“nice”.’
She was having a conference with Chief Superintendent Young, if you could call their conversation such: she was tacitly seeking support and advice from this so much more senior figure. They were meeting in his office, which was tidy and very neat, with a potted plant, small and tidy too, on his desk. She thought his wife had provided the dark blue primula. Her own office was not tidy.
‘That was Dennis Nilsen,’ said Archie Young. ‘I believe he did cook bits of bodies, but I don’t know about heads. I should think the hair might make a difficulty there.’
Phoebe, who had dropped her observation in to see how Archie reacted (she knew that immensely experienced and tough as he was, he still had his squeamish side), had to admit that he had capped her.
‘How are we going to give her a name? Fingerprints?’
‘I don’t think so. Not unless she has a record and eventhen . . .’ He said no more. No need. The computer might go through all the fingerprints of all the females with criminal convictions, but even that would take time. Could be done, no doubt.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We need her doctor. With all those drugs inside her, she was on someone’s list. We just have to send out a letter to all GPs in the locality of Barrow Street and hope one of them holds up his hand.’
‘Yes,’ Phoebe sighed. ‘We’ve already started on that, of course. Tony Davley is in charge of that operation.’
Sergeant Antonia Davley was an up-and-coming young officer whom Phoebe liked. She had accepted the task of checking on all local doctors and hospital clinics without pleasure, but determined to do her best. She had sent a circular letter out. She was assisted by one detective constable who kept pointing out how hopeless it was.
‘And any of the women who have stayed in the Serena Seddon House who have the initials J.C. Or anything like it: J.G., I.C., or even just a J or just a C.’
‘You’re joking there, I suppose.’
‘Not a joke in me . . . and going back before it was the Serena Seddon Refuge House,’ Archie Young went on.
‘Agreed,’ said Phoebe sadly.
She brightened a bit. ‘She was a great drinker, Lady Serena, did you know that? A real toper.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My mother knew her, their paths crossed during the war. Both at Bletchley. Didn’t drink there, of course, but she did when she got out. Relief from tension, I suppose. It’s why she left her money to found a refuge. She saw she could go that way. Never married herself, but got beaten up once or twice.’
‘I never know when you are inventing things,’ said an exasperated Archie Young.
Phoebe left his office laughing. On the way out she rubbed the leaves of the primula between her fingers and discovered that it was plastic. That settled the question: Adelaide Young was not the sort of woman to buy plastic flowers: Archie had bought it for himself.
And that in itself raised an interesting question about the sort of man who would buy a plastic flower.
She looked back at him almost with sympathy. Come on, Archie, life is real, not plastic.
But as she ran up the stairs to her office (only the very top brass like Archie had their office lower down) she reflected that if anyone knew the world wasn’t plastic it was Archie Young. Think of the cases he had tackled: the Sacker murders, a whole troop of dead children; the arsonist of Perill Lane, and the woman who . . . No, bury the memory of that one, she killed herself in the end, God help her, if there was a God.
The telephone was ringing in her room, she considered ignoring it, but decided against it. Experience had taught her that messages always get through if they bring bad news and only the good-news ones get lost on the way.
Hard to be sure which the call was, she thought as she heard John Coffin’s voice.
‘Phoebe, I want you to come to dinner tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She liked him, always had done; she liked Stella, but it was a working
She was having a conference with Chief Superintendent Young, if you could call their conversation such: she was tacitly seeking support and advice from this so much more senior figure. They were meeting in his office, which was tidy and very neat, with a potted plant, small and tidy too, on his desk. She thought his wife had provided the dark blue primula. Her own office was not tidy.
‘That was Dennis Nilsen,’ said Archie Young. ‘I believe he did cook bits of bodies, but I don’t know about heads. I should think the hair might make a difficulty there.’
Phoebe, who had dropped her observation in to see how Archie reacted (she knew that immensely experienced and tough as he was, he still had his squeamish side), had to admit that he had capped her.
‘How are we going to give her a name? Fingerprints?’
‘I don’t think so. Not unless she has a record and eventhen . . .’ He said no more. No need. The computer might go through all the fingerprints of all the females with criminal convictions, but even that would take time. Could be done, no doubt.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We need her doctor. With all those drugs inside her, she was on someone’s list. We just have to send out a letter to all GPs in the locality of Barrow Street and hope one of them holds up his hand.’
‘Yes,’ Phoebe sighed. ‘We’ve already started on that, of course. Tony Davley is in charge of that operation.’
Sergeant Antonia Davley was an up-and-coming young officer whom Phoebe liked. She had accepted the task of checking on all local doctors and hospital clinics without pleasure, but determined to do her best. She had sent a circular letter out. She was assisted by one detective constable who kept pointing out how hopeless it was.
‘And any of the women who have stayed in the Serena Seddon House who have the initials J.C. Or anything like it: J.G., I.C., or even just a J or just a C.’
‘You’re joking there, I suppose.’
‘Not a joke in me . . . and going back before it was the Serena Seddon Refuge House,’ Archie Young went on.
‘Agreed,’ said Phoebe sadly.
She brightened a bit. ‘She was a great drinker, Lady Serena, did you know that? A real toper.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My mother knew her, their paths crossed during the war. Both at Bletchley. Didn’t drink there, of course, but she did when she got out. Relief from tension, I suppose. It’s why she left her money to found a refuge. She saw she could go that way. Never married herself, but got beaten up once or twice.’
‘I never know when you are inventing things,’ said an exasperated Archie Young.
Phoebe left his office laughing. On the way out she rubbed the leaves of the primula between her fingers and discovered that it was plastic. That settled the question: Adelaide Young was not the sort of woman to buy plastic flowers: Archie had bought it for himself.
And that in itself raised an interesting question about the sort of man who would buy a plastic flower.
She looked back at him almost with sympathy. Come on, Archie, life is real, not plastic.
But as she ran up the stairs to her office (only the very top brass like Archie had their office lower down) she reflected that if anyone knew the world wasn’t plastic it was Archie Young. Think of the cases he had tackled: the Sacker murders, a whole troop of dead children; the arsonist of Perill Lane, and the woman who . . . No, bury the memory of that one, she killed herself in the end, God help her, if there was a God.
The telephone was ringing in her room, she considered ignoring it, but decided against it. Experience had taught her that messages always get through if they bring bad news and only the good-news ones get lost on the way.
Hard to be sure which the call was, she thought as she heard John Coffin’s voice.
‘Phoebe, I want you to come to dinner tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She liked him, always had done; she liked Stella, but it was a working
Similar Books
