Bradbury noticed that the toy mortar board had been found next to a small path that seemed to lead from the edge of the wood to the manhole cover that sat over the bunker. Leaving Brooke with the exhibit, she followed the path to the edge of the wood. She scanned the scene but there was nothing, not even a tyre mark. About two hundred metres in front of the wood was an opening, which she knew led onto the B1053.
She walked up to it and looked each way. As she looked to her left and right she noticed that there were yellow-boxed speed cameras on both sides of the road. She wondered whether, having slipped up the once, the killer might have slipped up for a second time. There might be a picture of his car and his number plate, and with cameras on both sides of the road it wouldn’t matter which way he’d gone. It was a shot in the dark, but if they struck gold with this past Army boyfriend and got a plate match with his car, then it closed that particular circle.
*
‘Can you please state your name for the record?’
‘Michael Gerald Stowell.’
Bradbury got confirmation of his age, twenty-eight, and address, then informed Stowell that she would be conducting the interview with Chief Inspector Lapslie.
‘Also present is solicitor Giles Brent, representing the accused, Michael Stowell, and the purpose of this interview concerns the murder of Leslie Petersen, whom we believe to have been known to the accused.’
They were in an interview room deep in the bowels of Chelmsford HQ, one floor below street level. Lapslie and Brent announced themselves for the benefit of the tape, then Bradbury’s opening questions revolved around Stowell’s past relationship with Leslie.
‘And how did you feel when she dumped you?’
‘Cut up, of course.’
‘Cut up enough to kill her?’
Brent looked uncomfortable at the comment, but Stowell answered before he could intervene.
‘Of course not. I was really hurt at the time – but got over it long ago.’
Lapslie watched Stowell intently. He preferred Bradbury to handle the opening, perfunctory questions, because then the contrast and element of surprise invariably gave more of an edge to his own questions. He leant forward across the interview table.
‘Yes. We can see how “hurt” you were from your email at the time.’ Lapslie passed across a sheet of paper. ‘Is this the email you sent to Leslie Petersen just after she dumped you?’
Stowell’s face reddened slightly as he glanced at it. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Would you care to read it out for us.’ Lapslie held a hand out and smiled tightly. ‘And also of course for the benefit of the tape.’
‘I . . . I don’t know how you could do that to me . . .’ Stowell stumbled on the opening words before getting into his flow, though his face got steadily redder – ‘Surrounded here by nothing but desert, dust and bullets, all I could do was think of you and the moment I’d see you again. And meanwhile all you were thinking about was another man. You couldn’t have hurt me more if you’d put a bullet through my heart.’
Lapslie waited a second after Stowell had stopped reading. ‘Given that email, “hurt” and “cut up” might seem gross understatements of how you felt at the time. Indeed “bullet through my heart” is how you felt – an apt choice of words, given that’s exactly how Leslie died on her wedding day.’
‘That’s how I felt at the time,’ Stowell blustered, ‘but not now. Like I said, I got over it.’
‘Did you now?’ Lapslie eyed Stowell keenly. ‘So how is it that over four months ago you were given leave due to PTSD?’
Stowell’s head slumped a fraction. ‘Okay, I’ve been depressed, but I’ve been getting treatment for that and—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Brent cut in. ‘My client doesn’t need to go into detail about his current PTSD treatment, or indeed how or why it came about.’
‘We believe it to be relevant to the investigation.’
‘That’s as may be. But that doesn’t require my client to reveal details of his current PTSD treatment, much of which might not be relevant. Indeed, it is the standard treatment for many a British soldier as a result of conflict and battle stress.’
Lapslie wondered whether there was a compensation claim in the wings, which Stowell’s solicitor feared might be compromised. Certainly Giles Brent had appeared at short notice; they hadn’t had to summon a duty solicitor. Lapslie looked down, turning a page in his file.
‘But certainly your client’s leave due to PTSD would have placed him in the UK at the time of Leslie Petersen’s murder. Which brings me to your whereabouts on the day in question.’ Lapslie looked up from the file, eyes shifting from Brent to rest keenly on Stowell. ‘So can you tell me, Mr Stowell, where you were on the twenty-seventh of June between the hours of 11 a.m. and noon?’
Stowell exchanged a glance with Brent before answering. ‘I was in the Dundee Café on Stanton Road for most of that time.’
Bradbury consulted her folder with a small map inside. ‘So just over half a mile from where Leslie Petersen was shot.’
‘I suppose. If you say so.’
Brent gave his client a sharp look; the first so far. Obviously understanding his client’s frustration, but chiding him not to let it show.
Lapslie sensed this was the tensest cat-and-mouse part of the interview, but Stowell had little room to manoeuvre. Their search of his computer earlier had yielded a treasure trove. They knew exactly where he was meant to be and at what time, and because Stowell and Brent were informed of the search, they knew it too, thus the look between them. Lapslie picked up again.
‘You say most of that time. What time did you leave the Dundee Café?’
‘At just before 11.40 a.m.’
‘So a good ten to twelve minutes before your ex-girlfriend was shot.’
Lapslie could see that Stowell was tempted to offer another ‘If you say so’, but with a guarded look from Brent, he bit his lip. Lapslie too held back on his next intended question of whether anyone had seen Stowell leave the café. Since Stowell had admitted leaving in time to do the shooting, the question was redundant.
‘And who did you meet at the café?’
‘I was meant to meet an old Army buddy, Barry Dennell – but he didn’t show.’
‘Oh. And why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. I tried him a couple of times on his mobile, but he didn’t answer.’ Stowell shrugged. ‘Would have kept trying him if you hadn’t hauled me in.’
‘Rather convenient. Your Army friend emails you to meet up, but then doesn’t show up.’ Lapslie raised a brow. ‘What did you do? Email yourself posing as your friend so that you had an excuse to be in the area that you could blame on him?’
‘That’s not how it happened. You can check.’
‘Oh, believe me, we will.’ Lapslie noticed the tattoo on Stowell’s forearm. He nodded towards it. ‘So who is Matilda tattooed across the heart and roses? Another past girlfriend?’
‘No. That’s my mother,’ Stowell said flatly. ‘She died just over a year ago.’
‘Mother dying, girlfriend dumping you. I can quite easily see how that would push many a man over the edge.’
Brent reached across and touched Stowell’s forearm. It could have been to console, but it looked too firm for that; a ‘Don’t rise to it’ gesture. Stowell didn’t answer, just glared back.
But while Lapslie had him reeling, he didn’t feel like letting him off. ‘So where do the fireman, the teacher and the others come into it? Did they slight you too – in some way you felt they were also responsible for the split with Leslie? Talk badly about you, did they?’
Stowell looked nonplussed, and, with a quick glance towards his client, Brent’s brow furrowed. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector. And it’s clear my client doesn’t either. I do hope it’s connected with this inquiry now.’
‘Yes, very much so. We fear there may be some other connected murders.’ Lapslie didn’t feel like elaborating – certainly not until h
e had more proof and some firm connection to the others outside of just a collection of dolls. And Stowell’s expression gave little away. He flipped back a page in his file. ‘But let’s return now to your Army days before your PTSD-related leave. Were you a sniper at any time during your Army service?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘For how long?’
‘The last two years before my leave.’
No hesitation from Stowell, Lapslie noted; but again these were areas that Brent knew they’d have checked, so he’d have pressed upon his client the importance of answering straightforwardly; with no hedging which might hint at dishonesty.
‘And what rifle did you generally use?’
‘Two types. An AX50 or L115A3.’
Lapslie exchanged a look with Bradbury. ‘And of those two, do you favour any particular one?’
Stowell shrugged. ‘They’re both good rifles. So it would come down to the type of target – moving or stationary – length of shot and the weather conditions.’
‘And do you keep either of these rifles here in the UK?’
‘No. They’re both kept on the Army compound back in Camp Bastion, Afghanistan.’
‘I see. Neither of them at home or in a lock-up somewhere?’
‘No.’ Stowell met Lapslie’s gaze firmly. ‘I haven’t fired a rifle of any type in over four months.’
‘Well, we’ll soon know when we’ve concluded our searches.’ Lapslie closed his file and stood up. ‘Suspect to be held in custody meanwhile.’
‘On what grounds?’ Brent quizzed.
‘We have motive, MO and opportunity for your client. And if we find the murder weapon or a witness that can place him at the scene, we’ll have a full house.’
Lapslie was already halfway out of the room as Brent continued with some residual protests to Bradbury. But Lapslie knew that if they came up with neither, they’d be hard pushed to hold Stowell more than another forty-eight hours.
*
Lapslie grabbed a take-out double-shot latte on his way to the church first thing the next morning to revive himself. The previous day had been gruelling and they’d been up until midnight with Thomson and the SOCO team searching Stowell’s parents’ home where he lived, then finally his dad’s allotment shed and a storage unit Mike Stowell had used. Nothing at any of them.
They’d searched every conceivable nook and cranny, the loft, under the stairs, even under some floorboards where they’d eased a fraction underfoot and could have been loosened; then Stowell’s fourteen-year-old Ford Mondeo parked in his parents’ driveway. Nothing.
Lapslie sipped at his coffee as he approached the church. Bradbury, Thomson and the SOCO team were already there. Thomson was busy supervising ladders being placed up against the church walls and white-suited SOCOs ready to climb up them. Crawling across the ground at the foot of the wall and the grass bank beyond were six members of the Special Operations Unit Bradbury had been working with in the woods.
Thomson looked across at Lapslie. ‘You say we’re looking for spent ammunition?’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, from a high-powered sniper rifle. Might not be anything, might just be marks where the bullets impacted, or if we’re lucky we might just find the bullets or parts of them.’
Thomson nodded and moved away without speaking. Lapslie had seen Bradbury’s car, but couldn’t see her. ‘Anyone seen DS Bradbury?’
Without speaking, one of the SOCO officers pointed to the church. Lapslie walked across to the church door, where he encountered one of Thomson’s SOCOs putting small pieces of masonry into an exhibit bag. Looking into the darkness of the church, he finally spotted Bradbury searching the far wall with a small torch. He walked across to her.
‘Emma.’
She turned quickly. ‘Sir.’
‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’
‘Looking for the bullet that killed Leslie Petersen. If it did go through her as she was standing in the doorway, then with luck it will be embedded in this wall somewhere. Thought I’d have a quick check before the SOCOs get to work.’
Lapslie smiled. ‘Although I like your thinking, according to Doctor Catherall there was no exit wound, so the bullet should still be inside her.’
Bradbury looked at him, crestfallen. ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’
‘That’s okay: I’d have done the same. Why is the place so quiet?’
‘It’s a church.’
‘Funny girl. Apart from that.’
‘I asked everyone to keep the noise down. Didn’t want your head full of fruit salad or runner beans.’
‘Ever thoughtful.’ Lapslie smiled, looking around. ‘How are they getting on?’
‘Nothing yet, but they’ve only been at it twenty minutes.’ She straightened up. ‘Oh, and there was one thing I forgot to show you with all the commotion yesterday. Some of Thomson’s team stayed in the woods finishing up when we met up at Stowell’s, so it was left with them.’
Lapslie looked up at her, intrigued. ‘What is it?’
‘Jim Thomson’s got it. Come and see.’
Lapslie followed Bradbury out of the church and towards Thomson.
‘Have you still got that exhibit, Jim?’ she asked. ‘Like to show it to the Chief Inspector?’
Without a word, Thomson reached into a black, leather, box-shaped bag and produced the transparent plastic exhibit bag, which he handed over to Lapslie. Holding it up to the light, Lapslie realized straight away what it was.
‘Where the hell did you find that?’
‘Just off the pathway leading between the tunnel exit and the edge of the wood,’ Thomson said in his petrol-flavoured voice.
Lapslie studied the mortar-board hat. So while Stowell might have been careful to conceal his rifle or get rid of it, he’d slipped up with this. He handed it back to Thomson. ‘When are you going to have it analysed?’
He looked at Bradbury, but before she had time to reply there was a shout from one of the SOCOs examining the outside of the church. He was halfway up a ladder and holding up an exhibit bag.
‘I’ve got what I think you were looking for, sir.’
Lapslie, Bradbury and Thomson moved across to the ladder.
‘Drop it,’ Lapslie said. ‘I’ll catch it, don’t worry.’
The SOCO dropped it and Lapslie snatched it from the air. It was a fragment of a bullet, the front of it flattened out.
‘May I have a look at that, Chief Inspector?’
Lapslie’s mouth was suddenly filled with the taste of strong peaty whisky. Colonel Parr was standing behind the group. By the expressions on the faces of Emma Bradbury and Jim Thomson, they hadn’t heard him approach either. Obviously he was following up on his earlier inspection. Lapslie handed the exhibit bag over and Parr began his examination.
After only a few seconds he handed it back to Lapslie. ‘An AX50 .50 bullet, as we suspected.’
Before he could say any more, a member of the SOCO team called out. ‘Over here!’
As the four of them approached he pushed a yellow marker post into the ground. Parr and Lapslie looked down at the small metal fragment that lay on the ground beside the marker. This time the bullet was too damaged to identify its type.
Thomson stepped in between the two men, quickly scooping the fragment up in a gloved hand and dropping it into an exhibit bag before handing it to Lapslie. Parr put his hand out and Lapslie handed it over. The colonel examined it.
‘Heavily damaged, but I’m guessing it’s a .50 as well. The question now is: where did he get the gun, and, for that matter, the ammunition? This isn’t like the USA, where you can just pop down to the local supermarket and pick a rifle up, along with a two-for-one deal on ammunition.’
Lapslie filled him in on the latest developments: that since they’d last met, they’d hauled in a possible suspect. ‘A past boyfriend of Leslie Petersen. A British Army man with two years’ sniper training under his belt. Thing is, he says his rifles have been left at his Army compound in Afghanistan.’
Lapslie looked at the bullet fragment in the bag. ‘And the ammunition?’
‘Easier to sneak through customs, but still a hell of a risk with metal detectors and the distinctive shape of bullets. I have one idea, but it will depend on what the bullets are made of.’
Lapslie was intrigued. ‘What difference would that make?’
‘If the ammunition wasn’t factory-made, he might have made it himself.’
‘I see. And the rifle?’
‘Given customs restrictions, more likely that he got it on the black market within the UK.’ Parr held a palm out. ‘But then an Army man might well have an idea where to source that, along with the ammunition.’
Lapslie held up the polythene bag with the two bullet fragments. ‘And I dare say if the bullet extracted from Leslie Petersen’s body isn’t too damaged, that will help further determine that.’
‘Yes. But you’ll still need to find the rifle for a complete match. Barrel grooves and marks are rifle-specific.’
Lapslie nodded sombrely. So close and yet so far.
*
Lapslie’s next stop for the day was the forensic science laboratories. He needed to see the dolls again. They’d focused almost exclusively on Stowell for the last couple of days and on how Leslie Petersen’s death might link to the other victims, yet it might be that they had to approach the case the other way round: look at the other possible victims and how they might link back to the killer.
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 9
