The Thirteenth Coffin (19 page)

He got to the mortuary in less than half an hour, which, he was pleased to say, was something of a record. The traffic lights had been friendly, and for Essex there was a marked lack of idiots on the road.

Catherall was in her office typing out a report when he knocked and entered.

‘Evening.’

She looked up at him. ‘Hello, Mark. I hope I haven’t spoiled any plans you had for the evening?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, not at all. What have you discovered?’

‘It might be something, or it might be nothing, but given what you said about the two dolls not in their coffins and one of them being a major in the Army . . .’

Lapslie could feel himself getting excited. ‘Yes, what of it?’

As Catherall pulled herself to her feet using her sticks, Lapslie moved to help her. ‘Can I—’

‘No, thank you. I am quite capable.’ Finally getting up, she walked out of the office and down the corridor. Lapslie followed her towards the fridges in the mortuary.
She finally reached a fridge whose label read:
Mr John Alexander Thomas
. Catherall looked up at Lapslie. ‘I think he might be your man.’

Lapslie was confused. ‘I haven’t heard of any new murders, and I’m sure I would. I’ve been on the lookout specifically. He’s not a major, either.’

Catherall contradicted him. ‘Actually, he is. Pull the drawer out, would you?’

Lapslie did as he was bid. The drawer slid out easily, and Catherall pulled back the white sheet that was covering his body. ‘I give you Major Thomas.’

Lapslie looked at her for a moment. ‘If he is a major then why doesn’t it say so on his label?’

‘Because when the label was made out we had no idea that he was.’

‘Not like the Army to slip up over something like that.’

‘The Army weren’t involved . . .’

Lapslie could feel himself become frustrated. ‘Then how can he be a major?’

Catherall smiled. ‘He’s retired, and not too long ago either. When soldiers of a certain rank retire, they retain their rank.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Two of his friends came to see him in the Chapel
of Rest. They were both in uniform. They asked if his name tag could be changed from
Mr
to
Major
. When I asked why, they explained. I haven’t had time to do it yet, or rather, I haven’t had time to get Dan to do it, but I will.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Gas fumes while he was camping with his mistress. She’s in the drawer below him.’

‘How apt.’ Lapslie grimaced. ‘So he wasn’t murdered, then?’

‘You are looking for murder victims, such as the nurse and Leslie Petersen?’

Lapslie nodded.

‘You tell me that this murderer is clever. Well, perhaps he’s clever enough to have made all his murders look like accidents. Maybe that’s why he has got away with it for so long.’

Lapslie looked at her levelly. ‘Yes, we had started working on that theory – but interesting to see support for that line of thinking from pathology also.’ He sighed. ‘Have you got an address for him?’

‘You want to see if any of his uniforms have been damaged, obviously.’

‘I do. There’s no point running around like a
headless chicken until after I’ve checked the obvious. Having spent days
missing
the obvious, I don’t want to do it again.’

‘You might want to start with the wife.’ Catherall passed him a sheet of A4 paper. ‘That has all the contact details.’

He glanced at the words on the paper. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. It’s late now, and she won’t welcome a call at this hour, not from the police.’ He glanced up and met Jane Catherall’s eyes. ‘Thanks, Jane. I appreciate this.’

*

Lapslie had no idea what time it was when his phone suddenly started to play Beethoven’s
Egmont Overture
. Gently moving the naked Charlotte from her position sprawled across his chest, he picked up his mobile, glancing at the time as he did. Five thirty-five.

It was Bradbury, so something had happened. He tried to speak quietly. ‘Yes, Emma, what is it? Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘I’m out at the bunker, sir. I think you had better come down: there’s been an incident.’

The bunker again. He was spending more time there than he was at home. ‘What do you mean, an incident?’

‘Think you had better come down, boss. It’s difficult
to explain on the phone. Are you at home? Shall I send a car for you?’

That was the last thing Lapslie wanted. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

Hanging up, he looked across at Charlotte’s naked body. The night before had been the first time they’d been able to spend any time together since their disastrous weekend sailing; the hectic investigation and Charlotte’s schedule had swallowed up every other opportunity. He watched her for a moment as she slept: her beautifully shaped breasts moving gently up and down with every breath.

He edged himself to the side of the bed and lightly stood, hoping not to wake her.

‘Where are you going?’

Lapslie looked down at her. ‘I’ve had a call. I’m so sorry, but I think it’s urgent.’

She smiled up at him, her eyes still full of sleep. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of emergency calls at the hospital, although I’m usually kipping in a supply room, so I don’t have as far to go. It’s what you do. I understand that.’

‘I have to get dressed.’

Her smile broadened. ‘Okay. I
had
planned a few surprises for you this morning, but they can wait.’

After dressing, he made his now familiar way to the bunker. Bradbury was waiting. The place was alive with activity again. Detectives, SOCOs, lights everywhere.

‘So now what’s happened?’

‘The young policeman on last night’s duty shift here was assaulted and knocked unconscious. They found him about an hour ago.’

Lapslie was genuinely concerned. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

Bradbury shrugged. ‘They don’t know yet. He hasn’t come round. They’re doing all the tests, so we’ll know soon enough.’

‘So do we know why he was attacked?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘We think he disturbed someone inside the bunker. The door’s been opened with a key . . .’

‘A
key
? Where the hell did our intruder get
that
from?’

‘Good question. We think the copper must have heard someone inside and gone in to try to catch them, rather than call it in.’

‘Everybody wants to be a hero.’

‘I think you need to come inside: there’s something you should see.’

Lapslie was intrigued. ‘Should we be suited up?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘Thomson said no.’

‘Is he around?’

Bradbury shook her head. ‘I asked him to keep out of the way until you had gone.’

‘Good thinking.’

The bunker was saturated in light, and it was easy to find their way to the area where the dolls had been stored. As they entered, Lapslie was amazed to see that there were two more dolls set up on the shelves that were supposed to have been empty, following the removal of all the dolls and the coffins. Or, to be more accurate, there was one coffin with its lid closed and one doll beside it with a coffin propped up behind it. The doll in the open was dressed in a dark blue uniform, but he ignored it for the moment. He was more concerned with the closed coffin. If he was right, he knew what was inside.

He pulled the lid open.

Inside the toy coffin was the Army doll, the one in the major’s uniform. Its face had been coloured red, mimicking the effects of gas poisoning. It was, of course, meant to be Major John Alexander Thomas, whose body was even now lying in a drawer in Jane Catherall’s mortuary. Now the timing made more sense; obviously the major had been killed days ago, but due to their
watching the bunker, this had been the killer’s first opportunity to break in and get to the dolls.

Lapslie turned his attention to the other one – the thirteenth coffin, the thirteenth doll. He felt a shiver run down his back as he recognized the uniform. It was a police officer’s uniform. On its chest was a small oak leaf denoting the Queen’s Commendation for Gallantry. Lapslie had one of those. The doll even had a collar number. Lapslie leaned as close to the doll as possible without disturbing it, so he could see the numbers on its lapel.

245.

His heard began to thump within his chest. Two hundred and forty-five had been
his
collar number, in those far-off days when he had been pounding the beat in Brixton and elsewhere, with Alan Rouse.

He looked across at Bradbury, but saw in her expression that she already knew the truth.

The doll he was looking at was meant to be him.

He was to be the occupant of the thirteenth coffin.

15 March 2011

Alex Mitchell had wanted to become an actor since before he knew what the words ‘job’ or ‘vocation’ actually meant. Even as a young boy he would dress up in his mother’s clothes – never his father’s, for some reason – and put on small shows for his friends, his sisters or sometimes just his pets. He would also wear his mother’s make-up, which didn’t please his father much.

Alex was in every school production there was during his time at school. He played Joseph in the junior school nativity play, and later had more important roles in his senior school’s adaptations of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. He joined an amateur dramatics group, The Essex Players, and was cast in at least four different plays a year. He couldn’t help noticing, however, as time went on, that they were careful never to give him a lead role. When he talked to his mother about it, she said that he would just have to get used to people being jealous of his talent.

After a stint at LAMDA and several years touring the provinces, he got his big TV break on a forensic science show called
The Citadel.
He had already changed his name to Rick Mitchell, on his agent’s advice some time before. At first he was concerned that the change had made him almost unknown again. He needn’t have worried; the name went down well, and it looked great on the opening credits.

Standing on the edge of the set of
The Citadel:
Series 4, episode 9, he prepared himself for the next shot. He was to run from a specially constructed hut five seconds after the word ‘Action’. There was then to be a small explosion, lots of smoke and a very loud bang. It would look and sound great, but there would be no real explosion, just a puff of smoke. Perspective would make it look like he was closer than he actually was. That’s why on this occasion there would be no need for a stuntman. By the time the computer graphics wizards and the editors had finished with it, it would look like he had survived a massive explosion. It was the wonder of film.

The he heard it: ‘Action!’

He pushed the handle of the door down and outwards in the same movement, as he had rehearsed several times, but it didn’t open. He tried again once again. Nothing! The door was either locked or jammed. Realizing that the bang and smoke were
only seconds away, he called out, ‘Can you stop the explosion and get me out of here please?’

He put his hands over his ears. He wasn’t scared; he just didn’t want to be deafened by the bang. ‘Excuse me!’ he yelled, ‘can you please get me—’

He never finished his sentence. The explosion, when it happened, was enormous. Much bigger than planned. It blasted the hut apart and blew Alex Mitchell over thirty feet in the air. He was already dead, burning and in several pieces before he hit the ground.

*

All Lapslie wanted to do was get home and see his uniform, used now only for official occasions. Most of the time it just hung in the back of his closet. But despite the overwhelming desire to jump into a car and race the distance back to his house, he knew there were things he must do first. Jim Thomson and his team were already on the scene. They must know every inch of the area by now, Lapslie pondered. He knew the chances of their finding anything were almost nil – their killer was far too careful for that – but he’d already made one mistake in dropping the teacher’s mortar board, and there was always the chance he’d make another.

He looked around for Bradbury. ‘Emma?’ She walked
over to him. ‘I want you to arrange for minicams to be put inside the bunker. Make sure they have some infrared facility so we can get a look at the bastard if he comes back again.’

‘Do you think he will?’

‘I’m sure of it. This place is like catnip to him.’ He felt the skin between his shoulder blades crawling, and he glanced around involuntarily. ‘The only thing I’m not sure about is whether I will still be here to see it. He’s a bloody good shot. He could have me in his sights right now.’

Bradbury glanced around uneasily. She returned her attention to Lapslie. ‘You need to be careful.’

Lapslie nodded his head. ‘I know.’

‘Protective detail assigned to you at all times, I think.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘At the very least, you need to tell Rouse.’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Not a chance. He’d have me off the inquiry so fast—’

Bradbury cut in. ‘That might be for the best. At least we could protect you until he is caught.’

Lapslie appreciated the sentiment but remained adamant. ‘No. Definitely not. Unless I catch him, he won’t get caught.’ Noticing Bradbury’s raised eyebrow, he went
on: ‘Do you really think I’m going to entrust my life to Alan Shaw? I’d be dead and buried, and they’d still be filling out a health and safety risk matrix. No, we need to get this nailed ourselves. We only let Rouse know when it’s all done.’

She was still staring at him, uncertainty and concern in her eyes. He was touched, but he had to convince her to let him get on with the case. If she went behind his back to Rouse then the game would be up, and he’d find himself in a safe house for the rest of the year with only pizzas and daytime TV for company.

‘Look,’ he said, more calmly, ‘the doll with my police number is the last one. The killer is working in order, for some strange obsessive-compulsive reason. So our first priority is to try and find the teacher and keep him safe. If we can find the killer before then, I’m safe too.’