The Thirteenth Coffin (29 page)

The next day was much like the last. He worked on the boat with George sanding and rubbing, but Bradbury
didn’t call. In the lull moments his mind drifted to his previous cases, trawling for someone who might want revenge, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them. His thoughts kept on circling back to Elizabeth Turner, kidnapped, and Tony Turner, her husband, who must be frantic with worry. Lapslie was too involved, and it mattered too much. Besides, he thought, what if Shaw did come up with the solution all on his own? What if Lapslie had been barking up the wrong tree all this time? That was the point, he decided, at which he would have to sail away into the sunset.

On the third day, Bradbury finally arrived. DCs Parkin and Pearce were with her. He took Bradbury to one side. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

‘They’ve come to help.’

‘Can they be trusted?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘They can be trusted. They hate Shaw more than you do. Besides, as far as they are concerned, it’s better the Devil you know.’

‘Were you seen coming down here? If I were Rouse then I would have a surveillance team assigned to me, just in case the killer switches targets.’

Bradbury indicated Parkin and Pearce. ‘Meet your observation team.’

‘That must have taken some doing.’

‘Just a bit of fiddling with the duty roster.’

Lapslie looked at them for a moment. ‘Okay, all aboard and I’ll get the kettle on . . .’

‘Any chance of a bacon butty, sir?’

Halfway through his second bacon sandwich, Lapslie asked the obvious question.

‘So how’s Shaw getting on?’

‘Reorganizing,’ Bradbury replied.

‘So . . . breaking up the team?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘That’s about it.’

Parkin said: ‘Oh yes, this somehow managed to find its way into my bag. Must have fallen in as I left the office.’ He handed Lapslie two large A4 envelopes. ‘It’s copies of all the relevant stuff from the inquiry. Names, addresses, phone numbers.’

Putting down her tea and clearing her throat, Bradbury continued: ‘We discovered a few more things as well.’

‘Go on.’

‘Remember the people at Richard Dale’s funeral: the ones that had all sat on the same jury?’

Lapslie nodded.

‘Well, the trial they were on was in 2004. It was the trial of a man called Edward Dakker.’

‘The rapist?’

‘The
alleged
rapist. Remember, he was found not guilty.’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Like hell. Especially considering what happened.’

‘Anyway, we’ve managed to track down the names of all the people on the jury.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Just normal, everyday people called for service, like thousands before and since. Anyway, obviously the evidence wasn’t strong enough, so they released him . . .’

Lapslie was disturbed. ‘I know, I remember. I was the senior investigating officer. I was gutted when he walked free. Couldn’t understand it.’

‘Well, whatever the reason, the jury did understand it. They made the decision.’

‘But it isn’t them being murdered, is it?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘No, it’s their children.’

‘It’s their
what
?’

‘Their
children
. Jane Summers, the nurse that was strangled, was, as we know, the daughter of Jack and Amelia Summers, and so it goes on. In every case bar one, our victims are the children of the members of the jury that found Dakker not guilty.’

‘You say bar one. Who was that?’

‘A model by the name of Clair Brett. She was the niece of a jury member, a man by the name of Colin Brett. Electrocuted and boiled in her own hot tub.’

‘Why would Dakker have an interest in revenge? They found him not guilty. Besides, didn’t he leave the country?’

‘He did. He moved to Australia, where he raped and killed a nineteen-year-old student by the name of Alice Henry. In a church, apparently.’

Lapslie nodded gravely. ‘I remember now. If only that bloody jury had done its job properly, she might still be alive.’

‘I think that’s what her father thought too.’

‘You think her father is the killer?’

Bradbury nodded, and gave him an odd half smile. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘But we have no suspects by the name of Henry.’

Bradbury continued. ‘That’s right, but that’s only because her mother and father split up when she was small and she used her mother’s maiden name of Henry.’

‘So what’s her real name?’

‘Whitefoot.’

‘But we have no suspects by the name of Whitefoot either,’ Lapslie pointed out.

‘But we do,’ Emma Bradbury said quietly, ‘have a police surgeon by the name of Whitefoot, don’t we? Jeff Whitefoot.’

Now that he had decided to readjust his plans and kill the Teacher’s Wife, it was only fair that he should make her a doll. He enjoyed making dolls, enjoyed the detailed, careful work that went into them. Of the various arts and crafts courses that had been offered to him by the psychiatrists treating him for depression after the death of his daughter, he had found doll-making to be the most therapeutic. Not that it had brought her back, of course. If it hadn’t been for that damned jury, she would be with him now. She might even have given him grandchildren by now.

He had received the latest message from God as he was in the supermarket earlier, stocking up on supplies. This message wasn’t indirect, or subtle. This one wasn’t capable of being misinterpreted if he wasn’t paying attention. It was aimed directly at him. As he had walked past a man pushing a trolley, he had distinctly heard the man say:
‘She must give you your daughter back.’
He had turned around, shocked, but the man had been looking at the shelves, not at him. He hadn’t misheard,
though, because moments later a loudspeaker had crackled to life and a voice had said:
‘If a Mr Whitefoot is present, could he please note that she should give him his daughter back. Thank you.’

It was clear what God wanted from him. Before killing the Teacher’s Wife, he was to make her pregnant. He was going to replace the daughter lost to him. Then it wouldn’t just be death that came out of his quest, it would be life as well.
That
was what God wanted.
That
had been the end of the plan all along, not something negative, but something positive.

She seemed like a fit, strong girl, so getting her pregnant shouldn’t really be a problem. He was a doctor, after all, and he had delivered more than a few children in his life, so that wasn’t going to be a problem. He would have to examine her to make sure she wasn’t concealing a contraceptive cap. If she was taking the pill, of course, then its effects would be dispelled very quickly once she stopped, and there would, of course, be no morning-after pill.

He had never been one-hundred-per-cent happy about all the killings. They were necessary, he knew, and God had encouraged and protected him all along, but now, at the end of it all, his journey had led him to life, rather than death. He felt the same kind of relief that he imagined Abraham had felt when, ordered by God to kill his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, the
instruction had been countermanded at the last minute. It had been a test of faith, and so was this.

With precise movements he continued making the doll. Because this had been one of the few last-minute decisions he had made in his life, he did not have Elizabeth Turner’s clothes, so he was unable to make the doll anything to wear. In the end he decided to use sections of the hospital gown she had been wearing when he took her from the hospital. He had already cut a large chunk of hair from the back of her head and was threading it through the doll’s head, so at least he had something of her in its creation.

Keeping her hidden for nine months was going to be the biggest problem. Getting rid of her body at the end should be relatively easy. He would need to buy her some clothes and blankets. Monitor her health, make sure she remained warm and healthy. There was a lot to think about. Once the baby was born he would finish her with a quick injection – probably insulin. Painless and quick. He would do it while she was sleeping.

Then again, he pondered, maybe he should let her live for a while in case something happened to the child and he had to start all over again.

So many possibilities, so many options. For the first time in a long time he felt . . . uncertain. Rather than remaining on the track that had defined his life for so many years, he
had options now. Different routes. It would take time to get used to it.

The good thing was that if everything went to plan, then both Tony Turner and Lapslie should be dead before the end of the day. The police would soon get tired of looking for Elizabeth Turner – they always did in cases of disappearance, after the first few weeks had passed by. Then he would be home free. He would, of course, have to make sure they never discovered her body. All that would do was to stir things up again. He would leave the country with the child, set up home in Canada or Australia, where awkward questions would never be asked. Instead of living the rest of his life in misery, he actually had something to look forward to.

He finished the doll and examined it. It wasn’t a bad likeness. He was pleased with his work. All he had to do now was make the coffin, and that was it. End of story.

This would be his last doll. He didn’t want to make any more; he wanted to finish now. Finish with the killing. With a new grandchild to care for he could at last concentrate on the living. There would be light in his life, not darkness. It was a good feeling.

Standing, he walked across to his writing desk and began to write the last two letters, the ones that would bring an end to everything. Failing to plan was planning to fail.

He smiled to himself as he wrote. If the new child was a girl, and wanted dolls, then he wouldn’t make them. He would just buy them.

*

They were parked just down the dirt road that led to Jeff Whitefoot’s isolated house: Pearce and Parkin, armed, in one car; Lapslie and Bradbury in the other. Pearce and Parkin were legally armed, although not legally on duty in the area. Bradbury was illegally armed. Lapslie she wasn’t sure about.

As Bradbury came off her mobile, Lapslie asked, ‘So is everything still secure with Tony Turner?’

‘Yes. They’ve got his place tied down as tight as a drum. Three men inside guarding, two outside. Whitefoot won’t get to him easily.’

Lapslie nodded. As he’d instructed, he’d heard Bradbury inform the team guarding Tony Turner that the likely suspect was Whitefoot, so that they were forewarned who to look out for.

‘Let’s just hope it’s enough.’

Bradbury eased out a slow breath and looked ahead. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? You’re supposed to be sidelined. If we notify Rouse, he could have an armed back-up team here within a half-hour.’

‘Good ideas aren’t always my strongest suit,’ he said with a pained smile; then with a graver, less flippant tone, after a moment’s deliberation: ‘I want Whitefoot. I want him personally. I don’t want to read about it on the news, or watch Alan Shaw get the plaudits for bringing him down. I know the man, had more than a few heartfelt heavy drinking sessions with him.’ As he said it, he wondered whether that personal connection had blocked him reading the signals quicker: Whitefoot conveniently being at the original bunker scene with the tramp, the inside knowledge, the medical link, Whitefoot being the one to inform Rouse that Lapslie was the thirteenth doll, to get him off the investigation. The signs had all been there if he’d bothered to scratch deeper, and now he was partly blaming himself. He sighed. ‘If you want out, go now. I wouldn’t blame you. No point dragging yourself down with me.’

Bradbury looked away from him. ‘You know I wouldn’t do that. Go one, go all. Besides, the job wouldn’t be the same without you.’

‘What would you do?’

Bradbury shrugged, ‘What
do
ex-cops do?’

Lapslie chuckled. ‘Run a pub? Become a private investigator? Go into security?’

Bradbury laughed. ‘I think I’d go back to college and teach.’

Lapslie was surprised. ‘Teach! You’d end up smacking the little shits.’

‘I was thinking that infants are much more controllable.’

Lapslie looked across at her. ‘You haven’t got any kids, have you?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘None that I’ll admit to.’

‘Thought not. If you had, then you wouldn’t think infants would be a pushover.’

‘I didn’t say—’

Before she had time to finish, her radio crackled into life.

It was Pearce. ‘In position. Ready when you are.’

Lapslie pulled the radio from Bradbury’s hand. They’d made sure when briefing the team to establish a secure network. ‘Make sure your safety catches are off.’

‘Thanks for the advice, sir. Wouldn’t have thought of that.’

Lapslie smiled. ‘Just a well-wisher. Remember, watch the back. Stay in position unless he comes your way.’

‘Understood.’

‘If you get a shot, don’t worry about warning him: just
fire. He’s a dangerous bastard. Bradbury and I will swear we heard you shout a warning.’

The reply came back. ‘Ten-four. We were going to do that anyway.’

Bradbury pulled the radio back from Lapslie. ‘You ask a lot.’

‘I ask for justice.’

‘With the lives and the trust of your officers.’

‘That’s part of the bargain,’ he said, callously. He indicated the 9mm automatic she held in her hand, low so that it couldn’t be seen through the car window, even though nobody was around. ‘And where did that come from?’

‘It was a birthday present from Dom, okay?’

‘I would have had him tagged as a frilly lingerie man.’

‘No, that was my present to him.’

Lapslie nodded, smiling. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’

As Bradbury was about to leave he grabbed her arm. ‘What I said: the same applies to you. Shoot first . . .’

‘Ask questions later?’

Lapslie smiled wolfishly. ‘Well, not if you shoot first.’