The Thirteenth Coffin (26 page)

One of them broke from the anonymity of the trio to say: ‘We’ve had several people with no tax and insurance . . .’

Emboldened, another chipped in: ‘And a couple of cars with no MOT.’

‘This isn’t a traffic detail, guys. This is a major murder inquiry, and you’re an important part of it.’

The third man spoke, defensively. ‘We have got a couple of outstanding warrants . . .’

The first one again. ‘One of those was for shoplifting, theft . . .’

He stopped speaking when he noticed how dark Lapslie’s face had become.

‘Okay. Right. No more traffic, no more warrants, no
more anything. Just do your job and feed all the information to the control room. They will decide what to do or whether anything needs to be followed up. If it’s immediate action you need, there are armed officers pretending to be workmen outside, and several armed patrols in and around the locality. If you do want to transfer to traffic, please let me know, and I will arrange it at once. Clear?’

They all nodded obediently. Satisfied he had made his point, Lapslie jumped back out of the van and drove away.

*

He was pleased to see that he had been proved correct. Walking past Turner’s cottage to see what the police were up to had certainly been a risk, but one he was glad now he had taken. He was sure that similar arrangements had been made at the school, and for close but not obvious protection wherever Turner went. If Lapslie and the police thought they had covered all their angles, they were wrong, and had no idea who they were dealing with.

He had travelled to the hospital by bus, and kept his disguise on. Hospitals these days were rife with CCTV cameras, and it was hard to walk anywhere without being noticed and filmed. He made a mental note of each camera and its position as he passed it by.

From the moment he walked up the hospital steps and into the main foyer, he knew he was under observation. It was nothing serious, they were hardly likely to pick him out as a possible killer by the way he was dressed and looked, but if anything happened they would play the recordings back and look for anything unusual. From the main entrance hall he turned left, walking along a hospital corridor for over a hundred yards before taking the lift to the first floor. Stepping out of the lift, he crossed the corridor into the fire-escape stairwell and took the steps to the third floor. He wanted to see how many cameras, if any, were situated inside the fire escape, monitoring the stairs. As he suspected, there were none. They were on every ward, all the hospital entrances, in the lifts, in the main stairwells, and yet for some reason the fire escape had been forgotten.

Finally reaching the third floor, he walked though Ward DC3. He noticed an empty bed with the bedding stripped down, but still retaining its name plate, with the name ‘Mr David Johnson’ neatly written across it. Made a mental note of the name. There was, however, no sign of Elizabeth Turner.

He walked through the wards and back out onto the corridor at the far side to where the private single rooms were situated. The moment he walked onto the corridor, he knew she was there. Parked outside the third ward down was an armed police officer reading a newspaper.

A voice from behind interrupted his thoughts. ‘Can I help you at all?’

He turned quickly, to be confronted with a blue-uniformed nurse, not unlike the one he had murdered a few years before. Attractive, fresh-faced, yet so earnest.

‘Yes, I rather think you can.’ He had changed the pitch of his voice to sound weak and rather confused. ‘I am looking for my cousin, David Johnson.’

A look of concern flashed across the nurse’s face. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. You have just missed him: he was discharged just over an hour ago.’

‘I thought he was due to be in much longer than that.’

She smiled. ‘He was, but he has made a very quick recovery, so the doctors have sent him home.’

He smiled at her. ‘Well, I suppose that’s very good news.’

He turned and looked at the police officer, still reading his newspaper and apparently unconcerned about events happening a little further down the corridor. ‘Well, I had better pop around and see him at home, then.’

The nurse’s smiled broadened. ‘I’m sure he will be glad to have a visitor, there haven’t been too many since he’s been here.’

‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it?’ He smiled. ‘Thank you very much, you’ve been a great help.’

He nodded politely and walked back along the corridor and
towards the lift. As he did, his gaze swept across every poster on the walls and every notice attached to the noticeboards. Somewhere there were the words that would tell him what to do next. Somewhere there he would find his instructions.

*

The latest news from the incident room was good. Two more of the victims had been identified. One was a mechanic, Michael Cohen, murdered in 2008, and the other was a fisherman, Gordon Campbell, killed in 2009, although there was still a little doubt about that latter one and some of the facts still needed to be confirmed.

The killer had been killing at least one person a year for seven years or more. Leaving a gap was almost certainly part of his strategy, in order to try and throw the police, or perhaps the media, off his scent. He was very careful, this one. He took his time, took care. He wasn’t your average serial killer. These appeared to be random murders born out of some strange compulsion, but done in a very controlled way.

In Lapslie’s time he had dealt with a few cases like these. ‘Catch me before I kill again, I dare you.’ There was something inside these people that drove them to kill. Some desire that needed to be satisfied; something
so strong that it could only be released by killing and torturing. After they had killed once, it was normally enough to satisfy them for a while, sometimes for years. They felt genuine remorse, for a while, but, like wife-beaters who swear they will never do it again, the desire and the provocation returns. And, as time goes on, the intervals grow less between each killing. Bad for the victims, but good for the police, because it’s then the killers start to cut corners, take chances and inevitably make the mistake that gets them caught.

Something told Lapslie, however, that this killer wasn’t like that. Lapslie knew there was never going to be any panic, no mistakes, just everything planned to perfection right up until the end. This evil bastard had been killing since 2007, and they had only just discovered him, and only then because of a piece of unusual luck. Then on top there was the frame-up with Stowell to throw them off the trail to consider. All in all it pointed to a meticulous, methodical killer, the like of whom he’d rarely seen before.

He finally arrived at police HQ and parked. He made his way up to the incident room and into his office, closing the door behind him and putting the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign up. He hoped people would respect it. They
didn’t always, and that was why he needed Bradbury there when he was working, but he had no idea where she was right now.

He sat down and opened the report waiting for him on his desk. It was from Bradbury. Two sides of A4 explaining in some detail how they had come across the murders of the mechanic and the fisherman, who’d discovered them, and how. He sat back and began to read. Before he’d got halfway, however, there was a gentle knock on his door and Bradbury poked her face around.

‘Shall I come back after you’ve had time to finish it, boss?’

Lapslie shook his head and waved her in. ‘No, come in, come in. I’ll only be a second.’

After a further ten minutes he closed the report and put it onto his desk. He looked across at Bradbury. ‘Good report. I see it was young DC McMurdo who was responsible for identifying the mechanic?’

Bradbury nodded. ‘Yes, she’s doing well.’

Lapslie nodded. ‘Keep a close eye on her. She’s going places.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day; start afresh tomorrow.’

‘I think I’ll stick around for a while,’ she said, not making eye contact. ‘Catch up on some paperwork.’

‘Careful,’ he teased, ‘I wouldn’t want Dom McGinley to think I might be this
other
man. He has a way of making a point that involves sharp knives and concrete.’ As he saw a shadow cross her face, he became more serious. ‘Sorry. How’s it going on that front? Made any decisions yet?’

‘Yes, actually,’ Emma said, the words emerging as reluctantly as pulled teeth, ‘as of last night Dom and I are . . . taking a break. Reassessing our relationship.’

‘And was this your suggestion, or McGinley’s?’

‘Mine,’ she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

‘Ah, I see.’ An uncomfortable afterthought struck him. ‘Does McGinley actually
know
you’re taking a break? I imagine that would be a difficult conversation to have.’

‘And one that has yet to occur,’ Bradbury said. ‘I’m waiting for the right moment.’

The only ideal time for that might be on McGinley’s deathbed, Lapslie thought, but left it unsaid. ‘So this is a sort of halfway house – until you’re decided what to do?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. A halfway house.’

*

Lapslie knew when he’d had enough. He wasn’t physically tired, but mentally he felt exhausted. He wasn’t thinking straight at a time when he really needed to be
at the top of his game. The inquiry was difficult enough, and although he felt he was getting there, albeit ever so slowly, he knew he wasn’t getting there fast enough. The killer was a man with a mission: there was a point to his killings to link their otherwise random nature, even though Lapslie had no idea yet what it was. He needed time to think and re-energize himself, so on the way to meet George the next morning at Clacton Marina to check the boat over, he decided to take it out for a quick sail.

‘Do you want me with you?’ George asked. ‘I’ve got a spare few hours.’

‘No, George, thanks. I’m only going to take her out locally – probably won’t shift more than a few miles offshore.’

George nodded. ‘I took her out myself for an hour yesterday afternoon. But I suppose at least it will give you a chance to test-run yourself that everything’s okay.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ Lapslie smiled tightly.

George said his goodbyes and handed him the keys. ‘Don’t forget to furl all the sails in fully and lock all the hatches.’

‘I won’t.’

The weather forecast was for a fine day with medium winds. Lapslie took a fresh breath of the sea air as
George left, but most of all he was breathing in the fresh air of being alone at last. And as minutes later he steered out of the harbour, cut the engine and pulled the sails round, he took another fresh breath. Isolated. Alone. Apart from finally being away from onshore activity and the confusion of thoughts that went with it, the other advantage about being on a boat was, of course, that he was out of the way of the killer. He didn’t have to think about looking over his shoulder.

Nevertheless, having already gone round the boat with George to inspect the repairs made, as soon as he weighed anchor in a quiet spot two miles from the shoreline, he again searched from stem to stern so see if anything had been fiddled with, or any unexpected packages hidden away. There was nothing: the uncluttered boat was just as he had left it a few days beforehand. Taking a pair of binoculars, he scanned the shoreline, but nobody appeared to be taking any undue interest in him. There were fishermen and birdwatchers, of course – there always were – but they seemed legitimate.

After making himself a quick tea, he lay back on a bunk and began to flick through the file Kate Dale had given him on her husband. Although she seemed convinced that all the answers Lapslie was searching for
were to be found within these pages and clippings, Lapslie wasn’t so sure. He would, however, at least give Mrs Dale the courtesy of reading everything and seeing what he could find.

He hadn’t slept well the night before, thoughts about the case revolving in his mind. He found himself rubbing his eyes at points as he read now, and after an hour or so, what with the gentle rocking of the boat, he dozed off and started to dream. Lapslie rarely dreamed, or rather he hardly ever remembered his dreams on waking. It was only since he had begun sailing that they had suddenly become so vivid. Things came and disappeared: people, faces, numbers, symbols, all jumbled up and doing odd things. Dancing, pulling strange faces, exploding into a million brightly coloured flowers. Weird items disappeared into caves and called for him to follow. There was no sense to any of it.

Suddenly Lapslie was awake again. How long had passed? Two hours, three? And what was it that had disturbed him, made him reawaken suddenly?

He lay there and listened for a moment, trying to make out any unusual noises. Maybe someone had rowed up and climbed on the boat, setting it rocking. He waited, senses all on alert, but there was nothing.
Just the gentle rocking of the boat and the sound of the water slapping against the hull.

It took a moment or two, but Lapslie realized that what had woken him was not external, but internal. It was something to do with the file; something he’d read and not consciously appreciated.

He reached across and picked up the file again. Something – he couldn’t tell what – drew him to the page that contained the report on Richard Dale’s funeral. He read through it again. It was a moving account, but there was nothing that might indicate who his killer was. How could there be?

He moved on to the column beneath the report, the one with all the names of the mourners who had attended the funeral. It was then that he noticed it. Four names: Jack and Amelia Summers, Arlene Campbell and Joseph Cohen.

Summers, Campbell and Cohen. They were the surnames of three of the other victims – Anne, Gordon and Michael: the nurse, the fisherman and the mechanic. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? This had to be what Kate Dale had been talking about.

He had found his link. Now he had to get back, and in a hurry.