‘That explains the broken glass,’ Morton muttered.
‘I do apologise. I hope that won’t impede your investigation. It fell from my grasp when I saw the...’
‘The body?’
Frey nodded. His big grey eyes had begun to water behind his spectacles.
‘You said you were with a client. What do you do?’
‘I’m a lapidarist. I cut gemstones for a living. Most of my gems are cut for the other traders, but I like to take on a few special projects – one-off stones for engagement rings and the like. The gentleman I was with this morning brought in a rather unusual bi-colour tanzanite for me to cut for his bride-to-be–’
Morton cut him off. The old man looked like he wanted to chew the cud, and Morton didn’t have the time to waste. ‘Do you have a vault?’
‘Naturally.’
‘There were blueprints on the wall next to the body. They looked like this.’ Morton pulled up a photo on his phone. ‘Do you know which building these plans are for?’
Frey bit his lip and studied the blueprints. ‘I’m afraid not. It’s not my building. That’s all I can tell you. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘When you found the body, was the front door open or just unlocked?’
‘Open,’ Frey said firmly.
‘And were the lights on?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is there any CCTV that covers the entrance?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Frey said. ‘I’ve got CCTV covering my front doorway, if that’s any use to you.’
‘I’ll send a constable by to collect it. Thank you.’
***
‘And you’re sure this isn’t your shop, Mr Mehtani?’ Ayala asked for the fourth time.
The stout man with the shiny bald head and pristine suit cocked his head to one side. ‘It could be. It could not be.’
Ayala bristled. ‘Those are the options, yes.’
‘Sorry, I cannot help you.’
‘If you think of anything, give me a call.’ Ayala tossed a business card onto the counter between them, and then he stormed out, silently cursing the dour shopkeeper. The man had been polite almost to the point of obsequiousness, but had evaded every question with the careful practice of a diplomat.
All of the shopkeepers had been much the same. None of them wanted to talk to him. None admitted to recognising the floor plan from the blueprint.
Rain pelted Ayala as he emerged from Suresh Mehtani’s shop. It was three doors down from the crime scene and seemed to fit the blueprint, but Mehtani was having none of it.
Ayala dashed back into the alleyway that led to the crime scene. The officer from earlier, PC Buchanan, was still standing guard.
‘No luck, Detective Ayala?’ Buchanan asked.
‘None. They’re secretive, these jewellers, aren’t they?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? They’re guarding the treasures of the wealthiest people in the world. Some say there’s more gold buried beneath Hatton Garden than in the Bank of England itself. Discretion has always been the order of the day around here.’
‘You know a lot about them.’
‘I should. My dad ran a watch repair shop out of Leather Lane for nearly forty years. I grew up here.’
Ayala’s eyes glazed over. He didn’t need a trip down memory lane. He needed a lead.
‘Can you do me a favour? Tell Morton that I’m heading over to forensics.’
Buchanan nodded and then resumed his guard at the entrance of the alleyway.
Chapter 12: The Last House on the Left
Thursday April 9th 16:00
The gym card in the victim’s wallet proved fortuitous. A quick call from Rafferty to the gym, and they had Niall Stapleton’s home address.
It was an end-of-terrace on the outskirts of Balham, miles away from the tube station, and thoroughly unlike central London. Here the roads were lined with houses rather than flats, and no tower blocks loomed overhead for what seemed like at least half a mile. Morton parked up outside Stapleton’s home and heard Rafferty slide her car in neatly behind his.
‘Ayala not with you?’ Morton asked once they were both standing on the pavement.
‘Nope. Buchanan said Ayala’s taken evidence over to forensics,’ Rafferty replied.
‘What evidence?’ He should be here, Morton thought.
Rafferty shrugged and began to walk in step with Morton towards the house.
Niall Stapleton’s home was the last house on the left in the row of terraced homes. Farther to the left, the road carried on underneath a railway bridge and out of sight while homes stretched to the right for as far as the eye could see.
Niall’s front garden had a ring of conifers running around the perimeter and a low wall along the front where the property met the road, giving it an unusually private air; the greenery shielded the home from the rest of London, and once the gate had opened with a creak, Morton found himself in a small front garden which was neat if somewhat sparse, with a rockery taking up the lion’s share of the space. A gravel path led Morton through the rockery up to the front door.
Morton knocked on the door. No answer.
‘Let me, sir,’ Rafferty said, and stepped forward, plainly intending to pick the lock.
‘No need,’ Morton said as he turned the door handle. ‘It’s open.’
The front door opened directly into Niall Stapleton’s living room. A large leather sofa ran the length of the left-hand wall, and a television was mounted in the far right corner above a bookcase.
The room was in a chaotic state, as if a fight had broken out, and detritus covered every available surface. The coffee table in the middle of the room had one leg torn off, and the sole chair had fallen over backwards so that it leant against the window, which had cracked from the impact.
The floor, which was scuffed and dirty, was littered with cable ties and personal possessions. A smashed photograph lay next to a small trestle table by the door. Niall Stapleton was pictured with his arm wrapped around a young woman, a cheesy smile plastered across his face.
‘What in God’s name has gone on here? It looks like they’ve been robbed!’ Rafferty said.
Morton held a finger to his lips to beckon for silence, pointed at the flat screen on the wall, and then whispered: ‘No thief would leave behind the television. We need to clear all the rooms.’
They hunched low and shuffled forward towards the door to the rest of the house. Morton opened it slowly and then paused to listen for any signs of life. When he was satisfied that he could hear no signs of an intruder, he shuffled forwards and beckoned for Rafferty to follow.
The hallway led them through to a stairwell and another door.
‘You take the ground floor. I’m going up.’ Morton pointed to himself and then the stairwell. Rafferty nodded her acknowledgement and shuffled past him.
Morton crept up the stairs slowly. As he approached the landing, he could see two doors. The left-hand door, which was open, led through to a small bathroom. Morton peeked inside briefly to check that no one had hidden behind the shower curtain, then proceeded to the door to the master bedroom.
He gently pushed the door open, waiting for someone to leap out at him at any moment.
But nothing happened. The upstairs was empty.
Figuring that Rafferty ought to have finished clearing the rooms downstairs, Morton yelled out, ‘Clear!’
Rafferty’s voice echoed his almost immediately. Nobody was in the house.
Morton breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the bedroom. It was small but cosy, with lace bedding draped across the bed that had to have been chosen by a woman.
There were more pictures of Niall on the wall. In most of them he was pictured with the girl from the sitting room. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with long, thick eyelashes and a smile that showed every tooth. It was plain to see that she and Niall had been very much in love.
The odd thing about the room was the lack of mess. Where the living r
oom looked like a bomb site, the rest of the house was immaculate.
A stair creaked. Morton spun on the spot, his muscles tensing. The house was clear, wasn’t it?
‘Don’t worry. It’s just me,’ Rafferty called out.
‘Jesus, woman! Don’t do that to me.’
‘Sorry. My bad, boss.’ Rafferty bit her lip. ‘Find anything?’
‘Nope. It’s immaculate up here. What’s the rest of downstairs like?’ Morton said.
‘The same. Except the bathroom. Someone’s pissed all over the floor and left the seat up.’ Rafferty coughed loudly, ‘Men.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing, sir. So, what do we do–’
Rafferty was interrupted by a loud buzzing. She put her hands in her pockets, clearly looking for a mobile.
Morton held up his phone. The screen was flashing. ‘It’s me.’ He put the phone on speaker and held it out, palm up. ‘Go ahead. You’re on speaker.’
‘It’s M-M-Mayberry. I’ve f-found the... umm–’
‘You got a pen and paper? Write it down for me.’ Morton could just about hear the sounds of pen scribbling against paper.
‘Blueprint!’ Mayberry said triumphantly.
‘You’ve found where the blueprint is for? How?’
‘P-p-planning permission r-records. It’s at H-Hatton G-Garden Deposit Co.’
Morton exhaled. ‘I sent Ayala to check in there. He said they were a no-go. Is he with you?’
‘N-no.’
‘Right. If you see him, tell him I want to talk to him immediately.’
Chapter 13: The Students Next Door
Thursday April 9th 16:30
The front door of the neighbouring house shook as Morton approached. He could practically feel the vibrations underfoot as an overenthusiastic sound system pounded out enough bass to fill a concert hall.
Nobody answered Morton’s first knock. It was no surprise. He could barely hear it himself over the din. After waiting politely for a moment, Morton rapped smartly on the front window, and the music cut out suddenly.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Police. Open up,’ Morton said.
He could see a flurry of movement behind the net curtains, and could have sworn he heard a hushed voice whisper, ‘Oh, shit. Quick, flush it.’
Eventually, the door swung open and a man almost as wide as the door stepped outside. ‘Can I help you?’
‘DCI Morton. I’d like to talk to you about your neighbour, Niall Stapleton.’
The man stared at him. He had bloodshot eyes, tousled hair and a neck beard that hadn’t seen a razor for at least a month. ‘What about him?’ he said cautiously.
‘When did you see him last?’
‘I dunno. Last week?’
The kid was clearly as high as a kite and struggling to keep it together. He kept shifting from one foot to the other as if the ground were on fire and scratched his neck incessantly.
‘Is anyone else home?’ Morton asked.
The kid looked relieved. He turned back into the house and shouted: ‘Hey! Ophelia! Oi! Oh-feel-yah! Come down here.’
A wiry redhead shot down the stairs, a biochemistry textbook held aloft as if she were about to strike the stoner with it. ‘How many times have I told you? I do not want to get high with you. Some of us,’ Ophelia sniffed haughtily, ‘have to study.’
Morton leant past the stoner to make eye contact with Ophelia. ‘DCI Morton, Metropolitan Police. Do you have a moment?’
Ophelia froze for moment, nodded almost imperceptibly, and shooed the stoner inside. He stomped off towards the back of the house, allowing Morton a view of the ground floor.
It looked almost exactly like Niall Stapleton’s home, except the sofa had been taken out and replaced with a single bed. Morton could see a bong sitting on a shelf above it. He arched his eyebrows.
‘Come on through. You don’t want to stay in here too long. My room is upstairs.’
It was true. The room did have a dank, musky smell which was most unpleasant.
Rafferty pinched her nose as she followed Morton inside. ‘God! It smells like teenage boy.’
‘Yep. Don’t touch anything,’ Morton warned her.
The house was a mirror image of the Stapleton residence. The stairs were on the right, leading up to a small bathroom and a master bedroom at the back with a view over the tiny garden.
Ophelia led them through to her room and shut the door behind them.
‘Sorry about him. It’s a nightmare here. I missed out on halls, so I had to find somewhere last minute for the year, and ended up sharing with the biggest idiot on campus.’ Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed and motioned for one of the detectives to take the solitary chair which sat behind a tiny desk.
Morton stepped back to allow Rafferty to take the seat and then turned his attention to Ophelia. ‘Where are you studying?’
‘King’s.’
‘Impressive. Biochemistry?’ Morton said, gesturing at the textbook which now lay on the bed beside her.
‘Biochemical engineering, actually.’
‘Wow,’ Rafferty said.
‘Niall Stapleton,’ Morton said. ‘I assume you’re acquainted with him, given that your bedrooms share a wall.’
‘Intimately. He and Vanessa can be quite, ah, vocal. We’ve had arguments about that.’
‘Is Vanessa his girlfriend?’
‘Fiancée. She doesn’t live next door, not officially. But she’s always there.’’
Rafferty leant forward. ‘Have you ever heard them arguing?’
‘Of course. Don’t all couples argue?’
‘Did it ever become violent?’ Morton asked.
‘No. Never. They’re sweet together. I did hear a scream this morning, come to think of it. But I assumed it was just, you know, sex.’
Morton blushed.
Rafferty grinned at Morton’s obvious discomfort. ‘And what does Vanessa do for a living?’
‘She’s a lecturer. One of my lecturers, actually. I introduced them last September at the student union. It was my birthday and I didn’t really know anyone here yet, so I invited the neighbours.’
‘Would you happen to have her contact details?’
‘I could give you her email address. Hang on, I think I’ve got her office number too. It was in our starter pack for the year. She should still be at the university if you’re quick.’ Ophelia turned towards Rafferty. ‘Ms...?’
‘Rafferty,’ Rafferty supplied.
‘Ms Rafferty, if you could check the drawer beside you there, you should find a folder labelled Induction Information.’
Rafferty turned away and opened a giant drawer filled with folders neatly arranged with colour-coded labels. Morton watched her rifle through.
‘They’re alphabetised!’ Ophelia cried impatiently.
‘Here we are. Ms Vanessa Gogg, Senior Lecturer. You ready, boss?’ Rafferty asked.
Morton nodded, and Rafferty read out the number while Morton began dialling.
It went straight through to voicemail. ‘You’ve reached Vanessa Gogg. I’m not here right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get right back to you. Beep!’
As Morton was about to hang up, a message flashed up on his phone: Call waiting. He swiped to take Ayala’s call.
‘Ayala! Where the hell are you?’
‘Boss. You’re not going to like this.’
Chapter 14: The Phone
Thursday April 9th 16:30
Ayala tapped his foot impatiently. The Met’s technical guru, Zane, seemed to be taking almost as long to find a phone cable as it had taken for Ayala to race the phone over from Hatton Garden.
‘Chill, Ayala. I’ll be done in a moment,’ Zane said. He slouched in his chair as the unlocking program ran.
Ayala stared at the blue progress wheel on screen, which whirred round and round mesmerizingly. ‘How long?’
‘A few minutes. You know that progress wheel is just for show, right? It’s not actually measuring
how far along the program is.’ Zane switched windows and began to read through his email.
‘You mind not doing that? I think my murder victim might be a tad more important than your social life.’
Ayala paced up and down. He had missed calls from Mayberry and Morton, but there was little point in returning them until he had something to show for his sudden disappearance.
The screen pinged green, and Zane grinned triumphantly. ‘See? Told you it’d be done soon. What am I looking for?’
‘I need a home address for our victim.’
‘That should be easy enough,’ Zane said. ‘Let’s open up his contact list.’ He thumbed through the menus and scrolled down to the ‘H’ section of Niall Stapleton’s contact list. ‘Aha. Home. Now that we’ve got a landline, I can do a reverse look-up.’ He handed Ayala the phone and pulled his keyboard towards him.
Ayala flicked through the phone until he found the victim’s most recent messages – and felt his jaw drop. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘What is it? Please tell me he’s been sexting with his missus. That shit is always hilarious.’ Zane leant forward eagerly.
Ayala twisted the phone towards him and showed him what he’d found.
‘Holy shit. Is that–?’
‘Yep,’ Ayala said. ‘It is.’
On the screen was a picture of Niall Stapleton’s girlfriend bound and gagged.
With a gun to her head.
***
‘Ayala, calm down and explain. Slowly,’ Morton repeated. ‘You’re breaking up. I thought you just said “bound and gagged”.’ He was standing outside Niall Stapleton’s house. Rafferty was still inside the neighbours’ home, talking to Ophelia.
‘I did. Hang on... can you hear me better now? I’m walking upstairs. That bloody basement is like a Faraday cage,’ Ayala said.
‘Yep. Loud and clear.’
‘We unlocked Niall Stapleton’s mobile. I was looking for his address when–’
‘Got it. Already been there. Rafferty called his gym for it an hour ago,’ Morton said. ‘Is that all you’ve done?’
‘The girlfriend–’
‘Vanessa Gogg,’ Morton supplied.
‘Right. She’s been kidnapped. Stapleton got a photo message early this morning. I’ve got forensics tracing the source late last night, but it’s bound to be a disposable mobile phone. She’s been kidnapped, and he was being blackmailed.’
The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) Page 6