The Thirteenth Coffin

by Nigel McCrery

  He first examined the front of the uniform, which seemed fine, up to and including the medal ribbons which were situated in a short line over the left-hand tunic pocket. Unbuttoning the jacket, he looked inside at the lining. It was all there, not ripped and not damaged.

  He was just beginning to feel optimistic when he turned the jacket over to examine the back. The entire centre of the jacket had been cut away and was missing. It had been sliced across the shoulders, down both sides and across the bottom, just missing the back vent.

  Lapslie looked at it for a moment, hardly able to take it in. How the hell had someone got past his security, got into his house, and managed to do this without being detected? More importantly, how did the killer know when he would be out? Either he’d taken a hell of a chance or he’d been watching Lapslie.

  Or, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind, the murderer was already part of the inquiry.

  He tried to silence the thought, but it kept coming back. What if the killer was someone known to him? Someone he was working alongside? What would that mean?

  It meant he needed evidence before anything else, he told himself firmly. Evidence. Everything else was just wishful thinking or scaremongering.

  He put his uniform back into the plastic bag. He had initially thought to take it down to the forensic laboratory and get it matched, but there was no point. The doll was dressed in cloth cut from his original uniform: there was no doubt about that. There would be no forensic evidence: the killer was too good for that. Getting the lab technicians to analyse the uniform jacket and the doll’s costume would only take them away from other duties that were more likely to yield a result.

  He looked about him. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. He considered calling Thomson and his team in, but knew he would be wasting their time, and for the same reason. If the killer could get in and out of his home quite so easily without tripping the alarms or showing himself on the video cameras, what would be the point of Thomson and his team raking over everything?

  *

  Emma Bradbury looked across the table at her partner, Dom, as they started eating dinner.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes . . . fine. Fine.’

  Her eyes stayed on him for a second. She sensed that something was troubling him. He’d been thoughtful for a while before dinner, and his response now had been a second slow, his accompanying smile strained. They also knew each other well enough now for him to read that it wasn’t just a casual enquiry about whether the dinner she’d served was okay.

  Finally: ‘So how was Edinburgh?’

  ‘Okay.’ She shrugged. ‘Might be something, might end up a total wild goose chase. We won’t know for a little while.’

  He nodded thoughtfully, picking at his food. ‘I know sometimes it can be awkward opening up fully about your investigations.’ Again that strained smile. ‘Especially with someone like me.’

  So that was it, she considered. Dom, the villain. Lapslie had strongly advised her against the relationship, and perhaps Dom too was now facing the stark reality of what made it an awkward association. Or could it be that the precept of ‘opposites attract’ only had so much shelf life? Though she knew from past Criminal Psychology lectures that that was far from the truth; indeed, nobody knew a villain better than a copper, and vice versa, given the nature of their cat-and-mouse game either side of an often transparent divide.

  Or perhaps now it was simply the fact that with work keeping her late and her hours irregular, their mealtimes were often delayed and rushed, which indeed had been the case recently. Forcing their relationship and quality time together more and more into a corner. Or could it be that he’d become keener on probing about her late hours and her trip to Edinburgh for other reasons? She pushed the thought hastily away.

  ‘I daresay I could say the same about you,’ she said, waggling her own fork back in challenge. ‘I don’t ask you how the latest bank heist has gone.’

  ‘You know I don’t do that sort of thing any more.’ He feigned a hurt expression, then after a second an easy smile surfaced; reminded her of what had endeared her to Dom McGinley in the first place. ‘But, yes, touché.’

  The tension eased between them then, became more mellow; and mellower still when they’d downed a bottle of red wine between them.

  So when later that night in bed she saw the same dark shadows in Dom’s eyes, it caught her by surprise.

  ‘You’d never leave me, would you?’ he muttered.

  ‘No . . . of course not.’

  But she’d answered on the back of a fractured breath, the timing of the question catching her equally by surprise.

  It was a game they’d play regularly in bed. As Dom felt her passion rising, he’d lightly clasp her throat, but in a loving way, softly stroking her neck. The gentle pressure had the effect of making her breath fall even shorter, her excitement seem more intense. Dom had started gently squeezing, but as the question came she felt him grip harder – harder than she’d ever experienced before – as if, if the answer was wrong, he might just continue squeezing. And unsettled by that thought, she’d been a second slow in responding, making her answer, combined with her caught breath, seem more uncertain than it should have.

  And in turn that pressure stayed there a second longer as Dom’s eyes searched hers, until at last he reverted to more gentle stroking and regained his rhythm.

  It took her a moment to catch her breath, but for her the rhythm and sensations had gone – so she faked it. Something she couldn’t recall doing before in their lovemaking. Eyes gently fluttering closed, she returned to her fevered gasps, so that he wouldn’t guess his question was nearer the mark than he feared.

  *

  After having a quick shower, changing and grabbing some breakfast, Lapslie made his way down to the forensic labs. Once she had realized that it was Major, not Mr, Thomas who had been gassed, and what that meant, Jane Catherall had had the presence of mind to send the lethal gas bottle to Technical II, which was part of the forensic science labs. Tech II, as it was more commonly called, dealt with all things mechanical and technical. Lapslie had to go through all the normal security checks, but this time, instead of going into the main labs, he drove around to the back of the laboratories, to where Tech II was situated, and parked.

  The inside of Tech II looked like the inside of Q’s hangar in the James Bond films. All sorts of bizarre activity seemed to be going on. There was only one man that Lapslie wanted to speak to, however, and that was Peter Edwards. Edwards had been a police officer once upon a time, and for many years had worked for Lapslie as a detective sergeant, and a bloody good one too. The continual liberalization of the police force hadn’t suited him, however, so he had left the force and somehow managed to get himself into Cambridge to read Mechanical Engineering before returning to work with the FSS and establishing Tech II. It was the only department like it in the entire country, with the possible exception of MI5 and Special Forces. With everything gradually being privatized, Lapslie knew Edwards was going to make a fortune, and as far as he was concerned it couldn’t have happened to a better bloke.

  Edwards, as ever, was in his office. It was an unconventional place, and resembled the inside of a garage or garden shed more than it did a workspace belonging to the head of a department. As usual, Edwards had his head down over some odd-looking contraption on his bench, trying to pry out its secrets or work out a method of using it to best advantage. Occasionally something would spark, and Edwards would swear quietly under his breath, but he always kept going, focused as ever.

  ‘Morning, Peter.’

  Edwards didn’t move. ‘Just a moment, Mark. Remind me, what were we talking about?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for about a year. I can’t remember.’

  Edwards straightened up. He was a big, bulky, shambling man with a short crop of blond hair. ‘I think it was rugby. Or maybe cricket. Similar things.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I
don’t like either of them.’ He extended a meaty hand. ‘Good to see you, as always.’

  ‘And you. Had a look at the gas bottle?’

  ‘What, no small talk? No catching up on old times? No conversation?’

  ‘No, sorry. Too much to do.’

  Edwards thought for a moment, flicking through the filing cabinet that he called his brain. ‘Ah yes, over here.’ He directed Lapslie to an old wooden bench at the far side of his office. Pulling off an old sheet, he exposed an off-green gas canister. ‘Well, here it is: the killer of your major and his beautiful mistress.’

  ‘So what can you tell me? Innocent victim or premeditated murder?’

  He placed a hand on top of the gas bottle. ‘Guilty as charged. A premeditated killer. However, although important, this particular perpetrator had a partner in crime.’

  Lapslie was beginning to feel confused. Edwards always had spoken in riddles, but Lapslie could have done without it now.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Not a “who”; more an “it”.’ Edwards produced a small heater from another bench. ‘This belonged to the major, and it was because this was tampered with that he and his lady friend died. You see, no matter how hard you turn the knob, it never quite closes off. Let me show you.’

  Connecting the heater to the large blue gas cylinder, he slowly turned the gas on by twisting the handle at the top of the gas cylinder. He then opened the valve on the heater. He lit it with a match. After a few moments he turned the heater off, but though he twisted as hard as he could the flame stayed on.

  Edwards continued: ‘So you see, it is physically impossible to turn the gas heater off completely.’

  Lapslie could see that, but something was bothering him: ‘Wouldn’t the major have noticed the flame, or at least the sound or the smell?’

  Edwards nodded. ‘Indeed he would, and that’s where your killer has been very clever and taken a bit of a risk.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He waited outside the tent. As soon as the major turned off the heater, he cut off the gas supply from the bottle by turning the valve. So as far as the major was concerned, the gas had been shut down.’

  ‘I wonder what would have happened if the major had stepped outside for a piss or something?’

  ‘Edwards smiled. ‘With the lengths this killer has gone to, I’m sure he’ll have had a back-up plan of some sort. Anyway, as soon as our loving couple were asleep he turned the gas bottle back on again and left. Look, I’ll show you something.’

  As Lapslie watched, Edwards took the small heater apart and showed him the on/off valve mechanism inside the burner. Using a pair of tweezers, he removed a small black washer. ‘This is the thing that stopped the valve closing, and it was put there on purpose. If you notice, it’s broken at one end. It should fit at the top of the valve. To an untrained eye it looks like it has just worn out.’

  ‘But surely any half-decent examiner would have spotted that? With the greatest respect to your own good self.’

  Edwards smiled. ‘People see what they want to see, and often they don’t think the problem through. The police would have said it was a tragic accident; it looks like the rubber bung has worn out and stopped the gas being turned off. Combine that with an overworked, underpaid, underappreciated lab technician who is looking for the obvious and finds it. Happens all the time: you should know that by now, Mark.’

  ‘I should, you’re right.’

  Edwards continued: ‘So what now, you announce you have another murder?’

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, not yet. The Coroner has opened and adjourned the inquest for further inquiries to be made, so I have time before we have to give an official cause of death. Let’s let our killer think he’s got away with it.’

  ‘You think that might help?’

  Lapslie shrugged. ‘No idea. I get the impression that he is trying to finish the job he started quickly. I’m not sure why, but he is. If he thinks we are on to him he might disappear for a few years and I’ll miss catching him. If he thinks he’s got away with it, he just might aim to kill the next one on the list: the teacher. That means there is a chance I can get him.’

  ‘And put the teacher’s life in danger?’ Edwards asked shrewdly.

  Lapslie looked at him. ‘No more than it is right now. I have no idea who the killer or the next victim is. If my instincts are right then I need to find one or the other or both quickly. If he does get to our teacher before me, I want to make sure it is his last murder.’

  *

  Failing to plan is planning to fail. It was a now clichéd SAS and regiment motto, but it happened to be true. It was the main reason he had been killing for so long and getting away with it. Meticulous planning, and some divine assistance, had lured the police up many false trails, all leading nowhere.

  But now Lapslie was beginning to worry him. He was good, and instead of his synaesthesia debilitating him as it should have, it seemed to have increased his deductive powers. He had known that Lapslie might become involved at some stage, which was why he’d chosen the bunker close to the lavender field to hide the dolls; but its overpowering scent would only go so far in throwing Lapslie off. The other thing which might throw Lapslie would be finding that he was the thirteenth doll in the thirteenth coffin – though that wasn’t the reason for its choice; Lapslie’s presence as a doll was for the same reason that all the others had to die.

  He’d had to change the order of things because of some obstacles, but while Lapslie and the police knew at least the profession of his next intended victim, they didn’t know specifically whom. There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of teachers in the area. How on earth were they going to watch all of them? All he needed to do was to come up with another unusual but not uncommon accident. One that would be tragic, but not obvious. They had focused on the sniper at the church and the links to Stowell, as he suspected they would. That had left him free to arrange his accidents.

  It sometimes felt like he had been killing for most of his life. He was tired of it. Sometimes he wanted to stop, but he knew that God wouldn’t want him to do that. God wanted him to stay the course, complete the set of murders. He knew that because earlier on, when he had returned from another fruitless reconnaissance of the Teacher’s house, he had turned on the radio. A heartbeat later he had heard the beautiful warm voice of a young woman, singing ‘Don’t give up!’ It was the chorus of a pop song, but it was as if she was singing to him, just to him. Nobody else out of the thousands or hundreds of thousands of people listening to that radio station was the object of that message. Only him.

  He couldn’t give up now. Not when God was expecting him to see it through to the end.

  *

  Lapslie’s next stop was Major Thomas’s widow, Jill Thomas. Bradbury had contacted her to arrange the meeting.

  Lapslie had learned early on in his career to always try and take someone with you when you were dealing with bereavement. If it was a woman you were breaking the news to, try and take another woman – a friend or relative if possible, or, failing that, a WPC.

  He met Bradbury outside the house. It was like a small mansion. Sitting back from the road, its sweeping, circular driveway led to a double-fronted house with a large porch and door. It must be several hundred years old, and Lapslie’s guess was that it had been in the same family just as long.

  The two detectives walked up to the imposing oak door and pulled the bell handle. They both heard it ring inside. This set off the sound of what seemed to be at least a hundred dogs barking, causing a cascade of vegetable flavours inside Lapslie’s mouth. He could taste every type of vegetable he had ever eaten and a few he hadn’t.

  Bradbury looked across at him. She could see from the look on his face what was happening. ‘You okay, sir?’

  Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, fine. Dogs. Very noisy. That’s why I don’t have one.’

  After a few moments a voice penetrated though the great door. ‘Can you hang on for a moment while I put the do
gs away?’

  Bradbury replied: ‘Yes, not a problem. Is that Jill Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll only be a mo’.’ Her voice was cultured, refined, and flavoured with mint and cardamom.

  After a few moments the two detectives heard the metallic sounds of bolts being pulled back and a large key being turned. The door opened. Standing before them was a tall, slender woman in her late thirties. She had an attractive face, green eyes and a crop of brown hair tied tightly into a bun at the back. She was wearing jeans, a red checked shirt and a green hacking jacket. Her feet were encased in tall leather boots which extended to her knees. She looked every inch the upper-class lady.

  ‘Sorry about that. Meant to put them away before, but got busy. You know how it is.’

  She put out her hand to Bradbury. ‘I’m Jill Thomas, and you must be Detective Sergeant Bradbury?’

  The formality felt stilted, of a bygone age. ‘Yes,’ Bradbury replied. ‘And this is my boss: Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie.’

  Jill pushed her hand out towards and he took it. She had a very firm grip, probably the strongest he had ever experienced from a woman. She continued: ‘Please come inside; the dogs are in the kitchen. They won’t bother you again.’

  The two detectives followed her into the house, once she had closed and locked the thick oak door. She led them into a large sitting room with a huge stone open fireplace and directed them to a large sofa, while she sat in a comfortable armchair opposite. Without asking if anyone minded, she lit a long black cigarette. It was her house, after all, Lapslie supposed. After drawing in a large mouthful of smoke and blowing it out with a heavy sigh, she looked across at her visitors. ‘I take it you are here to talk about poor John?’

  Lapslie nodded. She didn’t seem that cut up about her husband’s death. ‘Yes. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem to be too upset about it.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not. Well, that’s not quite true – I’m sorry he’s dead. I wouldn’t have wished any harm to come to him, but, you see, John was a total bastard, and had been for most of our married life. He had weaknesses, you see . . .’