the best playwrights, was sharper.
Or more likely, he thought, taking another drink of coffee, she would have given me a swift blow and stalked out of the room. Not forever, his behaviour would not have rated that high in the range of life’s misdemeanours, she would have been back.
Anyway, he hadn’t told her. Or not yet. He trusted that the initials J.C. and the terrible offering on the steps of the house in Barrow Street were not a preview of what was to come.
He remembered the last time he had seen Anna.
She had called at the house in Barrow Street, spontaneously, unasked, when he was working. He had gone down to open the door himself, there was no one else, he had no servants. The house was kept clean by a commercial firm with whom he had not much contact.
An image of that last time came sweeping back from beneath the careful stones he had buried it under. Not a memory to keep on display.
She swayed through the door; she had long legs, and skirts were minimal that year, and tight as well.
Tucked under her arm, she had something long and thin, wrapped in silk. A very pretty pink and blue printed silk, Italian silk for sure.
‘What have you got there?’
Without a word, Anna slowly unwrapped the silk. Inside was a whip.
‘I thought policemen liked a touch of violence.’
Coffin was silent. Then he said – he remembered the words so clearly – ‘That’s been your experience, has it?’
She just smiled.
Coldly, he said: ‘I don’t think it would be an aphrodisiac for me. I doubt if it would bring me to the desired consummation.’
Anna looked at him for a long minute, with no expression on her face. Then, in a soft, gentle voice, she said:
‘Pompous git.’
She swung round and made her exit, wrapping up the whip as she went.
‘You’re not worth a flick,’ she threw over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.
They never met again. He made cautious enquiries about her and knew that she had left her post on the local paper . . . or been sacked, stories varied, and disappeared. She might be around still, if so he did not know where. Just as well.
She couldn’t come walking out of the past without her legs, he thought dryly.
He took another drink of coffee, which was still hot, so he could not have been far away in another world, another time, for long. Then he opened the file that Phoebe Astley had handed him and studied the medical report on the limbs found in Barrow Street.
You should go to your grave with all your limbs attached, he thought. But many didn’t.
Sex:
Female
Colour:
White
Age:
Between 25 yrs and 45 yrs
A bit of guesswork there, he thought.
Height:
5′ 8″
Weight:
Nine stone
Shoe size: 7
Hair on legs and arms:
Light brown to ginger
Fingernails:
bitten
A tall thin woman, probably a redhead, and large feet.
Anna had been tall but not thin; still, women changed, lost weight. A woman heading to the sort of death this woman had had, yes, she might well have lost weight.
She hadn’t bitten her nails, nor dyed her hair, but who could tell what time and trouble did for you.
Identifying marks:
1. Scars on left wrist, possibly the result of a suicide attempt
2. Damaged bone on left ankle
3. Scarring on the right leg
Blood Group:
O
He hadn’t known what blood group Anna was, but O was about the most common.
Drugs in blood:
Desmethyl-Diazepam traces were found which is a drug breakdown product from several tranquillizers such as Cloraazepate (found in Tramene) or Chlordiazpaxide (found in Librium and Tropium) and Diazepam (found in Valium)
Anna might have been on drugs even then. These were all sedative-type drugs. Some of the details matched with Anna, but without the face, how could you be sure?
Neither of them had made any attempt to keep in touch. Coffin knew danger when he saw it and he had seen it then in Anna.
It was possible that the remains left on the steps in Barrow Street were those of Anna.
One of the three telephones on his desk rang, this was
Or more likely, he thought, taking another drink of coffee, she would have given me a swift blow and stalked out of the room. Not forever, his behaviour would not have rated that high in the range of life’s misdemeanours, she would have been back.
Anyway, he hadn’t told her. Or not yet. He trusted that the initials J.C. and the terrible offering on the steps of the house in Barrow Street were not a preview of what was to come.
He remembered the last time he had seen Anna.
She had called at the house in Barrow Street, spontaneously, unasked, when he was working. He had gone down to open the door himself, there was no one else, he had no servants. The house was kept clean by a commercial firm with whom he had not much contact.
An image of that last time came sweeping back from beneath the careful stones he had buried it under. Not a memory to keep on display.
She swayed through the door; she had long legs, and skirts were minimal that year, and tight as well.
Tucked under her arm, she had something long and thin, wrapped in silk. A very pretty pink and blue printed silk, Italian silk for sure.
‘What have you got there?’
Without a word, Anna slowly unwrapped the silk. Inside was a whip.
‘I thought policemen liked a touch of violence.’
Coffin was silent. Then he said – he remembered the words so clearly – ‘That’s been your experience, has it?’
She just smiled.
Coldly, he said: ‘I don’t think it would be an aphrodisiac for me. I doubt if it would bring me to the desired consummation.’
Anna looked at him for a long minute, with no expression on her face. Then, in a soft, gentle voice, she said:
‘Pompous git.’
She swung round and made her exit, wrapping up the whip as she went.
‘You’re not worth a flick,’ she threw over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.
They never met again. He made cautious enquiries about her and knew that she had left her post on the local paper . . . or been sacked, stories varied, and disappeared. She might be around still, if so he did not know where. Just as well.
She couldn’t come walking out of the past without her legs, he thought dryly.
He took another drink of coffee, which was still hot, so he could not have been far away in another world, another time, for long. Then he opened the file that Phoebe Astley had handed him and studied the medical report on the limbs found in Barrow Street.
You should go to your grave with all your limbs attached, he thought. But many didn’t.
Sex:
Female
Colour:
White
Age:
Between 25 yrs and 45 yrs
A bit of guesswork there, he thought.
Height:
5′ 8″
Weight:
Nine stone
Shoe size: 7
Hair on legs and arms:
Light brown to ginger
Fingernails:
bitten
A tall thin woman, probably a redhead, and large feet.
Anna had been tall but not thin; still, women changed, lost weight. A woman heading to the sort of death this woman had had, yes, she might well have lost weight.
She hadn’t bitten her nails, nor dyed her hair, but who could tell what time and trouble did for you.
Identifying marks:
1. Scars on left wrist, possibly the result of a suicide attempt
2. Damaged bone on left ankle
3. Scarring on the right leg
Blood Group:
O
He hadn’t known what blood group Anna was, but O was about the most common.
Drugs in blood:
Desmethyl-Diazepam traces were found which is a drug breakdown product from several tranquillizers such as Cloraazepate (found in Tramene) or Chlordiazpaxide (found in Librium and Tropium) and Diazepam (found in Valium)
Anna might have been on drugs even then. These were all sedative-type drugs. Some of the details matched with Anna, but without the face, how could you be sure?
Neither of them had made any attempt to keep in touch. Coffin knew danger when he saw it and he had seen it then in Anna.
It was possible that the remains left on the steps in Barrow Street were those of Anna.
One of the three telephones on his desk rang, this was
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