Lapslie was intrigued. ‘Such as?’
‘The usual: gambling, drink and women. Shagged my bridesmaids on our wedding day. Both of them – separately, not together, of course. He wasn’t a total cad.’
Bradbury couldn’t quite understand. ‘So why did you stay with him?’
She smiled. ‘Nowhere else to go, to be honest, and besides, I’m a lesbian. He tolerated my other women and I tolerated his. Sometimes we even shared. Divorce is an expensive business and I wanted to keep the money in the family, not give it to some University of Paddington lawyer, if you know what I mean?’
‘So it was really a marriage of convenience?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. We considered making the effort and having children, but it never really worked. I think his plumbing was up the spout. The bloody lot will go to my nephew when I join John in the great unknown.’
Lapslie was intrigued. ‘Was he insured?’
‘Oh God, yes: we both are. Or were. We knew that if one of us popped off then the other would need a pretty penny to keep this place going.’ She straightened up in the armchair. ‘If you think I killed John to get my hands on his money, you can think again. He was good to me, in his own way. There are more marriages like ours than you would believe, Chief Inspector. They’re odd, but in their own way they work. Like Vita and Harold.’
‘Neighbours?’ Bradbury ventured.
‘The Sackville-Wests,’ Lapslie murmured.
‘Oh,’ Bradbury acknowledged. She paused, thinking. ‘Neighbours?’
Jill nodded. ‘Distantly related.’
‘So who had the money in the family?’ Lapslie asked.
‘Well, such as it was, me. Not that there was a whole lot left. Death duties cripple us, like so many other families.’
‘If I told you that we thought your late husband’s death wasn’t an accident and might have been murder, would you be surprised?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not really.’
‘Why?’ Lapslie asked, intrigued at her brazenness.
‘Because I am reasonably sure that a detective chief inspector and his sergeant wouldn’t be coming around to see me and asking me questions about money and insurance if it had been an accident.’ She frowned, and glanced into the fireplace. ‘To be honest, I did wonder. Johnny was pretty careful about things like gas bottles and the like. Years in the Army taught him that at least.’
‘I don’t suppose you do any camping yourself?’ Bradbury asked pointedly.
Jill shuddered. ‘Certainly not. I refuse to holiday anywhere that doesn’t have air conditioning and those two essentials of life, a spa and a bar.’
‘When did Major Thomas leave the Army?’ Lapslie asked her.
Jill Thomas leaned back in her chair thoughtfully. ‘Mmm, now let me think. August 2012? No, no, I tell a lie, it was September. I remember because he had only been out a short while and we were just getting stuck into the work on the house when I was called away for jury service and was gone for two weeks. Bloody jury service, there seems to be no way to get out of it except for feigning madness. Just what we needed. He’s away for years and then I have to go away.’ The smile slipped from her face, and her eyes suddenly became very bright and wet. ‘I make it sound like I wanted us to spend some time together. Which I did. He was a bastard, but he was charming.’
‘Why did he leave the Army?’ Lapslie asked softly.
‘To help me. I was finding it difficult to cope on my own. House was too much, needed a hand. Couldn’t afford servants, and, to be honest, couldn’t afford workmen too often. Johnny was a dab hand at DIY. Saved us a fortune in the long run and made a good job too.’
‘Do you shoot?’ Bradbury asked.
She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Of course I do. The bloody rodents you get around here, you have to. My father taught me.’
‘What kind of weapons do you use?’
‘Shotguns. They’re in the cabinet in the gun room. Want to see them? I have a licence and all that.’
Lapslie put up his hand. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Tell me, when Major Thomas was in the Army, did he have any enemies? Other soldiers he perhaps fell out with?’
Jill shrugged. ‘I’m bloody sure he did. The Army is a place where you can make enemies very easily, just by doing your job. But do I think they would have murdered him? No, I don’t.’
‘And does the name Michael Stowell ring any bells? A fellow Army man, until recently stationed in Afghanistan.’
Jill reflected for a moment. ‘I’m afraid not. But then I knew only a handful of John’s Army friends, so I’m probably not the best person to ask about his broader circle of contacts in the ranks.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Now this might sound like an odd question, but it is important. Were any of his uniforms damaged?’
She smiled broadly. ‘All of them. It’s a soldier’s lot. If they’re not crawling about on the earth then they’re wrestling each other and riding motorcycles in the officers’ mess. That’s one of the main expenditures we had in this household: repair bills for his bloody uniforms.’
Lapslie realized he wasn’t explaining himself very well. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite mean that. Were any of his uniforms deliberately cut up or slashed? Bits of them ripped away and taken?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Well now you come to mention it, one of his sets of fatigues was damaged when it was out on the washing line. Thought it was kids, or maybe peace protesters.’
‘When was this?’
‘Eight years ago. Is it important?’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, very. Are you sure of the date?’
‘Pretty much. It was when I was called to do jury service. Alex was bloody furious.’
‘Why?’
She laughed loudly. In fact Lapslie had never heard a woman laugh quite so loudly before. ‘He was jealous!’
‘Jealous?’
‘He had always wanted to do jury service and was never called. His father did it a couple of times: sent one poor sod to the gallows, apparently. I think Alex had ideas of doing the same.’
Bradbury cut in. ‘I think capital punishment was abolished in the sixties.’
She laughed again, her voice echoing around the room. ‘I know, I know, but try telling him that!’ Suddenly realizing what she had said, she calmed down. ‘You know what I mean.’
Lapslie looked at her and nodded sympathetically. ‘Sorry – the mutilated uniform?’
She coughed awkwardly. ‘Yes, sorry. Anyway, I came home to get the stuff of the line and there was his uniform in tatters.’
‘Which part of the uniform?’
‘Jacket. Great chunk at the back missing, just cut out. Felt sure it had to be bloody kids.’
‘Did you report it?’
She shook her head. ‘What was the point? I wouldn’t want policemen traipsing around the house and grounds for the sake of some damaged clothing.’
Bradbury cut in. ‘Do you still have it?’
She shook her head. ‘No, sorry. Only good for rags, so I burnt it.’
It didn’t really matter, Lapslie thought. Everything was now confirmed. The reason their killer had been getting away with it for so long was that he was making the murders look like accidents.
‘Well, I hope that’s all been of help?’
Lapslie nodded, and stood. ‘Thank you.’
‘I can show you the rest of his uniforms if you like. They’re in the bedroom.’ Jill made eye contact with Bradbury. ‘If you’re busy, Chief Inspector, then perhaps your sergeant would like to come and have a look.’
Bradbury’s eyes widened, and for a moment Lapslie was tempted to say yes, but he couldn’t do it to her. Not even in jest.
‘No, that’s perfectly fine. We have what we need.’
Thomas smiled broadly at Bradbury. ‘Well, come back any time.’
Lapslie was surprised to see his detective sergeant go bright red.
*
Lapslie noticed that Bradbury seemed preoccupied for
much of the drive back to the station.
‘You haven’t let the major’s wife trying to get a bit fresh get to you, have you?’
It took a second for Bradbury to detach from her thoughts. She pushed a smile in return.
‘No, it’s not that at all. Just Dom being a bit moody of late, giving me a hard time.’
‘Well, I did warn you about these ex-villains.’ He kept the teasing smile there for a second before becoming more serious. ‘In what way?’
She didn’t want to go into detail about the possibly implied threat of their love games taking a wrong turn, so chose the recent trip away.
‘He was asking all sorts of questions about the trip to Edinburgh – who was I with, why the need to stay overnight, et cetera.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Almost as if he suspects I’m seeing someone else.’
Lapslie nodded, looked at the passing traffic for a moment. He noticed she’d said the last part flatly, hadn’t added ‘ridiculously’ or ‘unbelievably’, so he asked equally flatly:
‘And are you?’
Stone silence for a second, then she eased out a long breath. ‘Yes, I am.’ Perhaps she’d wanted to share this with someone all along, ease the burden; perhaps get some advice too on how to handle the situation. And who might know better how to handle an ex-con like Dom McGinley than Lapslie? ‘Been seeing this other guy, Peter Wilkinson, for five months on and off now. He’s an academic, a lecturer in genetic engineering. They couldn’t be more different – chalk and cheese.’
‘Oh, Jesus, Emma. Not a good move.’
She arched an eyebrow as she glanced across. ‘Thanks for the support. It was you that always said Dom was a bad idea. A bad match for me. And now that I try to move on . . .’
‘Yes, I did. And I still hold to that. But that doesn’t mean I’d want to see you in any sort of danger. Leaving someone like Dom needs a clean break for a start, and handling with kid gloves. All sorts of hurt-macho-pride, old-school-villain factors there.’ He shook his head. ‘But cheating on him, you’re playing with fire.’
‘Thanks.’ She stared blankly ahead at the road. ‘I was hoping you might offer some useful advice.’
‘And I have. Make a clean break from Dom or dump the other guy – however much I might think he’d be the better match for you. But don’t keep seeing both at once.’
She nodded. What else had she expected from Lapslie but sheer bluntness? And while in her head she knew he was perfectly right, could she get her heart and emotions to agree? Right now both men were answering different needs in her that were difficult to shed. She sighed.
‘You’re right. I’ll have to do something.’ But she knew that might be weeks or months away, unless something else forced her hand. Meanwhile she’d keep walking the tightrope of seeing both; but then maybe that tightrope was part of the excitement.
Part Seven
27 January 2012
Keith Sampson shouldn’t have been working on his birthday. He should have been out with his mates, celebrating. He’d had plenty of invitations, but here he was in the dark, in the pissing rain, waiting for his next call, a flask of just bearable tea and a few stale sandwiches by his side.
The truth was, he needed the money. He liked playing poker at home, online, late into the night. He knew it was draining his bank accounts the way a punctured bucket drained water, but he couldn’t help himself. It made him feel . . . special. Part of something big.
He poured himself a cup of tea and gulped it down. Not only was it stewed, but it was cold. If he’d had somewhere to spit it, then he would have. As it was, he was forced to gulp it down and wince.
He opened the driver’s-side window and poured the remainder of the flask onto the grass outside his taxi. Two cheese-and-something sandwiches followed.
Suddenly his radio burst into life. ‘Tango Golf Twenty-three, come in, over!’
He didn’t want to respond, but a job was still a job. He picked up the mike. ‘Tango Golf Twenty-three, go ahead, over.’
‘Are you available for a call, over?’
‘Yes, over.’
‘Can you go to Old Quarry, off Mill Road? There’s a Mr Brond in need of your services. He’s at the end of the old dirt-track road, if you know where that is, over.’
‘What’s he doing down there? Over.’
‘He’s been fishing, over.’
‘Brilliant. Stinking carp in the back of the cab, and maggots all over the floor. I’m on my way. Over.’
‘Good boy. Out.’
Old Quarry Road was about three miles from his location. It was ten o’clock at night and there was very little traffic around. He did find himself wondering why a fisherman would still be at the Old Quarry at this time of night, but then fishermen were funny people. They seemed to love roughing it, and revelled in discomfort. Each to their own, he supposed.
He reached Old Quarry Road and turned left onto it. After half a mile of avoiding potholes, he finally reached the end of the road. His headlights shone out across a few metres of ground and then into the darkness of the quarry.
He looked around. No sign of anyone. He flashed his lights and beeped his horn several times, but still there was no response. If this was someone’s idea of a joke on his birthday then he wasn’t amused.
He got back onto the radio. ‘Tango Golf Twenty-three to control: I’m at the location but no sign of our fisherman. Could you give him a call and see where he is, over?’
‘Wait one, over.’
Keith waited, looking around to see if he could spot anyone. He did consider getting out of the car and having a look around, doing a bit of shouting, but it was still raining hard. There was only so far you could go for a punter.
The radio burst into life again. ‘Tango Golf Twenty-three, over.’
He picked up the microphone. ‘Go ahead, over.’
‘Sorry, but he isn’t replying. I think it must be a hoax. Sorry about that. Return to standby. Over.’
‘Ten four. Over.’
He wasn’t sure whether to reverse back down the track or do a three-point turn. Given the number of deep potholes he had encountered on the way down the track, he decided on a three-point turn. Turning his wheel hard to the right, he pulled the car forward and to the right, then put it into reverse. Pulling hard to the right, he managed to get halfway through his manoeuvre when he suddenly noticed a set of headlights racing towards him from the side. Before he had a chance to react, the other vehicle hit the side of the car.
Because he was wearing his seat belt, the inertial reel belt kept him fixed in place and his body took the full impact of the collision. Semi-conscious and shocked, he realized that his car was being pushed towards the edge of the quarry. He tried to take his seat belt off, but it was stuck. Press as he might, nothing happened.
Moments later he was rolling over and over in mid-air. Before he could tell which way was up, the taxi crashed into the murky waters below.
Water rushed in through the broken windows. Still fighting against his locked seat belt, Keith tried to hold his breath, but his ribs had been crushed by the impact and agony was flooding him like fire. Eventually, he had to take a breath, but by that time there was no air left in the car. He choked.
Up above, on the edge of the quarry, a figure emerged from the car that had pushed Keith’s cab over the edge. He stood there for a full fifteen minutes, watching for some sign of movement. When he was sure that nobody was going to emerge from the dark waters, he stepped back in his car and drove away.
*
Given the now proven accident – victim link, Lapslie knew his next step would be to call a briefing of the squad and inform them of developments. Now that they had several new lines of inquiry, a breakthrough might be on the cards.
He called the briefing for 10 a.m. For once, everyone was on time. Bradbury did the pre-briefing, reminding them all of the rules and summing up the situation. Once that had been done she beckoned to Lapslie, who entered a very quiet briefing room.
He stood in front of them with an assortment of stickers in his hand.
‘Okay, we have a little more information for you, but it’s information that should help a lot, hopefully widen the case and bring it to a quick resolution.’ Looking around and making eye contact with everyone in the room, he continued: ‘I now believe our killer has disguised many killings to make them look like accidents. He took a chance with one of them, a nurse, Jane Summers, whom he strangled, and my gut instinct with Leslie Petersen – given that it was such a showcase killing, unlike the others – is that it was staged to put her past boyfriend, Mike Stowell, in the frame. On which front, anything new on Stowell?’ Lapslie’s gaze homed in on Barrett and Kempsey. Kempsey answered.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary: routine trips to his local bank, post office, some shopping. But he hasn’t met anyone else since seeing his old Army mate Bill Ewan a few days back.’
As if sensing the pending question, Barrett cut in, ‘And we checked Ewan out, as you requested: no sniper experience.’
Lapslie nodded. ‘Okay. So far everything points to that killing being set up, a one-off. The rest, I am now convinced, were overlooked by the police because they were seen as accidents. We already know that the late Major John Alexander Thomas, who at first we thought had died as a result of a leaking gas bottle a few days ago, was, in fact, murdered. As you know, the next-to-last doll was dressed as a major. We also know that his uniform was damaged and a large section cut away, and that the gas bottle was tampered with . . .’
One of the DCs, Rebecca Graves, put her hand up. Bradbury looked at Lapslie. He nodded. She nodded to Graves to ask her question.
‘As I remember from the papers the major died with a woman. Was she one of the dolls?’
‘No, she was just unlucky. Wrong man, wrong place, wrong time.’ Glancing around the room again, he continued with his briefing. ‘We have now checked the damaged uniform against the material on the doll, and they are a match, which I feel makes it conclusive.’
DC Parkin put his hand up this time. Lapslie nodded to Bradbury, and she gave him the okay to speak. ‘How did you get on to the major, sir?’
The Thirteenth Coffin Page 17
