It was only a short drive to the labs, which were situated deep within a wood, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence and more security than Lapslie was accustomed to dealing with. He was stopped four times before he even reached the main foyer. After that he was accompanied to the area that he wanted and handed over to a senior scientist.
Lapslie remembered the days when the labs were still under the control of the Home Office. Life was far more relaxed in those days. Everyone knew you, and you knew everyone. A smile and a nod was all you needed to get in. Once everything had been privatized, things had changed.
Maybe it had to change, he reflected. The close relationship some of the scientists had with the police force hadn’t always been a good idea. He remembered some high-profile cases where a particular scientist had been ‘helpful’ to the senior investigating officer in interpreting evidence, and a number of people had gone to prison for crimes they might but might not have committed. That said, the close relationship had also produced some very positive and legitimate results. But the world moved on, and this was the world he had to deal with now, like it or not.
Lapslie arrived at the section he needed to be greeted by a tall slender woman in her mid-thirties with a spiky crop of natural blonde hair, and green eyes. She was wearing a white lab coat and smart designer glasses. She introduced herself: ‘Gillian Holmes. I’m the senior scientist here . . .’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie.’
She smiled broadly at him. ‘We’ve had a very strange request about you, DCI Lapslie. It came from a Detective Sergeant Bradbury.’
‘To keep everything as quiet as possible and not to let too many people talk to me.’
Holmes nodded. ‘Yes, that was about it.’
‘I have synaesthesia. You might not—’
Holmes cut him off. ‘My father had the same condition. He saw people’s names as colours. Days of the week too. How does yours manifest?’
‘My brain converts sounds into tastes. Sometimes it jumbles them all up.’
Her smile continued. ‘And what do I taste of? I’m sure that’s the first question that everyone asks you.’
‘Something subtle. Mozzarella, I think.’
‘Well that’s not too bad then. I can imagine some of the tastes are not quite so pleasant.’
Lapslie nodded ruefully.
‘I understand you’re here to see the dolls?’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll take you to them.’ She led Lapslie into the laboratory whose door she had emerged from and directed him to the far side of the lab, where ten dolls were aligned, each with its coffin laid behind it. Lapslie pulled out his notebook and began to make notes on each of the dolls.
‘We’ve already done a preliminary assessment – basic descriptive stuff, if it will help.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, it would, thanks.’
Holmes walked across to a desk as Lapslie watched her. She picked up an assortment of papers and brought them over to him. ‘That’s all we have for now. Would you like to go through each of the dolls with me and discuss what we’ve discovered?’
‘That would be very helpful.’
They moved across to the first doll, the one dressed as a nurse. ‘First, although they were found in an orderly line, and we kept that line the same, I can’t tell you if that’s significant or just random. All the dolls we examined were very well made. Papier-mâché bodies with wax heads. Although the bodies had been made recently, the heads are different. They all came from Victorian dolls. The clothes were made from authentic materials. The nurse’s clothes in particular were made from sections of what must have been a real nurse’s uniform – the material is precisely the same. Even her small shoes are made from leather, and beautifully made.’
Lapslie indicated the damage around the doll’s throat. ‘How’s that been done?’
‘Crushed and damaged by hand. Every one of the dolls is damaged in some way.’
They moved down the table to the next doll, the fireman.
‘Once again the clothes are authentic, made from the very same material as a real fireman’s clothes.’
‘And the damage?’
‘The doll has been burnt quite badly. By which I mean that the damage is bad, not that whoever damaged it did it badly.’
The next doll was a garage mechanic, his chest crushed flat.
‘Stamped on by a foot,’ Holmes noted. ‘No trace of a pattern on the sole, unfortunately.’
The next doll was a fisherman, dressed in long rubber boots and holding a fishing rod and a keep net. The damage on this one wasn’t so obvious. ‘What’s wrong with this one?’
Holmes looked at it. ‘Water damage. The doll has been submerged in water for some time. As with all bodies that have been in water for a while, if you pull it too hard it will fall apart very easily.’
They continued along the table until they finally reached the bridal doll.
‘Made any progress on this one?’
Holmes glanced at it. ‘The doll of the moment. Not much progress so far. The stains are real blood, not a substitute. We’ve had it grouped as AB rhesus negative, and we’re currently running a DNA analysis. I understand you requested that?’
Lapslie nodded.
‘Your boss,’ she asked. ‘Chief Superintendent Rouse, is it?’
Lapslie nodded.
‘Yes, he tried to get the test stopped. Said there wasn’t the budget for it. I approved the test anyway. I’ll sweep up the cost in something else – I have several underspent projects that could do with more time being booked to them – legitimately, of course.’
‘Of course. I appreciate the help.’ He paused, wondering whether to tell her about the blood or not. Deciding that he would, he added: ‘The girl who was murdered at her wedding – you’re probably seen the evidence coming in?’
‘I have.’
‘She was AB rhesus negative as well. I’m sure this is her blood.’
Holmes blinked: the only sign that Lapslie had caught her attention. ‘How would the killer get hold of her blood?’
Lapslie shrugged. ‘There are lots of questions like that. Why would he make dolls of his victims, if indeed they were his victims? There’s so much I don’t know, so much more I need to discover, and very quickly.’
‘You think he might strike again?’
‘There’s a strong possibility.’ He didn’t feel inclined to go into Stowell’s custody details, unless or until he could find a connection from Stowell to the rest of the possible victims. ‘When I first saw the bridal doll her dress was white and she was standing outside her coffin with two others. The next time I saw her, the dress had turned red with blood and she was inside her coffin.’
‘And you say there were two more dolls standing outside their coffins?’
‘Yes. One was a teacher in a gown and cap, the other was a soldier. From the small crowns on his shoulders I’m guessing a major.’ He paused momentarily. ‘There is one thing you might be able to help me with.’
‘Name it.’
‘I’d like to take the dress with me to the PM.’
‘Might I ask why?’
‘The dress she got married in was damaged shortly before the wedding. It was slashed, and a large section removed. I am guessing that the dress that the bride doll is wearing is made from the stolen section. I’d like to take it and see if I can match the missing bit with the damaged section on the dress.’
Holmes thought about the request for a moment. ‘Let’s compromise. I won’t let you take it with you, but I will meet you at the mortuary with it. Continuity in the chain of evidence is important. Are you okay with that?’
‘Fine. When’s the post-mortem?’
‘First thing tomorrow morning.’
*
Lapslie arranged the meeting as late as possible in the day. He knew that after the post-mortem they’d be running out of time to hold Mike Stowell much longer. At present what they had was mostly circumstanti
al; they didn’t have nearly enough to press charges. So earlier he’d run through a list with Bradbury of what they needed urgently to pursue, then they’d meet at the end of the day and compare notes.
Lapslie would have held the meeting in his office, but a crucial element was input from their computer forensics man, Brad Morton, so they were down in the tech room where both PCs were plugged in, Leslie Petersen’s and Stowell’s, and Morton had spent the last few hours trawling through them for anything he might have missed before.
Emma Bradbury was last into the room. As she took a seat and opened her notes, Lapslie nodded towards her.
‘So how did you get on?’
‘Not much luck, I’m afraid. The internet café where the message was sent from only had a security camera covering the cash desk. It didn’t cover the entrance and everyone in and out.’
Lapslie held out a palm. ‘But surely it would catch him or her as they paid for their time?’
‘Unfortunately not. A lot of people just get pointed to a computer as they come in, then pay where they’re sat – particularly if they order a coffee too. The receipt gets brought to them and they settle up with the waitress.’
‘How many pay that way?’
‘Forty per cent or so.’
‘So what you’re saying is that there’s no footage of Stowell or his friend Barry who was meant to send him the email?’ They’d earlier got hold of a photo of Barry Dennell as well, for Bradbury to show the internet café staff.
‘Unfortunately not.’
Lapslie was thoughtful for a second. ‘So that either means one of them did send it, but they didn’t come to the cash desk, or it was someone else yet to be identified. You took a lift from the cam tapes for the time the email was sent?’
Bradbury held up a memory stick. ‘Half an hour each side.’
Lapslie nodded and looked towards Brad Morton. ‘And you’re sure that the message Stowell received was sent from that internet café?’
‘Hundred per cent. They had twenty IPCs listed, and they were vastly different to the IPC number for Stowell’s home computer. Even if he used some hide-my-ass software, they’d have shifted him to some remote server in Phoenix or Berlin. Swansea might have been the nearest, and we pretty well know the IPC groupings they use.’
‘Any sightings of Stowell close to where the shots were fired from?’ Lapslie asked Bradbury.
‘No. Nothing so far. Oh, and I checked his Ford Mondeo plate number on the B1053 road cameras near the bunker I mentioned the other day. It didn’t come up on that either – at least not in the past month.’
Lapslie nodded slowly. ‘Any better luck with the like or hate lists for the other possible victims?’ They’d earlier each got a list from Morton of any contacts from Leslie Petersen’s and Stowell’s emails who might be nurses, firemen, teachers, mechanics or majors.
‘Afraid not. Leslie only had one teacher contact I could find, and when I checked she was very much alive, as was Leslie’s regular mechanic. No email contact with other mechanics. And no nurses or firemen – except perhaps in her dreams.’ Bradbury smiled wanly. ‘And while her father might have known a major or two, he couldn’t think of any that had died recently, or indeed that both Leslie or Stowell might have had contact with. You?’
Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, nothing. No teachers or nurses. And I didn’t think Stowell would be forthcoming with names of majors he’d recently killed, so I checked with his regiment. The majors he had contact with are still alive. Well, one died four years ago – but I think that’s out of this particular time-frame, and it was natural causes.’ Lapslie took a fresh breath. ‘And while I was on to his regiment, I discovered that one of his buddies used to be a fireman before joining up – but again he’s still alive and indeed still serving in Afghanistan.’
‘And Stowell’s mechanic friend?’ Bradbury quizzed. ‘Because you planned to pay him a visit today.’
‘Yes. Well he’d have needed to still be alive for me to visit him.’ Lapslie forced a smile. When the mechanic’s name had come up earlier, Lapslie had raised the point that with a number of lock-up railway arch units for his garage business and having been friends with Stowell for several years, it might be the ideal place to hide a rifle. ‘But as for a stashed rifle: I went with a couple of constables because it was a large premises to search, but we found nothing. In any case we’re looking for Stowell’s enemies rather than his friends – who would be more likely to be found amongst Leslie Petersen’s friends. People whom Stowell feels might have influenced her against him.’
‘Yes, of course, sir. But like I say, nothing among her emails on that front.’
‘Maybe we simply haven’t been able to uncover them yet.’ Lapslie ran one hand through his hair and turned to Morton. ‘How far were you able to check back on their emails?’
‘Three years for Leslie Petersen, just over a year for Stowell. He cleaned his files more regularly.’
Lapslie nodded. That might hint at due caution, or perhaps the fact that he was away for such long spells at a time.
‘But some friends you wouldn’t email, you’d simply phone them,’ Morton offered. ‘Do you want me to trawl through phone records – home and mobiles?’
‘Yes, yes, good idea,’ Lapslie said after a second. ‘How long before you’d have a list for me?’
Morton checked his watch. Less than an hour left of his evening shift. ‘Late tomorrow morning. Certainly before lunch.’
‘Okay. No later than midday tomorrow.’ Not long after the Leslie Petersen post-mortem finished, Lapslie considered; only three hours then left before they had to release Stowell.
*
Although he’d gone to bed early, taking a herbal sleeping pill and a small glass of brandy with him, Lapslie hadn’t slept well. When he was younger he had developed a taste for listening to plays on BBC Radio 4 if he couldn’t sleep, but nowadays, thanks to the synaesthesia, there were too many different voices and sound effects causing too many flashes of taste in his mouth. It was like eating a big mixture of several international cuisines just when you were trying to sleep. After much experimentation he had discovered that one person reading from a book was an acceptable compromise. He had his favourite voices too. They had been selected over a few years of painstaking experimentation. One in particular had a voice like soothing chamomile tea with honey, and he enjoyed listening to anything she read, regardless of the subject or genre. But tonight, even with her reading a recent thriller, Lapslie still couldn’t sleep.
Finally, he gave up. He looked at his bedside clock: 4.45. He fell back on his pillow, trying to get the day’s events out of his head, but it was hopeless. There were too many unanswered questions.
Finally he decided to go for a walk and watch the sun come up, then cook himself a substantial breakfast and head off to the mortuary for the PM on Leslie Petersen.
The time passed quickly and, despite still feeling a little the worse for wear, Lapslie arrived at the mortuary at 9.45, fifteen minutes early. Despite that, however, everyone who was supposed to be there was present, including Gillian Holmes and Colonel Andrew Parr. He could see that they were both keen to talk to him, but he didn’t have the time or the inclination.
Jane Catherall was still in her office, going through some last-minute notes, when Lapslie knocked and entered.
‘Morning, Jane.’
She looked up. ‘Good morning, Mark. You look worse than some diseased organs I’ve found during particularly gruelling post-mortems.’
He gave her a half-smile. ‘Well, that’s still a lot better than I feel. Are we all ready?’
She nodded. ‘As ready as we will ever be. I confess that I haven’t had a shooting for a while – every other kind of death you might think of, and several you might not, but not a shooting. I am just reminding myself of what exactly to look for.’
‘Is the DNA from the blood back yet?’
Catherall shook her head. ‘No, not yet. I shall give them a call after the PM.
I know they’re up to their eyes in work, but I will try to chivvy them along a bit.’
Lapslie smiled at her. Although she was the ultimate professional, she had also been a great friend, and without her help he would never have cracked half the cases he was credited with.
‘So who is she?’ Jane asked.
Lapslie stared back at her, perplexed for a moment. ‘Who is who?’
‘Who is the very beautiful woman who informs me that she is here at your invitation? Gillian, is it?’
‘She’s a senior scientist at the forensic lab. I asked her to bring the wedding dress the bride doll was wearing. I think it might match a section of Leslie Petersen’s dress that was damaged shortly before she was murdered.’
The PM began precisely at 10 a.m. Leslie’s body was gently undressed, and the gown placed into an exhibit bag, as was each item of her clothing as it was removed. Lapslie was glad to see that Leslie’s remains were being treated with care and respect, despite the awful things they were going to endure. Her body was touched with sticky tape all over, to recover samples of hair, dirt or contaminants, and her hair was carefully brushed into an evidence bag.
As Doctor Catherall made her first incision, Lapslie noticed Gillian Holmes leave the room in a hurry. He signalled to Bradbury, who had arrived as late as usual, to go and see if the scientist was all right. She returned a few minutes later and nodded.
The PM took several hours to complete, during which time it was established that the shot had entered her heart, bounced off several ribs and ended up in her liver. The bullet was removed, bagged up and placed on a table at the far side of the room with the other exhibits. Lapslie could see Parr straining to see what kind of bullet it was, but he didn’t push it, and waited patiently with the rest of them.
Jane Catherall left her assistant Dan to tidy up while she stripped off her blood-splattered coveralls and returned to her office.
Lapslie and Parr followed, impatient for news.
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 10
