The Thirteenth Coffin (32 page)

Lapslie nodded, still trying desperately to put the pieces in place. He wasn’t the only one to have missed the early signals with Whitefoot, but then policemen with past Army backgrounds were a fairly common
occurrence; no doubt it was also what had led Whitefoot to try and put Mike Stowell in the frame.

‘But not soon enough to save Turner?’ Lapslie asked, shaking the woolliness from his head. He was still physically and emotionally numb.

Parr grimaced awkwardly, ‘Unfortunately not. The final meeting place here caught us on the hop as much as Turner giving the slip to the police cover. Thing is, we have to keep this quiet. Can you do that effectively?’

Lapslie nodded slowly: Special Forces were covering up after one of their own who had gone rogue; getting in their way could end up messy.

‘Do I have much choice?’

‘Well, if you’re unhappy with the suicide closure, you could, I suppose, say it was SCO19 or some other armed back-up officer. But that would mean someone else your end stepping up to the plate for that, because you understand I can’t be involved.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ And even if there was agreement from Shaw and Rouse, finding that person to step forward would be equally problematic, with the possibility of a Menendez-style inquiry hanging over them. Lapslie
nodded soberly. ‘Given everything, perhaps suicide is the best option.’

They finally arrived at Lapslie’s car.

‘Well, this is it, old boy. Drive safely.’ He put his hand out. ‘Thanks for all the help. You really are a first-rate detective, but you’re probably somewhat rattled by this close call now. If I were you, I’d leave it to Superintendent Rouse and Inspector Shaw to tie up the final loose ends.’

‘What? And give them the chance of grabbing any of the glory?’ Lapslie grinned crookedly. ‘No, I’ll see it through to the bitter end. On which front – how do you see the paper trail running?’

‘From our end, we’ll sanitize any involvement with Special Forces, but Whitefoot will still be down as Army. Quite common for many a policeman or police medic.’ Parr looked briefly behind them with a pained expression. ‘My men here will make it look like suicide for forensics. And the rest of it, I daresay, can run as is.’

Lapslie nodded thoughtfully. ‘My men have been searching for Turner’s wife, but no joy as yet. Any thoughts your side on what might have happened to her?’

‘Unless she surfaces soon, I fear the worst, I’m afraid,’ Parr said, grimacing.

Still trying to get full clarity on this sudden sea-change in events, Lapslie put his hand out to shake Parr’s, then climbed back into his car and drove away. And as everything finally gelled halfway back to station HQ, he started to draft his report in his mind.

*

Charlotte boarded Lapslie’s boat without difficulty before helping him stow the picnic, two bottles of wine and a selection of waterproof clothes. Lapslie used the small inboard motor to get them away from their mooring and along the river, out to the North Sea. Charlotte seemed to know everything that was needed before he even had a chance to ask. With the wind behind them and the boat in full sail, the Mazury seemed to zip along effortlessly.

Lapslie had spent two days tying up the loose ends of the investigation and making his reports, then had arranged the day’s sailing with Charlotte. One urgent concern was that Elizabeth Turner was still missing, but with a third of his squad assigned to search for her and every police station in Essex duly notified, there was little he could do to further that. Despite Rouse’s complaints about the manpower and resources that the investigation had so far eaten up, he was duty bound to
extend them a while longer – the only thing to put a faint smile on Lapslie’s face, counter that nagging loose end and sour taste that they hadn’t been able to save Tony Turner, and now might fail to save his wife as well. Bittersweet; hopefully the only taste to assault his senses during the day’s sailing.

At first Charlotte had seemed content to sit on one of the small seats at the side of the boat, but after half an hour she moved her position and sat between Lapslie’s legs, her head resting against his body. Lapslie was surprised, but didn’t mind. He put an arm around her and she pulled it into herself, slipping her slim fingers through his.

They sailed for several hours, but the time went so quickly that he hardly noticed. Thankfully there was no storm this time, or storm clouds on the horizon. They moored up a few miles along the coast to have their lunch. After eating and chatting for a while about his cases and her hospital career, Lapslie decided to go for it.

‘Can I ask you something, Charlotte?’

She looked at him and smiled. ‘Why is an attractive doctor like me going out with an older man with neurological problems?’

‘Well, to be honest, yes. How did you guess?’

‘Elementary, my dear Lapslie. A few moments ago we were speaking about boats and laughing about stupid experiences, and then your face suddenly became very earnest. I guessed it might be bothering you.’

‘It does, a bit.’

‘Age is just a number.’

‘But in our case it’s a big one.’

‘Twenty years is nothing.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘Don’t worry: I’m not looking for someone to replace my dad. I’ve had young men hit on me most of my adult life and a bit before, but they bored me. I tried being with one that bored me a little less, but it didn’t work out. It wasn’t what I wanted . . .’

‘And I am?’

She looked at him for a moment. ‘Right now, yes. Who can say what will happen in the future? Right now, you are right for me. You make me feel secure, and I’m happy when I’m with you. Is that okay?’

With that she took Lapslie’s head and pulled it to her, kissing him warmly and long.

‘How would you feel,’ he asked, breaking away, ‘if I named this boat after you?’

‘It has a big stern and it wallows around in the water like a pig,’ she said. ‘I would be offended.’

‘Well, put like that, I’d have to break with centuries of seagoing tradition and call it the
Alan Rouse
.’ He smiled broadly and she chuckled. ‘But if I put it to you another way: that on a fine day with a fair wind, it’s sleek and glides through the waves like a mermaid . . .?’

She smiled, glancing slyly towards the cabin below. ‘Keep up the sweet talk and I might just consider it.’

*

Elizabeth Turner managed to roll onto her side. She was tied so tightly she couldn’t move. He had tied her hands behind her back, attaching them to her legs and forcing them upwards. He had then looped a cord around her neck, so that the more she struggled the tighter it got. Finally he’d taped up her mouth so that she couldn’t make a noise.

He had told her that he would only be a few hours, and then they were moving on. Where, she had no idea. All she was concentrating on at this point was surviving from moment to moment, and she would do whatever she had to do to achieve that.

She didn’t have a watch, and there was no clock in the cellar. The only light came from a small oblong window high up, through which she could see only a few yards of overgrown grass. Time passed slowly, but she thought it had been more than two days now since he had left. And towards the end of
that second day, with the moisture from her mouth, the tape began to loosen and she managed to wriggle her lips and gnaw and spit part of it away.

She spent the next few hours crying out until her voice was hoarse, but no answer returned. She was dehydrated and ravenously hungry. Where the hell was he? He was normally such a methodical man, but now he had vanished.

She had tried to struggle free, but had only managed to make the cords tighter and make them cut deeper into her wrists, ankles and neck. How much longer would he be? How much longer could she survive? She knew the house was isolated, with few people having any idea who lived there. He’d told her so. She would just have to wait and endure the situation until he returned, or . . .

She blacked out at last, a welcome release in many ways. And when she awoke again, it was to the sound of a dog barking in the distance. At first she thought it was part of her dream, but then, as she peered up towards the light, she realized the sound was coming through the small oblong window. She couldn’t stand up to see through the window, but she could at least try calling out again. She cried out with all her might, praying that there was enough strength left in her voice for the dog’s owner to hear her.

Nothing, only the sound of the dog’s continued barking.

She tried again, and again, becoming more frantic each time; and just as she feared the last of her voice was going, she finally heard a faint, distant voice in response.

Hope.

Thanks to my friend and fellow pen smith, Andrew Lane, who always entertains. My agent (United Agents) and friend, Robert Kirby, without whose patience and belief there would be no book. To John Mathews for his remarkable writing talents; Stef Bierwerth, my editor, for all the time and trouble she took to make the book as good as it could be; David North (Quercus) for all the time and trouble he took to keep the series running – much appreciated; Mark Smith, whose foresight started it all, many thanks; and to Quercus for publishing the book.