A Coffin for Charley by Gwendoline Butler Page B

picked up the month’s copy of Vogue. ‘Well, I didn’t carry him.’
    â€˜Ah, so they telephoned you to say I’d left him?’
    â€˜The great detective. Yes, that was it.’
    She stood up, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘You work too hard.’ She took one look at his face. ‘What sort of a day? No, don’t tell me, I can guess.’
    He told her anyway, it was what wives were for, hearing the moans and grumbles, as he had discovered to his comfort when he married Stella. Of course, she had the right to grumble back and if he got too boring, then she did. The way it worked was they took turns: tonight it was his turn.
    He didn’t tell her about the day’s routine of letters, reports and meetings, but went on in some detail about what had really galled him: the behaviour of the mandarin from the Home Office.
    â€˜He taped the whole conversation, the bastard.’
    â€˜I suppose I’d better not ask what the conversation was about?’
    â€˜Oh, the fashionable butt of the moment: police handling of evidence, suppression of evidence and lying and backing each other up.’
    â€˜And that doesn’t go on, of course?’ She made the inquiry gentle as if she knew the answer must be no in the case of the Second City Force. Loyalty demanded it of a wife. In one of her more politically active periods, Stella had marched, waved banners and shouted at meetings against all forms of prejudice and corruption: Men against women, women against men (she was open-minded), ageism, racism and tokenism. She had enjoyed herself but now she was quiescent, with just the odd ripple of scepticism appearing on the surface.
    â€˜Not in my lot.’ Or not while he kept his sharp eye on them. He had gradually managed to weed out those of the old flock whom he had reason to distrust. But there were always a few that were doubtful, you couldn’t count on everyone even in the best of Forces. People cut corners, got lazy or were just tired. The naturally corrupt were easilysussed out and got rid of, much harder to pick out the good man who had had a bad day.
    Stella’s political activity had been due to the influence of her most ferocious and marvellously talented actress friend, brilliant child of a theatrical dynasty, but out to reform the world. She was in Moscow now, acting in a new International Theatre and probably creating havoc.
    I’m just naturally lazy, thought Stella.
    â€˜But that’s not what’s really nagging at you?’ she said.
    â€˜Oh, there’s always this and that,’ he said evasively, not willing to talk about Didi yet, relegating her to the back of his mind. Almost he could feel himself pushing her face back into the mud. ‘Shall we eat?’
    Was there anything to eat? No smell of cooking.
    Triumphantly Stella took him downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Bob and I drove over to the special fish and chip shop in Greenwich when you were so late, and we brought back a helping each.’ Four helpings, one for Bob too and for the cat Tiddles, already on the alert. ‘They have special boxes now that keep it hot and crisp … but I thought we’d eat in the kitchen because it does smell so.’
    She was setting out the meal and handing out their portions to cat and dog. She stood back to admire her work. ‘I could make some bread and butter and a pot of strong tea, that’s the classic accompaniment, but I expect you would prefer wine?’
    â€˜I think I’d rather have beer.’
    â€˜You shall.’ She opened the refrigerator. ‘And I shall have wine.’ She pushed Tiddles’s face away from Bob’s dish. ‘Eat your own food, you monster, and leave his alone.’ Bob licked her foot. ‘Oh, Bob, you sycophant.’
    Coffin accepted his beer and sat down. She was talking too much, nervous probably.
    â€˜Would you like the cat’s chips?’
    â€˜No, thank