The Thirteenth Coffin

by Nigel McCrery

  ‘It’s their what?’

  ‘Their children. Jane Summers, the nurse that was strangled, was, as we know, the daughter of Jack and Amelia Summers, and so it goes on. In every case bar one, our victims are the children of the members of the jury that found Dakker not guilty.’

  ‘You say bar one. Who was that?’

  ‘A model by the name of Clair Brett. She was the niece of a jury member, a man by the name of Colin Brett. Electrocuted and boiled in her own hot tub.’

  ‘Why would Dakker have an interest in revenge? They found him not guilty. Besides, didn’t he leave the country?’

  ‘He did. He moved to Australia, where he raped and killed a nineteen-year-old student by the name of Alice Henry. In a church, apparently.’

  Lapslie nodded gravely. ‘I remember now. If only that bloody jury had done its job properly, she might still be alive.’

  ‘I think that’s what her father thought too.’

  ‘You think her father is the killer?’

  Bradbury nodded, and gave him an odd half smile. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But we have no suspects by the name of Henry.’

  Bradbury continued. ‘That’s right, but that’s only because her mother and father split up when she was small and she used her mother’s maiden name of Henry.’

  ‘So what’s her real name?’

  ‘Whitefoot.’

  ‘But we have no suspects by the name of Whitefoot either,’ Lapslie pointed out.

  ‘But we do,’ Emma Bradbury said quietly, ‘have a police surgeon by the name of Whitefoot, don’t we? Jeff Whitefoot.’

  Part Ten

  Now that he had decided to readjust his plans and kill the Teacher’s Wife, it was only fair that he should make her a doll. He enjoyed making dolls, enjoyed the detailed, careful work that went into them. Of the various arts and crafts courses that had been offered to him by the psychiatrists treating him for depression after the death of his daughter, he had found doll-making to be the most therapeutic. Not that it had brought her back, of course. If it hadn’t been for that damned jury, she would be with him now. She might even have given him grandchildren by now.

  He had received the latest message from God as he was in the supermarket earlier, stocking up on supplies. This message wasn’t indirect, or subtle. This one wasn’t capable of being misinterpreted if he wasn’t paying attention. It was aimed directly at him. As he had walked past a man pushing a trolley, he had distinctly heard the man say: ‘She must give you your daughter back.’ He had turned around, shocked, but the man had been looking at the shelves, not at him. He hadn’t misheard, though, because moments later a loudspeaker had crackled to life and a voice had said: ‘If a Mr Whitefoot is present, could he please note that she should give him his daughter back. Thank you.’

  It was clear what God wanted from him. Before killing the Teacher’s Wife, he was to make her pregnant. He was going to replace the daughter lost to him. Then it wouldn’t just be death that came out of his quest, it would be life as well. That was what God wanted. That had been the end of the plan all along, not something negative, but something positive.

  She seemed like a fit, strong girl, so getting her pregnant shouldn’t really be a problem. He was a doctor, after all, and he had delivered more than a few children in his life, so that wasn’t going to be a problem. He would have to examine her to make sure she wasn’t concealing a contraceptive cap. If she was taking the pill, of course, then its effects would be dispelled very quickly once she stopped, and there would, of course, be no morning-after pill.

  He had never been one-hundred-per-cent happy about all the killings. They were necessary, he knew, and God had encouraged and protected him all along, but now, at the end of it all, his journey had led him to life, rather than death. He felt the same kind of relief that he imagined Abraham had felt when, ordered by God to kill his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, the instruction had been countermanded at the last minute. It had been a test of faith, and so was this.

  With precise movements he continued making the doll. Because this had been one of the few last-minute decisions he had made in his life, he did not have Elizabeth Turner’s clothes, so he was unable to make the doll anything to wear. In the end he decided to use sections of the hospital gown she had been wearing when he took her from the hospital. He had already cut a large chunk of hair from the back of her head and was threading it through the doll’s head, so at least he had something of her in its creation.

  Keeping her hidden for nine months was going to be the biggest problem. Getting rid of her body at the end should be relatively easy. He would need to buy her some clothes and blankets. Monitor her health, make sure she remained warm and healthy. There was a lot to think about. Once the baby was born he would finish her with a quick injection – probably insulin. Painless and quick. He would do it while she was sleeping.

  Then again, he pondered, maybe he should let her live for a while in case something happened to the child and he had to start all over again.

  So many possibilities, so many options. For the first time in a long time he felt . . . uncertain. Rather than remaining on the track that had defined his life for so many years, he had options now. Different routes. It would take time to get used to it.

  The good thing was that if everything went to plan, then both Tony Turner and Lapslie should be dead before the end of the day. The police would soon get tired of looking for Elizabeth Turner – they always did in cases of disappearance, after the first few weeks had passed by. Then he would be home free. He would, of course, have to make sure they never discovered her body. All that would do was to stir things up again. He would leave the country with the child, set up home in Canada or Australia, where awkward questions would never be asked. Instead of living the rest of his life in misery, he actually had something to look forward to.

  He finished the doll and examined it. It wasn’t a bad likeness. He was pleased with his work. All he had to do now was make the coffin, and that was it. End of story.

  This would be his last doll. He didn’t want to make any more; he wanted to finish now. Finish with the killing. With a new grandchild to care for he could at last concentrate on the living. There would be light in his life, not darkness. It was a good feeling.

  Standing, he walked across to his writing desk and began to write the last two letters, the ones that would bring an end to everything. Failing to plan was planning to fail.

  He smiled to himself as he wrote. If the new child was a girl, and wanted dolls, then he wouldn’t make them. He would just buy them.

  *

  They were parked just down the dirt road that led to Jeff Whitefoot’s isolated house: Pearce and Parkin, armed, in one car; Lapslie and Bradbury in the other. Pearce and Parkin were legally armed, although not legally on duty in the area. Bradbury was illegally armed. Lapslie she wasn’t sure about.

  As Bradbury came off her mobile, Lapslie asked, ‘So is everything still secure with Tony Turner?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve got his place tied down as tight as a drum. Three men inside guarding, two outside. Whitefoot won’t get to him easily.’

  Lapslie nodded. As he’d instructed, he’d heard Bradbury inform the team guarding Tony Turner that the likely suspect was Whitefoot, so that they were forewarned who to look out for.

  ‘Let’s just hope it’s enough.’

  Bradbury eased out a slow breath and looked ahead. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? You’re supposed to be sidelined. If we notify Rouse, he could have an armed back-up team here within a half-hour.’

  ‘Good ideas aren’t always my strongest suit,’ he said with a pained smile; then with a graver, less flippant tone, after a moment’s deliberation: ‘I want Whitefoot. I want him personally. I don’t want to read about it on the news, or watch Alan Shaw get the plaudits for bringing him down. I know the man, had more than a few heartfelt heavy drinking sessions with him.’ As he said it, he wondered whether that personal connection had blocked h
im reading the signals quicker: Whitefoot conveniently being at the original bunker scene with the tramp, the inside knowledge, the medical link, Whitefoot being the one to inform Rouse that Lapslie was the thirteenth doll, to get him off the investigation. The signs had all been there if he’d bothered to scratch deeper, and now he was partly blaming himself. He sighed. ‘If you want out, go now. I wouldn’t blame you. No point dragging yourself down with me.’

  Bradbury looked away from him. ‘You know I wouldn’t do that. Go one, go all. Besides, the job wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  Bradbury shrugged, ‘What do ex-cops do?’

  Lapslie chuckled. ‘Run a pub? Become a private investigator? Go into security?’

  Bradbury laughed. ‘I think I’d go back to college and teach.’

  Lapslie was surprised. ‘Teach! You’d end up smacking the little shits.’

  ‘I was thinking that infants are much more controllable.’

  Lapslie looked across at her. ‘You haven’t got any kids, have you?’

  Bradbury shook her head. ‘None that I’ll admit to.’

  ‘Thought not. If you had, then you wouldn’t think infants would be a pushover.’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  Before she had time to finish, her radio crackled into life.

  It was Pearce. ‘In position. Ready when you are.’

  Lapslie pulled the radio from Bradbury’s hand. They’d made sure when briefing the team to establish a secure network. ‘Make sure your safety catches are off.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, sir. Wouldn’t have thought of that.’

  Lapslie smiled. ‘Just a well-wisher. Remember, watch the back. Stay in position unless he comes your way.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘If you get a shot, don’t worry about warning him: just fire. He’s a dangerous bastard. Bradbury and I will swear we heard you shout a warning.’

  The reply came back. ‘Ten-four. We were going to do that anyway.’

  Bradbury pulled the radio back from Lapslie. ‘You ask a lot.’

  ‘I ask for justice.’

  ‘With the lives and the trust of your officers.’

  ‘That’s part of the bargain,’ he said, callously. He indicated the 9mm automatic she held in her hand, low so that it couldn’t be seen through the car window, even though nobody was around. ‘And where did that come from?’

  ‘It was a birthday present from Dom, okay?’

  ‘I would have had him tagged as a frilly lingerie man.’

  ‘No, that was my present to him.’

  Lapslie nodded, smiling. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’

  As Bradbury was about to leave he grabbed her arm. ‘What I said: the same applies to you. Shoot first . . .’

  ‘Ask questions later?’

  Lapslie smiled wolfishly. ‘Well, not if you shoot first.’

  While Lapslie made his way along the path, Bradbury covered him with her automatic. She was a good shot: had come top in her course. The trouble with courses, she thought, is no one is shooting back at you. She just hoped to God that if the good Doctor Whitefoot did make an appearance, she didn’t miss.

  A dark thought hit her: what if it wasn’t the doctor? What if it was someone else, using the doctor and his links to the murders as a cover? Bradbury had seen that more than once during her career. Although she felt the evidence was good, she had seen better evidence than that taken apart when subjected to closer scrutiny, especially in court. All they had right now was circumstantial evidence, and they were assuming a lot. What if she did shoot and kill him to protect Lapslie? She was holding an unlicensed weapon and they were there in an unofficial capacity. Bloody hell, Lapslie was even suspended. This could all blow up in her face, and she could find herself doing life in Holloway!

  During an operation as dangerous as this there should have been a perimeter set-up, Special Ops personnel armed with every weapon known to man, counter-snipers, even the SAS. Yet here they were, the four of them, none of them having fired a gun in a year. Never mind getting sent to Holloway, she thought hollowly, she would probably end up draped in a Union flag, being buried in her local churchyard. How the fuck did she allow Lapslie to get her into these situations? She wasn’t covering his life with her 9mm, she was covering his ego. He just couldn’t stand to be wrong. He couldn’t stand for another detective to take over one of his cases, and worse still, solve it. He was willing to do anything to stop that happening, even break the law, and if it came to it he would put his and more importantly her life in danger. When this was all over she owed herself a serious rethink about her relationship with him.

  *

  Pearce and Parkin had already snipped the wire on the fence. Lapslie slipped through and made his way up the path purposefully, watching all the time for any movement. There was nothing. The problem was that, given Whitefoot’s obvious skill with a sniper rifle, he would be dead and not even realize. The only chance he stood was if he managed to hear the ranging shots and got himself under cover.

  Reaching the door quickly, he rapped hard and waited, making sure he stood to one side in case a burst of fire came through the door.

  ‘Jeff? Doctor Whitefoot? It’s Mark Lapslie!’

  And that, he thought, was the closest to saying ‘Police! Open the door!’ that he was going to get.

  He glanced back at Bradbury, who seemed frozen to the spot, only her arms jerking from time to time as she covered a series of windows with her 9mm. He really didn’t know what he would do without her. She seemed to understand and accept him, warts and all. It was like a successful marriage – a professional one, but a marriage all the same. She was even willing to put her life at risk without question. That was loyalty. Who else would do that for him?

  When, after a few minutes, no one came to the door, Lapslie knocked again, only this time louder. Still nothing. He stepped back and examined the front of the house for a burglar alarm. There wasn’t one, which both surprised and pleased him. Without further ado he smashed the glass in the door, reached in and undid the lock inside. Whitefoot’s security was really poor. Lapslie was surprised. Maybe the man just didn’t want to draw attention to himself, he pondered. Odd, all the same.

  As he began to push the door open he heard Bradbury call out to him, ‘Stop, for fuck’s sake! Stop!’

  The urgency in her voice made him stop at once. Bradbury reached him quickly. ‘It was too easy, boss. Are you sure the house isn’t booby-trapped?’

  It was something that hadn’t occurred to Lapslie, but now Bradbury pointed it out it was bloody obvious. He still needed to get in, he had no choice; there was no back-up for suspended detectives. He looked at Bradbury. ‘Get back to where you were.’

  ‘You’re not thinking about going in?’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said urgently, ‘you do! What’s more important: the fact that he’s caught, or that you catch him?’

  There wasn’t even a moment’s debate in Lapslie’s mind. ‘The fact I catch him.’

  ‘Even if it costs you your life?’

  ‘Yes. Even if it costs me my life.’

  It was obvious from her face that she knew there was nothing more she could say.

  ‘Now get back to where you were; you should be safe there.’

  Bradbury suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. It was only a quick kiss, but it took Lapslie by surprise.

  She looked into his face. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea: that was just a goodbye kiss.’ With that, she turned and ran back to her former position.

  Bemused, Lapslie turned and began to feel around the door, searching for tripwires. Bombs were simple; women were complicated. There were no wires. Pushing the door open, he sank slowly onto his hands and knees and crawled inside, searching for any signs of a pressure plate. He took it slowly, feeling his way along the corridor. Finally, and feeling satisfied that there was nothing, he stood. It was time to take a risk. If he
was blown apart that was his own lookout. Bradbury and the boys were safe and they all knew enough to nick Whitefoot. Either way, the police surgeon was finished.

  He moved slowly from room to room. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for: he just knew he would recognize it if he saw it. Nothing grabbed at his attention. No dolls, no pictures, nothing relating to the SAS, just what he would expect an average middle-class doctor’s house to be. Finally, satisfied that everything was okay, he waved Bradbury inside.

  ‘So did you find anything incriminating?’

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing.’

  ‘So there’s still a chance it might not be Doctor Whitefoot?’

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, it’s him all right.’

  ‘But you haven’t got any evidence; how can you be so sure?’

  ‘Gut feeling.’

  Bradbury wasn’t convinced. ‘It’s not enough, sir. Just because he’s the obvious one doesn’t mean he did it. This could be one big set-up.’

  Lapslie looked at her. ‘By whom?’

  ‘The real killer. It’s been done before. Remember the Bobby Clarke case?’

  ‘That was a one-off.’

  ‘The Jimmy Henshaw job?’

  ‘Another one-off.’

  Bradbury wasn’t impressed. ‘Can’t you see what I’m trying to say?’

  ‘Yes, that Whitefoot’s innocent.’

  ‘No. I’m trying to say that we don’t know for sure he’s guilty. It’s not the same thing.’

  Lapslie knew she meant well, but she was wrong. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’

  Suddenly Lapslie’s phone went off, making both detectives jump. Bradbury was astonished. ‘You left your bloody phone on when there might have been a bomb in the house?’

  Lapslie shrugged, and clicked the answer button. ‘Hello, Chief Inspector Lapslie. Yes, okay. What? Oh, bollocks.’

  Lapslie turned his phone off, pushing it deep into his pocket.

  ‘Trouble at t’mill, sir?’

  Lapslie scowled. ‘Some bastard has broken into my gaff.’