Free The Thirteenth Coffin by Nigel McCrery Page B

faint red rings. ‘And you? Everything okay? You look a bit tired.’
    ‘I’m fine. Dom got a takeaway curry last night. Bit hot, and some indigestion kept me up.’
    Lapslie’s eyes stayed on her for a second, and she wondered what smell might have hit him if he’d detected the lie. The takeaway part was true, but the late night and fitful sleep following was due to the argument between her and Dom, her partner for the past three years, which had nothing to do with the curry. More to do with the increasing number of evenings she was spending apart from Dom, which equally she was finding increasingly hard to put down to investigative duties.
    Dom McGinley had been a career villain, and understandably Lapslie had warned against the association, saying that it would never work out. But was she loath to talk about any cracks appearing in their relationship to avoid the inevitable ‘I told you so’ comments, or because those cracks sprang more from her own actions than from Dom’s?
    Lapslie’s expression as quickly relaxed and he held out one hand. ‘Take a pew.’
    Bradbury sat down in the chair opposite Lapslie’s desk. ‘Any update on the tramp?’
    ‘You mean Billy?’
    She looked surprised. ‘You have a name for him?’
    Lapslie smiled broadly. ‘Maybe. It’s what we’re going to call him for now. Like Doctor Catherall said, it’s a lot better than “John Smith”. Makes him more human.’
    Bradbury was obviously confused. ‘So why Billy?’
    ‘It was a name found on a postcard in his pocket, along with a couple of old photographs. Maybe it’s him, maybe not. Who knows? Anyway, there was nothing suspicious about his death. Natural causes. That said, I think with a bit of luck he might still be able to help us from beyond the grave.’
    Bradbury was all attention.
    ‘I want you to get hold of those two PCs, Parkin and Pearce. Tell them to check out all the rough sleepers known within, oh, a 15-mile radius. See if anyone knew a tramp by the name of Billy.’
    ‘Bit of a long shot, sir, especially if that wasn’t his name.’
    ‘Doctor Catherall is having some photographs taken of his face. They should be here soon. Get Parkin and Pearce to show them around. Someone might recognize the poor sod.’
    ‘Yes, sir. How long do you want us to do it for?’
    ‘Seventy-two hours should cover it. After that I might release the photograph to the media, see if we can get any results that way.’
    Bradbury winced. ‘Bit macabre, sir.’
    ‘A bit, but people love that sort of thing.’
    Bradbury wasn’t convinced. ‘Really?’
    ‘Oh yes. First time it was done was in Paris in about 1850. They found the severed head of a woman in the Seine. Had it photographed and hundreds of photographs produced. They sold out in a day and the photographs became collectors’ items. People like to be shocked: it gives them something to talk about at work.’
    Bradbury raised her eyebrows. ‘Well if you say so, sir. Is that it?’
    Lapslie nodded. ‘For now. Good luck. I’ll get copies of the photos to you as soon as they arrive.’
    Bradbury pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll await them with interest.’
    Lapslie left force HQ the same way he’d come in. Once again he didn’t see another living soul and left in total silence.
    He got in his Saab 9-5 and pulled out of the car park, heading back towards Finchingfield and St Mary’s Church. He wanted to see the place where the Special Operations guys suspected the shot had come from. The small tower. He still found it hard to believe that anyonecould kill someone from that distance with one shot. Lapslie wasn’t a bad shot himself, but he wouldn’t even attempt a shot like that. Whoever killed Leslie Petersen, née Cooke, had to be some kind of an expert shot, a marksman, sniper maybe. That might provide the lead he was looking for. He doubted that there were many people in the country who could make a shot like that. Maybe if Bradbury checked