The Thirteenth Coffin

by Nigel McCrery

  Lapslie thought for a moment then stood. ‘Okay, let’s get going. Like you said: not a moment to lose.’

  Ignoring the speed limits and the flashing speed cameras, Lapslie and Bradbury arrived outside Kate Dale’s house in record time. Bradbury had tried to ring her from the car but there was no reply, which was a worry, though there could be a thousand reasons for that. Pulling up outside her home, both detectives sprinted down the short path to her front door. Before they could knock, however, the door opened and Kate stood before them.

  ‘I was right, then,’ she said before they could open their mouths. ‘The answer was inside the book?’

  Lapslie nodded. ‘Almost. Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain.’

  The two detectives walked into the sitting room. Without bothering to sit down, Lapslie turned to Kate Dale. ‘Kate, you were right about the book. We discovered some names inside that we need your help with.’

  She nodded expectantly. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Do the names Summers, Cohen and Campbell mean anything to you?’ Lapslie searched her face for any sign of recognition. There was none. He tried again. ‘They were in your scrapbook. They went to your husband’s funeral. Jack and Amelia Sampson, Arlene Campbell and Joseph Cohen.’

  ‘The Campbells, I remember. So sad – they lost their daughter a few years before Richard died.’

  ‘How did you know them?’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t really. They were friends of Richard’s father. I met them at a barbecue at Richard’s parents’ house. They were a very nice couple.’

  ‘In what way were they friends with Richard’s parents?’

  ‘They were on the same jury as his father.’

  ‘Jury?’

  ‘Yes. It was a murder case that went on for a while, so they all got to know each other quite well. It took them a fortnight to come to a verdict, so they were all stuck in the same hotel together. Some of them kept in touch after that. They used to go on holiday together.’

  Bradbury cut in with what she thought was the obvious question. ‘Can you remember the name of the defendant?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘No, sorry, but I think he was found not guilty, if that helps.’

  ‘Not guilty?’ Bradbury was surprised. She had already begun to formulate a theory about a vengeance-crazed killer killing off jury members, but Kate’s last statement had just blown the theory to hell. ‘Can you remember when the trial took place?’

  Kate shook her head again. ‘No. But it was a while ago.’

  ‘Before 2007?’

  Lapslie’s mobile rang. With a muffled apology, he answered it, indicating with a wave of his hand that Bradbury should continue the interview.

  Kate nodded. ‘I think so. Can’t you check?’

  ‘We can,’ Bradbury said. ‘What about Richard’s father: do you think he would remember?’

  ‘No, he died last year. He was a strong man, but Richard’s death broke him. Bit like the Summerses and their daughter.’

  Bradbury nodded sympathetically. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask. ‘I’m sorry: I’m afraid we have to go. If anything else comes to mind please call us as quickly as you can.’

  She nodded. ‘I will.’ She suddenly looked torn. ‘When will I get my scrapbook back?’

  Without knowing Lapslie’s plans, Bradbury extemporized. ‘I’ll get one of the team to drop it around to you over the next couple of days.’

  ‘Will you let me know what happens?

  Bradbury nodded. ‘That’s a promise . . .’

  Before she could say any more, Lapslie called across. He had his hand over the mobile’s microphone. ‘We have to get to the hospital. There’s been an incident.’

  *

  He had taken a leaf out of Lapslie’s book when it came to buying his home. It was isolated. His nearest neighbour was over two miles away, and you could only reach the house via a mile-long dirt road at the end of which was an electronic gate and video camera. He had the house surrounded with cameras.

  He slowed as he approached the electronic gate, and used his remote control to open it. It swung away from him silently. He drove in, and glanced in his rear-view mirror to check that it was closing properly. Approaching the garage door, he used another remote control to open that door and parked the car inside. The garage was built against the side of his house, with a connecting door allowing him to come and go by car without actually having to step outside. Once he was parked up and the door firmly closed he made his way to the boot and pulled Elizabeth Turner out by her hair, slapping her hard when she struggled. He had to keep her terrified: that way she would remain under his control and was less likely to do anything stupid, like try to escape. He looked into her face.

  ‘There are rules. You speak only when I tell you to. If you do anything I don’t like, then I will shoot you like I would shoot a rabid dog. Do I make myself clear?’

  She went to speak, ‘Ye . . .’ but then thought better of it and nodded her head instead.

  He smiled. ‘Good. We are getting to understand each other.’

  With that, and still pulling her by the hair, he dragged her into his kitchen, and from there into the cellar. The cellar was dark and smelled of damp, but it was clean. He prided himself on keeping things clean, neat and tidy.

  A single mattress was pushed up against the far wall. Above the mattress was a large metal hoop, which had been fixed into the wall about two feet above the ground. Pulling her over to it, he threw her onto the mattress, pushing her face down. With his knee pushed firmly into her back, he released the handcuffs from her hands, but it wasn’t to be for long. Spinning her around, he attached her hands to the metal hoop with the handcuffs. She wouldn’t meet his gaze: her eyes were red and weepy, and she was making a sad snuffling sound. He pulled at her hands to make sure the cuffs were tight enough and then, without another word, he made his way back up the stone staircase to the kitchen.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back briefly. She really was a beautiful woman, and she had a magnificent body which she clearly looked after. What the hell was she doing with a teacher? She could have done so much better.

  When it was her time, he decided, he would make it quick. Probably while she was sleeping. She had suffered enough.

  He finally turned the cellar light off and closed the door, tightly locking and bolting it. He listened for a while. At first there was only the sound of her breathing, but then he heard a series of muffled sobs that sounded like her heart was being torn out.

  *

  The ‘incident’ was the shooting of two police officers and the kidnapping of Elizabeth Turner from the local general hospital. By the time Lapslie and Bradbury arrived, the place was teeming with people. Not just the murder squad, SOCOs and uniforms, but more press than Lapslie could ever remember seeing before. At least six TV cameras, countless photographers and more reporters than you could shake a shitty stick at.

  After having their names taken and the registration number of their car recorded by the booking officer, Lapslie and Bradbury were waved through and directed to a parking place. After that they were escorted from their car to the corridor where the double murder and the kidnapping had occurred.

  Jeff Whitefoot, the police surgeon whom Lapslie had last seen at the decommissioned nuclear bunker, standing over the body of the tramp, was just leaving, grim-faced and as purposeful as ever. Behind him, Jim Thomson, the senior SOCO, appeared, holding two light blue overalls and cover shoes.

  ‘Put these on and keep to the platforms when you’re crossing the scene.’

  They kept to the platforms, which raised their feet above the floor and stopped them contaminating it. Entering the hospital room, Lapslie was struck by the smell of faecal matter. It was the unacknowledged result of sudden death: the bowels and bladder voided themselves. Nobody ever told the families, of course. It was a secret of the job.

  Lapslie stopped by the first body and looked down at it. There were two distinct
holes in the head where the bullets had entered, but no obvious exit wounds. There was a look of complete shock on the officer’s face. His life had been snuffed out in an instant and he must have had no idea of what had happened to him, yet somewhere deep in his subconscious the fact that he had lost his life so suddenly, so unexpectedly, had sent a shock through the rest of his body. This awful despair manifested itself through his face, twisting it into the ugly mask Lapslie could now see before him. This man was not at rest, nor would ever be: he’d lost too much too early.

  Bradbury cut into his thoughts. ‘PC Tom Spencer.’

  Lapslie nodded. There was nothing he could say. Even now, after all these years and all the death he had dealt with, there was still something appalling at seeing one of your own lying dead, murdered in the service of his community. The truth was, it could have been any of them, at any time.

  Bradbury continued: ‘He was married, with a young son.’

  Lapslie stood slowly, and turned to the second body. The female constable lay flat on her back, her face staring blankly up at the ceiling.

  ‘PC Susan Cradock.’

  Despite her efforts to conceal it, Lapslie detected a strong hint of emotion in Bradbury’s voice. He looked across at her and caught her wiping something from her eye. ‘You okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, I went to her wedding.’

  ‘Good police officer?’

  ‘The very best. Top of everything. She’d have been a chief constable one day, and not because she said the right things, but because she did the right things.’

  Lapslie looked at her sympathetically. ‘I can book you off the inquiry for a few days, if it helps.’

  Bradbury’s face hardened. ‘No. I want this bastard like I’ve never wanted anyone before. I’ll stay until it’s over.’

  Lapslie looked back at WPC Cradock. Her face seemed so much calmer than Spencer’s. It was odd how two people could have died in the same way at the same time and yet look so different. He wondered bleakly whether in death personalities rose to the surface, imprinting themselves one final time.

  ‘Can I have a word, Chief Inspector?’

  Chief Superintendent Alan Rouse stood in the doorway, glaring at him. Whatever he wanted to say, Lapslie knew it wasn’t going to be good. He followed Rouse out of the ward and into the fire-escape stairwell; the same one Elizabeth Turner had apparently been taken down when she was kidnapped.

  ‘What the fuck has happened, Mark?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was self-evident.’

  ‘New question, then: why the fuck has it happened? Why only two constables, why wasn’t she taken to a safe house? What the hell is going on?’

  ‘She was guarded by two of our top firearms personnel. There were another four police officers outside the hospital. It’s more than the book tells us to do.’

  ‘But it wasn’t enough, was it, Mark? We have two dead officers and a kidnapped victim, who we should have been looking after.’

  ‘Whoever he is,’ Lapslie pointed out, staring at the wall, ‘he is not your average killer.’ He sighed. ‘I didn’t see it coming. I thought his target would be her husband. It never occurred to me he would go for the wife.’

  ‘No, it didn’t, did it?’ He made a growling noise, deep in his throat. ‘What do you expect me to tell the media? They’re all camped outside, waiting for a statement.’

  ‘With respect, sir, that’s your problem. My problem is finding Elizabeth Turner before something bad happens to her.’

  ‘That’s not your problem any more. I’m sorry, Mark, but I’m moving you to one side. I want you to be an adviser, not the senior investigating officer.’

  Lapslie was stunned. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with your judgement, and it won’t affect your permanent record.’

  Lapslie felt anger growing within him. ‘Then why? I’m close to an arrest, sir, I know I am.’

  ‘Even if that was true, I need you to step back. I’m putting Alan Shaw in charge. He’s ready for the move up.’

  ‘Why?’ Lapslie asked bluntly.

  ‘Because you can’t investigate the case if you are part of it.’

  Silence, while Lapslie digested the words. ‘You’ve heard about the thirteenth coffin, then?’

  ‘I was told.’

  ‘Who by?’

  Rouse hesitated for a moment, obviously wondering whether or not to spill the beans. Eventually, he said: ‘Jeff Whitefoot told me.’

  ‘Jeff?’ Lapslie sighed. He’d known the police surgeon for years. It just went to prove that you couldn’t trust anyone. ‘I can still lead the inquiry. Knowing I might be a target doesn’t frighten me.’

  ‘It frightens me, Mark. I don’t want you front and centre on the inquiry when some madman is taking aim. I can’t afford to lose you. I want you somewhere isolated, protected. And need I point out that if you make an arrest, and if it comes out at the trial that you were a potential target, the defence solicitor will call “Foul!” and have the case thrown out?’

  Lapslie sighed. He knew Rouse had a point, which was why he hadn’t wanted the man to know. ‘What about Sergeant Bradbury?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s up to Inspector Shaw—’

  Lapslie cut in. ‘Make sure he keeps her on and I’ll follow orders like a good little boy,’ he said bitterly.

  Rouse nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  Decision made, Rouse put his hand out. ‘No hard feelings, Mark. I’m sure it will all be for the best. Shaw will make an arrest. What I want you to do is spend your time going over all your old cases. If this murderer wants you dead then he has a reason, and that reason must have to do with something from your past. Work out what it is.’

  Lapslie shook the outstretched hand, turned and walked away without saying anything. He didn’t trust himself to be diplomatically correct.

  *

  Lapslie knew he needed to get out of everyone’s way, and away from the situation. The obvious place wasn’t his rather remote cottage, but his boat. Few people knew its mooring place. He had no intention of going to sea, though.

  He knew the next part of the inquiry was very much Bradbury’s, and she would have to be quick about it. Lapslie didn’t trust Rouse, or Shaw. They would want their own favourites in on a high-profile arrest like the one they were hoping for.

  Lapslie spent most of the first day with George getting his boat out of the water and onto ramps ready for painting; the only remaining task that George had advised needed seeing to after the recent fix-up. He had picked up enough food to last for a day or so and was happy to sleep inside the boat’s cabin overnight. In fact he rather enjoyed the experience. He just needed to keep himself busy until Bradbury turned up with news.

  The next day was much like the last. He worked on the boat with George sanding and rubbing, but Bradbury didn’t call. In the lull moments his mind drifted to his previous cases, trawling for someone who might want revenge, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them. His thoughts kept on circling back to Elizabeth Turner, kidnapped, and Tony Turner, her husband, who must be frantic with worry. Lapslie was too involved, and it mattered too much. Besides, he thought, what if Shaw did come up with the solution all on his own? What if Lapslie had been barking up the wrong tree all this time? That was the point, he decided, at which he would have to sail away into the sunset.

  On the third day, Bradbury finally arrived. DCs Parkin and Pearce were with her. He took Bradbury to one side. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

  ‘They’ve come to help.’

  ‘Can they be trusted?’

  Bradbury nodded. ‘They can be trusted. They hate Shaw more than you do. Besides, as far as they are concerned, it’s better the Devil you know.’

  ‘Were you seen coming down here? If I were Rouse then I would have a surveillance team assigned to me, just in case the killer switches targets.’

  Bradbury indicate
d Parkin and Pearce. ‘Meet your observation team.’

  ‘That must have taken some doing.’

  ‘Just a bit of fiddling with the duty roster.’

  Lapslie looked at them for a moment. ‘Okay, all aboard and I’ll get the kettle on . . .’

  ‘Any chance of a bacon butty, sir?’

  Halfway through his second bacon sandwich, Lapslie asked the obvious question.

  ‘So how’s Shaw getting on?’

  ‘Reorganizing,’ Bradbury replied.

  ‘So . . . breaking up the team?’

  Bradbury nodded. ‘That’s about it.’

  Parkin said: ‘Oh yes, this somehow managed to find its way into my bag. Must have fallen in as I left the office.’ He handed Lapslie two large A4 envelopes. ‘It’s copies of all the relevant stuff from the inquiry. Names, addresses, phone numbers.’

  Putting down her tea and clearing her throat, Bradbury continued: ‘We discovered a few more things as well.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Remember the people at Richard Dale’s funeral: the ones that had all sat on the same jury?’

  Lapslie nodded.

  ‘Well, the trial they were on was in 2004. It was the trial of a man called Edward Dakker.’

  ‘The rapist?’

  ‘The alleged rapist. Remember, he was found not guilty.’

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘Like hell. Especially considering what happened.’

  ‘Anyway, we’ve managed to track down the names of all the people on the jury.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Just normal, everyday people called for service, like thousands before and since. Anyway, obviously the evidence wasn’t strong enough, so they released him . . .’

  Lapslie was disturbed. ‘I know, I remember. I was the senior investigating officer. I was gutted when he walked free. Couldn’t understand it.’

  ‘Well, whatever the reason, the jury did understand it. They made the decision.’

  ‘But it isn’t them being murdered, is it?’

  Bradbury shook her head. ‘No, it’s their children.’