The Thirteenth Coffin (2 page)

The other thing that flashed through her mind was that she thought she recognized her murderer. In fact, she was sure that
she knew him, and of all the people in her life he was the last one she would ever have considered a threat or a danger. But here he was: her nemesis. She had always been such a bad judge of character.

These were her final thoughts. A few moments later, everything that she could see, smell, hear and feel just folded up on itself and vanished into the darkness.

*

Lapslie continued battling against the storm in his dream, and so he wasn’t sure if they’d actually made it or the storm had won and he was going through his version of a drowning man’s reflections.

All due to his recent obsession with sailing. It had started simply enough, when he’d gone for a day out on the North Sea with a friend, and the odd thing was that he hadn’t been sure about the idea in the first place. The thought of bobbing around on grey water under grey clouds for hours on end really didn’t appeal to him. Finally and reluctantly he was persuaded, and he had enjoyed it so much that he’d enrolled at a sailing school in Clacton-on-Sea and become a qualified sailor.

Once the training was out of the way he then brought his 24-foot Mazury. Made of fibreglass, beautiful lines, teak decks, four berths, and it hadn’t cost him an arm
and a leg. It even had a 6 hp outboard motor, not that he used it much – he was far too concerned about the effect its distinctive sound would have on his synaesthesia, which transformed and merged noise with smell and taste. Besides he hardly needed it, the boat had sailed like a dream. When he was out on the water all his troubles seemed to drift away. They all seemed land-bound, unable to follow him across the water. As he looked back at the disappearing horizon he knew he couldn’t be troubled any more.

It was strange: none of the numerous and particular sounds that surrounded him when he was at sea seemed to have any effect on his synaesthesia. The splash of the water against the hull, the wind in the sails, the flags and pendants fluttering out until the halyards rattled. Even the screeching of the inquisitive and ever-hungry seagulls that occasionally followed the boat didn’t seem to translate into tastes in his mouth the way that traffic noise, conversation and all the other sounds on land did. There was nothing, not a single discernible effect. In the water he was free, free to think, free to calculate, free to be himself for the first time in many years.

Maybe it was something to do with the drug he was taking to counter the effects – thorazitol. At first the pills
had almost completely suppressed the synaesthesia, but he had began to experience side-effects – hallucinations and strange random thoughts – and so, on his consultant’s advice, he had cut back on the dosage until the side-effects stopped. That still left him with a stub of synaesthesia, but nothing like the scale that he had been experiencing over the past few years.

Lapslie had become used to his own company through necessity. At first he hated it, but as months drifted into years, he had grown to love it, and now even craved it. Being alone, surrounded by water, with a calm and untroubled mind, was the pinnacle of everything he’d searched for. A sort of natural healing.

Alone
. Reflecting on how sailing had served at first to heal his own personal ills, he found himself self-castigating for now bringing Charlotte along, putting her through this nightmare ordeal. What had he been thinking of? Or had his desire for them to have a weekend away together prevailed over his thirst for quiet personal space when sailing, one selfishness winning out on the other?

The vibration from his mobile phone broke into Lapslie’s sleep, startling him, sending a wash of bitter coffee across his taste buds. He was slow to rouse, pulling the
covers over his head for a moment. The phone kept vibrating insistently until finally he reached out for it.

‘Lapslie.’ As he answered it, his voice husky and still sleepy, he glanced across at the clock: 5.40 p.m. Two hours’ nap since Charlotte had gone ashore. The last of the storm had blown through hours ago and was now no more than a gentle lapping against the hull in the Cowes harbour mooring. Charlotte had taken a taxi to the Villa Rothsay Hotel while Lapslie had elected to stay aboard and wait for George.

Thankfully George had stayed in Portsmouth overnight to catch up with some old mates and would inspect any damage before sailing the boat back to Clacton. And having made all the arrangements, the exertion of battling the storm and the pre-lunch wine had caught up with him and he’d fallen into a deep sleep. He glanced through the porthole towards the dockside. George should be here soon.

Lapslie recognized the voice at the other end instantly. Although the taste of her voice had shifted over the years, it always had a sort of citrusy tang to it. Of all the voices he had tasted over the years her voice was the only one that had that taste. It was Emma Bradbury.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir . . .’

Lapslie cut her short. ‘But not sorry enough to avoid doing so? You know I’m not on call and this is a weekend away for me.’

Bradbury acknowledged with a sigh. ‘No, sir, I realize that, but Chief Superintendent Rouse sends his compliments and says that he would like you involved in this.’

Lapslie sat up sharper. ‘What exactly is “this”?’

‘A possible murder, sir.’

Lapslie wasn’t impressed. ‘Possible? I tell you what, when it’s definite then call me back. And where the hell is Chalky White? – he’s the one on call.’

‘Already committed with a stabbing, I’m afraid . . .’

‘Is that a “possible” too?’

‘No sir.’ The citrus of her voice was tinged with strawberry – a sign of irritation. ‘The victim is dead, it
is
a murder, and an arrest has already been made.’

‘Well that makes things easy for him. What’s that, his first murder this year?’

Bradbury didn’t reply, not wanting to get involved in office politics or rivalries. Lapslie couldn’t blame her. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to be conciliatory, ‘where is it?’

‘A few miles from Abberton Reservoir.’

‘Where’s that when it’s at home?’

‘The nearest village is . . . give me a second . . .’ She
paused for a moment, consulting someone out of range of the microphone. ‘The rather improbably named Layer de la Haye. I’ll text the postcode through.’

‘Okay. But I’m on the Isle of Wight right now, so it’ll take me a few hours. You’ll have to hang on meanwhile.’

‘Understood. I’ll grab some tea and leave a constable to secure the scene.’

Lapslie hung up. Well, that was the end of his weekend plans – though any more sailing had been scotched in any case. It was at times like this that he seriously thought about resigning or going off on extended sick leave. Christ, if
he
wasn’t entitled to sick leave, then surely no one was. The trouble was he could really do with leaving due to some injury he had received while on duty, rather than thanks to a personal condition. He would get more money that way. With an early pension and a large lump sum he could upgrade his boat and just fuck off into the sunset.

Lapslie pulled himself back to reality. It was a stupid idea, if for no other reason than the fact that he needed a bit more sailing experience under his belt – as the storm had made patently clear. No, it would be at least another year before he was in a position to realize his dream. He would have to tread water until then.

Half-smiling at his own inner joke, he looked up as a rapping came against the porthole and George’s face beamed from the other side.

*

It took just under three hours to make the journey, and Lapslie’s senses were sharpened rather than jaded from having driven flat out; he knew it would catch up with him later that night and he’d no doubt crash out.

A familiar sight met him at the crime scene. Arcs of white and flashing blue lights illuminated the area, giving it a surreal look. More like a street in Las Vegas than a British murder scene. White-suited SOCOs moved around with purposeful energy, while detectives in ill-fitting suits seemed to be wandering at random, looking for their next mug of coffee while trying to appear interested and useful. Lapslie drove slowly up to the checkpoint. He flashed his ID at the young pale-faced uniform on the gate. The lad was only there keeping the log because no one had any idea what else to do with him.

Most of the constabulary knew who Lapslie was by his reputation alone, but this young probationer clearly didn’t. ‘Can I have your name for the record, sir?’

Lapslie stared at him. ‘Chief Inspector Lapslie,’ he said, after a marked pause.

Lapslie’s name at least seemed to spark some recognition. ‘Oh right, sir, yes, please go through.’

The lad stood back and saluted. It was the first time Lapslie had been saluted for a long time, and he found he quite liked it. He nodded and drove through the taped cordon. Rank he considered allowed you a few privileges, like not having to stop and answer questions from some snotty-nosed probationer standing at a checkpoint in the middle of nowhere. Still, Lapslie supposed, he was only trying to do his job.

He parked his car by the sign marked ‘Senior Investigating Officer’ – another perk he enjoyed and appreciated. Wherever he went these days there was always a special parking place for him. On this occasion he was impressed at the speed with which the sign had been erected. He probably had Bradbury to thank for that.

As he stepped from the car and looked around he had a sudden feeling that people were moving away from him, not wanting to get too close. It was as if he was infected with some nasty and very contagious disease. In a way he supposed that he was, only it wasn’t contagious. There was a time when only he and Rouse had known about the synaesthesia, but now it was common knowledge. Still it was good to see his detectives
moving with some purpose, even if that purpose was only to get away from him.

A figure emerged from a dark corner of the field. Lapslie had trouble identifying it at first due to the glare of one of the powerful arc lamps he had stupidly stood in front of.

‘Bradbury?’

‘Sir.’

‘How are you?’

‘Tired. It was my day off too. They called me in about an hour before I called you.’

Lapslie looked at her for a moment. ‘Clearly Rouse thinks you are more important than I am. Should I watch my back?’

Bradbury stared at him for a moment, unsure if he was joking or not. ‘They always like to get me here before you, sir, so I can get your parking space ready.’

Lapslie cut her short. ‘And tell everyone to move away from me when I get out of my car?’

Bradbury hesitated. ‘Fewer people make less noise. I know how you react to noise.’

Lapslie smiled at her. ‘Yes, I do. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though. Makes me feel like a leper. ‘

Bradbury remained silent. There was nothing she could say, really. Lapslie continued: ‘So what have we got?’

‘Dead male. Been dead a while from the smell of him. Looks like a tramp and it’s probably natural causes.’

There was that word again:
probably
. He hated it. Either it was murder or it wasn’t, and if it wasn’t then he shouldn’t be here. The pale-faced kid on the gate should be dealing with it.

‘The police surgeon’s examining the remains now,’ Bradbury said.

‘Is he? Well, perhaps a
possible
will turn into a
definite
. Let’s see what he has to say.’

Bradbury interrupted. ‘There are some other things you need to know. I—’

Lapslie cut her short. ‘Let’s go and have a look at the body first. You can tell me the rest after that. Now, where to?’

Bradbury pointed to a large bunker at the edge of the field. ‘It’s over there, sir.’

Lapslie looked over to where a large oval shape, covered in grass, was sticking out of the ground. Some kind of natural feature, or an artificial mound? ‘Will I need to suit up?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘I’ve had a word with the
Scene of Crime manager, and he doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary to wear a suit – just cover shoes for now.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Well, it’s his decision. Lead on.’ He followed his sergeant along a well-used dirt path to the front of the mound where a large iron door was set into a flat face of earth. So, it
was
a bunker – a large one. As he entered he turned to Bradbury. ‘So, what is this place?’

Bradbury looked up at him. ‘It’s an old fall-out shelter from the Cold War. Built in the fifties for local politicians and dignitaries to keep them safe and running the country if the Russians had ever dropped the bomb.’

‘Local politicians and dignitaries? Brilliant – they cause the bloody war, then they make sure they have a safe place to hide when it starts. How democratic.’

Looking up at it now that he was close, Lapslie was impressed by the size of the bunker and the huge iron doors that secured it. ‘How did you get in?’

Bradbury answered quickly. ‘Locksmith, sir. Apparently took him over an hour – they were considering blowing it off at one point.’

Lapslie looked down at the giant lock still hanging from one of the metal loops. ‘Which I suppose begs the
question: if we had trouble getting in, how the hell did the tramp do it?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, sir, that
was
one of the other questions we . . .’

Lapslie cut her short again. ‘Who found the body?’

‘A man walking his dog. Well, he smelled the body really: the dog was scratching at the door, and when its owner came to pull him away he could smell the corpse.’

Lapslie looked across at her. ‘Through these doors? Weren’t they designed to stop radiation? How the hell did a smell leak out, even one as gross as a decomposing body?’

‘The bunker hasn’t been maintained, sir. The seals have either perished or just dropped off.’

‘Council money well spent.’ He paused, thinking. ‘How did he know it was a corpse he could smell?’

‘He was an old soldier. He’d smelled a few before.’

Lapslie nodded. Forget about faster cars or more capable computers: the thing the police needed the most was a squad of people walking their dogs. The amount of crime they turned up was extraordinary.