Free The Thirteenth Coffin by Nigel McCrery

into my budget as it is. If you and Bradbury want to poke around and see if you can put some flesh on the bones of your theory, that’s fine, but you mustn’t neglect the girl’s murder. That has to be the top priority. The sooner we get that sorted out, the cheaper it’s going to be for the force, and then I might have some money to spend on your doll theory. Are we
d’accord
on this?’
    Lapslie nodded dully, feeling the familiar wash of disappointment flow through him. He’d been here before, in this chair, hearing these words, or some that were similar. ‘Yes, sir. Understood.’ He paused, wondering whether he had enough leverage with Rouse to push a little further. ‘Is it still okay to have a DNA match done on the blood from the doll?’
    Rouse thought for a moment. He finally nodded. ‘Okay, but that’s it. No more ordering Special Ops out and racking up the force overtime bill, okay?’
    Lapslie nodded. Rouse was hedging his bets. If Lapslie was right then it would be Rouse who authorized him to investigate. If he was wrong, well, Rouse could quitehonestly say that he had warned him off. The man really did take the biscuit.
    *
    As Lapslie pulled into the car park of the mortuary, he wondered if Jane Catherall would be able to add anything to what he already knew. He parked his car and made his way inside the anonymous single-storey building.
    He hated visiting the mortuary, hated that lingering spell of death and chemicals, decay and cleanliness, all mixed up together. He made his way to Catherall’s office. She was sitting bent over her computer typing what Lapslie assumed was a report of some sort. With anyone else, the phrase ‘bent over her computer’ would be a descriptive metaphor, but with Jane it was the truth. She had been one of the last children in the country to be struck down with polio before it had been eradicated. She had spent half her childhood in an iron lung, and the disease had left her with a twisted spine and a bloated abdomen. Yet despite her physical problems, she was one of the brightest and friendliest people that Lapslie knew. As well as being one of the most pedantic.
    She spoke before him. ‘You are being a bit premature,aren’t you, Chief Inspector? I hadn’t intended starting on the post-mortem of that poor girl until tomorrow.’
    ‘I came about the tramp, actually. The one they found in the bunker.’
    She cut in. ‘With the dolls?’
    Lapslie nodded. ‘Yes. How did you know about those?’
    ‘It may surprise you to know that I am a great fan of jazz music. In particular, I am an aficionado of the jungle drums.’
    ‘As played by that popular beat combo Jim Thomson and his Merry Men?’
    She turned away from the computer and gazed at him with pale blue, slightly protuberant eyes. ‘My lips are sealed, Chief Inspector. So you want to know how he died?’
    Lapslie nodded. ‘It would be helpful.’
    ‘All quite straightforward, I’m afraid . . .’
    ‘I’m glad that something is.’
    ‘Old age and decrepitude. His heart gave out, although to be honest if it hadn’t been his heart it would have been something else. His internal organs were in a race to see which could fail first. It was the drink, of course.’
    ‘No indications of anything unnatural?’
    Catherall shook her head. ‘If you mean “Was he murdered?” then the answer is “No”. No evidence for that at all. It was just his time. It was, frankly, way past his time.’
    ‘Do you have any idea who he was?’
    Catherall shook her head again. ‘No, none at all. I’ve forwarded what details I have to the delightful Emma Bradbury: she may manage to dig something up, but I doubt it.’
    Lapslie felt a sudden overwhelming sense of sadness, and it obviously showed. Jane’s faced creased into a sympathetic grimace, and she continued: ‘I see an increasing number of these cases, year on year. More and more people are falling through the cracks. It’s very sad, but there isn’t much we can do