The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4)

by Sean Campbell

  ‘Do you think someone could climb that, boss?’ Ayala asked as they walked along the road.

  ‘There’s one way to find out. Give it a go,’ Morton ordered.

  Ayala craned his neck towards Morton. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You and Rafferty. One of you climb the fence. The other can pretend to be the body.’

  Rafferty folded her arms. ‘There’s no way you’re picking me up. You’re not exactly the Hulk, are you?’ And with that, she bent forward, shoved her right shoulder into the back of Ayala’s left knee and shoved him against the fencing. Then, with an enormous strain, she pushed and pushed until she lifted him off the ground with his weight split between her and the fence.

  ‘Put. Me. Down! Boss, tell her to put me down!’

  ‘You heard the man. Put him down.’ Morton winked.

  Rafferty smiled, put a foot onto the lower half of the fence where it was made of brick, and then, with a giant heave, she pushed with her leg – and unceremoniously dumped Ayala over the top of the ironwork.

  He landed on the other side of the fence with a thud, narrowly missing the shrubbery. A portion of his trouser leg was attached to the spiked top of the fence, and a small cut ran down his shin.

  ‘That bloody hurt,’ Ayala complained. ‘And now I’ve got to walk all the way back to the entrance to get back to you.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Morton said. ‘Go get cleaned up, and then start on the crime scene paperwork. It won’t take four of us to check out the victim’s home.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ayala grumbled. He clutched at his shin as if mortally wounded and limped off muttering.

  Morton, Mayberry and Rafferty walked onwards, barely a hundred and fifty feet at most, until they found the house. Primrose Kennard’s home was a large, Georgian-style affair tucked away behind a high fence.

  ‘Looks fancy. Solar panels, loft conversion, dormer windows. Isn’t it a bit big for one elderly lady?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘It c-could be a f-family home?’ Mayberry suggested.

  ‘It probably was,’ Morton said. ‘Mayberry, why don’t you head next door and talk to the neighbours. Ask them if they heard anything. If not, find out what Mrs Kennard was like as a neighbour. You got your pad and pencil?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘Then, off you go. Rafferty, help me look for a key.’

  ‘Nobody sane hides a key under a rock in London. Here. Let me.’ She knelt on the doorstep and pulled a wallet full of pins from her bag. She picked two and inserted them into the lock, then listened as she twisted the pins.

  ‘Aha!’ With a click, the lock came undone, and the door swung inwards.

  ‘You deviant. Where’d you learn to do that?’

  Rafferty tucked the pins back into the wallet and stuffed them back into her bag. ‘It’s amazing what you pick up as a probation officer. After you, sir.’

  ‘First, these.’ Morton passed her a pair of evidence booties, pulled on his own, and then pushed the door open slowly. ‘Is there anyone there?’ he called out.

  When nobody replied, they headed inside. The hallway was a long, narrow passageway leading right the way through the house. Piles and piles of uniform packaging boxes, in some places ten deep, lined the wall.

  Morton picked one up. The side was marked You Shop We Drop! TV.

  ‘Nasty shopping channel,’ Rafferty said. ‘Overpriced tat for undersexed housewives.’

  ‘Speaking from experience?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Don’t be nosy,’ Rafferty said, as if curiosity were the gravest sin. ‘...Wonder what she’s been buying.’

  Morton carefully opened the box he was holding, unfolded the tissue paper inside, and then emptied the contents into the palm of his hand. A garish red ring with a wafer-thin gold band glistened up at him.

  ‘Nice ring!’ Rafferty said sarcastically. ‘Is there an invoice with that?’

  Morton checked inside the box again. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Not there. The address label on the outside. It’s designed to double up.’

  ‘Ah.’ Morton tore the address label off. Sure enough, an invoice was printed on the reverse. ‘Three hundred and ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pence! Plus delivery.’

  ‘What did I say? Overpriced tat. You wouldn’t get more than twenty quid in scrap back on it.’

  ‘But there have to be a hundred and fifty boxes here. At least we can rule out robbery. Hey, do you hear that?’ Morton placed the box back down atop the pile and edged towards the doorway.

  ‘Hear what?’ Rafferty said.

  Morton nudged the door open with his foot. The television was on, with You Shop We Drop! TV yammering away at full volume. The light blared out in the otherwise dark room.

  Was she hard of hearing, or did our killer turn up the volume? Morton wondered.

  The curtains were drawn tight, and only a slither of sunlight was creeping around the edges, illuminating a trail of dust in the air. Morton moved towards the windows and heard Rafferty rumbling for a light switch. She found it, and a dim, energy-friendly bulb began to reluctantly flicker to life.

  Then Rafferty screamed.

  Morton turned to see a room bathed in blood. The shag pile carpet, which was off-white at one end of the room, was stained a dark crimson, thick and matted with blood. In the middle of the pool of blood, there was a cat barely older than a kitten.

  Morton imagined the cat had once been the same colour as the carpet. It looked up at him and nonchalantly continued to lick its paw before padding across the room to meow loudly at him.

  ‘He must be hungry. Rafferty, go see if you can find some cat food. I’m going to see if this bloodbath carries on upstairs. And don’t forget to change your booties – it looks like you’ve got blood on those.’

  Morton paused long enough to turn the television off and snap a quick picture on his phone. He emailed it over to Ayala: Found our primary crime scene. Send forensics.

  Upstairs the house was orderly, but two of the three bedrooms appeared not to have been used in some time, as all the surfaces were thick with undisturbed dust.

  The third room was the master bedroom, which had been decorated in a Bedouin boudoir style with silk draped artfully from the ceiling to frame a large sleigh bed in the middle of the room. Morton sniffed the air. The room reeked of potpourri mingled with cigarettes.

  Morton headed towards the rear window and cracked it open. From here he could see out onto a neatly manicured garden. There was a seat running the length of the window with a heap of books piled up at one end. They looked well-thumbed. Morton picked up the first one and scoffed. Romance novels. Dozens of them, many of them almost as old as the victim.

  A large canvas print dominated the longest wall opposite the window. It showed a much younger Primrose with a weatherworn gentleman and two young boys, twins by the looks of them, with tousled blond mops and fierce, angled noses that marked them as their father’s sons. A door at the back of the room led through to a wet room with percale towels stacked on a heating rack.

  Once he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found upstairs, Morton went in search of Rafferty. He found her in the hallway cradling a cat box.

  ‘What’re you doing with that?’

  ‘I can’t leave her here, can I? I lured her into the box with food. I’ll take care of her until we find next of kin.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton said. He looked from Rafferty to the cat, which was purring contentedly. ‘Be sure you don’t get any hairs inside my car, or you’ll be cleaning it on your own time, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘Boss, you’ve got to see the kitchen.’

  Morton waved a hand to tell her to lead on, so she set the cat box down beside the boxes of shopping channel merchandise and led him through to the kitchen. ‘Empty. It’s totally empty. What am I looking at?’

  ‘Open those cupboards.’ Rafferty pointed.

  When Morton did so, his jaw dropped in surprise. On the left-hand side, the cupboards were full of nothing but cat food, a
ll of it a blend of chicken and tuna which Morton recognised as a big name brand. On the right-hand side were twenty-six bottles of SW4 dry gin.

  ‘She liked a drink, then.’

  ‘That’s not all. Look in the fridge.’

  Morton walked towards the American-style fridge with trepidation. He pulled open the left-hand side, which housed a freezer. Empty. Then he opened the right.

  ‘Blimey!’ The freezer was stacked with ready-meals, the kind intended for those on a diet. ‘If she ate this crap every day, then she probably wasn’t long for this world anyway. I can’t see a single piece of fruit or veg anywhere.’

  ‘And yet,’ Rafferty said with a grin, ‘she’s got all manner of blenders, soup makers and smoothie machines hidden under the sink.’

  ‘I suppose it fits with the compulsive shopping we saw in the hallway. Have you seen a diary or phonebook anywhere? We need to identify her next of kin.’

  ‘Back in the lounge by the TV. I’ll go.’ Rafferty bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

  ‘No. You go see to the cat. I’ll find it.’ Morton tiptoed into the lounge, careful to minimise the disruption to the crime scene. He found a notepad full of phone numbers sandwiched between a well-worn church directory and a crystal ashtray.

  He skimmed through to the ‘Family’ section and ran his finger down the page. There were numbers listed for Christopher and Frederick Kennard, but nobody else. Morton jotted their numbers down and headed for the front door.

  Mayberry was waiting for them on the front drive.

  ‘What’d you find out?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Th-they barely kn-knew her. V-very quiet lady. L-liked to spend t-time in her garden.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘N-no. They g-gave me these.’ Mayberry produced a stack of six small boxes held together with an elastic band. ‘S-said they were delivered today.’

  Morton took the stack. All six boxes were from You Shop We Drop! TV.

  Chapter 3: Identification

  Sunday April 5th 17:30

  Christopher Kennard was sitting uncomfortably in a low plastic chair in the morgue waiting room. Morton watched him for a moment from the hallway as Christopher thumbed through an old magazine and sipped from a Styrofoam cup of over-brewed coffee.

  ‘Mr Kennard?’ Morton called out as he entered. ‘I’m DCI Morton.’

  ‘It’s about time,’ Christopher said. He tapped his foot impatiently. ‘I’ve been sat here for almost half an hour.’

  Morton took a seat opposite him. ‘My apologies, Mr Kennard. I know how difficult this must be for you. In a moment, I’ll take you down to identify your mother’s body, but first I need to warn you what to expect. Your mother suffered some serious injuries, so only her face will be uncovered. There may be some blood pooling on one side of her face, which will look a little like purple bruising. Would you like anyone with you during the identification? We have a chaplain on call.’

  ‘No, no. Let’s get this over with.’ He stood and motioned for Morton to lead on.

  They walked along the corridor to the next room, where the body of Primrose Kennard lay atop a gurney with a sheet pulled up to her neck. The post-mortem was on hold until the body had been formally identified. A thoughtful diener had uncovered Primrose’s left hand should her family wish to hold it. There was a toe tag pointing out from under the bottom of the sheet, tied by string.

  Christopher stepped forward and brushed his mother’s arm lightly before grabbing her hand. Morton watched him shudder in reaction to the coldness of her skin, but Christopher held on to her hand nonetheless.

  ‘I didn’t expect her to be so cold, so stiff,’ he said. ‘And what’s that awful smell?’

  ‘It’s formaldehyde. The smell tends to linger in these rooms. Take your time, Mr Kennard.’

  ‘I don’t need any time,’ Christopher said. ‘It’s her. That’s Primrose.’

  Morton frowned. Not Mum?

  Christopher let go of her hand. ‘Can I go now? I have work to get back to.’

  Morton shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I need to ask a few questions first. Perhaps we’d be more comfortable back in the waiting room.’

  ‘I don’t have long. I’ve got a meeting to get back to.’ Christopher tapped at his watch to emphasise the point.

  ‘What line of business are you in?’ Morton led the way back down the corridor.

  ‘Advertising. My brother and I–’

  Morton pushed the door to the waiting room open and then held it politely. ‘Your twin brother, Frederick?’

  Christopher sat down. ‘Yeah. Freddy and I started our own consultancy firm, Nuvem Media Associates, a few years back. It was online only at first, but we’ve recently moved to new offices in Farringdon. It’s a bit surreal. We employ thirty people now.’

  That must be expensive, Morton thought. ‘You’re self-made men, then?’

  ‘Yeah. We are. Well, we inherited a bit from Dad.’

  Morton walked up to the coffee machine in the corner, offered Christopher Kennard a coffee, and, when he declined, punched the button for a flat white for himself. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost both your parents. That must be tough.’

  ‘Thank you. I suppose I’m still in a bit of shock. I can’t believe Primrose is gone. It seems like only yesterday that she and Dad were bickering about this, that and the other.’

  ‘She never remarried, then?’ The machine whirred to a stop, and Morton picked up the red-hot cup gingerly before taking a seat opposite Kennard.

  ‘No. She was old-fashioned. She considered herself Dad’s in this life and the next. I suppose they’re together now, at least. To be honest, it’s something of a relief.’

  ‘A relief? In what way?’

  ‘Her health hasn’t been good for a long time. She suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. It was the ciggies that did it. She’s been on sixty a day since she was sixteen.’

  ‘And how old is she – was she – now?’

  ‘Fifty-five. Dad was older than her by a decade and change. The doctors told us twelve months ago that Mum would have been dead within eighteen months without a lung transplant.’

  That would explain why she’s missing a lung. ‘She didn’t find a match?’

  ‘Of course she did,’ Christopher said. ‘Freddy and I were a match. We donated eight months ago.’

  Christopher lifted his shirt to reveal a scar bisecting his chest.

  ‘You said “we donated”.’

  ‘A lobe from each of us. She could have taken a donation from a cadaver, but the long-term prognosis is much better with living donors, and at fifty-five she could have had decades more. We each gave her a single lobe.’

  Then the lung is missing after all.

  Morton paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask – formalities and all that – but where were you and your brother last night?’

  Christopher’s eyes narrowed. ‘We were at a client’s product launch. Why?’

  Morton ignored his question. ‘Is business good?’

  ‘Booming. We’ve got clients in Australia, America, and all over Europe. Look, I’ve got to get back to my meeting.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Morton said. ‘My colleague has something of yours. Hang on. She’s in the staff room across the hall.’

  Morton jogged the length of the waiting room and out of the door. He returned thirty seconds later with a cat box tucked under his arm and Detective Inspector Rafferty in tow. He set the box down on the table in front of Christopher. The cat hissed immediately and tried to claw at Christopher through the bars at the front of the cage.

  Christopher pushed the box away with his foot. ‘I don’t want it. You take it. Drown it. Keep it. Take it to Battersea. I don’t care. That thing is vicious.’

  Before Morton could object, Kennard stood and edged past the cat.

  ‘Mr Kennard!’

  The door slammed shut behind him, and the cat stopped hissing.

  ‘Congratulati
ons, Detective Inspector Rafferty. It looks like you’ve got yourself a cat.’

  Rafferty smiled, opened the box and picked up the cat, which began to purr under her caress. ‘Who’s a good kitty?’

  ‘Sorry, Detective. I didn’t quite catch that.’

  Rafferty cocked her head to one side bashfully. ‘Who’s a good kitty, sir?’

  ***

  Doctor Chiswick stopped Morton on his way out of the morgue. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Surely you can’t be done with the autopsy already? It’s only been ten minutes.’

  ‘Come take a look,’ Chiswick said, and then he turned to Rafferty. ‘You’ll have to wait outside. I can’t let you take the cat beyond this hallway.’

  Chiswick bounded excitedly into the autopsy room, where Mrs Kennard had been placed on the autopsy table sans modesty sheet.

  ‘Look at the neck. There’s a puncture mark there.’

  Morton peered at the cadaver. There was a tiny mark in the neck, smaller than a pinhole. Chiswick swung a magnifying class between Morton and the neck, enlarging it significantly.

  ‘I see it. I’m not blind, you know.’

  ‘I found a tiny piece of metal in there. It looks like the tip of a hypodermic needle.’ Chiswick held up an evidence bag. ‘I’ll send it over to forensics to analyse.’

  ‘She was drugged.’

  Chiswick nodded. ‘I think so. The cut to her chest is pretty neat. She had to have been unconscious when that was done.’

  ‘How hard would it be to cut her open?’

  ‘Not particularly, if you’ve got a sharp enough knife. Without a good blade, it would have been impossible to get it this straight. There’s only minor zigzagging, so your killer has a steady hand. Exsanguination from the cut is probably cause of death, though that’s off the record until I finish this autopsy.’

  ‘What was she knocked out with? Chloroform?’

  ‘God, no. This was much more calculated than that. It had to have been fast-acting. There aren’t any signs she tried to fight back. Her fingernails are immaculate – and a fetching shade of fuchsia, to boot. Toxicology will be able to tell you more, I’m sure.’