A Coffin for Charley by Gwendoline Butler Page A

victim?’ Coffin said.
    Foss nodded slowly. ‘You could say so.’
    He delivered himself of a judgement: ‘Looks as if we’ve got a serial killer here.’
    â€˜Fashionable beasts at the moment,’ said Coffin absently. Get a run of killings and everyone cried serial killings. But they were not always. Killers imitated each other.
    He could see the time had come to be tactful. It wasn’t exactly that he had no business here, all police matters were his business, but the investigating team would prefer him to go away.
    He eased himself away from Dr Foss who showed signs of giving a lecture on serial killers and their ways, and got into his car. To his surprise he found Bob there, asleep in the back of the car as he drove off.
    â€˜Forgotten you, old chap.’ He hesitated. He was late already for a meeting and Bob was a problem. ‘Right, you can go into the club.’ He put a leash on Bob’s collar, and led him across a courtyard to a white-painted building.
    One of the Chief Commander’s innovations had been a club, open to all ranks. A small building on the edge of the complex of offices and communication centres which made up his headquarters, growing all the time, had been turned into this club. Although on the small side, it was well set out with good carpets and comfortable chairs, nothing cheap or sordid. You could drink there, beer, whisky, fruit juice, anything (and at a lower price than in a pub) and get a light meal.
    Although Coffin had no illusions that it would wean his Force from their favoured pubs, it was a place to which they could bring their wives and where he could drop in.
    He did not do this often, he knew he had to keep certain rules, but he did so now and again. Coffin couldn’t have mates and must never get drunk but he could meet people there and talk like a human being.
    The club manager was a retired CID officer with a nose for good wines and the food came from Max’s Delicatessenwhich now had a catering subsidiary. Despite competition from bigger concerns, Max was proving that a well-run family business could flourish.
    Bob was deposited here with the manager, together with the promise he would ‘be collected’.
    Police work can be like a thick soup, you get stuck. Coffin had a deputy but he did not delegate as much as perhaps he should have done. As the day went on Coffin got stuck in several committees, dictating one report, and talking to the high-ranking civil servant from the Home Office. At the back of his mind all the time there rested the deaths of Didi and Marianna Manners like a dark shadow.
    He went home, late as usual, forgetting all about Bob as he so often did. He pushed open his front door, and knew at once by the smell of Guerlain that Stella was there. Home. He still found it hard to believe that they were married and this was his home.
    He ran up the stairs. She was sitting on the floor in suede jeans and a silk shirt enjoying the crackling of a log fire. It was blazing away merrily, smoking as well, he noticed, in defiance of the clean air zone in which St Luke’s Mansions rested.
    â€˜How did you manage to light the fire?’
    â€˜Just laid it,’ she said dreamily. ‘One of my landladies taught me ages ago.’
    â€˜That chimney hasn’t been cleaned for decades.’
    â€˜I know that, it’s why it smokes, but wood smoke is lovely.’
    He was so pleased to see her happy and relaxed that he buried all thoughts of newspaper headlines proclaiming POLICE CHIEF BREAKS SMOKE REGULATIONS and also of the voice of the architect who had helped create his apartment pointing out that the fireplace was decorative and that the chimney, what there was of it, had once led down to the furnace in the crypt of the old church.
    Then he saw Bob, sprawled at her feet, and remembered. ‘How did he get here?’
    â€˜Walked.’
    On his own?’
    Stella put on a large pair of spectacles and