The Thirteenth Coffin

by Nigel McCrery

  The Thirteenth Coffin

  Nigel McCrery

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Also by Nigel McCrery

  Author’s Note

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Part Eight

  Part Nine

  Part Ten

  Acknowledgements

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus

  This edition first published in 2015 by

  Quercus Publishing Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  Copyright © 2015 Nigel McCrery

  The moral right of Nigel McCrery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 481 6

  Print ISBN 978 1 78429 482 3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  For my daughter Elizabeth and granddaughter

  Samantha for all their love and care

  Nigel McCrery is the creator and writer of some of the most successful television series of the last ten years – his credits include Silent Witness, Born & Bred, New Tricks, All the King’s Men and Backup.

  Also by Nigel McCrery

  Scream

  Tooth and Claw

  Core of Evil

  Still Waters

  Author’s Note

  In 1836, five boys were hunting rabbits on the north-eastern slopes of Arthur’s Seat, which is the main peak in the group of hills in the centre of the Scottish city of Edinburgh.

  In a small cave in the rocky side of the hill, the boys stumbled across something incredible and macabre: seventeen miniature coffins. Each coffin was carved from pine, and each was decorated with ironwork. The coffins were stacked in two neat rows of eight, with one lonely coffin beginning a new row on top.

  Bizarrely, each coffin contained a small wooden doll. Each doll was dressed with painted black boots and individually crafted clothing. The dolls were about four inches long.

  Even more bizarrely, the coffins appeared to have been buried over a long period of time, with the top ones fresher and the lower ones more decayed.

  In the nearly two hundred years since these toy coffins were discovered, no clue has been unearthed to explain what they were made for, who made them and who hid them. I’m sure other writers have, or will, use this bizarre historical story as the basis for their own novels. This is my attempt to put some flesh on the bones, if you will forgive the phrase.

  Nigel McCrery, May 2015

  Part One

  It was strange the things you notice when death is close. Everything becomes clearer; somehow more real. Children screaming with delight as they play. People chattering about nothing in particular, just whiling away a few hours with friends. The wind blowing through the trees, rustling the leaves. Those things that you take for granted when life is passing you by. She even noticed the scent of the roses that were growing close beneath her bedroom window, and the aroma of next door’s freshly cut grass. They all drifted, the sounds and the smells, in through the open window, and filled her senses.

  That damn window. If she hadn’t left it wide open, so she could keep cool on what felt like the warmest afternoon of the year, she might not be in this situation now. She needed to sleep during the day; she was on night shift and if she didn’t get some rest she would never get through her shift, but if she had left it closed and locked as she normally did she wouldn’t be having the life squeezed out of her now by a pair of very powerful hands.

  Why, her mind screamed, hadn’t she picked up that room fan last Saturday? It was in the sale – why had she been so mean with herself? Everything would have been okay if she had just indulged herself by splashing out a little cash. That way she wouldn’t have needed to leave the window open.

  Strange, she pondered as the hands shifted their grip on her throat, how even the most trivial decisions, made days, weeks or even months before, could affect your future in such a dramatic way.

  Not that it looked like she had much of a future left. While the world went on normally outside her room, inside it a man was ending her brief life. She had tried to fight back at the start, but it had happened so quickly and he was too strong; then as he gripped her the injection went in. Seconds later she could feel her senses swimming and any remaining strength washed away.

  Had the drug caused her thoughts to drift so aimlessly? Or was it just because her mind remained the only functioning organ, and there was little else to do with no other nerves or muscles responding?

  Muscles responding. It was then that she felt a faint tingling in her right hand. She moved a couple of fingers and felt her hand respond too. Obviously the drug hadn’t completely taken control, which she should have known from her medical knowledge. It took longer to reach the body’s extremities. But she wouldn’t have long, and would she be able to move her arm enough to swing it, even if she was able to reach the iron-based lamp to one side? She tentatively reached for it, careful not to glance in its direction and alert him. But his eyes seemed fixed on hers as the pressure grew against her throat. She stretched her hand out; only another inch and she’d have the lamp in her grasp.

  *

  The storm came out of nowhere.

  DCI Mark Lapslie looked up at the heavily greying sky as the first strong bite of wind caught the sails and then as quickly changed direction. The mainsail whipped sharply back and forth in protest.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this. Could get nasty.’

  His companion Charlotte eyed the sails and the sky beyond. ‘Are you sure? Might be just a squall.’

  ‘Might be.’ Lapslie studied the sky more intently, trying to gauge the direction of the ominously dark cloud layer. It appeared to stretch at least five or six miles, filling the visible skyline over the Solent behind them; and while its epicentre might miss them by half a mile, the wind whipping up at its edges seemed equally fierce.

  It seemed odd. Just two hours ago they’d been moored peacefully in Osborne Bay, a few hundred yards offshore from Queen Victoria’s old private beach, enjoying strawberries and cream washed down with chilled champagne. They’d broken their pre-lunch ‘no-drinking’ rule, but then that was the sort of rule you broke on holiday, even if it was just a long weekend break. With his own haphazard schedule in the police force and Charlotte’s as a doctor, they didn’t get to see each other as much as they liked, and a long weekend away together was a rare treat indeed.

  The water had lapped gently at the side of the boat, a 24-foot Mazury that Lapslie had owned the past two years, and the scene was as close to the Mediterranean as UK shores offered. Charlotte loved it, quickly embracing the mood and setting, so perhaps now she was having an equal problem adjusting to the sudden change in conditions and amb
ience. Whereas, with almost three years’ sailing under his belt, he’d become more attuned to sudden changes in weather conditions.

  Lightning forked out of the approaching dark clouds, followed seconds later by a rumble of thunder, and the boat lurched sharply leeward as the mainsail was hit by a heavier gust.

  ‘We’re going to have to pull the sails in.’ He had to almost shout to be heard above the billowing wind. ‘I’ll need a hand. If you hold the main boom over to port aft, I’ll—’ He broke off as he realized the only sailing term she’d likely grasped was ‘boom’, from having to dodge it as it swung across. ‘Uh, back towards your left side – I’ll meanwhile winch the sail in.’

  Halfway down there was an anxious moment as a fresh gust caught the sail full on, almost wrenching the boom rope from Charlotte’s grasp.

  ‘Hang on!’ Lapslie shouted above the heavy wind. He reckoned it had already risen to 60 miles per hour, with gusts of 80 to 90. ‘It’s almost down now.’

  As he winched in the last of the mainsail and furled and tied it, a steady rain started to fall, becoming a deluge within seconds.

  ‘Okay, now the jib sail. Don’t worry – it’ll be easier. You pull hard right this time while I winch and furl.’

  It took only a couple of minutes, but in that time the wind had whipped the sea up into a vicious chop, tipping them back and forth.

  Lapslie wished George was with them. Not that Charlotte wasn’t coping well, given her limited sailing knowledge, but mainly because she now looked anxious. This wasn’t an interlude in their romantic weekend he’d planned. George, a retired Royal Navy man, was Lapslie’s part-time skipper who’d sailed the Mazury from its mooring in Clacton harbour so as to maximize their time sailing round the Isle of Wight and along the Dorset coast. George not only had long experience of sailing in storm conditions, he’d have been able to offer the right assurance to ease Charlotte’s worry lines.

  Lapslie started the engine and turned the tiller so that they were heading back the way they’d come. But it meant sailing into the heart of the storm; it would get worse before it got better. The chop of the waves seemed to be striking the boat’s hull midway each time, so there was a sharp pitch and toss to cope with along with a heavy roll. They were getting soaked from waves washing over the bow and side as much as from the heavy rain.

  ‘I think maybe you should go below,’ he called out to Charlotte. ‘Get inside.’

  ‘What? And leave you all alone with the main excitement out here?’ She attempted a sly smile which wasn’t wholly convincing, and then two sharp flashes of lightning close together, only a mile away now from the following thunder, highlighted the underlying fear in her face.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve seen worse.’ Although he hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure he’d been any more convincing.

  If they could just get past the point at Ryde, it should get calmer after that. But that five miles might as well be a hundred in this weather. He could hardly see the coastline any more through the heavy rain and flying sea spray.

  *

  She managed to swing the lamp, but not fast and hard enough. And as her attacker saw her intention in his side vision, he leant away from the lamp’s arc. It brushed with hardly any effect against one shoulder, and then the pressure on her throat increased threefold.

  She tried to swing again, but suddenly all her strength had gone, her emotions too seeming to drain away like dirty water from a bath.

  She idly wondered why she had been the one chosen, why it hadn’t been someone else, someone in a different block of flats, on a different floor. It seemed so unfair: she had never harmed anyone in her life. In fact she was a nurse, and that involved helping people. As far as she was aware, she didn’t have an enemy in the world.

  The other thing that flashed through her mind was that she thought she recognized her murderer. In fact, she was sure that she knew him, and of all the people in her life he was the last one she would ever have considered a threat or a danger. But here he was: her nemesis. She had always been such a bad judge of character.

  These were her final thoughts. A few moments later, everything that she could see, smell, hear and feel just folded up on itself and vanished into the darkness.

  *

  Lapslie continued battling against the storm in his dream, and so he wasn’t sure if they’d actually made it or the storm had won and he was going through his version of a drowning man’s reflections.

  All due to his recent obsession with sailing. It had started simply enough, when he’d gone for a day out on the North Sea with a friend, and the odd thing was that he hadn’t been sure about the idea in the first place. The thought of bobbing around on grey water under grey clouds for hours on end really didn’t appeal to him. Finally and reluctantly he was persuaded, and he had enjoyed it so much that he’d enrolled at a sailing school in Clacton-on-Sea and become a qualified sailor.

  Once the training was out of the way he then brought his 24-foot Mazury. Made of fibreglass, beautiful lines, teak decks, four berths, and it hadn’t cost him an arm and a leg. It even had a 6 hp outboard motor, not that he used it much – he was far too concerned about the effect its distinctive sound would have on his synaesthesia, which transformed and merged noise with smell and taste. Besides he hardly needed it, the boat had sailed like a dream. When he was out on the water all his troubles seemed to drift away. They all seemed land-bound, unable to follow him across the water. As he looked back at the disappearing horizon he knew he couldn’t be troubled any more.

  It was strange: none of the numerous and particular sounds that surrounded him when he was at sea seemed to have any effect on his synaesthesia. The splash of the water against the hull, the wind in the sails, the flags and pendants fluttering out until the halyards rattled. Even the screeching of the inquisitive and ever-hungry seagulls that occasionally followed the boat didn’t seem to translate into tastes in his mouth the way that traffic noise, conversation and all the other sounds on land did. There was nothing, not a single discernible effect. In the water he was free, free to think, free to calculate, free to be himself for the first time in many years.

  Maybe it was something to do with the drug he was taking to counter the effects – thorazitol. At first the pills had almost completely suppressed the synaesthesia, but he had began to experience side-effects – hallucinations and strange random thoughts – and so, on his consultant’s advice, he had cut back on the dosage until the side-effects stopped. That still left him with a stub of synaesthesia, but nothing like the scale that he had been experiencing over the past few years.

  Lapslie had become used to his own company through necessity. At first he hated it, but as months drifted into years, he had grown to love it, and now even craved it. Being alone, surrounded by water, with a calm and untroubled mind, was the pinnacle of everything he’d searched for. A sort of natural healing.

  Alone. Reflecting on how sailing had served at first to heal his own personal ills, he found himself self-castigating for now bringing Charlotte along, putting her through this nightmare ordeal. What had he been thinking of? Or had his desire for them to have a weekend away together prevailed over his thirst for quiet personal space when sailing, one selfishness winning out on the other?

  The vibration from his mobile phone broke into Lapslie’s sleep, startling him, sending a wash of bitter coffee across his taste buds. He was slow to rouse, pulling the covers over his head for a moment. The phone kept vibrating insistently until finally he reached out for it.

  ‘Lapslie.’ As he answered it, his voice husky and still sleepy, he glanced across at the clock: 5.40 p.m. Two hours’ nap since Charlotte had gone ashore. The last of the storm had blown through hours ago and was now no more than a gentle lapping against the hull in the Cowes harbour mooring. Charlotte had taken a taxi to the Villa Rothsay Hotel while Lapslie had elected to stay aboard and wait for George.

  Thankfully George had stayed in Portsmouth overnight to catch up with some old mates and wo
uld inspect any damage before sailing the boat back to Clacton. And having made all the arrangements, the exertion of battling the storm and the pre-lunch wine had caught up with him and he’d fallen into a deep sleep. He glanced through the porthole towards the dockside. George should be here soon.

  Lapslie recognized the voice at the other end instantly. Although the taste of her voice had shifted over the years, it always had a sort of citrusy tang to it. Of all the voices he had tasted over the years her voice was the only one that had that taste. It was Emma Bradbury.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir . . .’

  Lapslie cut her short. ‘But not sorry enough to avoid doing so? You know I’m not on call and this is a weekend away for me.’

  Bradbury acknowledged with a sigh. ‘No, sir, I realize that, but Chief Superintendent Rouse sends his compliments and says that he would like you involved in this.’

  Lapslie sat up sharper. ‘What exactly is “this”?’

  ‘A possible murder, sir.’

  Lapslie wasn’t impressed. ‘Possible? I tell you what, when it’s definite then call me back. And where the hell is Chalky White? – he’s the one on call.’

  ‘Already committed with a stabbing, I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘Is that a “possible” too?’

  ‘No sir.’ The citrus of her voice was tinged with strawberry – a sign of irritation. ‘The victim is dead, it is a murder, and an arrest has already been made.’

  ‘Well that makes things easy for him. What’s that, his first murder this year?’

  Bradbury didn’t reply, not wanting to get involved in office politics or rivalries. Lapslie couldn’t blame her. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to be conciliatory, ‘where is it?’

  ‘A few miles from Abberton Reservoir.’

  ‘Where’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘The nearest village is . . . give me a second . . .’ She paused for a moment, consulting someone out of range of the microphone. ‘The rather improbably named Layer de la Haye. I’ll text the postcode through.’