The Thirteenth Coffin

by Nigel McCrery

  As soon as he got to the car he called the Essex Constabulary’s exhibits officer and gave him what information he had. The amount of evidence that got lost or was disposed of, especially when it looked like a case had gone cold, was a scandal, and the exhibits officer had been put in place to try and stop it. He had, by all reports, done a good job, and quickly discovered that most things that were supposed to have been lost had actually just been mislabelled or misfiled, or not labelled at all. He came back to Lapslie after about five minutes. ‘Yes, the clothing is still here, sir. Still in its bag. What do you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Call Detective Sergeant Bradbury, tell her what you’ve got, and get her to pick it up at once and take it to Gillian Holmes at the forensics lab. She will know what to do with it.’

  *

  Bradbury had reached the lab with the nurse’s uniform ahead of Lapslie. By the time he had managed to get through the various security checks, Bradbury and Holmes already had it open on a table and were examining it. The clothes smelled musty. The doll, which had been undressed, lay naked beside them.

  ‘Afternoon.’ Both women turned to acknowledge his arrival. ‘Afternoon, sir. Hope you didn’t mind us starting without you?’

  Holmes smiled. ‘We knew time was important, so we thought we would get on with it.’

  ‘That’s fine. How are you doing?’

  Gillian Holmes beckoned him over. ‘Come and see.’

  Lapslie walked over to the table. The two women were comparing the damage to the nurse’s uniform with that of the doll’s uniform. With the exception of a few sections which had clearly been removed so that it fitted the doll neatly, it was a perfect match: much the same as the bridal doll’s dress had been to the real thing.

  Lapslie walked over to where the other dolls were lined up, still inside their exhibit bags, and looked at them. Picking one up at random, he gazed at it. It was a female doll, dressed in a red bikini. Bizarrely, a song lyric began to unspool in his brain: ‘She wore an . . . itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini . . .’

  Holmes joined him.

  ‘How was this one damaged?’ he asked.

  Holmes shook her head. ‘It wasn’t. Bit of a mystery, that one. The only odd thing about it is her hair.’

  Lapslie looked at it again. The doll’s hair seemed to be sticking straight upwards, and its face had a look of surprise. He replaced it in the bag. ‘Perhaps she had seen what was coming.’

  Lapslie considered. He now knew who his first victim was, and who his last, or latest, victim was. What he needed to know now were the names of the other ten. More important, he needed to know who the next two were going to be – the last two. Maybe now he would have a chance of stopping this doll-maker before he killed anyone else.

  *

  Lapslie dreamed about the dolls again that night; and, as before, there was a thirteenth doll that remained obscured, its image blurred, however hard he strove to bring it into focus. It was as if he knew it was significant, but couldn’t work out how or why.

  If he could just see it more clearly – he saw part of a dark uniform on the lower part of the doll, but as he moved up and towards the face . . .

  He awoke sharply, catching at his breath. Had he seen the face in that final second, or had it remained obstinately out of reach, out of focus? Certainly he couldn’t recall any clarity to that image now – though another significance suddenly struck him about the number thirteen.

  He looked over at his bedside clock: 5.18 a.m. Too early to make the call, so he brushed his teeth, freshened up and made some fresh coffee to kill the time while his thoughts gelled. Finally, he picked up the phone and made the call.

  *

  Emma Bradbury looked at her phone through bleary eyes and checked the time as she picked it up: 6.04 a.m.

  ‘Yes . . .?’

  ‘Emma. We’ve got a trip to make, and I’ve called early because we should move sharpish. How long before you could meet me at King’s Cross Station?’

  She noticed her partner, Dom McGinley, stirring at her side. Thirty-forty minutes to get ready, she calculated, then getting into central London. ‘Uh, I suppose just under two hours.’

  ‘Fine. Meet me by the entrance gate for the train to Edinburgh. I’ll have already bought your ticket for you. Oh, and pack a small overnight bag, in case we don’t make it back tonight.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I’ll see you then.’

  But Lapslie had already cut off his end halfway through the sentence. Dom was now sitting up beside her, brow arched.

  ‘Who the hell was that calling at this time?’

  She smiled wanly. ‘My boss, of course. Who else would it be?’

  Something fleeting crossed his face, as if whatever alternative might have sprung to mind he’d quickly discarded. She felt his eyes on her back as she padded to the bathroom.

  ‘I’ve got to go with him to Edinburgh,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘And he’s asked me to pack a bag in case we have to stay overnight.’

  ‘What, you and Lapslie?’

  Was there a hint of doubt in his voice, or was she just imagining it? She felt tempted to respond, ‘Who else?’, but that might just make matters worse. She shut the bathroom door softly behind her without commenting, and when she came out Dom was lying on his side facing away from her, either already back asleep or feigning it.

  Ten minutes later when she was dressed and on her way out, she risked a hushed, ‘See you later, Dom. Either late tonight or tomorrow morning.’

  No response.

  *

  Lapslie explained his thinking on the train to Edinburgh. ‘I’ve had a couple of dreams now about the dolls, and each time there have been thirteen – though in each dream I haven’t been able to see that thirteenth doll clearly. I wondered whether it might be significant, even if only the religion–superstition factor – and suddenly that triggered something from a while back.’

  ‘What, something religious or superstitious?’

  ‘Well, both played a part – superstition due to suspected witchcraft, and religion due to Christian burial rites. Both were apparently suspected, along with links to the Burke and Hare murder case, when seventeen dolls were found in miniature coffins in Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh.’

  ‘Burke and Hare?’ Bradbury smiled. ‘So not one of your own past cases then, sir?’

  ‘Somewhat before my time.’ Lapslie returned the smile thinly. ‘Which no doubt is why so many of the details are lost on me, and we’re now on our way to see a curator at the National Museum in Edinburgh, Jeffrey Lydall, to fill in the details.’

  Three hours later, after checking into their hotel and when Lapslie had run through the introductions and the purpose of their visit, Lydall was indeed able to provide more details on the historic mystery.

  ‘You’re right in mentioning both possible witchcraft and Christian burial rites – both were suspected, though only the latter had any possible link to the Burke and Hare murders case.’ As Lydall observed Lapslie’s brow furrow, he elaborated. ‘You see, witchcraft was suspected at first because of the bizarre nature of the discovery, and miniature symbols used in other areas of witchcraft and black magic. But the main reason the dolls were linked to Burke and Hare was that their number, seventeen, matched exactly the number of murders in that case.’ He shrugged as he corrected himself, ‘Well, sixteen murders, because the first body they sold to medical practitioners had in fact died from natural causes. But this was also reflected in the way the coffins were arranged.’

  ‘Yes, I understand they were arranged in three different layers,’ Lapslie commented – one of the few online details he’d been able to source meanwhile.

  Lydall nodded. ‘One coffin on its own at the top – perhaps representing the first natural-cause death – then two layers of eight coffins.’

  ‘Why not one coffin on top, then a single row of sixteen?’ Bradbury questioned.

  ‘That’s never been adequately explained,’ Lydall said, ‘beyon
d simple space restrictions. Laying out sixteen in a row would have required a broader flat area. Where they were found, there simply wasn’t the room for that.’

  ‘So why would the witchcraft theory have necessarily fallen by the wayside with the advent of the connection to Burke and Hare?’ Lapslie asked.

  ‘It was still a possibility, but a slimmer one, because no firm reason was propounded for witchcraft connected with those murders. Whereas a religious connection was another matter, because they’d been murdered for the purpose of autopsy, with the bodies immediately dissected.’ Lydall held out a palm. ‘You see there was a strongly held belief in Christianity at the time that the body had to be whole in order to ascend to heaven. So these poor dissected victims would not have been able to achieve that – thus the theory arose that whoever was behind this was trying to effect that ascension to heaven at least in doll-effigy form.’ Lydall shrugged. ‘I suppose at a push some black magic connection could be argued, along the lines of some modern-day Christian religions, such as the Umbanda in Brazil, which blends Catholicism with symbolism and effigies more akin to black magic.’

  Lapslie nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I understand you have a number of the dolls here on display?’

  ‘Yes, indeed all those that survived intact: eight in all.’

  ‘What happened with the others?’

  ‘Too severely rotted and degraded to display, I’m afraid. Only parts remained.’ In the lull as Lapslie appeared momentarily lost in thought, Lydall prompted, ‘Would you like to see them?’

  ‘Yes, very much so. If we may?’

  Lydall smiled tightly and led the way down the corridor towards a grand hall, then guided them towards one side.

  ‘Here we are.’ Lydall indicated a large glass cabinet with miniature coffins arranged on two plinths.

  The first thing Lapslie noticed was the absence of clothing on most of the dolls. Only two were fully clothed, and their dress was quite drab, didn’t hint at any particular profession or social status. The coffins too looked far older, their wood darker.

  ‘You say the other coffins rotted somewhat?’ Lapslie said. ‘Was that also a factor with the clothing? Were the other six dolls originally clothed?’

  ‘Yes, we believe they were. There was quite a gap between the dolls being placed in the cave and their discovery, and in that time damp affected both the wooden coffins and the dolls’ clothing.’

  ‘Quite a gap?’ Bradbury said. ‘How many years are we talking about?’

  ‘The murders took place in 1828 and the coffins were discovered in 1836 – so eight years in total.’

  Lapslie leaned closer towards the display cabinet, trying to pick up finer detail. ‘And was there any suggestion that the clothing betrayed any particular profession?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Lydall held a palm out. ‘What you see here is all we have. On one the dress is just a full-length cloth and the other chequered. The closest might be prison garb, but none of the Burke and Hare victims were prisoners. On another that was partially clothed we see a mostly rotted working man’s jacket, but that’s about it.’ He looked at Lapslie. ‘Why, is that a feature with the case you have now?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Lapslie had mentioned in his introduction that they had a current case involving dolls in coffins, but he didn’t feel inclined to go into more detail with Lydall. ‘So do you get many visitors these days interested in the possible religious significance of the dolls?’

  ‘A few. But we get more than our fair share of medical students too.’

  Lapslie arched a brow. ‘Oh, why is that?

  ‘While most were rightly horrified by what Burke and Hare did, to the medical establishment they were seen as something of a boon. Before that time, medical research was floundering because of the lack of dissectable corpses. Burke and Hare changed that, and not long after their trial came the Anatomy Act of 1832.’ Lydall nodded towards the dolls. ‘So rightly or wrongly, the Burke and Hare case still holds something of a fascination among those who’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath.’

  *

  Upon their return from Edinburgh, they made their way to force headquarters. Lapslie grabbed a quick coffee from the corridor machine, so Bradbury was ahead of him, looking through the glass doors to the Incident Room.

  ‘Are the team all here?’ Lapslie asked. He’d made his calls to convene the meeting just before leaving their Edinburgh hotel.

  Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, looks like everyone’s present.’

  Lapslie walked into the briefing room, followed by Bradbury. Bradbury spoke first.

  ‘Okay, usual rules apply. Unless it’s urgent, any questions to be filtered through me after the briefing. Until then, head and hand gestures will be all you need. When I say “hand gestures”, keep them decent: that especially applies to you, DC Parkin.’

  Parkin put his hands up and tried to look innocent. Lapslie stepped forward and began the briefing.

  ‘First, the good news, and believe it or not we have to give a big pat on the back to Parkin and Pearce here. I can now confirm that Jane Anne Summers was our first victim. The killer cut her uniform up and took part of it away to make one of his macabre dolls with, just like he did with the bridal dress of our recent shooting victim. So we all owe Parkin and Pearce a very large drink.’

  The two detectives looked delighted.

  ‘However,’ Lapslie went on, ‘they won’t be touching a drop until this case is solved. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. They had better keep up the good work or they are going to be thirsty for a very long time.’

  The two detectives looked less delighted.

  ‘Okay, back to the point. The first victim of our killer was a nurse called Jane Anne Summers. She was strangled in 2007. The reason we know this, as I just outlined, is because her uniform was damaged at the time of the murder and sections were taken away by our killer. Those sections were used to make the uniform on the nurse doll found in the bunker. From now on we are searching for victims between the first of July 2007 and the murder of Leslie Petersen a few days ago. We have a seven-year window now, rather than an open-ended one. We also know that our killer is a deadly shot, among the best. So whether that’s Mike Stowell or somebody else, we’ve yet to determine. On which front, has Stowell been anywhere interesting in the past forty-eight hours?’ Lapslie’s gaze shifted to Ken Barrett and Pete Kempsey, who’d been given the duty of tailing Stowell.

  They looked at each other and Barrett shrugged before speaking. ‘Nowhere ground-breaking: home, launderette, pub. Oh, and he met an old Army mate while at the pub.’

  ‘And did you in turn follow this Army mate?’ Lapslie asked.

  They looked at each other again briefly. ‘No, that would have meant splitting up, which we were told not to do.’

  Lapslie could have launched into a speech about ‘initiative’ and how Stowell having an accomplice had been a possible factor – not only to commit murders Stowell wasn’t present for, but with AMOS wind-speed assistance on Leslie Petersen’s long-range shot – yet the truth was he had told them to stay together; and besides, getting approval to split the team or to assign another tail would have required consulting Rouse and eaten up another twenty-four hours.

  Perhaps sensing Lapslie’s disapproval from his lingering gaze, Kempsey offered, ‘We did check him out, though: Bill Ewan, same regiment as Stowell’s and still active in Afghanistan. He’s on a one-month leave in the UK.’

  Lapslie’s eyes narrowed. ‘And, like Stowell, does he have any sniper experience?’

  ‘Don’t know. But we can check.’

  ‘Good idea – if you can.’ Lapslie shifted his gaze to the room at large and took a fresh breath. ‘So, what else do we know about our killer? We know that he makes dolls and doll costumes, or knows someone who does. It’s an odd combination, but one that might help us track him down. Also, looking recently at possible links with the dolls, our man might have a medical connection, or at least an interest in medical history. Now, it’s you
r turn. Anyone discover anything about any other possible victim?’

  Nobody moved. No hands went up.

  Lapslie was disappointed. ‘What, nothing?’

  A few of the team shook their heads; the others just looked ahead blankly. Eventually, DC Pearce put his hand up. Bradbury looked at Lapslie, who nodded. ‘Okay, Carl, what do you have to say?’

  ‘I think I can speak for all of us, boss. With the obvious exception of Jane Summers, the team have checked and double-checked. Not only in this force area but every force area. There are no records of firemen, fishermen or mechanics being murdered over the last ten years, let alone the rest. It’s just a blank. Are we sure these other dolls aren’t there just to try and throw us off the trail?’

  Lapslie shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I don’t think so. Following the line of a possible medical link might explain how our killer has disguised a number of murders as accidents. That’s an avenue which needs exploring further.’

  A murmur arose from the room, but didn’t spill over into open comments or questions. Lapslie took a fresh breath, scanning the room keenly.

  ‘We’re missing something. I’m not sure what it is, but something’s wrong. We’re not looking close enough, deep enough. We are missing the bloody obvious. We know there are two more dolls so far untouched, and I am sure they are the next two victims. One is a major in the Army, the other a teacher. If we don’t get it right, and quickly, they are going to be murdered, and it’s going to be, in part, our fault. No matter how far-fetched an idea you might have, I want you to go for it. I’ll back you all the way. Does everyone understand?’

  A more muted murmur, a number of eager nods.

  ‘Okay: do your best. That’s all any of us can do. If we crack this I’ll pay for the biggest party you’ve ever been to, and that’s a promise. That’s it – now get out there and find me something I can work with.’