The Thirteenth Coffin (11 page)

Lapslie nodded. ‘Okay. So what happened?’

‘When she brought it in, someone had cut a big section out of it. Not just slashed it, but cut out a bloody great square . . .’

Lapslie was intrigued. ‘What, and took the piece away?’

Both men nodded at once.

‘So what did she do?’

Her father continued: ‘She was very upset, but, as ever, she sorted it out. Problem-solver, like I said. She took some material from inside the dress and she and her aunt did a sort of invisible mend. You couldn’t even see where it had been damaged. It was remarkable, really.’

‘And when did this happen?’

‘About two weeks before the wedding.’

Remarkable
indeed, Lapslie thought; but if Mike Stowell hadn’t been around for the past two weeks, then he couldn’t have been responsible for that, or for Leslie Petersen’s murder. He asked whether Stowell was currently on a tour of duty. ‘Either in Afghanistan or elsewhere?’

Alan Cooke answered. ‘He’s been on leave.’

‘For how long?’

‘The past five months.’

Lapslie’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s an unusually long leave. What’s the reason for that?’

Alan Cooke mulled his mouth for a second, as if the implications of what he was about to say had left a bitter taste.

‘Because, according to Robert, he’s been suffering combat stress, PTSD. What they used to call battle fatigue.’

Lapslie nodded slowly. PTSD was often Armed Forces shorthand for various psychological disorders.

*

Emma Bradbury was standing in the small wood that surrounded the secret entrance to the fall-out bunker. She was watching carefully as the Special Operations team did a fingertip search of the ground. They had formed a line at the far side of the wood, and then moved forward slowly on their hands and knees; photographing, picking up and tagging anything that might be of interest. Most of it wasn’t, but they still had to do it.

Jim Thomson and his SOCO team were also there, taking samples of the different grasses, plants and soil in case they had to match them against any of the suspects’ clothing. If there were suspects.

Bradbury’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and checked the screen. Lapslie. Walking away from Jim Thomson and the Special Operations unit, she answered it. ‘Sir?’

The signal inside the wood wasn’t strong, and Lapslie’s voice was weak, but Bradbury could just about hear him.

‘How’s the search going?’

‘Slowly, but I don’t mind. They’re doing a good job, and rather them than me. They’re covering every inch of the ground. We do have a bit of a problem though . . .’

‘What’s that?’

‘Superintendent Rouse has been on the phone. Or rather, his PA has been on the phone. He says that I only have them until the end of the day, and then they have to report back to force HQ for redeployment.’

Lapslie sighed. ‘I suspected he’d do that, I just didn’t expect him to act quite so quickly. But thankfully we’ve had a possible breakthrough, so try to at least get the fingertip search finished, plus anything else you think we need, then get yourself over to the following address.’ Lapslie read out Mike Stowell’s address and explained about him being Leslie’s past boyfriend, jilted while on duty in Afghanistan. ‘I’ll meet up with you there.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘Certainly does. We’ll haul him in for questioning, search his house for any weapon and run forensics on everything in his house. So take Thomson and his team with you. Later today or first thing tomorrow we also need to be back with Thomson at the church to search the wall around and above the main door where Leslie was shot.’

‘How high above the main door?’

‘To roof level.’

‘And what are we looking for?’

‘Bullet holes, bullet fragments. Although she was hit by one bullet, our killer might have made some ranging shots first. If he did, I want to find out where they ended up, and see if we can recover the ammunition. That will help with a match if we find the rifle.’

‘I’ll wrap up here as quick as I can and see you shortly, sir.’

Lapslie hung up, and Bradbury turned her attention to Inspector Brooke, the commander of the Special Operations Unit. ‘Sir, we’ve only got until the end of the day, and I can only stay here a further half-hour. So can you get your boys to move it along a bit?’

He nodded. ‘I can, but it won’t be quite so detailed.’

‘Can’t it be quick
and
detailed?’

Brooke smiled at her. ‘I’ll have a word.’

As he said it there was a shout from one of the officers at the end of the group. ‘Over here!’

Both Bradbury and Brooke moved across quickly to where the officer was kneeling, making sure to remain behind their line. By the time they reached him he had marked the location of the object he had found with a
large yellow peg. The object was small, black and square in shape. Bradbury couldn’t quite make out what it was.

Brooke handed him a clear plastic exhibit bag, and the officer picked the object up carefully with a pair of tweezers and dropped it inside the bag before sealing it and handing it to Bradbury. She held it up for both herself and Brooke to examine. It was a small but perfectly made teacher’s mortar board: the type Bradbury had seen students strutting about in during their graduation at posh schools. It even had a small tassel. It came from one of the dolls: the teacher doll that had been removed from the bunker, almost certainly, if Lapslie was to be believed, by Leslie Petersen’s killer. He must have been in a bit of a panic to drop it and not realize. It wasn’t much, but at least now she knew that the killer did make mistakes.

Bradbury noticed that the toy mortar board had been found next to a small path that seemed to lead from the edge of the wood to the manhole cover that sat over the bunker. Leaving Brooke with the exhibit, she followed the path to the edge of the wood. She scanned the scene but there was nothing, not even a tyre mark. About two hundred metres in front of the wood was an opening, which she knew led onto the B1053.

She walked up to it and looked each way. As she looked to her left and right she noticed that there were yellow-boxed speed cameras on both sides of the road. She wondered whether, having slipped up the once, the killer might have slipped up for a second time. There might be a picture of his car and his number plate, and with cameras on both sides of the road it wouldn’t matter which way he’d gone. It was a shot in the dark, but if they struck gold with this past Army boyfriend and got a plate match with his car, then it closed that particular circle.

*

‘Can you please state your name for the record?’

‘Michael Gerald Stowell.’

Bradbury got confirmation of his age, twenty-eight, and address, then informed Stowell that she would be conducting the interview with Chief Inspector Lapslie.

‘Also present is solicitor Giles Brent, representing the accused, Michael Stowell, and the purpose of this interview concerns the murder of Leslie Petersen, whom we believe to have been known to the accused.’

They were in an interview room deep in the bowels of Chelmsford HQ, one floor below street level. Lapslie and Brent announced themselves for the benefit of the tape,
then Bradbury’s opening questions revolved around Stowell’s past relationship with Leslie.

‘And how did you feel when she dumped you?’

‘Cut up, of course.’

‘Cut up enough to kill her?’

Brent looked uncomfortable at the comment, but Stowell answered before he could intervene.

‘Of course not. I was really hurt at the time – but got over it long ago.’

Lapslie watched Stowell intently. He preferred Bradbury to handle the opening, perfunctory questions, because then the contrast and element of surprise invariably gave more of an edge to his own questions. He leant forward across the interview table.

‘Yes. We can see how “hurt” you were from your email at the time.’ Lapslie passed across a sheet of paper. ‘Is this the email you sent to Leslie Petersen just after she dumped you?’

Stowell’s face reddened slightly as he glanced at it. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Would you care to read it out for us.’ Lapslie held a hand out and smiled tightly. ‘And also of course for the benefit of the tape.’

‘I . . . I don’t know how you could do that to me . . .’
Stowell stumbled on the opening words before getting into his flow, though his face got steadily redder – ‘Surrounded here by nothing but desert, dust and bullets, all I could do was think of you and the moment I’d see you again. And meanwhile all you were thinking about was another man. You couldn’t have hurt me more if you’d put a bullet through my heart.’

Lapslie waited a second after Stowell had stopped reading. ‘Given that email, “hurt” and “cut up” might seem gross understatements of how you felt at the time. Indeed “bullet through my heart” is how you felt – an apt choice of words, given that’s exactly how Leslie died on her wedding day.’

‘That’s how I felt at the time,’ Stowell blustered, ‘but not now. Like I said, I got over it.’

‘Did you now?’ Lapslie eyed Stowell keenly. ‘So how is it that over four months ago you were given leave due to PTSD?’

Stowell’s head slumped a fraction. ‘Okay, I’ve been depressed, but I’ve been getting treatment for that and—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Brent cut in. ‘My client doesn’t need to go into detail about his current PTSD treatment, or indeed how or why it came about.’

‘We believe it to be relevant to the investigation.’

‘That’s as may be. But that doesn’t require my client to reveal details of his current PTSD treatment, much of which might not be relevant. Indeed, it is the standard treatment for many a British soldier as a result of conflict and battle stress.’

Lapslie wondered whether there was a compensation claim in the wings, which Stowell’s solicitor feared might be compromised. Certainly Giles Brent had appeared at short notice; they hadn’t had to summon a duty solicitor. Lapslie looked down, turning a page in his file.

‘But certainly your client’s leave due to PTSD would have placed him in the UK at the time of Leslie Petersen’s murder. Which brings me to your whereabouts on the day in question.’ Lapslie looked up from the file, eyes shifting from Brent to rest keenly on Stowell. ‘So can you tell me, Mr Stowell, where you were on the twenty-seventh of June between the hours of 11 a.m. and noon?’

Stowell exchanged a glance with Brent before answering. ‘I was in the Dundee Café on Stanton Road for most of that time.’

Bradbury consulted her folder with a small map
inside. ‘So just over half a mile from where Leslie Petersen was shot.’

‘I suppose. If you say so.’

Brent gave his client a sharp look; the first so far. Obviously understanding his client’s frustration, but chiding him not to let it show.

Lapslie sensed this was the tensest cat-and-mouse part of the interview, but Stowell had little room to manoeuvre. Their search of his computer earlier had yielded a treasure trove. They knew exactly where he was meant to be and at what time, and because Stowell and Brent were informed of the search, they knew it too, thus the look between them. Lapslie picked up again.

‘You say
most
of that time. What time did you leave the Dundee Café?’

‘At just before 11.40 a.m.’

‘So a good ten to twelve minutes before your ex-girlfriend was shot.’

Lapslie could see that Stowell was tempted to offer another ‘If you say so’, but with a guarded look from Brent, he bit his lip. Lapslie too held back on his next intended question of whether anyone had seen Stowell leave the café. Since Stowell had admitted leaving in time to do the shooting, the question was redundant.

‘And who did you meet at the café?’

‘I was
meant
to meet an old Army buddy, Barry Dennell – but he didn’t show.’

‘Oh. And why’s that?’

‘I don’t know. I tried him a couple of times on his mobile, but he didn’t answer.’ Stowell shrugged. ‘Would have kept trying him if you hadn’t hauled me in.’

‘Rather convenient. Your Army friend emails you to meet up, but then doesn’t show up.’ Lapslie raised a brow. ‘What did you do? Email yourself posing as your friend so that you had an excuse to be in the area that you could blame on him?’

‘That’s not how it happened. You can check.’

‘Oh, believe me, we will.’ Lapslie noticed the tattoo on Stowell’s forearm. He nodded towards it. ‘So who is Matilda tattooed across the heart and roses? Another past girlfriend?’

‘No. That’s my mother,’ Stowell said flatly. ‘She died just over a year ago.’

‘Mother dying, girlfriend dumping you. I can quite easily see how that would push many a man over the edge.’

Brent reached across and touched Stowell’s forearm. It could have been to console, but it looked too firm for
that; a ‘Don’t rise to it’ gesture. Stowell didn’t answer, just glared back.

But while Lapslie had him reeling, he didn’t feel like letting him off. ‘So where do the fireman, the teacher and the others come into it? Did they slight you too – in some way you felt they were also responsible for the split with Leslie? Talk badly about you, did they?’

Stowell looked nonplussed, and, with a quick glance towards his client, Brent’s brow furrowed. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector. And it’s clear my client doesn’t either. I do hope it’s connected with this inquiry now.’

‘Yes, very much so. We fear there may be some other connected murders.’ Lapslie didn’t feel like elaborating – certainly not until he had more proof and some firm connection to the others outside of just a collection of dolls. And Stowell’s expression gave little away. He flipped back a page in his file. ‘But let’s return now to your Army days before your PTSD-related leave. Were you a sniper at any time during your Army service?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘For how long?’

‘The last two years before my leave.’

No hesitation from Stowell, Lapslie noted; but again these were areas that Brent knew they’d have checked, so he’d have pressed upon his client the importance of answering straightforwardly; with no hedging which might hint at dishonesty.

‘And what rifle did you generally use?’