Parr smiled. ‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then?’
Lapslie nodded and watched as the colonel disappeared into the gloom of the tower steps, carrying his rifle. ‘Just out of interest,’ Lapslie called, ‘you do have a permit for that gun, don’t you?’
The only answer that came back was a fading laugh.
*
As Lapslie drove away from Tom’s Tower he realized that he really did need to know as much as possible about Leslie Petersen. He wasn’t sure she was going to be the key to solving the problem, but her murder was certainly an important element, at least to her killer, and more facts might uncover why? He knew his next interview would have to be with her father, followed by her husband. The interviews weren’t going to be pleasant, and might even be traumatic, but sometimes the close family knew things and didn’t even realize it. He also needed to get hold of Jim Thomson and get him and his team to comb the church wall inch by inch to see if Colonel Parr’s theory was correct. Before calling Jim, however, there was something he wanted to check with Jane Catherall.
He pulled over to a lay-by and called her on his mobile. She answered almost at once. ‘Jane, it’s Mark Lapslie. I need a favour.’
There was a short pause as she either pondered the request or, more likely, tried to get to grips with the technology of the phone she was holding. ‘That depends,’ she said judiciously.
‘On what?’
‘What it is. I’ve had a few very odd requests from you in the past.’
‘This one is easy.’
‘Go on.’
‘Have you had a chance to look at Leslie Petersen’s body yet?’
‘The PM isn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Congratulations, by the way, on managing to get the name right this time.’
‘I’m doing my best. I was just wondering if you had made a preliminary inspection.’
There was another pause. ‘Dan washed the body to prepare it for tomorrow. Why?’
‘Was there an exit wound? I mean, did the bullet go right through her, or do you think it might still be inside her?’
Another pause. ‘There was no exit wound. I expect to find the bullet lodged somewhere inside her abdomen. The trouble with bullets is that they’re never where you expect them to be. They can bounce around a lot if they hit bone.’
‘But you’re sure that it’s still lodged inside her somewhere?’
‘Yes. Might one ask why?’
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. Don’t suppose you’ve managed to check her blood group yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it is?’
Another pause. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
‘Jane, please. This is important. Rouse is giving me a hard time, and I need some hard facts to throw back at him or I’m up shit creek.’
Jane Catherall was no fan of Alan Rouse either. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘I want to know if her blood matches the blood on the doll’s dress.’
Silence for a few moments. ‘How could the killer have transferred the blood from one crime scene to another? And, more importantly, why?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t know, but on the face of it, that’s what I think has happened.’
‘She was AB rhesus negative, if that helps.’
Lapslie was grateful. ‘Thanks, Jane.’
Before Catherall had a chance to ask another question, Lapslie hung up. Well, the colonel had been wrong about the bullet. That was something, at least. That said, Lapslie had very little choice but to get Jim Thomson and his team to start searching the church wall for ranging shots.
*
The Cooke home was a modest but well kept and well presented semi-detached house on a small middle-class estate near Finchingfield. Lapslie made his way along the short path to the front door and rang the bell. A few seconds later a young man answered. His hair was short, his eyes were dark, and he looked drawn. Lapslie presumed that this was Nathan Petersen, the widower. Widower sounded such an old-fashioned term, he thought, but what else was there? He took out his warrant card. ‘Chief Inspector Lapslie. I was wondering if Mr Alan Cooke was in.’
After taking a quick look at his card, the man nodded. ‘Yes, he is. Please, come in.’
He called up the stairs.
‘Alan, it’s the police. You need to come down!’
With that he showed Lapslie into the sitting room. The house was filled with framed family photographs on the walls and shelves. Lapslie turned to him. ‘May I ask who you are, sir?’
‘Nathan. Nathan Petersen. I was married to Leslie. Not for long, but I was.’
Lapslie gave him an understanding nod. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and I hope I can get to the bottom of it for you.’
Petersen shook his head gently. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Lapslie, but I don’t think you will. There just seems to be no reason for it.’
‘I promise I will get to the bottom of it if I possibly can.’
Lapslie picked up a photograph from the top of the fireplace and looked at it. It was a photograph of a smiling Leslie, together with another boy whom Lapslie didn’t recognize. ‘Who is the young man with Leslie?’
Petersen looked at the photograph. ‘That’s her brother, Bob. He’s in the Army. He’s in Afghanistan at the moment, but I think they’re going to fly him home.’
The Army connection interested Lapslie. ‘How long has he been serving?’
‘Four or five years now, I believe.’
‘And you – what do you do, if I may ask?’
‘I’m with the local council. Planning department.’
‘And was everything okay between Leslie and her brother, and between Bob and you, for that matter?’
‘Everything was fine between Leslie and her brother, couldn’t have been better – except for the forced distance factor, that is.’ Petersen looked to one side for a second, as if considering. ‘There was an awkwardness between Bob and me at first, almost as if he resented me. But I put that down to the normal protectiveness of an elder brother. Or perhaps just that we were from totally different backgrounds.’
‘And how are things between you and Bob now?’
Petersen shrugged. ‘They’re good. We got to know each other better on his visits home, and no doubt Leslie also spoke to him, impressed upon him how much we cared for each other. Whatever, the awkwardness faded.’
‘And how long had you been seeing Leslie?’
‘About eighteen months.’
Lapslie smiled. ‘Quite quick, then?’
‘I suppose. But there were no reservations on my side, nor on hers – so why hang around?’
‘Was she insured?’ It was a question Lapslie always hated to ask, so he normally threw it in like a hand-grenade. It was like accusing the victims of being involved in the crime at a moment when they were at their most vulnerable. It was worse when there were small children involved. When the parents, who were normally grief-stricken, had to be treated as prime suspects. That was about as bad as it got. He had seen people’s hair turn white with the stress of it all.
‘Yes she was: for £200,000. We both were. That was my idea, because I thought I might go before her and I didn’t want to worry that she would be left without a penny or any support.’
Lapslie could see no reason why Nathan Petersen would have been involved in the murder of his wife, but he would remain a suspect until an arrest had been made. Before he could ask another question, Alan Cooke entered the room. Lapslie recognized him from the church hall, although the man looked like he had aged ten years in the intervening days. He put his hand out. ‘Chief Inspector Lapslie. I’m in charge of the inquiry into your daughter’s murder.’
‘Caught anyone yet?’
Lapslie shook his head.
‘Then shouldn’t you be out there doing that and not bothering us? I’ve already given a bloody statement!’
Lapslie remained calm. People were never themselves at times like this. ‘I have a team of detectives and unifo
rmed officers doing all they can. They’ll catch whoever it was.’
Alan Cooke sat down in a large armchair opposite Lapslie. ‘Sorry. It’s not been a good time. Lost her mum a few years ago, and now Leslie, and Robert’s serving in a very dangerous place. We were such a happy family once. Now it’s just me and Robert.’
‘I know you have already given a statement, but I was wondering if you would mind answering a few more questions.’
He nodded. ‘Why not, if it helps? Go ahead.’
‘Some of these questions might sound a bit obvious, but I have to ask them.’
Cooke nodded again, and sat up, trying to look as alert as he could.
Lapslie hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how to pose his first question. The grief in the room was something so tangible he could almost touch it. Finally he found the words. ‘Murder is always bad, and your daughter’s murder, because of the circumstances, is particularly bad. I have dealt with a lot of murders over the years, some of them of young girls like your daughter, but none of them have ever been murdered in such a professional manner. This type of murder is usually reserved for presidents and politicians and soldiers, not normal young ladies who live normal lives. Have you any idea at all who would not only want to kill your daughter but was capable of doing it in such a dramatic way?’
Alan Cooke looked at him for a moment. ‘Do you know, I know people say this sort of thing when someone dies, but in her case it’s true. She didn’t have an enemy in the world. She really didn’t. She was like her mother: kind, gentle, thoughtful. Always been popular, never had a problem with anyone. She was a problem solver, not a problem creator. This is a big mistake, it has to be: someone thought she was someone else.’
Lapslie looked back steadily. ‘Now I know that your son Bob is in the Army. But did Leslie at any time have a relationship with anyone in the Army?’
Alan Cooke looked down awkwardly for a second. ‘Well, there was someone – but I’m sure it’s not connected with this now.’
Lapslie kept his stare steady. ‘I think I should be the judge of that.’
This time Alan Cooke looked towards Nathan, as if seeking his approval. ‘I’m sorry, Nathan – but Leslie swore me to secrecy.’ He took a fresh breath as he met Lapslie’s gaze. ‘Leslie did in fact have a past boyfriend; a friend of Robert and a fellow soldier serving in Afghanistan.’
‘And when did they split up?’
‘More or less when she started seeing Nathan.’
‘More or less?’ Lapslie knitted his brow. ‘Why not more specific?’
‘Because Mike, Robert’s soldier friend, was on a tour of duty in Afghanistan at the time, and it happened four months into that tour.’ Alan Cooke sighed and held a hand out. ‘That was the main reason for the break-up. All that time away – so hard to keep up a relationship.’
Halfway through, Lapslie noticed Nathan Petersen close his eyes for a second and shake his head. Alan Cooke looked towards Nathan.
‘That’s why Leslie begged me and Robert not to say anything – thought you might somehow feel guilty and responsible. And that might have put an unnecessary strain on your relationship. But things were already dead in the water between her and Mike before Leslie met you.’
Nathan grimaced awkwardly; a half-acceptance. ‘Explains I suppose the initial antipathy from Bob to me – his Army friend being dumped like that.’
‘Yes. And Leslie put in a lot of time explaining the situation to Robert, that things had broken down between her and Mike well before she met you. So that her brother didn’t hold a grudge against her future husband.’
Or her, Lapslie thought, but didn’t voice it. But it was easy to see how Mike might have been less understanding, dumped in the middle of a tour of duty.
‘Mike? What’s his surname?’
‘Stowell. Mike Stowell.’
‘And was he a sniper, or at any time had sniper training in the Army?’
‘I don’t know. Robert would know, I suppose, or you could check with his regiment.’ He pulled his thoughts up short as it struck him where things were headed. ‘But I’m sure Mike couldn’t have been involved in something as horrific as this. He’s such a nice lad.’
Lapslie smiled patiently. If he had a pound for every time he’d heard that said about a murderer by a relative or friend . . . ‘We’ll know more I dare say after we’ve spoken to Mike and checked with his regiment. Anything else worthy of note you can think of?’
The two men looked at each other in a telling way. Nathan spoke first. ‘Look, there was something. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll tell you anyway.’
Lapslie looked at him for a moment. ‘Go on.’
‘Her dress got damaged. Slashed, it was.’
‘What dress? Her wedding dress?’
The two men nodded in tandem, and Alan Cooke continued: ‘She wanted to get wed in her mother’s dress. So she had it taken in a little and cleaned. When it got back it stank of the dry cleaners’, so she hung it over the line outside to let the air blow through it a bit, freshen it up.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Okay. So what happened?’
‘When she brought it in, someone had cut a big section out of it. Not just slashed it, but cut out a bloody great square . . .’
Lapslie was intrigued. ‘What, and took the piece away?’
Both men nodded at once.
‘So what did she do?’
Her father continued: ‘She was very upset, but, as ever, she sorted it out. Problem-solver, like I said. She took some material from inside the dress and she and her aunt did a sort of invisible mend. You couldn’t even see where it had been damaged. It was remarkable, really.’
‘And when did this happen?’
‘About two weeks before the wedding.’
Remarkable indeed, Lapslie thought; but if Mike Stowell hadn’t been around for the past two weeks, then he couldn’t have been responsible for that, or for Leslie Petersen’s murder. He asked whether Stowell was currently on a tour of duty. ‘Either in Afghanistan or elsewhere?’
Alan Cooke answered. ‘He’s been on leave.’
‘For how long?’
‘The past five months.’
Lapslie’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s an unusually long leave. What’s the reason for that?’
Alan Cooke mulled his mouth for a second, as if the implications of what he was about to say had left a bitter taste.
‘Because, according to Robert, he’s been suffering combat stress, PTSD. What they used to call battle fatigue.’
Lapslie nodded slowly. PTSD was often Armed Forces shorthand for various psychological disorders.
*
Emma Bradbury was standing in the small wood that surrounded the secret entrance to the fall-out bunker. She was watching carefully as the Special Operations team did a fingertip search of the ground. They had formed a line at the far side of the wood, and then moved forward slowly on their hands and knees; photographing, picking up and tagging anything that might be of interest. Most of it wasn’t, but they still had to do it.
Jim Thomson and his SOCO team were also there, taking samples of the different grasses, plants and soil in case they had to match them against any of the suspects’ clothing. If there were suspects.
Bradbury’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and checked the screen. Lapslie. Walking away from Jim Thomson and the Special Operations unit, she answered it. ‘Sir?’
The signal inside the wood wasn’t strong, and Lapslie’s voice was weak, but Bradbury could just about hear him.
‘How’s the search going?’
‘Slowly, but I don’t mind. They’re doing a good job, and rather them than me. They’re covering every inch of the ground. We do have a bit of a problem though . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘Superintendent Rouse has been on the phone. Or rather, his PA has been on the phone. He says that I only have them until the end of the day, and then they have to report back to force HQ for redeployment.’
Lapslie sighed. ‘I suspected he’d do that, I just didn’t expect him to act quite so quickly. But thankfully we’ve had a possible breakthrough, so try to at least get the fingertip search finished, plus anything else you think we need, then get yourself over to the following address.’ Lapslie read out Mike Stowell’s address and explained about him being Leslie’s past boyfriend, jilted while on duty in Afghanistan. ‘I’ll meet up with you there.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘Certainly does. We’ll haul him in for questioning, search his house for any weapon and run forensics on everything in his house. So take Thomson and his team with you. Later today or first thing tomorrow we also need to be back with Thomson at the church to search the wall around and above the main door where Leslie was shot.’
‘How high above the main door?’
‘To roof level.’
‘And what are we looking for?’
‘Bullet holes, bullet fragments. Although she was hit by one bullet, our killer might have made some ranging shots first. If he did, I want to find out where they ended up, and see if we can recover the ammunition. That will help with a match if we find the rifle.’
‘I’ll wrap up here as quick as I can and see you shortly, sir.’
Lapslie hung up, and Bradbury turned her attention to Inspector Brooke, the commander of the Special Operations Unit. ‘Sir, we’ve only got until the end of the day, and I can only stay here a further half-hour. So can you get your boys to move it along a bit?’
He nodded. ‘I can, but it won’t be quite so detailed.’
‘Can’t it be quick and detailed?’
Brooke smiled at her. ‘I’ll have a word.’
As he said it there was a shout from one of the officers at the end of the group. ‘Over here!’
Both Bradbury and Brooke moved across quickly to where the officer was kneeling, making sure to remain behind their line. By the time they reached him he had marked the location of the object he had found with a large yellow peg. The object was small, black and square in shape. Bradbury couldn’t quite make out what it was.
Brooke handed him a clear plastic exhibit bag, and the officer picked the object up carefully with a pair of tweezers and dropped it inside the bag before sealing it and handing it to Bradbury. She held it up for both herself and Brooke to examine. It was a small but perfectly made teacher’s mortar board: the type Bradbury had seen students strutting about in during their graduation at posh schools. It even had a small tassel. It came from one of the dolls: the teacher doll that had been removed from the bunker, almost certainly, if Lapslie was to be believed, by Leslie Petersen’s killer. He must have been in a bit of a panic to drop it and not realize. It wasn’t much, but at least now she knew that the killer did make mistakes.
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 8
