Cracking Open a Coffin. Gwendoline Butler

had enabled a competition to be held to produce the best design.

      The winner of the competition, which had been fierce and bitter, was a young American architect who had survived the battle between modernist architects, neo-modern architects, post-modern architects, classicists and the neo-classical men, and come out with what his critics called ‘nostalgia’ architecture. His building was pretty and much loved by the students. Oddly, since the whole was built of pale stone and wide open, the new building had not suffered the ravages of graffiti writers or vandals. Perhaps it really was too nice to touch.

      A telephone call from the Rector’s office had got through to Coffin yesterday; he was on his own in his office, working late.

      ‘Tom Blackhall here.’ The Rector of the University (this was his preferred title as opposed to Vice Chancellor or Principal) had a pleasant, deep voice. He was Sir Thomas, recently knighted, but to John Coffin he said Tom, they were two heads of mini-states meeting on equal terms. John and Tom.

      Then he got down to it, with the briskness that he was famous for displaying: Would John come round, there was something he wanted to consult Coffin about?

      Coffin was cautious. ‘I’m just finishing off a piece of work.’

      ‘I’d appreciate it.’

      It was important, then. A small prickle of apprehension started at the back of his neck and ran down his spine.

      Students, trouble.

      Once the words had been synonymous, but that had been some time ago, all had been peace lately, students were keeping an eye on their future, jobs and income alike. There hadn’t been a student riot, march or sit-in for years now, so perhaps they were due for one.

      But no, the anxiety he had picked up in Tom Blackhall’s voice had sounded personal. Like someone threatened with a terrible illness.

      ‘I’ll walk round.’

      ‘Let me send a car.’ The university had several official cars, Coffin had one himself, which he avoided as much as possible, preferring to walk or drive himself.

      ‘Rather walk.’ His security code name was WALKER.

      ‘My house then, not the office. You know where it is?’

      ‘Yes.’ You asked me there not six months ago, to a dinner-party where your wife was, for once, present. You’ve plainly forgotten.

      ‘Come straight in, then, I’ll leave the door unlocked. My study’s on the left.’

      In the days when he had been a uniformed copper on the beat, at the very beginning of his career, he had thought wistfully about those of his contemporaries whom he knew to be at their university studies. In those days he had thought of dons and students as living civilized, intellectual days, engaged in reading, studying, passing their days in a solid manner, then drinking fine wine at college dinners while engaged in good conversation. Nothing trivial, nothing mean.

      He knew better now. University life as life in an ivory tower did not exist, had possibly never existed except perhaps for a few people in one or two places for a short time in the settled period between the wars. Now the centres of learning were centres of hard, competitive work, with as much rivalry and edging for position as anywhere else. And they had to fight for money with all those other institutions like the arts, the hospitals, and the police.

      Mind you, they were doughty fighters and Sir Tom one of the best. Coffin had learnt to respect the way he and his like operated.

      He had walked fast through the streets, enjoying the air and the movement. Soon, he saw the stone archway of the university buildings ahead of him.

      As he came through the archway a motorbike shot past, just missing him. The rider was a girl wearing black leather and a black crash helmet. She had a lean, muscular face without much expression, but he was almost sure she had known how near she had come to hitting him and was enjoying it. Damn you, he thought, as he walked on.

      Tom Blackhall had come forward with hand outstretched as Coffin walked into the room. ‘Glad you could make it. Decent of you to come.’

      There was another man in the room, looking out of the window, his back to the door. He swung round at that moment, and Coffin took a step backwards in time.

      For a second he could not speak, this was a face from the buried part of his life, his unhappy, married, struggling youth. This man had walked a beat with him, been a partner, but left the Force, and been heard of as from a distance as a very successful business man. He had vague memories of hearing of a marriage that had failed. Well, that made two of them, he thought.

      ‘Jem, Jem Dean.’

      ‘That’s me all right. I use James more now, but I’ll answer to Jim.’ Jem was dead and buried, it seemed, no doubt wisely. Change your name, change your status.

      They looked at each other, seeing reflected in their eyes that past they had shared, not all of it good. Jim Dean moved his thin, rather beautiful hands in a way Coffin remembered. Wonder what habit I’ve still got that he recalls, Coffin thought. What empty shell hangs on me?

      ‘Still the same old way of coming into a room,’ said Dean, answering him. ‘As if you were going to conquer it.’

      ‘Rubbish.’ But he was aware of being gently flattered. That was another thing he remembered about the man: he could smooth the waters. He had pale blue eyes that seemed to whiten and widen as he spoke: yet one more memory. He wore spectacles now and that shrouded the eyes a bit. He’d gone grey, but the crest of hair was still as strong and curly as ever. Well cut now, as was the dark blue suit. Shirt by Turnbull and Asser, tie by Hermès, gloves by Hermès.

      Suddenly, Dean tore away the spectacles to show the pain in his eyes. ‘That’s my kid that’s missing, my girl.’ The eyes were wider and paler than ever.

      Tom Blackhall put a hand on his arm. ‘Steady on, Jim. I’m in this too, remember.’

      He turned to John Coffin: ‘Two students of this university are missing. One of them is Jim’s daughter, Amy.’ He paused for a moment, then went on: ‘We informed the local police after the first day. This may have been a bit quick, but you may remember that we had a student murdered on campus last year and this has made us extra careful.’

      ‘I remember.’ Coffin also recalled, and with some bitterness, that it was one of the police failures, they had never caught the killer. Or not yet; but the file was not closed.

      ‘The police told us it was a bit too soon to do much, these being two young adults who might have taken themselves off for their own reasons.’ He paused again. ‘I think they did something, ran a few checks, but not much.’

      ‘I’ll find out.’

      The Rector ignored this and went on as if he hadn’t heard. ‘They must have sent out some sort of alert, because today I got a ’phone call telling me that Amy’s car had been found, empty. Across the river in Rotherhithe.’

      Not my area, thought Coffin automatically. That’s the Met.

      ‘No sign of her. But her handbag was in it and her coat.’

      Jim Dean made a noise like a groan.

      ‘That looked bad,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘Even to them.’

      We don’t come well out of this, thought Coffin. ‘What about the other student?’ he said. ‘Any sign of him?’

      ‘My son,’ said Sir Thomas, his voice suddenly heavy. ‘Martin. There was a relationship there, but I don’t know much about it. No sign of him either, but his wallet was found in the car. We don’t know if they started out together, or when they parted, if they did, but on that evidence they were together at one point.’

      There was silence in the room.

      ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘it doesn’t look good.’

      Coffin said slowly: ‘They