So all of that – the knowledge of what her reaction would be, the sickening ammonia–blueberry aftertaste – would lead him to seek more solitude, more refuge. Until there was no refuge left for him to take, and the only one left for Sonia was the arms and solace of another man; the final camel’s-back straw in their marriage.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Emma Bradbury approaching.
‘Sir. Jim Thomson just called. He’s just turned off the A12. Says he’ll be here in ten or twelve minutes.’
Lapslie nodded with a strained smile and followed her back towards the bunker entrance.
*
Jim Thomson and his team arrived remarkably quickly considering the seriousness of the job they had just been working on. Sniper killings were not common, but Lapslie supposed that with a constrained crime scene and an obvious point of vantage for the sniper, there wasn’t actually that much to check.
Lapslie left it to Bradbury to brief the SOCO team, but watched from a distance. Judging by his expression, when Thomson discovered why his team had been called away from one of the most serious and bizarre murders they had ever dealt with, he was bemused. He took it in his stride, however, and within half an hour the area was taped off and everyone was made to wear disposable white overalls and shoes. The arc lamps were moved back into the shelter and the whole process started again.
While the crime scene was being established and the boundaries set, Lapslie walked outside to where DCs Parkin and Pearce were standing. Lapslie wasn’t in the best of moods; he never was when he had a problem and was struggling to solve it. It irritated him. ‘So, you two saw nothing?’
Both detectives shook their heads.
‘No, sir,’ Pearce replied, ‘well, not until Dave went for a slash. It was Dave that noticed something was wrong.’
Lapslie turned to face DC Dave Parkin. ‘Was that the first time you got out of the car since I last saw you?’
Parkin shuffled his feet like a naughty schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar. ‘Yes, sir, but we had a good view of the front of the building and we knew it was impossible for anyone to get into it from any other place.’
Lapslie continued to stare at him. ‘Really? Yet not only do we have a dead tramp who obviously got in without using the front door, we also now have one doll seriously damaged and two others gone, both of them major exhibits and linked to a murder that has occurred elsewhere?’
Met with silence and an awkward look exchanged between the two detectives, Lapslie reflected that perhaps he should have turned it into a major crime scene with more cover; with only two men on such a long shift, during forced breaks effectively only one man would be on duty, so there were limitations. But extra manpower would require approval from Rouse, which could prove problematical given what they had so far. He took a fresh breath. ‘So what made you suspicious?’
DC Parkin answered. ‘Thought I heard someone moving about inside the bunker.’
‘You thought?’
‘Like Carl – DC Pearce – said, I was having a slash down by the security doors when I heard the sound of a door being slammed shut from inside the bunker. I thought it had to be the door to the cupboard where the dolls are kept; it’s the only other door in there. Well, on the first floor anyway.’
‘And you did what?’
‘I banged on the door and told them to come out. Said the place was surrounded.’
Lapslie shook his head. ‘Surrounded, by you two?’
Both detectives nodded simultaneously. ‘Thought we would try and bluff whoever it was.’
‘Bluff them into thinking you were detectives. So what happened then?’
Parkin continued: ‘I ran back to the car to get the key to the door—’
Lapslie cut in. ‘Why didn’t you call Pearce over? It might have been quicker.’
‘I tried, sir, but—’
This time Pearce cut in. ‘I had the radio on, sir. Didn’t hear him.’
As Lapslie shook his head, Parkin grimaced awkwardly. ‘The arrangement, sir, was that one of us rested while the other kept a watch.’
Lapslie sighed deeply. ‘Go on.’
‘When we got the key we went into the bunker and searched the top floor and the storage cupboard; that’s when we noticed the bride doll was missing. Thought it had been stolen at first, but then when I looked inside the coffin she’d been standing in front of I saw the state of the dress . . .’
‘And you did . . .?’
Parkin shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir. Carl stayed inside the bunker while I got on the radio and asked for help.’
Lapslie turned to Pearce. ‘Anything else happen after Parkin had gone?
This time Pearce shook his head. ‘No, sir. Well – there was a sound from the floor below . . .’
‘What kind of sound?’
‘Like something heavy being moved . . . perhaps metal or heavy wood.’
‘So you went downstairs and checked?’
Pearce looked down at his feet for a moment. ‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was dark and my radio and my mobile didn’t work inside the bunker, so I couldn’t call for back-up. I didn’t think it was advisable.’
‘You didn’t think it would be advisable?’ Lapslie repeated heavily.
Pearce shook his head. ‘No, sir, sorry.’
Without another word Lapslie turned away from them and walked back inside the shelter. When he had moved no more than a few steps into the shelter Jim Thomson’s voice called after him. ‘Sir! You need to be suited and booted.’
Lapslie stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t argue with the man – after all, Lapslie had given the order in the first place. By the time he had pulled his overalls on and slipped the plastic covers around his shoes, Bradbury, similarly attired, had joined him.
Lapslie stared across at Thomson. ‘I want all the dolls bagged up, and the coffins bagged up separately. I want the entire place photographed and gone through with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘Already in hand, sir. Are we looking for anything in particular?’
Lapslie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure yet. But I want the scene treated as if you were dealing with a major murder inquiry, which if I’m right you may well be.’ Before Thomson had the chance to ask any more questions, Lapslie turned his attention to Bradbury. ‘We need to go down a few floors. Got a flashlight?’
Jim Thomson handed Bradbury a large Dragon Light, which was attached to a multicoloured strap. Slipping the strap over her shoulder, Bradbury looked across at her boss. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’
Lapslie thought the lamp looked more like a searchlight than a flashlight. Still, if it did the job, he was happy.
Thomson looked across at him. ‘Want any of my boys to come down with you?’
Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, there’s already been enough size twelve boots down there. I’ll be okay with just Bradbury.’
Lapslie began to descend the ladder with Bradbury standing at the top shining the lamp into the gloom and lighting his way.
The ladder had fifty-two rungs. Lapslie counted each and every one. Once at the bottom he called for Bradbury to follow him. This time Thomson shone his light down, guiding Bradbury. When she got to the bottom she called up to Thomson, ‘It’s okay, I’m here, thanks.’
Thomson switched off his beam, and Bradbury began to scan the room with her Dragon Light. It was far sparser than the room above, with no furniture, or side cupboards. It looked like the place had been stripped many years before, probably after the Cold War ended, and had been left in this state ever since. Bradbury ran the light over every inch of the room but there was nothing to see.
Lapslie was disappointed. ‘Okay, looks like we are going to have to go down another level.’
Bradbury nodded her understanding. Clinging tightly to the ladder’s metal rungs, Lapslie started down. This time there were only thirty-one steps. His way was lit by Bradbury’s lamp. As he got t
o the foot of the ladder he looked back up at her. ‘Okay, throw the lamp down to me. I’ll shine it up the steps for you.’
Bradbury hesitated. ‘Are you sure? It’s quite heavy.’
‘I’ll be fine. Played keeper for the Gentleman Players in my youth.’
‘Whatever that means. It’s a bad career move to kill your commanding officer, you know?’
Lying flat on the ground, she hung the lamp by its strap as far down as she could before letting go. The lamp seemed to hang there for a moment, hovering over Lapslie’s head, before suddenly falling at what seemed to be a remarkable speed. In that moment Lapslie became momentarily and terrifyingly unsure of his ability to catch it. He wondered what he would do if he missed it, and it smashed to pieces on the floor, or worse, hit him. Fortunately instinct took over, and his years as a Gentleman player didn’t fail him. Catching it in his arms, he pulled it into his chest with a sigh of relief. With the aid of the light Bradbury descended quickly and the two of them began to search the next level.
This level, like the ones above, was largely empty, except for a large green filing cabinet pushed tight against the wall. Lapslie played the lamp along the cabinet – nothing special about it. He moved closer and opened the door. Ten empty shelves: no dolls, no coffins.
Bradbury’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.
‘Sir, shine the lamp on the floor, could you?’
She must have spotted something he had missed. Once he knew where to look he could see what she had spotted. There was a mark, a scrape in the dirt in the shape of a curve, as if something had been dragged or pulled across the floor. As Lapslie crouched to examine it, Bradbury put her fingers behind the back of the cabinet and pulled. The object was heavy, but it moved. Seeing that she was struggling with the weight, Lapslie lent a hand, and eventually the two of them managed to pull the cabinet away from the wall. It turned out to be hinged at one end and came open like a door. Once they had pulled it back as far as they could, they saw it was the entrance to a tunnel. Lapslie shone the lamp into the gloom. It was about a hundred metres long, and at the far end there appeared to be a set of stone steps.
‘Well, it looks like we’ve found out how our tramp and Gepetto the puppet-maker got in.’
Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The passage was oval in shape, about six feet tall and four feet wide. It was crudely made of what seemed to be house bricks. They were damp, and covered with mould. Along the length of the tunnel a row of lamps had been screwed to the wall, all linked by a looping cable.
Bradbury spotted a switch just inside the tunnel. She pushed it up and down a few times but nothing happened.
‘So,’ Lapslie asked, ‘are you game?’ He gestured to the depth of the tunnel.
Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Lapslie began to move into the darkness. ‘Follow me then?’
Bradbury obeyed.
The tunnel was so high that Lapslie did not have to stoop, but managed to walk forward upright, scanning the beam of the light all over the tunnel, searching for anything that might do him or Bradbury harm, or might be of some interest, but there was nothing apart from beetles and other insects that scuttled out of the way of the light as if it touched them. Apart from the insects, there was just dirt and the overwhelming smell of damp and rot.
After about a hundred yards they came to a set of concrete stairs and began to ascend them slowly, Lapslie counting each step as they went. He didn’t know why, but he always counted things like steps, or paces from one place to another. Maybe it was connected to his neurological condition, maybe not, but he’d done it since childhood. After he had counted eighty-seven steps they came to a halt. Above them was a large metal manhole cover. Lapslie pushed at it hard with both hands for a few moments, and it gave way. Then, slipping one hand around the edge of the cover, he pushed it sideways until blinding sunlight streamed in and there was room enough for a person to climb through.
Lapslie climbed the few steps that took him to the edge of the hole, and scrambled out. Once in the open he turned off the lamp, and took several deep breaths of the blessedly fresh air before offering his hand to Bradbury. As soon as they were out, they looked around. They were in the middle of a small copse, and just beyond it spread a large field full of lavender. So that explained the lavender smell, Lapslie considered. It hadn’t been sparked by any object in the bunker, it was a real smell from outside. Although the copse was overgrown, there was an obvious path leading from the field. It was too big, too well marked to be one made by badgers or foxes. Lapslie assumed that it had been made by the comings and goings of the tramp, and perhaps also the doll-maker.
Bradbury gave a shout. ‘Over there, sir! Look over there! I think it’s the entrance to the bunker!’
Lapslie looked in the direction of her pointing finger. She was right. About three hundred yards on the other side of the wood he could see Thomson’s SOCOs moving around the scene. So now they knew how the tramp and the doll-maker had got in and out of the bunker without being detected.
He looked across at Bradbury and chuckled. ‘Have you seen yourself?’
Bradbury’s face was black with dirt, and her hair and clothes covered in dusty, sooty cobwebs. She made a vain attempt to brush herself down, and then looked at Lapslie and returned the compliment. ‘Have you seen yourself, sir?’ He looked down at his own clothes and found he was in a similar state, if not slightly worse. He smiled broadly. ‘What do you think – some sort of emergency exit in case the bunker was attacked?’
Bradbury wasn’t so sure. ‘Or maybe if things got unpleasant inside.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Maybe. We need to get Thomson and his troops over here to do a proper job on the tunnel and the woods. Our doll-maker must have got here somehow – I’m guessing by car – so a search for any tyre marks might be a good start. Also anything that might have been dumped from the car: cigarettes, cans of drink, general rubbish. Let’s get Special Ops down here to do a fingertip search of the entire wood. You never know, they might turn something up. Can you get that sorted?’
Bradbury nodded.
‘Also, get those two uniformed goons over here. I want them to keep an eye on the tunnel until the SOCOs turn up. Oh and get a dog. Let’s put one inside the shelter, see if it can find anything else we have missed.’
Bradbury nodded with a ‘Yes, sir,’ and made her way towards Thomson and his team.
But Lapslie stayed where he was for a moment, looking back towards the lavender field, pondering just why this site might have been chosen.
*
Ten down; two to go.
It had taken years, but had been worth it. It was all in the planning. The police had no idea that eight of the ten of them had been murdered. It was his little secret.
He giggled to himself as he sat in his kitchen, sipping at a cup of tea: an uncontrolled noise bubbling up from deep inside. All those detectives, all those pathologists, and not one of them had ever come close to realizing what he was doing. The girl he’d shot earlier today was only the second they had ever detected; but then that one had a specific purpose set aside from the others. Eight deaths still remained listed on the books as accidents.
The first one, the Nurse, he remembered like it was yesterday. He could still see that confused ‘Why me?’ look on her face as he choked the life out of her. He treasured that look. It kept him warm at night just thinking about it.
She had died quicker than he imagined she would, but then he had never choked anyone to death before, so maybe it was normal. He had listened to the profiler they had brought in – Eleanor Whittley. Her theories had amazed him, they were so totally wrong, but that had the advantage that it did much to stop the police getting anywhere close to him. So a big thank you, Doctor Whittley.
He wondered how many more people had got away with murder because of that woman’s clumsy theorizing. Dozens, he conjectured.
Still, he now needed to concentrate on the last two. They would also
have to be tragic accidents, of course: he couldn’t chance another murder and too many links being made too quickly; that might work against the links he hoped they’d follow. He also knew they would have to be carried out quickly. This had been going on for long enough, and he was getting tired, but he couldn’t rest until his task was completed.
There were two problems he had to overcome. One was the fact that the police had discovered his dolls. He hadn’t wanted that to happen until after his task was complete. It was that bloody tramp’s fault – and to think he’d left the tosser alone. The second problem was the involvement of Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie. Lapslie was an odd man and, from what he understood, an ill man, but he also knew that Lapslie was supposed to be the best investigator the Essex Constabulary had. Still, he’d suspected Lapslie might become involved at some stage, thus the choice of location so close to the lavender field – to hopefully work against Lapslie’s synaesthesia; conflicting aromas to throw off his focus. Though if Lapslie became too much of a problem, he would have to be dealt with.
He picked up the two dolls from the kitchen table. Which next? The Teacher or the Major? Seemed like a simple decision, but nothing had been simple so far. Killing wasn’t simple. Killing so many people, and making sure that no one had any idea that most of them had been murdered, as well as obscuring and misleading where necessary, was innately difficult – but he was up to the task and so far it had all worked out well. The Teacher or the Major? He moved the two dolls up and down in his hands. He felt like God weighing the fate of two of his creations.
His eye was caught by the local paper sitting on a corner of the table. It was open at an inside page: he’d been looking for the crossword earlier, before making his cup of tea. The headline on the most prominent article on the page read Teachers Diet for Charity! He remembered glancing through the text: it was about a group of overweight teachers at the local comprehensive who were planning to lose weight on a sponsored diet in order to raise funds for a local charity, but the way he had left the paper folded obscured half of the words. Teachers Die, the headline now read.
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 5
