The Thirteenth Coffin (9 page)

‘Seventy-two hours should cover it. After that I might release the photograph to the media, see if we can get any results that way.’

Bradbury winced. ‘Bit macabre, sir.’

‘A bit, but people love that sort of thing.’

Bradbury wasn’t convinced. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. First time it was done was in Paris in about 1850. They found the severed head of a woman in the Seine. Had it photographed and hundreds of photographs produced. They sold out in a day and the photographs became collectors’ items. People like to be shocked: it gives them something to talk about at work.’

Bradbury raised her eyebrows. ‘Well if you say so, sir. Is that it?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘For now. Good luck. I’ll get copies of the photos to you as soon as they arrive.’

Bradbury pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll await them with interest.’

Lapslie left force HQ the same way he’d come in. Once again he didn’t see another living soul and left in total silence.

He got in his Saab 9-5 and pulled out of the car park, heading back towards Finchingfield and St Mary’s Church. He wanted to see the place where the Special Operations guys suspected the shot had come from. The small tower. He still found it hard to believe that anyone
could kill someone from that distance with one shot. Lapslie wasn’t a bad shot himself, but he wouldn’t even attempt a shot like that. Whoever killed Leslie Petersen, née Cooke, had to be some kind of an expert shot, a marksman, sniper maybe. That might provide the lead he was looking for. He doubted that there were many people in the country who could make a shot like that. Maybe if Bradbury checked the local rifle clubs she might get some names.

The tower was a well-known landmark, and all that was left of what must have been a magnificent and powerful fortress. Parts of it were over a thousand years old, according to a sign outside, and dated back to before the Normans, who had built it to keep the local peasants in order. Tom’s Tower, as it was now known locally, was a major tourist attraction and thousands of people climbed the 180 steps to the top every year. However, due to restoration work, it was currently closed to the public, and no one had visited save the builders for nearly six months.

Lapslie parked his car in the small car park at the foot of the tower, ignoring the Pay and Display signs. There was nobody about: no builders, no police. The SOCOs had left, although the ‘Crime Scene – Do Not
Cross’ tape was still wrapped around the entrance and the ground-floor windows. Lifting up the tape, he stepped under it and began to climb the stairs to the top of the tower. It was slow going and he was obliged to stop several times to catch his breath.

As he reached the top of the tower, Lapslie heard someone walking about. He slowed his pace. It was probably some young copper who had been left there to guard the scene, but he wanted to be sure.

As his head reached the top of the stairs, he looked around as best he could, but he could see nobody. He considered shouting out, but he wasn’t sure that was a particularly good idea.

As he got to the edge of the exit, he stared around the edge of the tower. This time he did see someone: a man in a long light brown coat was crouching down and looking across in the direction of the church. From the way he was standing with his arms upraised, Lapslie was convinced that he was looking through a pair of binoculars.

Lapslie moved quietly off the stairs and onto the top of the tower, determined to take the man by surprise and find out what he was doing there. He had only taken a few steps when the man spun around quickly and
unexpectedly, taking Lapslie completely by surprise. He must have heard something.

It was only now that Lapslie realized that it wasn’t a pair of binoculars he had in his hand, but a sniper’s rifle with a large scope, and it was pointed straight at his head.

2 December 2008

It had taken Michael Cohen years to finally open his own garage. He had always loved cars; his parents had always said he was car-mad. If he wasn’t building Airfix models or buying Matchbox toys, then he was watching Formula 1 racing on TV.

It was slow at first, but as time went on the clients came, and it wasn’t long before he had three mechanics working for him and had to move to larger premises. Everything was coming up roses.

It was late on a Monday when the car came in. Michael was on his own. The garage had officially closed for the evening, but the man seemed to be in some trouble, so he agreed to help. It sounded to him as if the exhaust had blown, and until he could get under the car he wouldn’t know if it needed a completely new exhaust, only part of one, or, with luck, for the customer, just a new bracket. He couldn’t be bothered to open the garage and get the car over the pit so he got the driver to drive it up a
couple of portable ramps. Once in position Michael crawled underneath and started to examine the length of the exhaust.

So engrossed was he in what he was doing that he didn’t notice the car moving. Not at first anyway. When it jerked for the second time Michael called out to the customer, ‘Car’s slipping a little, can you make sure the handbrake’s on?’

There was no reply. Michael glanced around the car, looking for the customer’s feet, but there was no sign of him. Suddenly the car’s engine started and the wheels twisted hard to the right. Sudden heat blasted Michael in the face, and he tried to scramble out of the way on his elbow.

‘Look out!’ he called. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The mobile ramps gave way, and the car collapsed on to Michael Cohen, crushing him. He didn’t die at once. He lived long enough to see the customer’s feet suddenly appear in front of him as he crawled out from under the car. He lived long enough to ask for help and be ignored. He lived long enough to see the customer watching him with a sort of half-smile on his face. Dying, still unsure what had happened, his killer was the last thing he ever saw.

*

Lapslie looked down the barrel of the rifle, and then up at the man who was pointing it at him. The man looked
back at him for a moment, then aimed the rifle back down at the floor. ‘So sorry. Took me by surprise. Colonel Parr. Call me Andrew. You must be Chief Inspector Lapslie?’

Parr put his hand out and Lapslie found himself taking it. His voice tasted of a very peaty whisky, which seemed to match his character. He was in his forties, with grey-streaked hair and a firm chin.

‘Have you got any identification?’

Parr looked at him and smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’ He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed over a small leather wallet.

Lapslie examined it carefully. It was a simple card that identified Colonel Andrew Parr as being a member of the British Army. He had never seen an ID quite like it, but it looked genuine, so he accepted it with a mental proviso that he would get it checked out later.

‘Do you want to see mine?’ he asked.

Parr shook his head. ‘Already have, old man. Already have.’

Lapslie wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but he let it go – for now. ‘If it’s not too difficult a question, what the
fuck
are you doing here? It’s a crime scene! And, while I’m at it, how the hell do you know who I am?’

Wincing at the profanity, Parr put the rifle down, leaning it against a wall. ‘They haven’t told you, then?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Told me what?’

‘We, well,
I
, have been asked to see if a hand can be lent.’

‘With what?’

‘The shooting, it’s my specialist field, old boy. I lecture on ballistics at the Defence Academy in Cranfield.’

‘You introduced yourself as Colonel. What regiment?’

Parr hesitated for a moment. ‘Royal Artillery.’

‘Really. A long-range sniper then?’

Parr smiled broadly; he had obviously heard the phrase before, but was surprised that Lapslie had. ‘Let’s just say I serve Queen and country and live in Hereford.’

‘Ah.’ He dropped into a deeper, more mellifluous voice. ‘ “An attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, deferential, glad to be of use, politic, cautious and meticulous”.’

‘I am,’ Parr said, smiling slightly, ‘certainly no Prince Hamlet.’

‘So, what have you discovered?’

Parr turned to face in the direction of St Mary’s Church,
whose spire could be easily seen. ‘It was a long shot – one thousand, two hundred metres. You would have to be not only a good shot, but a very well-trained one, to make it successfully.’

‘Could you do it?’

Parr glanced at him oddly. ‘Yes. Of course.’

Lapslie moved over to where he was standing and also looked out towards the church. ‘So you think our killer might be a military man?’

Parr looked across at him. ‘Maybe, but from which country’s army? But it’s not just the military that are taught to shoot accurately: there are hundreds of people who do it as a sport. A lot of them are very good. What I don’t want to do is steer you in the wrong direction.’

‘What’s your opinion?’

‘I believe that you are looking either for a member or a former member of the military, and that you may have more than one killer on your hands.’

Lapslie turned towards him. ‘What makes you draw that conclusion?’

‘As far as we know our sniper fired one shot – the shot that killed the girl. Normally sniper teams will work in twos, one doing the AMOS—’

Lapslie stopped him. ‘What the hell is the AMOS?’

‘Simply put, it’s judging the speed of the wind, air temperature and the angle of the shot. They can all have a significant influence on the shot if it’s to be accurate. There’s a big difference between, say, a down-angle shot and an up-angle shot. Once that’s worked out, the other member of the team, armed as it were with that information, will do the shooting. I also think that some test shots, ranging shots, would have to have been made before the kill shot.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Parr shook his head. ‘About there being two? No. It’s not always so: he might have ranged it and fired it himself, although that’s quite difficult because things like wind speed and temperature change quite quickly. That said, it’s one hell of a shot to have got right first time on your own.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Any idea what kind of weapon he would have used?’

Parr gave a strange half-smile and picked up the rifle he had just put down. ‘One like this.’ He handed the rifle over to Lapslie, who examined it with the eye of an amateur – a little, he realized, like kicking the tyres when buying a car. ‘Do you know much about guns?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Not much. That’s why we bring in experts like you. So what have I got here?’

Parr took to the rifle back from Lapslie. ‘We have here an Accuracy International AX50 .50 BMG with a Schmidt and Bender scope. It’s the big brother of the AW50, which was also a very fine rifle. Certainly, in my humble opinion, the best sniper rifle and scope around at the moment. Your man would have used something like this. He wasn’t using a rook rifle, that’s for sure.’

‘How long would it take him to make the kill shot?’

‘A few minutes, more if he was doing the AMOS himself. The place was closed for refurbishment, and there was no one around. He still took a bit of a chance, but obviously thought it was one worth taking. I was just looking around for the shell casings.’

‘Do you think he would have been that stupid?’

‘Probably not, but it’s a single-shot, bolt-action. Common sense tells you that he would have taken the casings away with him. However, I’ve known situations where the case ends up somewhere stupid and they can’t find it. He wouldn’t have had long.’ He gestured towards the edge of the tower. ‘It might have gone off there and fallen to the ground. That would have spoiled his day.’

‘I think you’ll find Jim Thomson and his team don’t miss much.’

Parr looked at Lapslie quizzically. ‘Who is that?’

‘The senior SOCO and his lot.’

He nodded. ‘Well, as I say, you never know.’ Parr continued: ‘What do we know about the girl?’

Lapslie shrugged. ‘Not much yet, but she seems to be just a normal, everyday girl. Why do you ask?’

‘It seems odd that such an experienced shooter should go to so much trouble, take such a big risk, and use the best damned rifle on the market, to kill just some girl.’

Lapslie looked at him. ‘I’m sure her family don’t look at her quite like that.’

Parr looked away from him. ‘No, I don’t suppose they do. Badly put. I apologize, but you know what I mean.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, it is odd. You have any ideas?’

Parr thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think it was a practice shot, a rehearsal.’

Lapslie felt confused. ‘Explain.’

‘She wasn’t the real target, just someone to practise on, check if the rifle was ranged properly. I can’t think of any other reason he would want to kill her.’

Lapslie wasn’t convinced. ‘I think before we go
jumping in that particular direction you should give me a few more days to find a more practical reason for her murder.’

Parr shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, old man. Sorry, too much at stake. I’ll have to report this to my superiors, let them decide how to take it forward. Can’t have a trained sniper running around unchecked.’

Lapslie wasn’t convinced. ‘I think you’re wrong. In fact, I know you are.’

Parr looked up at him. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because of the dolls.’

Now it was Parr’s turn to be confused. ‘Dolls? What kind of dolls? Barbie, blow-up, New York? What are you talking about?’

Lapslie knew that, to a man like Parr, what he was about to say might sound ridiculous, but there was no roundabout way of explaining it. ‘Just last week we found a dozen dolls in an old fall-out shelter. Nine of them were badly damaged in some way and had been placed inside small wooden coffins. Three which were still intact were left standing by the side of their coffins but hadn’t yet been placed inside. One of those dolls was dressed as a bride. After Leslie Petersen was shot and murdered, I was called back to the bunker. The bride
doll, which I now know represented Leslie, had been put into its coffin. When I opened the lid I discovered a hole in the doll at the exact point the bullet had entered Leslie’s body, and I also discovered that the dress was covered in blood. Her blood, I believe, although we are still waiting on forensic tests.’