The Thirteenth Coffin (30 page)

While Lapslie made his way along the path, Bradbury covered him with her automatic. She was a good shot: had come top in her course. The trouble with courses,
she thought, is no one is shooting back at you. She just hoped to God that if the good Doctor Whitefoot did make an appearance, she didn’t miss.

A dark thought hit her: what if it wasn’t the doctor? What if it was someone else, using the doctor and his links to the murders as a cover? Bradbury had seen that more than once during her career. Although she felt the evidence was good, she had seen better evidence than that taken apart when subjected to closer scrutiny, especially in court. All they had right now was circumstantial evidence, and they were assuming a lot. What if she did shoot and kill him to protect Lapslie? She was holding an unlicensed weapon and they were there in an unofficial capacity. Bloody hell, Lapslie was even suspended. This could all blow up in her face, and she could find herself doing life in Holloway!

During an operation as dangerous as this there should have been a perimeter set-up, Special Ops personnel armed with every weapon known to man, counter-snipers, even the SAS. Yet here they were, the four of them, none of them having fired a gun in a year. Never mind getting sent to Holloway, she thought hollowly, she would probably end up draped in a Union flag, being buried in her local churchyard. How the fuck did she
allow Lapslie to get her into these situations? She wasn’t covering his life with her 9mm, she was covering his ego. He just couldn’t stand to be wrong. He couldn’t stand for another detective to take over one of his cases, and worse still, solve it. He was willing to do anything to stop that happening, even break the law, and if it came to it he would put his and more importantly her life in danger. When this was all over she owed herself a serious rethink about her relationship with him.

*

Pearce and Parkin had already snipped the wire on the fence. Lapslie slipped through and made his way up the path purposefully, watching all the time for any movement. There was nothing. The problem was that, given Whitefoot’s obvious skill with a sniper rifle, he would be dead and not even realize. The only chance he stood was if he managed to hear the ranging shots and got himself under cover.

Reaching the door quickly, he rapped hard and waited, making sure he stood to one side in case a burst of fire came through the door.

‘Jeff? Doctor Whitefoot? It’s Mark Lapslie!’

And that, he thought, was the closest to saying ‘
Police! Open the door!
’ that he was going to get.

He glanced back at Bradbury, who seemed frozen to the spot, only her arms jerking from time to time as she covered a series of windows with her 9mm. He really didn’t know what he would do without her. She seemed to understand and accept him, warts and all. It was like a successful marriage – a professional one, but a marriage all the same. She was even willing to put her life at risk without question. That was loyalty. Who else would do that for him?

When, after a few minutes, no one came to the door, Lapslie knocked again, only this time louder. Still nothing. He stepped back and examined the front of the house for a burglar alarm. There wasn’t one, which both surprised and pleased him. Without further ado he smashed the glass in the door, reached in and undid the lock inside. Whitefoot’s security was really poor. Lapslie was surprised. Maybe the man just didn’t want to draw attention to himself, he pondered. Odd, all the same.

As he began to push the door open he heard Bradbury call out to him, ‘Stop, for fuck’s sake! Stop!’

The urgency in her voice made him stop at once. Bradbury reached him quickly. ‘It was too easy, boss. Are you sure the house isn’t booby-trapped?’

It was something that hadn’t occurred to Lapslie, but
now Bradbury pointed it out it was bloody obvious. He still needed to get in, he had no choice; there was no back-up for suspended detectives. He looked at Bradbury. ‘Get back to where you were.’

‘You’re not thinking about going in?’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Yes,’ she said urgently, ‘you do! What’s more important: the fact that he’s caught, or that you catch him?’

There wasn’t even a moment’s debate in Lapslie’s mind. ‘The fact I catch him.’

‘Even if it costs you your life?’

‘Yes. Even if it costs me my life.’

It was obvious from her face that she knew there was nothing more she could say.

‘Now get back to where you were; you should be safe there.’

Bradbury suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. It was only a quick kiss, but it took Lapslie by surprise.

She looked into his face. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea: that was just a goodbye kiss.’ With that, she turned and ran back to her former position.

Bemused, Lapslie turned and began to feel around the door, searching for tripwires. Bombs were simple; women were complicated. There were no wires. Pushing
the door open, he sank slowly onto his hands and knees and crawled inside, searching for any signs of a pressure plate. He took it slowly, feeling his way along the corridor. Finally, and feeling satisfied that there was nothing, he stood. It was time to take a risk. If he was blown apart that was his own lookout. Bradbury and the boys were safe and they all knew enough to nick Whitefoot. Either way, the police surgeon was finished.

He moved slowly from room to room. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for: he just knew he would recognize it if he saw it. Nothing grabbed at his attention. No dolls, no pictures, nothing relating to the SAS, just what he would expect an average middle-class doctor’s house to be. Finally, satisfied that everything was okay, he waved Bradbury inside.

‘So did you find anything incriminating?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing.’

‘So there’s still a chance it might not be Doctor Whitefoot?’

Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, it’s him all right.’

‘But you haven’t got any evidence; how can you be so sure?’

‘Gut feeling.’

Bradbury wasn’t convinced. ‘It’s not enough, sir. Just
because he’s the obvious one doesn’t mean he did it. This could be one big set-up.’

Lapslie looked at her. ‘By whom?’

‘The real killer. It’s been done before. Remember the Bobby Clarke case?’

‘That was a one-off.’

‘The Jimmy Henshaw job?’

‘Another one-off.’

Bradbury wasn’t impressed. ‘Can’t you see what I’m trying to say?’

‘Yes, that Whitefoot’s innocent.’

‘No. I’m trying to say that we don’t know for sure he’s guilty. It’s not the same thing.’

Lapslie knew she meant well, but she was wrong. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I didn’t think you would.’

Suddenly Lapslie’s phone went off, making both detectives jump. Bradbury was astonished. ‘You left your bloody phone on when there might have been a bomb in the house?’

Lapslie shrugged, and clicked the answer button. ‘Hello, Chief Inspector Lapslie. Yes, okay. What? Oh, bollocks.’

Lapslie turned his phone off, pushing it deep into his pocket.

‘Trouble at t’mill, sir?’

Lapslie scowled. ‘Some bastard has broken into my gaff.’

*

Lapslie sent Pearce and Parkin back to their section before they were missed, with instructions not to breathe a word of what had happened. He kept Bradbury with him. Guessing that there might be some uniforms at the house, he left Bradbury at the bottom of the drive and told her to make her way up to the cottage through the woods. He was right; there were two section cars, a traffic car and a dog van waiting for him when he arrived.

Lapslie stepped from the car and was greeted by a middle-aged traffic constable.

‘Afternoon, sir. Sorry about this. We haven’t been in yet. We’re waiting for Scene of Crime to arrive.’

‘Well, I’m not waiting. If some bastard’s been in my house I want to know why, and what’s gone.’

As Lapslie walked past him the traffic officer tried to dissuade him. ‘Not sure that’s advisable, sir. You might be walking across evidence.’

‘Okay, you can all go. Thanks for turning up. I’ll take full responsibility for the scene. I’ll wait for Scene of Crime here.’

Without another word, they all jumped back into their vehicles and drove away. As Lapslie watched them disappear along the drive he noticed Bradbury emerge from the woodland that surrounded his cottage. He waved her towards him before going into his house to see what had happened and what, if anything, had been stolen.

A rapid search established that this, as Lapslie expected, was no ordinary burglary. It had been done for a reason. If Whitefoot had wanted to burgle his home he would have been in and out without disturbing his alarm system. There had to be a reason for this.

As Lapslie walked into his bedroom, he saw the reason. Lying on his bed was a doll – a woman in hospital clothing. Next to it was a letter. The woman, he assumed, was meant to be Elizabeth Turner.

He picked up the letter. It had been typed and there was no envelope. There would be no DNA, no fingerprints, nothing that might help prove who had sent it. Whitefoot knew all the tricks.

Lapslie unfolded the letter and read it.

Lapslie read through it again. As he did, Bradbury entered the bedroom.

‘Anything interesting?’ He handed her the letter. She read it in seconds.

‘You’re not going, are you?’

Lapslie nodded. ‘I don’t see any alternative. Not if I want to keep her alive.’

‘That’s irrational thinking. He’ll kill her, and kill you too. Why wouldn’t he?’

He knew Bradbury was probably right. ‘What choice do I have?’ he asked heavily. ‘If I don’t, he will kill her. If I do, he might kill her. It’s a case of maximizing reward against risk.’

‘He can kill you from a mile away. You won’t see it coming; you won’t know—’

Before Bradbury had time to finish the bedroom window suddenly shattered. Bradbury fell backwards, behind the bed. Lapslie threw himself onto the bedroom floor.

‘Emma! Emma, are you okay?’

‘Shaken,’ she called back, ‘but uninjured. I think. Dropped my gun, though.’

Another window smashed, and a large section of plaster was blasted out of the opposite wall, crashing to the floor and shattering. This was followed by a third and fourth shot which smashed into various parts of the room.

Lapslie crawled back to his bed and picked up Bradbury’s 9mm automatic. He made sure there was a cartridge in the chamber before looking around the room for possible entry points. There were several. He would just have to hope to luck.

A voice from somewhere on the ground floor called up to him. ‘Hello! Hello! Scene of Crime here! Anyone there?’

‘Get down!’ he yelled, ‘for fuck’s sake, get down!’

Lapslie heard the sound of footsteps moving up the stairs. SOCO, or killer? He levelled his gun at the point where he thought the person’s heart would be. He would fire twice and then hold.

Before the person reached the door, Lapslie called out again: ‘I’m Chief Inspector Lapslie. Do not come into the room or you will be shot.’ His voice was shriller than he would have liked.

A voice came straight back. ‘Okay, sir. Understood. What do you want me to do?’

‘Walk towards the door with your hands high above your head.’

A man appeared in the doorway with his hands up. He was wearing white coveralls.

‘Okay,’ Lapslie went on, ‘throw your ID over to me.’

The man reached into his pocket with one hand.

‘Carefully.’

He threw his ID over to Lapslie.

‘Okay, hands back in the air.’

He did as he was told. Lapslie picked up and examined his ID. It seemed fine. Besides, he was now sure of two things. One: the killer wouldn’t put himself at this much risk. Two: if he were still outside, the SOCO would be dead. Whitefoot was just sending a message.

The police surgeon had made it very personal, and he was going to pay for that.

*

As Jeff Whitefoot drove away from Lapslie’s house, he felt a strong sense of satisfaction. He could have killed Lapslie there and then, but that would have been too easy. Besides, there were some vital issues he wanted to vent to Lapslie directly
beforehand. He was sure Lapslie would turn up at the church in the hope of saving Elizabeth Turner. He had that kind of personality. He was also sure it would be there that he would kill him.

It had to be at the church, of course. That was where he’d tried to implicate Stowell, and when Lapslie had first become alerted to the murders, and that was where it had to end.

Before that, however, he had Tony Turner to consider. If all went well he would kill the Teacher first, then move on to Lapslie. Elizabeth Turner was already packed up and ready to go. He would really have to care for her for a while. Picasso had children at seventy, so he should have no problem at all. And, of course, God wanted it to happen, so it would happen. He could have a new family soon, making up for all the years he had gone without. Maybe the pain would then diminish. Maybe it would disappear altogether.

Failing to plan was planning to fail. How well he had planned everything, and now he was almost there. My God, he pondered, he was a genius. In less than twenty-four hours he would start his life all over again. No more killing. Just life, and more life.

*

Outside his cottage, Lapslie breathed in deeply, letting the cool early evening air fill his lungs.

His phone began to ring. He looked to see who it was.
Unknown
. He considered for a moment whether to take
the call or not. What the hell? If he didn’t want to talk to them he could always hang up.

‘DCI Lapslie? It’s DC Pearce, sir. Can I ask, with respect, sir, what the fuck is going on?’