Free The Thirteenth Coffin by Nigel McCrery Page A

here. We are at the end of the chain. We take what details we can, in case there is a match against any missing person, but that seldom happens. If it helps, there was a postcard and a couple of old black and white photos in his pocket. The postcard was addressed to “Billy”. That might be him, or alternatively he could have picked the card and the photographs up from the floor or found them in a bin. These people who end up on the streets, sleeping rough, they often start acting like magpies, picking up odd detritus andkeeping it as if it’s worth more than jewels.’ She shrugged: an awkward movement of her twisted shoulders. ‘It’s only a feeling, but I think it was his. That’s what we have called him anyway. Billy. A lot better than “John Smith”, don’t you think?’
    Lapslie nodded his agreement. ‘So what happens to him now?’
    ‘We keep him for a few weeks, then the council take him away and cremate him. They put his ashes in the Garden of Remembrance and that’s it.’
    Lapslie looked at the two black and white photographs. One was a single shot of a young boy of about eight; the other was a family group. Mother, father and the same eight-year-old child. Lapslie wondered if ‘Billy’ was the young boy in the photograph, or maybe the father. He wondered what paths he had followed in order to end up dead and alone in a stinking fall-out shelter.
    He looked back at Catherall. ‘If you do find out anything about him, can you let me know?’
    Catherall nodded. ‘Of course.’ She smiled at him.
    ‘In fact, if you don’t discover who he is, can you let me know that too?’
    Catherall nodded again. ‘No trouble at all.’
    Lapslie was grateful. ‘I could also do with a photograph of his face, if he isn’t too badly decomposed by now.’
    Catherall nodded. ‘We can touch him up. I have picked up various cosmetic skills along the way. I’ll get my assistant, Dan, to do it. He’s getting very good at things like that. He has an artistic streak.’
    ‘Thanks. Get a few copies over to me. I want to see if anyone recognizes him. You never know: he may have talked to a few people in the local village about what was going on inside the bunker. Could give us a lead. We could do with one before more people die.’
    ‘You think they will?’
    Lapslie nodded. ‘I’m bloody sure of it.’
    Catherall looked surprised and a little shocked.
    ‘Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow for Leslie Cooke’s PM?’
    ‘You mean Leslie Petersen? She was married, you know. Not for long, but she was.’
    Lapslie suddenly felt very awkward. ‘Petersen. Yes, of course. Sorry. I should at least call her by her correct name: everything else has been taken away from her.’
    With that he turned and left.
    *
    From the mortuary he made his way back to force HQ, a four-storey, flat-sided building in Chelmsford whichlooked like it had been built entirely from white Lego. Only a touch of police blue on its front insignia and entrance awning, which was equally flat and lacking in detail, offered any relief. Those wishing to be kind described it as functional and efficient, those who didn’t feel so inclined used terms such as sanitized and unimaginative. Lapslie had called ahead to Bradbury to make sure there were no distracting sounds or noises near his desk when he arrived. He always went in the back way to avoid as many people as he could. Police stations were by nature noisy places: people screaming, shouting, running, dropping things, banging on metal doors. Each of those sounds had an effect on him, an effect he didn’t need.
    Bradbury did her job well. From the moment he entered the HQ to the time he reached his office, Lapslie didn’t see another soul. He also made the short journey in total silence. He had only been in his office a few moments when Bradbury knocked gently on the door and entered.
    ‘Everything okay, sir?’
    ‘Yes, fine. A good job, as ever.’ Lapslie looked up at her and smiled, noticing her eyes had