At the end of the briefing, Lapslie said a few words to hopefully fire up the assembly. ‘Right: it’s up to you now. I feel pretty sure that the lives of at least two more victims are in your hands. If we can discover the real identities of any of these dolls, then maybe we can start making links. If we can do that then we will, with luck, have our motive, and once we have that, well, the rest, as they say, will be child’s play. Any questions?’
The room remained silent. Bradbury then stood.
‘If there are any now or in the future, can you filter them through me, or email the boss with them?’
A general nod of understanding circled the room. Lapslie finished with: ‘Remember, we don’t have long. As long as none of you take the piss, I’ll sign any overtime claims you have. Good luck and please remember that time is not our friend.’
As the teams filed out, Lapslie took Bradbury to one side. He’d woken early again that morning, suddenly hit with a fresh thought; something of a revelation as he considered it more deeply. Something that could change the whole nature of the investigation. And as the day progressed, he’d further developed that chain of thought.
‘You know what I mentioned about the sniper murder being markedly different to the other victims. I think it goes far deeper than that. I think we may have been looking at the investigation the wrong way round.’
‘In what way?’
‘The main clue is when the sniper killing took place. When was that in terms of our investigation?’
It took a second for Bradbury to latch on to his chain of thought. ‘Uh, just after we discovered the bunker and the dolls.’
‘Exactly. Until that moment there was no set investigation, because the other victims had been dispensed of in such a way that they fell under our radar. Murders that had gone unnoticed, or accidents. Then suddenly comes an overt murder that couldn’t fail to come to our attention, and lo and behold the first thing that comes to light is a past jilted boyfriend who has previous sniper training.’
Bradbury’s brow knitted. ‘You think it was some sort of set-up. Stowell might have been put in the frame?’
‘Could well be the case. The MO with Stowell fits almost too conveniently, and why make that murder so overt and in our face when the others had been so discreet? Then knowing that Stowell was on leave in the UK, all that would have been needed was something to put him in the area at the time.’
This time it took Bradbury a second longer to follow the thread. ‘You think that our killer might have sent Stowell the email posing as his friend?’
‘I do. Certainly if he’d gone to the trouble of setting up the sniper shooting, that would have been the final component required.’
Bradbury nodded slowly. ‘Unless it was Stowell himself, so that he had a cover for being in the area at the time.’
‘Yes, we can’t completely discount Stowell. But that would still mean coming up with rational explanations for the other victims – why the stark contrast with their deaths?’ Lapslie took a fresh breath. ‘Unless of course Stowell had an accomplice, and they link to those other victims.’
‘Is that a realistic possibility?’
‘Certainly one worth exploring. We already have the suggestion that the sniper shot was so complex that an accomplice might have been required to measure wind speed and direction.’ He’d know more, he supposed, once Parr’s team had re-enacted the shot fired. ‘But if Stowell does have an accomplice, then putting a tail on him isn’t necessarily going to stop further murders.’
Bradbury nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what set this in motion, you think, was our involvement in the investigation?’
‘Yes. Though I suspect our killer expected that to occur at some stage. I can’t help thinking that the proximity of the bunker to that lavender field wasn’t a complete accident.’
Bradbury was incredulous. ‘You think the killer might know you?’
‘Certainly know of me and that I have synaesthesia. Or simply that he’s very thorough with researching backgrounds. Look at the trouble he’d have gone to delving into Stowell’s and Leslie Petersen’s background in order to set this up right.’
Bradbury sighed. ‘Not only thorough, but quite a level of ingenuity too.’
‘Yes. Certainly someone we shouldn’t underestimate.’ Lapslie was thoughtful for a second. ‘And talking about ingenuity, there’s something else I’d like you to look at. Find out if Leslie Petersen had been involved in any major accidents over the last, oh, say, a year, that might have required a blood transfusion. Failing that, see if she gave blood on a regular basis, and, if so, where.’
Bradbury quickly saw his reasoning. ‘Our killer might have got her blood from the blood bank. It would certainly explain a lot.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Okay, sir, I’ll have the answers by tomorrow.’
As Bradbury turned to leave, one of the team phones started to ring. Bradbury stopped and made her way back to answer it. ‘Inquiry Team – DS Bradbury speaking.’ A pause, then she said, ‘He’s here with me. I can pass on a message, if you like.’
Lapslie waited while she listened intently to whatever was being said.
‘Okay,’ she said eventually, ‘I understand. Tell her thanks for letting me know. I’ll convey the message. Okay, thanks again.’
She put the phone down and looked across at Lapslie. ‘That was Doctor Catherall. The blood on the doll’s dress is an exact DNA match for Leslie Petersen.’
*
The trip next day to Hereford was a long one, pretty much crossing the whole of England, east to west, skirting around London, Oxford and Cheltenham, so he decided to take Bradbury along with him. She was good at clearing the way, making sure that he wasn’t distracted by his neurological condition any more than was necessary. And besides, one of the perks of being a detective chief inspector was that he could be driven around by the junior ranks whenever he wanted.
They didn’t speak much for the first twenty miles.
‘By the way,’ Lapslie said eventually, ‘any news on Leslie Petersen?’
‘Yes: she did give blood, and was a regular donor. Funnily enough, it was at the hall of the church where she was shot. That might be where our clever killer got her blood from.’
‘He would have had to have some inside knowledge, wouldn’t he?’
Bradbury shook her head. ‘Not necessarily, sir. He could have followed her. Stolen the blood after it was taken. It’s not guarded like gold bullion – just stored in an ambulance in a cold box. All he had to do was keep it cold after that. Just look on Google: there’s bound to be a page telling you how to store blood.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘I can’t see how else he could have done it.’
‘Shall I stick a couple of lads on it? See if they can turn anything up?’
Lapslie shook his head. ‘Leave it for now. It’s a loose end we can tie up later.’
Lapslie was about to ask another question when Bradbury’s mobile rang. She tapped the side of her ear, where a Bluetooth receiver sat like a high-tech earring.
‘Bradbury,’ she said, and then paused to listen. ‘Really? That’s a good start, I think . . . You say you couldn’t trace any other nurses that fit the bill . . .? Okay, well, that sounds hopeful . . . As long as you’re sure . . . I’m sure you are . . . Hang on, I need to make a note of that.’
Lapslie pulled his notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket, and signalled his readiness. Bradbury nodded her appreciation.
‘Okay, go ahead. Jane Ann Summers, when was she murdered? First of July 2007. Where? 176 Rutland Road, Chylesmore, Coventry. Okay, got that. Have you got a time and method? Afternoon, and strangled. Okay, we need a full report on the boss’s desk by the time we get back.’
Before Bradbury had time to finish the call, Lapslie cut in. ‘Who was the senior investigating officer?’
‘Who was in charge of the inquiry?’ She flicked a glance at Lapslie. ‘Chief Inspector Alan Day, and he’s retired . . . Yes, a
nd you . . . Goodbye.’
She put the phone down and turned to Lapslie. ‘That was PC Parkin. He and Pearce think they’ve discovered who the first victim was.’
‘So I heard.’
‘The senior investigating officer was Chief Inspector . . .’ she frowned, trying to remember.
‘ “Arfur” Day.’
Bradbury shook her head. ‘No, sir, not Arthur: Alan. Chief Inspector Alan Day.’
‘I know. We used to call him “Arfur”.’
Bradbury looked confused.
‘ “Arfur” Day, as in “half-a-day”. That’s all you could ever get out of him. Always playing golf; got his handicap down to eight on the force’s time. Either that or at his allotment. He had a shed there that he used to call his office.’
Bradbury just looked at Lapslie blankly.
‘He was still a good detective,’ Lapslie added. ‘Get hold of him when we stop for coffee and a slash, which had better be soon. It sounds like I need to have a chat with him.’
*
He could never have realized when he started how difficult it was going to be to kill the Major. He’d never known a more careful man. The Major had left the Army only a couple of years before, as part of the ongoing round of voluntary Army redundancies aimed to reduce military spending, and until his retirement he had been serving with the Intelligence Corps in Northern Ireland. Given the amount of security that always surrounded serving officers, getting to the man was impossible, and that’s why he had left him until now.
As a result of his work in Northern Ireland, the Major was very careful. He never used the same route when visiting somewhere on a regular basis, he always checked beneath his car before he drove off, even if it had only been parked in a supermarket car park for five minutes, and he was always on the watch for faces he recognized as having seen before in a different context.
On one occasion he was convinced that the Major had spotted him. They had been in the Major’s local high street. He had been idling along, looking in shop windows, catching reflected glimpses of the Major every minute or so, when a pair of women walked past. They were having an animated conversation, but as they passed him the only words he heard were ‘. . . Be careful: he’s watching you!’ The words were a clear warning from a higher power, and he started to walk away rapidly. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and indeed the Major was looking in his direction. That had been a close call. Had he not been on a mission from God, or at least approved by God, then he might have failed right then. It just proved to him that although God endorsed his plans, it was up to him to make sure he got the details right. God, after all, helps those who help themselves.
After that he changed his car every time he followed the Major, and wore an array of disguises, pulled together from a number of charity shops. Getting close enough to kill him was going to be harder than all the others combined. He supposed he could have shot him, just like the bride, but he didn’t want two similar murders so close together. Lapslie was no fool, and he might start making the connections that would eventually give him the leads he needed. No, it had to be another accident.
His break came when he noticed the Major buying camping equipment. The man was obviously considering a holiday, but where and when? If it was too far there would be no chance of following: he couldn’t afford to go missing from work for too long without things being said. He would have to wait.
Fortunately the normally careful Major made a mistake. He followed the Major’s highly visible red open-topped sports car to a small cottage, miles from any town, and watched as he was greeted at the front door by an attractive blonde in her late twenties. They kissed in a manner that showed they were more than just friends. She had to be his mistress, because Major John Alexander Thomas was married. After that he changed tactics. He realized that the key to getting to the Major was her, the mistress. There was no point in following the Major any further. Besides, it would be safer, because the mistress wouldn’t be quite so careful.
Finally, he got his lucky break. He got a lot of those, and had become convinced as a result that God was on his side and supported the stand he was making. He noticed a message in one of the milk bottles sitting outside her front door: ‘No milk until Monday’. So they were away this weekend.
He decided that he would have to keep watch on the cottage on the Friday night and over to the Saturday morning.
He was in luck. Major Thomas picked his mistress up on Friday evening, and he followed them at a safe distance. He had already decided that if they went further than fifty miles he would have to stop following, go back home and wait for another opportunity. Once again he was in luck. After just under twenty miles they pulled into a campsite.
The site, on the outskirts of some woods near a river, was almost deserted. As he watched, they set up a large modern tent close to the woods. Sleeping bags and other equipment were removed from the boot of the Major’s car and put in the tent. The Major then returned to the boot and removed a large gas bottle, which he fixed up just outside the tent. It was clearly intended to be used not only for cooking, but also, he was glad to say, for the small heater that he saw the Major take into the tent. Now he knew how he was going to kill him, and how to make it look just like a tragic accident.
Though he had to wait over an hour for them to head to a local pub before sneaking into the tent to make the necessary adjustments to the heater. Then forty minutes after their return he once again moved through the woods and emerged by the Major’s tent. It wasn’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. From the sounds coming from the tent the couple were clearly making love, and it went on for some time. He had to admire the Major’s stamina.
It was a shame, he thought, as he listened to the sounds of passion, that the girl had to die too. It was the first time this had happened, but needs must when the Devil drives, and he wasn’t sure when he was going to get an opportunity like this again. The fact that they were dying together would also help mask the fact that he had got his eleventh victim.
After a couple of hours the lovemaking stopped and was replaced by the sound of heavy breathing and the odd snore. He knew it was safe. All he had to do now was adjust the gas bottle so that it filled the tent with toxic vapours. It would all be over very fast and painlessly. Another tragic accident.
It only took him a few minutes. Afterwards he crept back into the woods and waited for events to come to their inevitable conclusion. He was sure he would read about it all in the papers over the following days.
Eleven down, two to go.
*
Despite Colonel Parr’s directions, Lapslie got lost trying to work out which way Bradbury should go once they got past Ledbury. He ended up having to call Colonel Parr to talk him in. The camp lay on the outskirts of the town, and they made it just about on time. He was, as Parr had told him, expected. After going through various checks and having his and Bradbury’s ID confirmed and the car searched, they were directed to Parr’s office.
The normal, day-to-day business of a military base caused a wash of flavour across Lapslie’s mouth that tasted of old, dried blood. He tried to ignore it and keep going.
Parr was waiting for them outside his office. He still wasn’t wearing uniform, but this time he was wearing cargo trousers, a polo shirt and a waterproof jacket. Lapslie assumed that the dress code among Special Forces was designed not to attract any attention.
‘Morning, Chief Inspector. Sorry about the delay, but I didn’t realize until you mentioned it on the phone earlier that your sergeant would be travelling with you.’ Parr first shook Lapslie’s hand and then Bradbury’s. ‘Sergeant Bradbury, good to meet you.’
‘Sorry,’ Lapslie apologized, ‘bit of stupidity on my part.’
Parr looked at him for a moment. ‘Yes. Anyway, come in. I’ve arranged for some tea and biscuits.’
Lapslie and Bradbury followed. It wasn’t a good start.
Once they were settled around the table, Parr began to question them. He
was more direct, more officious, now that he was on home territory. ‘Made any progress?’
Lapslie nodded. ‘A bit.’
Parr looked at him expectantly.
‘We know that the wedding dress and veil the bridal doll was wearing both came from Leslie Petersen’s dress. They’d been cut off a few weeks before she was killed, but we don’t know by whom – apart from the suspect I mentioned before, her past boyfriend, Mike Stowell, ex-Army and with two years’ sniper experience.’ Lapslie grimaced tautly. ‘But part of that whole scenario doesn’t sit comfortably with me.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘It’s altogether too convenient, fits too perfectly. She’s shot by a sniper and lo and behold it turns out her ex-jilted-boyfriend was an Army sniper.’ Lapslie sighed. ‘Also none of the other likely murders were so overt – indeed many might have been staged as accidents – and no connection thus far from Stowell to any other victims.’
‘So your thinking has shifted somewhat on Stowell since we last met.’ Parr raised an eyebrow. ‘And any other suspects in sight?’
‘Nobody in particular. But we now also know that the blood on the bridal doll was definitely Leslie Petersen’s: the DNA matches.’
Parr shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but how is that possible, unless the killer managed to somehow get hold of her blood before he killed her? Surely there was no chance after the event – too many people milling around.’
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 12
