The Thirteenth Coffin (25 page)

‘We’ve found out who the fireman is.’

Bradbury stood. ‘Well, give me a name then.’

‘Bloke called Richard Dale, was killed in 2008,’ Pearce replied.

‘Eighth of August 2008, to be accurate,’ added Parkin.

Bradbury walked across to them. ‘How was he killed?’

‘Fell off his ladder into the fire.’

‘So it might just have been an accident?’

Parkin shook his head. ‘No. He was the best ladder man they had, there was no need for him to fall.’

Pearce continued: ‘There was a PM. He died from smoke inhalation, but that was it. He was otherwise a very fit man. No history of any physical problems. Heart in good condition, as was the rest of him.’

The other half of the double act chipped in. ‘So there was no reason for him to fall naturally.’

Bradbury was becoming increasingly interested. ‘So how else did he fall?’

Pearce produced an A4 envelope. ‘It’s all in here: the PM report. They discovered an impression . . . an indentation . . . on the top side of his skull. They wrote it off at the time as having been caused when he fell.’

Bradbury nodded. ‘Sounds fair.’

Parkin shook his head. ‘Well, maybe, with what they knew then. It would never have occurred to them that he might have been knocked off his ladder. Now we think he was murdered, it takes on a new significance. We think he was hit on the head with something, and that’s what made him fall.’

Bradbury took the envelope from them. ‘It’s a bit thin, and I don’t mean the PM report.’

Pearce smiled confidently, giving the impression that he knew something Bradbury didn’t. ‘It might be, if we hadn’t gone to his fire station and discovered that about a month before he was killed his uniform was vandalized and a great piece of material cut out.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘The station officer,’ Pearce glanced at his notebook,
‘one Peter Brooking. He remembered it happening because Dale did his nut. He accused everyone in the station of having it in for him. That’s fire-station life for you, far as I can tell: they all play tricks on each other all the time. Dale was the first fire officer ever to die from their station, and only the second in the county over the period you asked us to check. That’s why Brooking remembered him so well.’

Parkin joined in again. ‘The other one was killed in a road-traffic accident on the way to a fire. We’ve already eliminated him as a possible.’

‘The RTA was very well investigated. Caused by too much speed. The driver lost it on a bend and hit a tree.’

Bradbury was impressed, but there were still some remaining hurdles. ‘There’ll have to be another post-mortem. It will mean digging him up. The family aren’t going to be happy about that.’

Pearce shrugged. ‘They’ll be happy enough if we discover the real reason for his death, and bring the bastard who did it to justice.’

Bradbury nodded decisively.

Parkin cut in: ‘I’m okay with it as long as I don’t have to do the digging.’

*

Lapslie’s mind and body were crying out for more boat time to get away from things. What had turned his mind to it was George phoning an hour ago to tell him that all the repairs had been done – ‘Everything’s shipshape again.’

He could do with getting away from all the distractions and noises and just thinking for a while. Let the facts churn and shift in his brain until a pattern emerged. But the problem was that even a short spin out on the boat would eat up half the day, and at this stage in the investigation he just didn’t have the time. So all he’d committed to was meeting George at the marina at first light the next morning for a quick spot check.

He went over the current state of the inquiry in his mind. They had thirteen dolls, counting him, but he wasn’t one of the originals and he still wasn’t sure if that wasn’t just a ploy on the part of the killer to throw them off the scent. But what if it wasn’t a ploy: what if he
was
linked in some bizarre way to the other twelve dolls? Maybe he’d been blind to that, too quick to convince himself that he was an add-on rather than an active part of the case.

Of the original twelve dolls, he now had the identity of five of them: the nurse, the fireman, the major, the
poor bride and the teacher. The teacher was, of course, the only one still alive. These weren’t random murders, Lapslie’s instincts told him. They were planned. The killer had taken years to execute them; picking his victims off one at a time, carefully hiding the truth and never killing in the same way twice, knowing that patterns were what tipped the police off. He had made one big mistake, however: the dolls. For whatever reason he had needed to commemorate or celebrate his crimes. Or maybe he’d just been keeping score. With luck his warped sense of the dramatic and his arrogance would give Lapslie the link that would lead to his arrest.

The people – the victims – had to be linked. There had to be a common factor that involved them all. Discover that, and he would have his killer, of that he was sure.

Lapslie had arranged to meet Bradbury outside Richard Dale’s widow’s house. He had to start linking these killings. He needed to know this man better than his wife did. He needed to know everything. Name of his school or college. Sports and pastimes. Any enemies he might have had. And not just him, but his wife and family as well, just in case it was murder by association. He had dealt with quite a few of those in his time, and they
were more common than was generally thought. People often tried to hurt other people by killing or hurting the people they loved. Lapslie supposed it was because the pain lasted, and was tinged with guilt as well. Mostly it happened in domestic murders: one party or the other killing the children to harm the other parent. Lapslie had learned early in his career that passion and emotion were the main causes of murder, and probably always would be.

Bradbury was already there when he arrived.

‘Morning, Emma. Any more updates?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing since I phoned you yesterday to tell you about this bloke.’

‘We’d better go in and see what we can find out.’

‘What are we looking for?’

‘Links. Anything that linked her husband to any of the other people that we now know have been murdered. Anything at all, no matter how small, insignificant, or even how stupid you might think it is. Got it?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘Got it.’

They walked down the path together towards the small neat three-bedroom semi-detached house. Before they had a chance to knock, a little and pretty woman opened the door.

‘Hello, Sergeant Bradbury?’

‘Yes, sorry I’m a little late, Mrs Dale.’ She turned to Lapslie. ‘Can I introduce you to my boss: Detective Inspector Lapslie?’

Lapslie put out his hand and Mrs Kate Dale took it. She was shy and pleasant, and despite everything she had been through, her eyes were still full of life.

She stood to one side. ‘Come in, please come in.’

Lapslie and Bradbury walked past Kate Dale and into the sitting room. The room was like the house: neat and clean. There was a strong smell of flowers, so thick that Lapslie could feel it on his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was Kate Dale’s voice or an air-freshener set on overdrive.

They both sat down on the settee and waited for Kate Dale to join them. After a few moments Lapslie called out to her, ‘Mrs Dale, are you okay?’

As he went to stand, she finally entered the room, a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands. She put them down on the small coffee table in front of the two detectives. ‘Sorry, I thought you might like some tea. I know I do.’

She poured three cups of tea and handed two of them to the detectives. Lapslie noticed that the cups were made of fine china. He smiled. She reminded him of his
aunt, when he went for tea on a Sunday with his parents. They sat in a front room that was never used unless guests were coming round, drank from china cups and ate from china plates. The cups and plates were also only ever used for visitors. It was all to do with respect and place in society. Standards were maintained, no matter what. The vicar might pop round for tea at any moment. He had a sudden flash of memory of watching his grandmother cleaning the front doorstep, which she did every Saturday morning. He remembered her ample backside swaying from side to side as she polished.

He forced himself back to reality. ‘Mrs Dale . . .’

She cut in. ‘Kate.’

‘Kate. I need to know as much as you can remember about your late husband. It is very important.’

She put her cup back down on its saucer and looked disarmingly into Lapslie’s eyes. ‘Mr Lapslie, is there something you need to tell me? If there is, please do me the respect of getting on with it.’

Lapslie knew she was right. There was no point playing games with her. He might as well just tell her the stark truth and hope the shock became something positive rather than negative. ‘We believe your husband was murdered,’ he said simply.

Bradbury looked at Lapslie, shocked at his bluntness, and then at Kate Dale to see what the effect on her had been. She was unmoved.

‘I thought he must have been,’ she said quietly.

Lapslie was intrigued. ‘Why?’

‘Two things . . .’

‘They are?’

‘The first one is very practical: there was nobody better on a ladder than Richard. He would never have fallen off – never. Secondly, and I know you’re going to laugh at me, but I just had a feeling that something was wrong.’

‘I’d never laugh at you, Kate. I’m a big believer in feelings, or at least in things that can’t be catalogued and analysed, but I still have to ask the questions.’

She looked at him for a moment, then stood. ‘I think I might be able to save you doing that.’

She walked over to a sideboard and pulled out a drawer. Bradbury and Lapslie looked at each other. She pulled a blue A4 file from the drawer and handed it to Lapslie. ‘You’ll find what you’re looking for in here.’

Lapslie opened it, intrigued but wary. A bold claim, somewhat weird; but Kate Dale said it in such a calm, down-to-earth manner.

The file contained a collection of newspaper cuttings
concerning the death and burial of her husband, fireman Richard Dale. After flicking through the file, Lapslie looked up at her, puzzled. ‘So where would the name be?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. You’ll have to find it, but it is in there.’

Lapslie was confused. ‘But how do you know?’

‘You said you believe in feelings, Chief Inspector?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Then take my word for it, I have a feeling that what you are looking for is in there.’

*

He had a good idea what Lapslie had in mind, but he had to be sure. He wasn’t often wrong but it had happened in the past, with near-disastrous consequences.

Having established routes and transport links on the internet, he parked his car in the second from nearest railway-station car park, took the bus until he was about a mile from the Teacher’s cottage, and then walked the rest of the way. He had also disguised himself. Nothing heavy: just enough to smear his identity a bit.

As he turned onto the road he saw that he was right. The dark Transit van parked halfway along the road was carefully anonymous, but it was parked beneath an advertising hoarding, and the beautiful model whose photograph was on the
poster was pointing downwards directly at it. Anybody else would have thought she was indicating the words of the advert, but he knew differently. She was communicating with him, and only him.

Further down the road, three men were slowly and painstakingly setting up a plastic barrier around a broadband routing box. Now that he had been alerted, he could see that they were obviously detectives.

The security surrounding Turner impressed him. It would be harder to get to him now. Harder, but still necessary. Time was creeping on. Lapslie would already be trying to establish the links between the victims, and as soon as the policeman did that it would all be over. He had to act fast and decisively, before it was too late.

He carried on walking along the street and past Turner’s cottage. He’d put a stone in one of his shoes to change the way that he walked. As he limped along, near to the cottage, he noticed a car approaching, and his heart began to race as he recognized Lapslie in the passenger seat, and Bradbury driving. Lapslie looked him straight in the face but still failed to recognize him. As the car went past he glanced at the number plate. The last three letters were
TTW.
Something told him that the letters weren’t a coincidence. They were a message. They
meant
something.

TTW.

Of course. TTW. Take The Wife.

Now he knew how he was going to get to both Turner and Lapslie, finish his quest and still get away. All he had to do was to kidnap the Teacher’s wife from the hospital. That would bring them both to him.

He walked on, elated. Who would have thought that it would be Lapslie who would give him such inspiration?

*

Lapslie needed to check on the protection team for Tony Turner, make sure all was well. He had not only arranged for the teacher to receive twenty-four-hour protection, but had made sure there was someone on Elizabeth Turner’s private ward at all times. Other officers, including snipers, had been posted at various places, watching all the time for a sniper on the off-chance he decided to follow that method once again. He’d all but given up on it being Mike Stowell, was convinced now that he’d simply been put in the frame, but as belt and braces Barrett and Kempsey remained on Stowell’s tail.

Bradbury parked the car behind the surveillance van and Lapslie quickly moved from one to the other while Bradbury stayed where she was.

The inside of the van looked like a control room at NASA. It was manned by four highly trained officers on a rotating three-shift system. They all looked like they had been shelled from the same pea-pod.

‘Everything okay, boys?’

They turned as one. ‘All fine here, boss.’

‘Anything happening?’

They shook their heads together. Lapslie couldn’t help feeling they would make a great music-hall act. ‘What, nothing at all?’