The Thirteenth Coffin (12 page)

‘Two types. An AX50 or L115A3.’

Lapslie exchanged a look with Bradbury. ‘And of those two, do you favour any particular one?’

Stowell shrugged. ‘They’re both good rifles. So it would come down to the type of target – moving or stationary – length of shot and the weather conditions.’

‘And do you keep either of these rifles here in the UK?’

‘No. They’re both kept on the Army compound back in Camp Bastion, Afghanistan.’

‘I see. Neither of them at home or in a lock-up somewhere?’

‘No.’ Stowell met Lapslie’s gaze firmly. ‘I haven’t fired a rifle of any type in over four months.’

‘Well, we’ll soon know when we’ve concluded our searches.’ Lapslie closed his file and stood up. ‘Suspect to be held in custody meanwhile.’

‘On what grounds?’ Brent quizzed.

‘We have motive, MO and opportunity for your client.
And if we find the murder weapon or a witness that can place him at the scene, we’ll have a full house.’

Lapslie was already halfway out of the room as Brent continued with some residual protests to Bradbury. But Lapslie knew that if they came up with neither, they’d be hard pushed to hold Stowell more than another forty-eight hours.

*

Lapslie grabbed a take-out double-shot latte on his way to the church first thing the next morning to revive himself. The previous day had been gruelling and they’d been up until midnight with Thomson and the SOCO team searching Stowell’s parents’ home where he lived, then finally his dad’s allotment shed and a storage unit Mike Stowell had used. Nothing at any of them.

They’d searched every conceivable nook and cranny, the loft, under the stairs, even under some floorboards where they’d eased a fraction underfoot and could have been loosened; then Stowell’s fourteen-year-old Ford Mondeo parked in his parents’ driveway. Nothing.

Lapslie sipped at his coffee as he approached the church. Bradbury, Thomson and the SOCO team were already there. Thomson was busy supervising ladders being placed up against the church walls and white-suited
SOCOs ready to climb up them. Crawling across the ground at the foot of the wall and the grass bank beyond were six members of the Special Operations Unit Bradbury had been working with in the woods.

Thomson looked across at Lapslie. ‘You say we’re looking for spent ammunition?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, from a high-powered sniper rifle. Might not be anything, might just be marks where the bullets impacted, or if we’re lucky we might just find the bullets or parts of them.’

Thomson nodded and moved away without speaking. Lapslie had seen Bradbury’s car, but couldn’t see her. ‘Anyone seen DS Bradbury?’

Without speaking, one of the SOCO officers pointed to the church. Lapslie walked across to the church door, where he encountered one of Thomson’s SOCOs putting small pieces of masonry into an exhibit bag. Looking into the darkness of the church, he finally spotted Bradbury searching the far wall with a small torch. He walked across to her.

‘Emma.’

She turned quickly. ‘Sir.’

‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’

‘Looking for the bullet that killed Leslie Petersen. If it
did go through her as she was standing in the doorway, then with luck it will be embedded in this wall somewhere. Thought I’d have a quick check before the SOCOs get to work.’

Lapslie smiled. ‘Although I like your thinking, according to Doctor Catherall there was no exit wound, so the bullet should still be inside her.’

Bradbury looked at him, crestfallen. ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’

‘That’s okay: I’d have done the same. Why is the place so quiet?’

‘It’s a church.’

‘Funny girl. Apart from that.’

‘I asked everyone to keep the noise down. Didn’t want your head full of fruit salad or runner beans.’

‘Ever thoughtful.’ Lapslie smiled, looking around. ‘How are they getting on?’

‘Nothing yet, but they’ve only been at it twenty minutes.’ She straightened up. ‘Oh, and there was one thing I forgot to show you with all the commotion yesterday. Some of Thomson’s team stayed in the woods finishing up when we met up at Stowell’s, so it was left with them.’

Lapslie looked up at her, intrigued. ‘What is it?’

‘Jim Thomson’s got it. Come and see.’

Lapslie followed Bradbury out of the church and towards Thomson.

‘Have you still got that exhibit, Jim?’ she asked. ‘Like to show it to the Chief Inspector?’

Without a word, Thomson reached into a black, leather, box-shaped bag and produced the transparent plastic exhibit bag, which he handed over to Lapslie. Holding it up to the light, Lapslie realized straight away what it was.

‘Where the hell did you find that?’

‘Just off the pathway leading between the tunnel exit and the edge of the wood,’ Thomson said in his petrol-flavoured voice.

Lapslie studied the mortar-board hat. So while Stowell might have been careful to conceal his rifle or get rid of it, he’d slipped up with this. He handed it back to Thomson. ‘When are you going to have it analysed?’

He looked at Bradbury, but before she had time to reply there was a shout from one of the SOCOs examining the outside of the church. He was halfway up a ladder and holding up an exhibit bag.

‘I’ve got what I think you were looking for, sir.’

Lapslie, Bradbury and Thomson moved across to the ladder.

‘Drop it,’ Lapslie said. ‘I’ll catch it, don’t worry.’

The SOCO dropped it and Lapslie snatched it from the air. It was a fragment of a bullet, the front of it flattened out.

‘May I have a look at that, Chief Inspector?’

Lapslie’s mouth was suddenly filled with the taste of strong peaty whisky. Colonel Parr was standing behind the group. By the expressions on the faces of Emma Bradbury and Jim Thomson, they hadn’t heard him approach either. Obviously he was following up on his earlier inspection. Lapslie handed the exhibit bag over and Parr began his examination.

After only a few seconds he handed it back to Lapslie. ‘An AX50 .50 bullet, as we suspected.’

Before he could say any more, a member of the SOCO team called out. ‘Over here!’

As the four of them approached he pushed a yellow marker post into the ground. Parr and Lapslie looked down at the small metal fragment that lay on the ground beside the marker. This time the bullet was too damaged to identify its type.

Thomson stepped in between the two men, quickly scooping the fragment up in a gloved hand and dropping it into an exhibit bag before handing it to Lapslie.
Parr put his hand out and Lapslie handed it over. The colonel examined it.

‘Heavily damaged, but I’m guessing it’s a .50 as well. The question now is: where did he get the gun, and, for that matter, the ammunition? This isn’t like the USA, where you can just pop down to the local supermarket and pick a rifle up, along with a two-for-one deal on ammunition.’

Lapslie filled him in on the latest developments: that since they’d last met, they’d hauled in a possible suspect. ‘A past boyfriend of Leslie Petersen. A British Army man with two years’ sniper training under his belt. Thing is, he says his rifles have been left at his Army compound in Afghanistan.’

Parr nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s an accurate account. Rifles of this nature are strictly monitored and are signed out for each assignment. You might be able to sneak a standard rifle from a stricken comrade or an insurgent, but specialist sniper rifles are another kettle of fish. And getting any sort of rifle through British customs would be virtually impossible.’

Lapslie looked at the bullet fragment in the bag. ‘And the ammunition?’

‘Easier to sneak through customs, but still a hell of a
risk with metal detectors and the distinctive shape of bullets. I have one idea, but it will depend on what the bullets are made of.’

Lapslie was intrigued. ‘What difference would that make?’

‘If the ammunition wasn’t factory-made, he might have made it himself.’

‘I see. And the rifle?’

‘Given customs restrictions, more likely that he got it on the black market within the UK.’ Parr held a palm out. ‘But then an Army man might well have an idea where to source that, along with the ammunition.’

Lapslie held up the polythene bag with the two bullet fragments. ‘And I dare say if the bullet extracted from Leslie Petersen’s body isn’t too damaged, that will help further determine that.’

‘Yes. But you’ll still need to find the rifle for a complete match. Barrel grooves and marks are rifle-specific.’

Lapslie nodded sombrely. So close and yet so far.

*

Lapslie’s next stop for the day was the forensic science laboratories. He needed to see the dolls again. They’d focused almost exclusively on Stowell for the last couple of days and on how Leslie Petersen’s death might link to
the other victims, yet it might be that they had to approach the case the other way round: look at the other possible victims and how they might link back to the killer.

It was only a short drive to the labs, which were situated deep within a wood, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence and more security than Lapslie was accustomed to dealing with. He was stopped four times before he even reached the main foyer. After that he was accompanied to the area that he wanted and handed over to a senior scientist.

Lapslie remembered the days when the labs were still under the control of the Home Office. Life was far more relaxed in those days. Everyone knew you, and you knew everyone. A smile and a nod was all you needed to get in. Once everything had been privatized, things had changed.

Maybe it had to change, he reflected. The close relationship some of the scientists had with the police force hadn’t always been a good idea. He remembered some high-profile cases where a particular scientist had been ‘helpful’ to the senior investigating officer in interpreting evidence, and a number of people had gone to prison for crimes they might but might not have committed. That said, the close relationship had also produced some
very positive and legitimate results. But the world moved on, and this was the world he had to deal with now, like it or not.

Lapslie arrived at the section he needed to be greeted by a tall slender woman in her mid-thirties with a spiky crop of natural blonde hair, and green eyes. She was wearing a white lab coat and smart designer glasses. She introduced herself: ‘Gillian Holmes. I’m the senior scientist here . . .’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie.’

She smiled broadly at him. ‘We’ve had a very strange request about you, DCI Lapslie. It came from a Detective Sergeant Bradbury.’

‘To keep everything as quiet as possible and not to let too many people talk to me.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Yes, that was about it.’

‘I have synaesthesia. You might not—’

Holmes cut him off. ‘My father had the same condition. He saw people’s names as colours. Days of the week too. How does yours manifest?’

‘My brain converts sounds into tastes. Sometimes it jumbles them all up.’

Her smile continued. ‘And what do I taste of? I’m sure that’s the first question that everyone asks you.’

‘Something subtle. Mozzarella, I think.’

‘Well that’s not too bad then. I can imagine some of the tastes are not quite so pleasant.’

Lapslie nodded ruefully.

‘I understand you’re here to see the dolls?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take you to them.’ She led Lapslie into the laboratory whose door she had emerged from and directed him to the far side of the lab, where ten dolls were aligned, each with its coffin laid behind it. Lapslie pulled out his notebook and began to make notes on each of the dolls.

‘We’ve already done a preliminary assessment – basic descriptive stuff, if it will help.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes, it would, thanks.’

Holmes walked across to a desk as Lapslie watched her. She picked up an assortment of papers and brought them over to him. ‘That’s all we have for now. Would you like to go through each of the dolls with me and discuss what we’ve discovered?’

‘That would be very helpful.’

They moved across to the first doll, the one dressed as a nurse. ‘First, although they were found in an orderly line, and we kept that line the same, I can’t tell you
if that’s significant or just random. All the dolls we examined were very well made. Papier-mâché bodies with wax heads. Although the bodies had been made recently, the heads are different. They all came from Victorian dolls. The clothes were made from authentic materials. The nurse’s clothes in particular were made from sections of what must have been a real nurse’s uniform – the material is precisely the same. Even her small shoes are made from leather, and beautifully made.’

Lapslie indicated the damage around the doll’s throat. ‘How’s that been done?’

‘Crushed and damaged by hand. Every one of the dolls is damaged in some way.’

They moved down the table to the next doll, the fireman.

‘Once again the clothes are authentic, made from the very same material as a real fireman’s clothes.’

‘And the damage?’

‘The doll has been burnt quite badly. By which I mean that the damage is bad, not that whoever damaged it
did
it badly.’

The next doll was a garage mechanic, his chest crushed flat.

‘Stamped on by a foot,’ Holmes noted. ‘No trace of a pattern on the sole, unfortunately.’

The next doll was a fisherman, dressed in long rubber boots and holding a fishing rod and a keep net. The damage on this one wasn’t so obvious. ‘What’s wrong with this one?’

Holmes looked at it. ‘Water damage. The doll has been submerged in water for some time. As with all bodies that have been in water for a while, if you pull it too hard it will fall apart very easily.’

They continued along the table until they finally reached the bridal doll.

‘Made any progress on this one?’

Holmes glanced at it. ‘The doll of the moment. Not much progress so far. The stains are real blood, not a substitute. We’ve had it grouped as AB rhesus negative, and we’re currently running a DNA analysis. I understand you requested that?’

Lapslie nodded.

‘Your boss,’ she asked. ‘Chief Superintendent Rouse, is it?’