The Thirteenth Coffin (20 page)

‘And if we fail and the teacher does get killed?’

Lapslie shrugged, but his face was heavy with that prospect. ‘Then we rethink our strategy.’

‘And if
you
get killed?’

Lapslie looked at her for a moment. ‘Like they say in the movies: “Avenge my death.” ’

‘Chief Inspector?’

Over to one side, Jim Thomson gestured to Bradbury to join him.

‘We haven’t finished with this,’ she said to Lapslie before crossing the storage room to Thomson. They talked for a few moments, then she returned to Lapslie’s side.

While she was gone, he found that he couldn’t take his gaze off the doll in the police uniform.
His
uniform.

‘He wanted to know if you needed the dolls removed to the lab for examination,’ Bradbury said.

‘Yes, tell him to get them over as soon as he can. Don’t mention the number of the police doll’s collar to anyone. As far as they are concerned it’s just a generic police doll. Not identified. Did you mention the cameras to him?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes: he’s going to get that done. He also suggested having some hidden in the woods as well. That way they can monitor the pathways in and out of the wood and the entrance to the escape exit.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Good idea. Any other reason I still need to be here?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Right, I’m going to head off. I’ll be at home, checking my uniform, if I’m needed. Let me know if anything
turns up and also keep me updated on the condition of the young probationer.’

‘I will. I’ll call you later.’

As Lapslie turned away, Bradbury cleared her throat. He turned back. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m not trying to be funny, sir, but check under your car before you drive off. Look for suspicious packages. And drive defensively: make sure you’re aware of what all the other drivers are doing. And when you get home—’

‘It’s okay – I get the idea. Thanks.’

Taking Bradbury’s advice, Lapslie made his way home slowly and carefully. He normally had a thing about time and distance, and was always trying to beat his own personal best, but on this occasion he felt he could give it a rest. Jumping out of his car, locking it and scanning the shrubbery around his cottage for signs that someone might be hiding, he made his way inside, first checking each of his security systems as he went. He’d had them installed a couple of years back, after a psychotic killer, the son of a forensic psychiatrist, had broken into his cottage and tried to kill him. Burglar alarm, lights, video cameras. They all seemed intact and to be working well. He would get the security company
in to give them the once-over later, check that all the batteries were charged and the sensors unobstructed by foliage or cobwebs.

He took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom. Opening his wardrobe doors, he flicked though his various jackets and suits until he came to his dress uniform. It was still in its clear plastic bag, as it had been the day he’d brought it back from the cleaner’s months before. Laying it on the bed, he pulled the bag clear and began to examine it.

He first examined the front of the uniform, which seemed fine, up to and including the medal ribbons which were situated in a short line over the left-hand tunic pocket. Unbuttoning the jacket, he looked inside at the lining. It was all there, not ripped and not damaged.

He was just beginning to feel optimistic when he turned the jacket over to examine the back. The entire centre of the jacket had been cut away and was missing. It had been sliced across the shoulders, down both sides and across the bottom, just missing the back vent.

Lapslie looked at it for a moment, hardly able to take it in. How the hell had someone got past his security, got
into his house, and managed to do this without being detected? More importantly, how did the killer know when he would be out? Either he’d taken a hell of a chance or he’d been watching Lapslie.

Or
, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind,
the murderer was already part of the inquiry
.

He tried to silence the thought, but it kept coming back. What if the killer was someone known to him? Someone he was working alongside? What would that mean?

It meant he needed evidence before anything else, he told himself firmly. Evidence. Everything else was just wishful thinking or scaremongering.

He put his uniform back into the plastic bag. He had initially thought to take it down to the forensic laboratory and get it matched, but there was no point. The doll was dressed in cloth cut from his original uniform: there was no doubt about that. There would be no forensic evidence: the killer was too good for that. Getting the lab technicians to analyse the uniform jacket and the doll’s costume would only take them away from other duties that were more likely to yield a result.

He looked about him. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. He considered calling Thomson and his
team in, but knew he would be wasting their time, and for the same reason. If the killer could get in and out of his home quite so easily without tripping the alarms or showing himself on the video cameras, what would be the point of Thomson and his team raking over everything?

*

Emma Bradbury looked across the table at her partner, Dom, as they started eating dinner.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes . . . fine. Fine.’

Her eyes stayed on him for a second. She sensed that something was troubling him. He’d been thoughtful for a while before dinner, and his response now had been a second slow, his accompanying smile strained. They also knew each other well enough now for him to read that it wasn’t just a casual enquiry about whether the dinner she’d served was okay.

Finally: ‘So how was Edinburgh?’

‘Okay.’ She shrugged. ‘Might be something, might end up a total wild goose chase. We won’t know for a little while.’

He nodded thoughtfully, picking at his food. ‘I know sometimes it can be awkward opening up fully about
your investigations.’ Again that strained smile. ‘Especially with someone like me.’

So that was it, she considered. Dom, the villain. Lapslie had strongly advised her against the relationship, and perhaps Dom too was now facing the stark reality of what made it an awkward association. Or could it be that the precept of ‘opposites attract’ only had so much shelf life? Though she knew from past Criminal Psychology lectures that that was far from the truth; indeed, nobody knew a villain better than a copper, and vice versa, given the nature of their cat-and-mouse game either side of an often transparent divide.

Or perhaps now it was simply the fact that with work keeping her late and her hours irregular, their mealtimes were often delayed and rushed, which indeed had been the case recently. Forcing their relationship and quality time together more and more into a corner. Or could it be that he’d become keener on probing about her late hours and her trip to Edinburgh for other reasons? She pushed the thought hastily away.

‘I daresay I could say the same about you,’ she said, waggling her own fork back in challenge. ‘I don’t ask you how the latest bank heist has gone.’

‘You know I don’t do that sort of thing any more.’
He feigned a hurt expression, then after a second an easy smile surfaced; reminded her of what had endeared her to Dom McGinley in the first place. ‘But, yes, touché.’

The tension eased between them then, became more mellow; and mellower still when they’d downed a bottle of red wine between them.

So when later that night in bed she saw the same dark shadows in Dom’s eyes, it caught her by surprise.

‘You’d never leave me, would you?’ he muttered.

‘No . . . of course not.’

But she’d answered on the back of a fractured breath, the timing of the question catching her equally by surprise.

It was a game they’d play regularly in bed. As Dom felt her passion rising, he’d lightly clasp her throat, but in a loving way, softly stroking her neck. The gentle pressure had the effect of making her breath fall even shorter, her excitement seem more intense. Dom had started gently squeezing, but as the question came she felt him grip harder – harder than she’d ever experienced before – as if, if the answer was wrong, he might just continue squeezing. And unsettled by that thought, she’d been a second slow in responding, making her
answer, combined with her caught breath, seem more uncertain than it should have.

And in turn that pressure stayed there a second longer as Dom’s eyes searched hers, until at last he reverted to more gentle stroking and regained his rhythm.

It took her a moment to catch her breath, but for her the rhythm and sensations had gone – so she faked it. Something she couldn’t recall doing before in their lovemaking. Eyes gently fluttering closed, she returned to her fevered gasps, so that he wouldn’t guess his question was nearer the mark than he feared.

*

After having a quick shower, changing and grabbing some breakfast, Lapslie made his way down to the forensic labs. Once she had realized that it was Major, not Mr, Thomas who had been gassed, and what that meant, Jane Catherall had had the presence of mind to send the lethal gas bottle to Technical II, which was part of the forensic science labs. Tech II, as it was more commonly called, dealt with all things mechanical and technical. Lapslie had to go through all the normal security checks, but this time, instead of going into the main labs, he drove around to the back of the laboratories, to where Tech II was situated, and parked.

The inside of Tech II looked like the inside of Q’s hangar in the James Bond films. All sorts of bizarre activity seemed to be going on. There was only one man that Lapslie wanted to speak to, however, and that was Peter Edwards. Edwards had been a police officer once upon a time, and for many years had worked for Lapslie as a detective sergeant, and a bloody good one too. The continual liberalization of the police force hadn’t suited him, however, so he had left the force and somehow managed to get himself into Cambridge to read Mechanical Engineering before returning to work with the FSS and establishing Tech II. It was the only department like it in the entire country, with the possible exception of MI5 and Special Forces. With everything gradually being privatized, Lapslie knew Edwards was going to make a fortune, and as far as he was concerned it couldn’t have happened to a better bloke.

Edwards, as ever, was in his office. It was an unconventional place, and resembled the inside of a garage or garden shed more than it did a workspace belonging to the head of a department. As usual, Edwards had his head down over some odd-looking contraption on his bench, trying to pry out its secrets or work out a method of using it to best advantage. Occasionally something
would spark, and Edwards would swear quietly under his breath, but he always kept going, focused as ever.

‘Morning, Peter.’

Edwards didn’t move. ‘Just a moment, Mark. Remind me, what were we talking about?’

‘I haven’t seen you for about a year. I can’t remember.’

Edwards straightened up. He was a big, bulky, shambling man with a short crop of blond hair. ‘I think it was rugby. Or maybe cricket. Similar things.’

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t like either of them.’ He extended a meaty hand. ‘Good to see you, as always.’

‘And you. Had a look at the gas bottle?’

‘What, no small talk? No catching up on old times? No
conversation
?’

‘No, sorry. Too much to do.’

Edwards thought for a moment, flicking through the filing cabinet that he called his brain. ‘Ah yes, over here.’ He directed Lapslie to an old wooden bench at the far side of his office. Pulling off an old sheet, he exposed an off-green gas canister. ‘Well, here it is: the killer of your major and his beautiful mistress.’

‘So what can you tell me? Innocent victim or premeditated murder?’

He placed a hand on top of the gas bottle. ‘Guilty as charged. A premeditated killer. However, although important, this particular perpetrator had a partner in crime.’

Lapslie was beginning to feel confused. Edwards always had spoken in riddles, but Lapslie could have done without it now.

‘Who was it?’

‘Not a “who”; more an “it”.’ Edwards produced a small heater from another bench. ‘This belonged to the major, and it was because this was tampered with that he and his lady friend died. You see, no matter how hard you turn the knob, it never quite closes off. Let me show you.’

Connecting the heater to the large blue gas cylinder, he slowly turned the gas on by twisting the handle at the top of the gas cylinder. He then opened the valve on the heater. He lit it with a match. After a few moments he turned the heater off, but though he twisted as hard as he could the flame stayed on.

Edwards continued: ‘So you see, it is physically impossible to turn the gas heater off completely.’

Lapslie could see that, but something was bothering him: ‘Wouldn’t the major have noticed the flame, or at least the sound or the smell?’

Edwards nodded. ‘Indeed he would, and that’s where your killer has been very clever and taken a bit of a risk.’

‘How so?’

‘He waited outside the tent. As soon as the major turned off the heater, he cut off the gas supply from the bottle by turning the valve. So as far as the major was concerned, the gas had been shut down.’

‘I wonder what would have happened if the major had stepped outside for a piss or something?’

‘Edwards smiled. ‘With the lengths this killer has gone to, I’m sure he’ll have had a back-up plan of some sort. Anyway, as soon as our loving couple were asleep he turned the gas bottle back on again and left. Look, I’ll show you something.’

As Lapslie watched, Edwards took the small heater apart and showed him the on/off valve mechanism inside the burner. Using a pair of tweezers, he removed a small black washer. ‘This is the thing that stopped the valve closing, and it was put there on purpose. If you notice, it’s broken at one end. It should fit at the top of the valve. To an untrained eye it looks like it has just worn out.’

‘But surely any half-decent examiner would have
spotted that? With the greatest respect to your own good self.’