Cold Coffin by Gwendoline Butler Page B

telephone. The Chief Commander had better be an early riser. In the old days he had been.
    Stella answered the telephone. ‘Good morning, Phoebe.’
    â€˜Can I speak to the Chief Commander?’
    â€˜He’s still asleep.’ Then Stella added thoughtfully, ‘But I can wake him up.’
    â€˜No need,’ called a voice. ‘I’m awake. Any coffee going?’ He walked over to the telephone. ‘That you, Phoebe?’
    â€˜Yes. How did you know?’
    â€˜No one but you would call at this hour of the morning. And it’s the Minden Street murders, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You’ve found a connection with Dr Murray? You’ve found the weapon?’
    â€˜No, but there is an envelope with her name on it. The writing has not yet been identified.’
    â€˜Get hold of Jack Jackson. It may be his. Get hold of him, anyway.’
    Jack had taken himself off, but the police were looking.
    â€˜He was questioned when the three bodies were found. Inspector Dover talked to him.’
    â€˜Bring him in again. But handle him quietly.’
    â€˜Yes, right,’ said Phoebe. She hesitated before reminding him that he had felt sure Black Jack was not a killer. ‘Are you suggesting he also killed Dr Murray?’ She was crossing her fingers.
    â€˜I know what I said about him not being killer material. I still think that’s the case, but I would like to see him faced with a few questions. I want to question him.’
    â€˜What about the PM on Dr Murray?’
    â€˜See if you can get that rearranged. Who’s down to do it?’
    Phoebe consulted her notes. ‘Dr Everle . . . he’s easy, he won’t mind.’ Probably had a stack of bodies lined up. There had been a bad coach crash the day before and a couple of suicides in the river.
    â€˜Right.’
    Jack was already out in the streets, walking. Early morning or late night were all one to him; this was when he liked to walk. Everyone has their habits and this was his, well known to his associates and the police.

5
    Saturday, very early .
    Jack Jackson, revelling for the moment in his nickname Black Jack, strolled through the streets of the Second City. He had just had a spat with Mimsie Marker, who was tidying her stall before setting up the papers for the early-morning travellers. It was always hard to know when Mimsie slept. A quarrel with Mimsie was one of his treats, setting him up for the day, and he suspected that Mimsie felt the same: they both enjoyed a rousing disagreement. They had known each other since childhood, when they had attended the same school and sat side by side on a double bench, pushing at each other and squabbling. Honours were about equal in those battles, and fondly remembered, but their ways had parted as they grew up, except when they met at Mimsie’s paper stall.
    While not offering him any sympathy for the deaths of the women in Minden Street (it was always hard to know what to say to Jack that was not a well-turned insult or a joke), she was one of those who knew he was no killer.
    She gave his departing back a wave while she sold the next customer a paper and a sandwich. As she did so, she totted up the extra profits that were coming her way since she had added soft drinks and sandwiches to the stall.
    â€˜No,’ she said to the customer. ‘That was not the man whose mother and sisters had been murdered.’
    The customer leaned forward to tap Mimsie’s arm. ‘You want your eyes tested, Mimsie Marker, or to get counselling, because you’ve lost it. That was Black Jack. I think I’ll follow him.’ And the customer passed on, neglecting to pay for the sandwich so that Mimsie ground her teeth in anger.
    Jack Jackson turned into the narrow alley, officially Watermen’s Row but known locally as Piss Passage, which led to the riverside near where he lived. When he moved out of the Minden Street establishment (by