’

As Coffin got in his car, he saw a middle-aged man and woman standing on the pavement. He knew the woman’s face, he thought she worked in the theatre for Stella. He thought they were studying him, but he did not hear what they said.

‘Is that him?’ asked the man.

‘Yes. He’s late to work today. Very punctual as a rule.’

‘He looks that sort.’

‘You won’t—’ she hesitated‘—do anything, will you, Fred?’

‘No. I just wanted to see him. Get to know his face.’

‘How can that help, Fred? How can it help Anny?’

‘It helps me,’ said Fred Kinver. He strode forward, feet heavy and fast on the ground, he had always been a mover, played football in his youth in the days when there were such things as wingers and a man had to be able to run. She had a job keeping up with him.

‘Walk on,’ he commanded.

‘They’re doing what they can, Fred.’

‘Doesn’t it matter to you that the police haven’t got the man that killed your daughter yet? It matters to me. I screamed when they told me.’

‘I heard you,’ said Mrs Kinver. ‘You kept it up.’

‘You just sat there quiet.’

‘Everyone grieves differently.’

‘I’m not grieving. Not just grieving. I’m working at it. That’s why I wanted to see his face. You can get at that one. Get through to him. I feel better now I’ve seen that. I shan’t let him alone.’

‘Walk on.’

They walked on. Beyond St Luke’s Mansions where Coffin lived and the theatre was rising, past the new police building, down the slope of Feather Street where the Zemans and the Annecks and the Darbyshires lived and where the small dairy, home to Jim Marsh and his father, clung to the bottom of the slope.

‘That’s where he lives,’ whispered Mrs Kinver, ‘the boy who found Anny.’

‘That tart’s son,’ said Fred Kinver mechanically. He strode on.

I am vengeance, thought Fred Kinver, and I will have my way.

Jim Marsh looking down from his high window saw the two of them and picked up what Fred Kinver was feeling. Something about the hunch of Fred’s shoulder and the way his head was thrust forward. Vengeance personified, he thought, and his own imagination caught fire.

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