The Thirteenth Coffin (16 page)

Finally, he got his lucky break. He got a lot of those, and had become convinced as a result that God was on his side and supported the stand he was making. He noticed a message in one of the milk bottles sitting outside her front door: ‘No milk until Monday’. So they were away this weekend.

He decided that he would have to keep watch on the cottage on the Friday night and over to the Saturday morning.

He was in luck. Major Thomas picked his mistress up on Friday evening, and he followed them at a safe distance. He had already decided that if they went further than fifty miles he would have to stop following, go back home and wait for another opportunity. Once again he was in luck. After just under twenty miles they pulled into a campsite.

The site, on the outskirts of some woods near a river, was almost deserted. As he watched, they set up a large modern tent close to the woods. Sleeping bags and other equipment were removed from the boot of the Major’s car and put in the tent. The Major then returned to the boot and removed a large gas bottle, which he fixed up just outside the tent. It was clearly intended to be used not only for cooking, but also, he was glad to say, for the small heater that he saw the Major take into the
tent. Now he knew how he was going to kill him, and how to make it look just like a tragic accident.

Though he had to wait over an hour for them to head to a local pub before sneaking into the tent to make the necessary adjustments to the heater. Then forty minutes after their return he once again moved through the woods and emerged by the Major’s tent. It wasn’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. From the sounds coming from the tent the couple were clearly making love, and it went on for some time. He had to admire the Major’s stamina.

It was a shame, he thought, as he listened to the sounds of passion, that the girl had to die too. It was the first time this had happened, but needs must when the Devil drives, and he wasn’t sure when he was going to get an opportunity like this again. The fact that they were dying together would also help mask the fact that he had got his eleventh victim.

After a couple of hours the lovemaking stopped and was replaced by the sound of heavy breathing and the odd snore. He knew it was safe. All he had to do now was adjust the gas bottle so that it filled the tent with toxic vapours. It would all be over very fast and painlessly. Another tragic accident.

It only took him a few minutes. Afterwards he crept back into the woods and waited for events to come to their inevitable
conclusion. He was sure he would read about it all in the papers over the following days.

Eleven down, two to go.

*

Despite Colonel Parr’s directions, Lapslie got lost trying to work out which way Bradbury should go once they got past Ledbury. He ended up having to call Colonel Parr to talk him in. The camp lay on the outskirts of the town, and they made it just about on time. He was, as Parr had told him, expected. After going through various checks and having his and Bradbury’s ID confirmed and the car searched, they were directed to Parr’s office.

The normal, day-to-day business of a military base caused a wash of flavour across Lapslie’s mouth that tasted of old, dried blood. He tried to ignore it and keep going.

Parr was waiting for them outside his office. He still wasn’t wearing uniform, but this time he was wearing cargo trousers, a polo shirt and a waterproof jacket. Lapslie assumed that the dress code among Special Forces was designed not to attract any attention.

‘Morning, Chief Inspector. Sorry about the delay, but I didn’t realize until you mentioned it on the phone earlier that your sergeant would be travelling with you.’
Parr first shook Lapslie’s hand and then Bradbury’s. ‘Sergeant Bradbury, good to meet you.’

‘Sorry,’ Lapslie apologized, ‘bit of stupidity on my part.’

Parr looked at him for a moment. ‘Yes. Anyway, come in. I’ve arranged for some tea and biscuits.’

Lapslie and Bradbury followed. It wasn’t a good start.

Once they were settled around the table, Parr began to question them. He was more direct, more officious, now that he was on home territory. ‘Made any progress?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘A bit.’

Parr looked at him expectantly.

‘We know that the wedding dress and veil the bridal doll was wearing both came from Leslie Petersen’s dress. They’d been cut off a few weeks before she was killed, but we don’t know by whom – apart from the suspect I mentioned before, her past boyfriend, Mike Stowell, ex-Army and with two years’ sniper experience.’ Lapslie grimaced tautly. ‘But part of that whole scenario doesn’t sit comfortably with me.’

‘Oh. Why’s that?’

‘It’s altogether too convenient, fits too perfectly. She’s shot by a sniper and lo and behold it turns out her ex-jilted-boyfriend was an Army sniper.’ Lapslie sighed. ‘Also none of the other likely murders were
so overt – indeed many might have been staged as accidents – and no connection thus far from Stowell to any other victims.’

‘So your thinking has shifted somewhat on Stowell since we last met.’ Parr raised an eyebrow. ‘And any other suspects in sight?’

‘Nobody in particular. But we now also know that the blood on the bridal doll was definitely Leslie Petersen’s: the DNA matches.’

Parr shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but how is that possible, unless the killer managed to somehow get hold of her blood
before
he killed her? Surely there was no chance after the event – too many people milling around.’

‘We’ve discovered she gave blood regularly. So that appears the most likely option.’

‘I see. Makes sense, I suppose.’ Parr took a fresh breath. ‘Now, I have prepared a bit of a demonstration to let you see how the old sniper thing works. We normally don’t do it here: it’s normally done at the sniper school – an old RAF base – but I’ve booked an area over at PATA.’

‘PATA?’ Bradbury inquired.

‘The Pontrilas Army Training Area. It’s a little way up the road from here.’

Lapslie was appreciative. ‘Thanks. Not sure how much it will help, but it should be interesting at the very least.’

Parr leaned back in his seat. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of getting a little more involved in the inquiry than I would normally. I got some of our friends within the security industry to see if they can trace any .5 sniper rifles that might have gone astray . . .’

‘You mentioned previously an Accuracy International AX50 .50 BMG, which Stowell in our interview has mentioned as one of his favoured weapons. The other was an L115A3.’

Parr nodded thoughtfully. ‘Either of those would have been ideal for this range of shot. Might be worth checking Stowell’s Army mates to see where he might get either of those rifles in the UK. Meanwhile I can get my contacts to see if there are any INTREPs on similar rifles coming into the country legally or illegally.’

‘INTREPs?’ Bradbury asked.

‘Intelligence Reports,’ Parr said without missing a beat or looking at her. ‘If we can track guns of that type through those two sources, then we meet in the middle with some success. There aren’t many of those guns beyond the boundary fence of this and two other UK compounds, and practically zero in private hands.’

‘It’s very good of you. We appreciate it.’

Parr smiled. ‘I’m also looking at who the best shots in the Armed Forces were, going back twenty-five years. Aside from your chap Stowell, that is.’ Parr smiled primly and braced his hands on his thighs with a firm pat. ‘Well, if you’re both ready, I’ll introduce you to our snipers.’

The three of them stood together and left the room. They followed Parr to a LandRover that was parked directly outside. Once in, he drove them out of the camp, along a short section of common road and then up and around a long, twisting track to where a stretch of high-security fencing paralleled the road. A little way along the fence was a parking area and a gate that was operated by a keypad. Parr glanced around and checked his mirrors – checking that nobody else was trying to creep in alongside them, Lapslie assumed – and then typed a code into the keypad. The gate swung smoothly and quietly open. Parr drove in, and waited for it to close before he continued on, past earth bunkers and fifties-style barracks blocks, past strange concrete shapes, until they reached an open area of grass.

‘And here we are.’ He stepped out of the LandRover and gestured to Lapslie and Bradbury to join him. ‘Legs, Spike, are you there?’

Lapslie and Bradbury looked around, and then looked at each other. There was nobody around: the place was empty.

Bradbury raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I’ve seen this film,’ she whispered.

The grass just in front of them moved and two figures stood up. Where there had been no one only moments before, suddenly there were two people, and they weren’t small either. Not only that, but one of them was holding a rifle that had been part-disguised with bits of greenery. It was remarkable. Lapslie couldn’t help feeling that if their killer had these skills then it was no wonder he had no trouble getting in and out of the bunker.

Parr introduced the two men. ‘Legs, Spike, this is Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie and Detective Sergeant Bradbury.’

They all shook hands. Neither man spoke. They were dressed in what Lapslie recognized as ‘ghillie suits’ – outdoor clothing patterned in camouflage and covered in a net of fine twine through which leaves and twigs had been woven. He noticed with interest that he still had no idea of the snipers’ real names. That, presumably, was deliberate on Parr’s part.

‘The boys are going to use the same rifle as we think our killer used, the Accuracy International AX50 .50 BMG. The range won’t be quite so far, neither will the elevation, but it’s far enough and should make the point.’ He pointed. ‘You should just about be able to see the target against the sandbank over there.’

Lapslie strained his eyes. He could just about make out what looked like the outline of a human being, silhouetted against the sandbank.

‘The aim is to hit the target in the heart.’ He smiled at Bradbury. ‘With a chest shot, if you’re a couple of inches out then there is still damage done. With a head shot, a couple of inches could be the difference between hitting and missing.’

‘Are they normally a few inches out?’ Bradbury asked.

‘Talent and training are only two parts of the equation. A gust of wind could change the situation, as could target movement.’ He turned back to the snipers. ‘Gentlemen, in your own time.’

The two men lay back in the grass. This time Lapslie could see them quite clearly, but then this time he knew what he was looking for.

One of the men murmured information to the other, barely distinguishable over the noise of the wind. The
other man – Lapslie realized with a jolt that he didn’t even know which one was Legs and which one was Spike – ranged the shot by adjusting his position, and turning a dial on the side of the sniper scope. After a few moments, he fired a ranging shot. There was a lot less noise than Lapslie expected, but it flooded his mouth with the syrupy, sugary taste of tinned peaches, and he winced. He hoped they wouldn’t have to do much of that.

After a few moments the two men conferred again, and a second shot was fired. Once again, only slightly stronger this time, Lapslie’s mouth was awash with tinned peaches, but this time the taste was bizarrely overlaid with sea salt.

Bradbury saw his discomfort. ‘You okay, sir?’

Lapslie nodded, and put his hand up, indicating to her to stop fussing. Parr glanced over at them curiously.

The sniper fired his final shot. Lapslie resisted the temptation to spit: it would make little difference to what he was tasting, and wouldn’t look too good.

Legs and Spike stood, and made their way towards the sandbank and the target. Parr, Lapslie and Bradbury followed.

The final shot had certainly hit the target, but only
on the outer edge. A kill shot for sure, but whoever had shot Leslie Petersen had hit dead centre, and from a longer range.

Parr turned to Lapslie. ‘Whether our shooter is this chap Stowell or someone else – he’s a remarkable shot. A highly dangerous man.’

Lapslie, looking at the target like a rabbit hypnotized by the lights of a car, said nothing, but had to agree. And if it was someone able to put Stowell in the frame and mask any link to the other victims so successfully, more remarkable still. A killer to be reckoned with.

2 September 2010

Clair Brett dropped down in her armchair, exhausted. It had been a very long day. People never really appreciated how hard modelling was. It really took it out of you, especially if the photographer hadn’t a clue what he was doing, and this one didn’t. She knew much more about the process than he did. He didn’t seem to understand that maintaining an unnatural position for minutes on end while he fiddled with his focus and his exposure was hell on the muscles.

She was used to a broad range of photographers. There were the professionals who were normally fine, and the semi-professionals, who were also pretty good. After that there were the clubs, who varied dramatically, and then there were the rank amateurs. Some were okay and took it very seriously; some just liked the idea of photographing attractive girls naked; and some regarded it as something like a dating agency for creeps. What she had to beware of was the occasional nutter whose
entire aim in life was to try and get her naked somewhere private and chance his arm, or some other part of his anatomy.

Picking up her diary, she leafed through the pages, trying to work her week out. She was booked every day, mostly with professionals, but she also had one club and one life art class, and one amateur, but she’d worked with the man twice before, and she trusted him – well, trusted him as much as she trusted anyone.

She totted up her fees. Just shy of two grand for a week’s work, and most of that tax-free. She always declared a bit in order to stop the taxman becoming suspicious, but not all of it. She wasn’t stupid. Still, eighteen hundred quid for a girl without a GCSE to her name wasn’t bad going. She never told her dad about the details – he would have gone loopy – but she did tell her mum. She told her mum everything. Her mum’s attitude was: ‘Well, if they can only see and can’t touch, that’s fine by me. Girl’s got to make a living, ain’t she?’ Clair had laughed. She loved her mum.