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

by Sean Campbell

  He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. About her age. And yet he wore a school uniform. It was right there on his chest, the logo of St Balthere’s Academy. The boy visited her daily between three thirty and three forty-five, just after school got out.

  It took time to be able to follow him without being seen. I thought I had been spotted last week, just for a moment, when he turned to stare in my direction.

  This afternoon he was running a little late. He walked by the bus stop at a brisk pace, and I saw him disappear along the alleyway that led to her flat.

  I made it to her home thirty seconds after he did and pressed my eye to the gap in the fence at the bottom of the garden. He was on the doorstep, ringing the bell. She opened the door and greeted him with a kiss.

  The pair were not merely a student and his teacher. They were lovers.

  I reached into my jacket pocket. No; not now. She was with an innocent. The boy could not be harmed. Her end would have to wait.

  Chapter 36: Another One Bites the Dust

  Tuesday April 14th 06:30

  Henry MacIntyre was fast approaching sixty years of age. In his long life he’d served as a submariner, raised two boys, and become a deacon in his local church. He lived a life that was extraordinarily ordinary. His morning routine was simple. He rose before the rest of the world, unlocked the doors at St Balthere’s Academy, and set about readying the place for the school day.

  The first clue that all was not right presented itself upon Henry’s arrival at the front gate. The gates were unlocked; the padlock which usually held them shut was clicked tight about one half of the gate, rendering it ineffective.

  ‘Bloody night crew,’ Henry muttered. While it was his job to unlock each morning, the task of locking back up fell upon the night caretaker, who swept the halls after the teachers had left and was supposed to lock everything up behind him.

  Henry’s first task of the day began as normal. He pulled gloves and a bag from his pocket and began to clear the detritus that inevitably littered the path. It was then that he saw the figure on the bench.

  ‘Ms Hogge? Is that you?’ Henry called out. When she did not reply, he moved closer. He saw that her eyes were wide and unblinking. He dashed forward and seized her wrist in search of a pulse.

  She was cold to the touch, and as he recoiled she slid forward. Out of instinct, Henry caught her and instantly regretted it. Her body felt... wrong. She was like jelly, wobbly and unstructured. He lay her down along the bench, pulled out his phone, and debated who to call first: the police or the principal.

  ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit.’

  ***

  The fourth body was by far the most disturbing, though it didn’t seem that way at first glance.

  An irate Scotsman had called it in. He was something of a janitor, though Morton soon found out that the man disliked that title. Head Groundsman. That was what he called himself. In any event, he opened the doors and picked up the rubbish.

  Saint Balthere’s doors would not be opening today. The lady on the bench was Olivia Hogge. According to MacIntyre, she had been a Modern Foreign Languages tutor.

  ‘So, she taught French, then?’ Ayala had quipped. ‘Does everybody have a fancy title around here? Can I start calling myself Chief Justice Ayala, Protector of the Realm now?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll have new business cards printed up later today,’ Morton replied. ‘Your new duties include fetching me coffee and beginning the door-to-door canvass to see if anybody saw anything.’

  ‘In the middle of the night? Fat chance,’ Ayala said.

  ‘And be sure to introduce yourself using your new title. We’ve got to make sure you’re taken seriously,’ Morton said with a smile.

  Morton watched as Ayala sauntered back down towards the school gates. He could see a crowd of parents waiting on the other side, no doubt primed to pelt anybody who dared to walk past them with questions about just what was going on.

  The body had been covered by a hastily assembled forensics tent to shield Olivia Hogge from the view of any children, and the scene of crime officers were processing the area around her for trace evidence, but as of yet there was no sign of the coroner. Police tape had been strung up from the gate down to the swings, and then back around the tent to the fence.

  He beckoned Rafferty over from near the gates, where she had been doing crowd control. ‘Any sign of him?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Can’t we just look at the body?’ Rafferty pleaded. ‘If we don’t touch it, then it’s no big deal, is it?’

  Morton had to concede the point. It was freezing, and the relative shelter of the forensics tent seemed appealing. They ducked inside and found Olivia Hogge laid out just as Henry MacIntyre had left her.

  The chief scene of crime officer, Stuart Purcell, was bent forward, rifling through the handbag next to the body.

  ‘Morning, Stuart,’ Morton said. ‘Anything interesting in there?’

  Purcell straightened up. ‘She wasn’t robbed. Cash, the latest smartphone, car keys. The killer left everything.’

  ‘Well, bag the lot and send them to Evidence,’ Morton said. ‘What about prints?’

  ‘Everywhere. Thousands and thousands of ‘em. It’s a school playground. We’ve got kids’ prints, parents’ prints, and teachers’ prints. Any one of them could be our killer, or none of them could be.’

  Morton nodded his thanks and allowed the bigger man to edge past him bearing a bundle of evidence bags. Once Purcell was gone, Morton had a clear view of the body.

  Olivia Hogge was a pretty woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with auburn hair and skin that looked as pale and smooth as Aegean marble. In death her complexion was pallid, and yet, with her gossamer silk blouse and gold jewellery dripping from her fingers, she seemed to be dressed up as if ready for a night out. Morton could easily have mistaken her for being asleep.

  ‘What do you think, then, boss?’ Rafferty said. ‘Jealous boyfriend?’

  ‘Maybe. I suspect we’ll know more when the coroner arrives. Until then, we have to leave her as she is. Let’s go find the headmistress.’

  ***

  The headmistress was in the school’s main hall with a few dozen teachers and Henry MacIntyre, who seemed to be enjoying his newfound celebrity. Morton and Rafferty slipped into the back of the room unnoticed as Henry was telling the assembled teachers his story.

  ‘And there I was, minding my own business, when I saw her, cold as ice, her eyes burning into mine, unblinking. I knew straight away she was gone. ’Twas the way she was sitting there, all unnaturally still and stiff, leaning against her handbag on that bench. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a body.’ MacIntyre held up his hands modestly. ‘God knows I’ve been at war. I’ve killed my share of men and beasts. This was something else. She was dolled up to the nines, all prettied like she was going out on a date. Poor Ms Hogge. Such a tragic end to a girl who never had much luck to begin with. I say we raise a glass or two in her honour down at The Library tonight!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ one of the teachers exclaimed.

  Once the crowd had finished murmuring their respects to Poor Ms Hogge, the headmistress harrumphed loudly to draw attention her way.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the school will be closed today while the police have the run of the grounds.’

  Everyone in the room cheered, excited at the prospect of a day off, and then fell silent again almost immediately at the incongruity of cheering while a colleague lay dead.

  ‘That does not mean you have the day off. I expect to see you working on lesson plans, marking, and your upcoming personal performance review plans. If you do not feel you have anything to be done, then come see me and I will find something. Am I clear?’

  The crowd dispersed, allowing Morton and Rafferty to break through to the front of the hall.

  By the time the crowd had filed out, only two women were left standing at the front of the hall. One was the headmistress, a sho
rt, squat lady with curly brown hair. Morton knew her name to be Mrs Gibbs, for it had been inscribed on the entrance sign underneath the school logo.

  ‘Mrs Gibbs?’ Morton said.

  ‘I’m Lucy Gibbs. You must be the police.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Morton. This is Detective Inspector Rafferty. Could we have a moment in private?’

  The headmistress followed Morton’s line of vision over to the unknown woman. ‘This is Belinda Powell, my deputy. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of her too.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am. How well did you know Ms Hogge?’

  ‘I didn’t, really. She wasn’t employed here,’ Gibbs said curtly.

  ‘She wasn’t?’ Rafferty said disbelievingly.

  ‘No. She was a cover supervisor. She did a few days here and there for us, whenever we needed a substitute.’

  ‘When did she last work here?’ Morton asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It was a while back. Six or seven months, I’d say?’ The headmistress looked over to her deputy, who looked put out at being dragged into the conversation.

  Belinda Powell pursued her lips, deep in thought. ‘It was the term before last. She covered for Dobson when he broke his ankle, remember?’

  ‘So it was, Ms Powell. So it was.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she worked since?’ Morton asked. ‘Surely you’ve needed cover since?’

  The deputy headmistress looked like she wanted to say something, but Gibbs cut in. ‘She was sick. Poor dear.’

  ‘Too ill to teach? For months at a time?’

  ‘She was a deathly little lamb,’ Powell said. ‘Who could possibly work while suffering like that? Such a shame it was, too. She was so young.’

  ‘We’ll need a copy of any employment records you might have for her.’

  ‘We don’t have any,’ said Gibbs. ‘She worked through an agency. We called them, they sent her. I’m sure if you call them, they’d be happy to supply you with the details. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to be getting on with.’

  ‘Very well. If you think of anything else, either of you, here’s my card.’ Morton handed one to each of them. As he handed one to the deputy headmistress, he saw something in her expression. She was hiding something.

  Chapter 37: Lonely

  Tuesday April 14th 09:00

  Olivia Hogge’s home was less than five hundred feet from St Balthere’s Academy, in a six-storey walk-up built as affordable living for the city’s key workers: teachers, nurses, and other essential professionals who would otherwise be priced out of the local market.

  She owned the ground floor flat on the south side of the building, facing towards an alleyway which ran down to the main road. Her doorway, which was not shared with any other flat in the building, was guarded by a narrow front garden with roses running around a wooden arch halfway down a gravel path.

  ‘It’s eerily quiet here, isn’t it, boss?’ Rafferty said as they walked along the path, the only sound in the vicinity the crunch of gravel underfoot.

  ‘I imagine it would be louder if the school were not out for the day,’ Morton said. ‘We’re well within earshot of the front playground.’

  The front door was locked. Once again Rafferty looked over to Morton, silently enquiring as to whether she should pick the lock. Morton nodded, and thirty seconds later they were inside.

  Morton flicked the light on and turned to examine the door. ‘Automatic lock. No sign of struggle. Lead on.’

  Rafferty edged inside. The flat was small. The front room held little more than a low table and a ragged old armchair. Bills were piled up on the table, many of them angrily stamped with Overdue or Late. Hogge had left a well-thumbed Bible and rosary beads beside the mountain of bills.

  The bedroom was to the rear of the flat. Like the lounge, it was barely big enough to swing a cat in, with a single bed pushed up against the radiator on the back wall, and clothes heaped in a pile at the foot of the bed. A small bedside dresser was the only luxury. There was a vanity mirror in the middle of the dresser, and the drawers were filled with boxes.

  Morton drew out one of the boxes. It appeared that, just like Primrose Kennard, Olivia Hogge had been a fan of You Shop We Drop! TV.

  ‘She managed to buy tat, but not pay the bills. Rafferty, can you see a laptop or computer of any kind?’ Morton said.

  Rafferty began to rifle through the room. Eventually she found a small netbook tucked underneath the pile of dirty clothing. She placed it on the dresser and booted it up.

  ‘Password?’ she asked Morton.

  ‘God knows. I guess we’ll have to leave that to Zane to crack. Bag it and tag it. I want to take a look in the bathroom.’

  Morton left Rafferty to deal with the paperwork and edged open the bathroom door. Compared to the rest of the flat, it was excessively oversized, with a large bathtub and a mirrored cabinet over the basin. Morton opened the cabinet to find the usual array of sundries as well as a stack of pills. He picked up the nearest pack of pills. The label read cyclosporine. Morton had no idea what it was for, so he bagged it to show the coroner before turning his attention to the rest of the bathroom.

  The room was much cleaner than the lounge and bedroom. Too clean.

  ‘Rafferty, come in here.’

  Rafferty trudged into the bathroom, squeezing past Morton’s larger frame to look around in bemusement. ‘What am I looking at, boss? I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Exactly. Look out there’ – Morton gestured back to the rat’s nest that was Olivia Hogge’s bedroom – ‘and then back in here.’

  ‘It’s too clean.’ Rafferty crouched down and sniffed. ‘Is that bleach?’

  ‘I think so. Someone has cleaned up in here,’ Morton said.

  His words hung in the air. He didn’t need to add the obvious – that, just like Primrose Kennard, Olivia Hogge had probably been murdered in her own home.

  ‘I’ll call forensics, then,’ Rafferty said.

  Chapter 38: An Autopsy – Sort Of

  Wednesday April 15th 12:00

  Morton’s stomach rumbled as he made his way down to the morgue. He had skipped breakfast while out at the crime scene, and it didn’t look like he’d have time for lunch before Olivia Hogge’s autopsy was complete.

  Her body was covered when Morton arrived, a modesty sheet in place up to her neck. The only clue that the autopsy was complete was the samples that Doctor Chiswick had arranged in a metal tray alongside the autopsy table.

  Chiswick looked unusually sullen. His usually businesslike demeanour had been replaced by a furrowed brow and red eyes that spoke of tears.

  ‘You OK, Larry?’ Morton asked.

  The coroner shook his head, his thick grey hair swooshing behind him. He swallowed and then said in a choked-up voice, ‘She looks a lot like my daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Larry. It’s never easy when they’re young.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Ms Hogge was twenty-two years old, and they were tough years. I pulled her medical history. Ms Hogge has been in and out of hospital for practically all of her adult life.’

  ‘I found medicine at her flat. Here.’ Morton handed over the box of pills marked cyclosporine.

  ‘They’re immunosuppressants, and they fit with my findings. She had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which necessitated a bone marrow transplant. The cyclosporine would have been administered to prevent her body rejecting that transplant.’

  ‘Does that mean her transplant was recent?’

  ‘Transplant patients have to take immunosuppressants for life. Given this dosage, I’d say her operation was sometime earlier this year.’

  ‘Would she have died without the bone marrow transplant?’

  Chiswick nodded gravely. ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And with the transplant?’

  ‘Her prognosis would have been good. There’s a risk of kidney damage with cyclosporine, and anyone who is immunosuppressed risks all sorts of infections, but she probably wouldn’t have died from non-H
odgkin’s lymphoma. She appears to have been in full remission.’

  ‘Like Primrose Kennard, then,’ Morton said.

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Why would someone wish to kill those who had just been saved? Both victims had transplants to save them, seemed to have had success with those transplants, and were subsequently murdered.’

  ‘Beats me. You’re the copper. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds like they cheated death for a while, but that death got them in the end.’

  ‘Religious nut job?’

  ‘Maybe. What else does her body tell us? How was she murdered?’ Morton reached for the sheet covering Olivia Hogge, expecting the coroner to go through his usual routine of pointing out everything that was abnormal about the deceased.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Ms Hogge... is not a pretty sight.’

  It’s not like him to be squeamish, Morton thought. ‘Why? She looked fine when I saw her in situ.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t have to move her. She’d been propped against the bench with her handbag next to her when the caretaker found her. When we got there, she was slumped over. It wasn’t until we moved her that we realised...’

  ‘Realised what?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Your killer deboned her.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Whoever killed her cut out every major bone except for the skull, spine and ribcage, and then sewed her right back up. She was a big sack of organs and fat when we moved her.’

  ‘Fuck.’ That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. ‘Why?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. There’s no medical reason for it.’

  ‘Post-mortem, I hope?’ Morton asked.

  ‘No. Sadly not. She was alive, but unconscious. I found a needle mark in her neck, just like–’

  ‘Just like Primrose Kennard.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dr Chiswick said. ‘I’ve sent samples off to trace to confirm, but I think you’re looking at the same guy. She was knocked out cold, deboned, and then bled out while he put her back together. Her body was then dressed in all her finery and propped up on that bench to be found.’