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

by Sean Campbell

  Doctor Byron Carruthers lived in Victoria in a terraced house on Vauxhall Bridge Road, a brisk ten-minute stroll south of New Scotland Yard. Traffic roared past the front door at terrific speed.

  The house looked almost out of place. It was one of a row of a dozen terraced houses sandwiched between commercial properties. They were a hangover from a bygone era when families had lived in such central locations. Each house was three storeys tall, with a set of four symmetrical windows looming over a single doorway which was always set on the left-hand side of the house.

  Morton was shown in quickly by Carruthers’ wife, Fenella. He guessed that she was around his age and highly educated. She spoke with a clipped, cut-glass accent that marked her out as one of the upper middle class. She showed Morton to the living room and then disappeared to make tea.

  The doctor appeared on crutches. He staggered over to the sofa opposite Morton and sank into the cushion.

  He looked older than his wife. Morton knew this to be a matter of perception, for he had researched the doctor before arriving. Perhaps he was in less than perfect health.

  ‘You’re a policeman.’

  ‘I am. DCI Morton, Metropolitan Police. I’d like to talk to you about Doctor Isaac Ebstein.’

  ‘What about Zac?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I work with him,’ Carruthers said.

  ‘At the Royal London Hospital?’

  ‘Yes, and elsewhere. We’re both consultants, and we do the entire London circuit as well as occasionally working in the home counties.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Enough to give him a kidney,’ Carruthers said. He gave a short, phlegmy laugh that ended abruptly with the doctor hacking and wheezing.

  ‘You gave him a kidney?’ So, he’s the mysterious donor from among the staff.

  ‘I thought I had one to spare.’

  Mrs Carruthers appeared carrying a silver tray laden down with a bone china teapot and two sets of cups and saucers.

  ‘You have a lovely home, Mrs Carruthers.’ It was a beautiful house with high ceilings, wooden flooring and large windows that doused the living room in sunshine.

  She set the tray down on the table in silence, lightly touched her husband’s arm, and then produced a biscuit barrel as if from nowhere.

  Morton nodded his thanks before she left. ‘Do you remember a Primrose Kennard?’

  ‘Not particularly. Should I?’

  ‘She had a lung transplant last year.’

  ‘I don’t remember the specific operations. I tend to remember the patients. I have to monitor them to make sure they stay out for the duration. If you give me her age, weight and height, I might remember.’

  It would take a doctor to work out how to knock someone out... and both Kennard and Hogge were expertly dosed. Ebstein would know how to do that.

  ‘She was in her early sixties, five foot six inches tall, and weighed perhaps twelve stone,’ Morton said.

  ‘She rings a bell,’ Carruthers conceded. ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was murdered last month.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How does this reflect on Zac? You can’t think he killed her?’

  Morton adopted a diplomatic approach. ‘We’re pursuing all lines of enquiry at this time.’

  ‘So, he is a suspect, then. That is pure folly. He’s a doctor. He saves lives. He doesn’t end them.’

  ‘And yet someone did. Someone with medical training. Someone who had access to Primrose Kennard. Someone who knew she didn’t receive a lung lobe from Christopher Kennard.’

  ‘Impossible. The nurses would have checked the boxes. We don’t put the wrong parts in the wrong people, Mr Morton.’

  ‘Not by accident.’

  Byron coughed again. ‘Then, it sounds like you need to arrest poor Zac and put this whole charade to bed. He isn’t a killer, Detective.’

  Chapter 50: Watford to London

  Wednesday April 22nd 11:00

  This time the NHS paper-pushers from Watford made the trip down to New Scotland Yard, accompanied by their lawyers – six of them, all dressed in three-piece suits with natty ties and over-polished Italian leather shoes.

  They sat in concert around the conference table in the incident room. Synchronised sitting, Morton wanted to call it. Doctor Sinclair sat off to one side, beadily eyeing up Morton but letting the lawyers speak for him.

  ‘We’ve reviewed the allegation you made,’ the lawyer in the middle said. This guy had a streak of grey running through his beard that caught the light just wrong. ‘We’d like time to investigate in-house.’

  ‘And we’d like to make progress in a murder investigation,’ Morton said.

  ‘We appreciate that, Detective. You wanted to know if there was commonality among your four victims.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ the one Morton had nicknamed Greybeard said.

  Damn. ‘Then, what are we doing here?’

  ‘Three of your victims do share a medical link. It’s statistically unlikely, and we can’t explain it,’ Greybeard said with a frown. ‘But it isn’t criminal.’

  ‘What’s the link?’

  ‘The blood that Mr Yacobi and Mr Stapleton received, and the bone marrow that Ms Hogge received, all come from one donor.’

  ‘That is incredibly unlikely.’

  ‘It’s less improbable than you think. This donor, and no, I’m not going to divulge his or her identity, is a repeat altruistic donor. They have donated numerous times. We’ve even cleared this individual through the NHS Ethics Committee for their approval. We do not believe that they have any connection to your case.’

  ‘I think that’s for me to decide. I’d like to see the paperwork for these “donations”.’

  They had anticipated his request. Greybeard nodded to Doctor Sinclair, and a folder was passed down the conference table to Morton. He opened it to find the documentation for each donation – with the donor name redacted.

  ‘This isn’t good enough.’

  ‘It’s going to have to be. It’s all you’re going to get, Detective. The link is not the NHS Blood and Transplant, nor is it the British Bone Marrow Registry. There’s something else that connects your victims. I suggest you find it.’

  Chapter 51: Papers

  Wednesday April 22nd 15:00

  Radley Freeman was hastily recalled at great expense to confirm that the papers the NHS Blood and Transplant lawyer had given Morton were genuine.

  When he proclaimed they were, it left Morton in a bind. It had all seemed to fit. The four victims were different ages, genders, and from markedly different walks of life.

  Could he be wrong?

  Morton had to trust his gut. One serial killer choosing victims seemingly at random was much more likely than there being multiple criminals with such a penchant for the macabre.

  There only one thing for it. Without a warrant for the rest of the documentation, and with no other suspects or witnesses forthcoming, Morton would have to work with what he had.

  He had to arrest Isaac Ebstein.

  Chapter 52: An Early Start

  Thursday April 23rd 05:00

  In retrospect, a dawn raid wasn’t strictly necessary. The few hours between sunrise and breakfast would have made scant difference, especially as Ebstein had already been given ample opportunity to dispose of evidence after the first chat in his office. Nor was he likely to put up much of a fight.

  The use of an entire team to surround his small apartment building in Pimlico and storm in had seemed like a scene from a movie. His front door had been kicked in and a smoke grenade tossed inside.

  Ebstein had yelped, then screamed, and finally wet himself. The team gave him a moment to change out of his pyjamas and then dragged him out in cuffs.

  ‘Isaac Ebstein, you are under arrest on suspicion of offences pursuant to the Human Tissue Act 2004. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned somethi
ng which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Something about the befuddled look Ebstein was wearing worried Morton. The doctor looked genuinely confused that he was being arrested.

  Was Morton’s gut wrong?

  ***

  To Morton’s surprise, Ebstein didn’t lawyer up straight away. He seemed eager to “clear up the confusion”, as he put it.

  ‘Doctor Ebstein, for the benefit of the tape, are you sure you do not wish to exercise your right to a lawyer at this time?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘You operated on Primrose Kennard. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You transplanted two live lung lobes into her?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And where did those lung lobes come from?’

  ‘Her sons.’

  Morton put the documents he had borrowed from Ebstein’s office on the interview room table. ‘Is this the paperwork for that transplant?’

  ‘It appears to be, yes. I remember telling Caitlyn to give you them.’

  ‘Does it appear all to be in order?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And that is your signature at the bottom of each page?’ Morton said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think, or you know?’

  ‘I know,’ Ebstein said. ‘It’s my signature. I’m sure. I don’t remember signing it, but I must have signed it absentmindedly. I fill out a lot of paperwork.’

  ‘I’m sure. How many transplant surgeries do you do per year?’

  ‘Perhaps fifty.’

  ‘And how many of those have organs from a live donor?’

  ‘A handful, at most.’

  ‘Then Primrose Kennard’s surgery must have been unusual, what with it requiring two live donors.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Morton pulled out his phone and displayed a picture of Frederick Kennard which he had taken from Nuvem Media Associates’ website. ‘Is this one of the donors?’

  ‘I... I think so. I don’t know which twin that is.’

  ‘They’re identical twins, then.’

  ‘I believe I recall that they were.’

  ‘Do you operate on many identical twins?’ Morton asked.

  Ebstein began to sweat. Morton could see him feel the net closing in, bit by bit. ‘No, I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘So, then, a pair of live donations from twins for a transplant surgery is something memorable.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ebstein said, mopping his brow with his sleeve. ‘Yes, I do remember them.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yes. Freddy and Charles, wasn’t it?’

  Morton eyed him. ‘Freddy and Chris.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not good with names.’

  ‘What about body parts?’ Morton said. ‘You remember operating on them.’

  ‘I don’t remember the surgery itself. These things tend to blur together over time. I remember seeing twins, now that you mention it. But, no, I don’t remember operating on them.’

  ‘One of the twins didn’t donate a lung lobe. Can you explain that?’

  ‘I cannot,’ Ebstein said. ‘I know two lobes were implanted, and the paperwork is all in order. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Morton said flatly. He swapped the photo on his phone over to a picture of Primrose Kennard on the autopsy table in the morgue. ‘Did you kill her?’

  Ebstein’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What? No. I want a lawyer. Now.’

  Morton had been expecting that. ‘As you wish. Interview terminated at 08:36 a.m.’

  ***

  Ebstein spared no expense. His lawyer turned out to be none other than Jessica Nunya, QC, a gnarled veteran of Red Lion Street Chambers, and one of the best direct-access barristers in London.

  ‘Pricey,’ Rafferty said as they waited.

  ‘No less than I’d expect of someone on a consultant’s salary,’ Morton said. ‘What did you think of that denial at the end?’

  ‘It seemed genuine. I loved watching you lead him down the garden path. Where’d you learn to do that?’

  ‘Mostly watching Kieran,’ Morton said. ‘It’s all about the rapport. Get them to agree to something obvious, and keep pressing them. Once you’ve got the basic details nailed, you can start to hone in on the contradictions. Ebstein can’t possibly have forgotten the twins. By his own admission, he rarely does live transplants. If he does a handful per year, and the odds of someone being a twin are...’

  ‘One in four hundred. Approximately. I looked it up.’

  ‘Chances are he’s only ever operated on one pair of twins to take a live donation. If he’d cut both Freddy and Chris open, he’d remember it.’

  ‘But how do we prove it, boss?’ Rafferty said. ‘A signature on a dodgy document is incriminating, but it’s hardly enough to put him away.’

  ‘We need to give him enough rope to hang himself. He can’t have done this alone. He’d need donors, and there’s got to be a money trail behind it all.’

  ‘It’s not like we have the lung lobe, though. If we had that, we’d have concrete DNA evidence of his malfeasance. What if the murders are just a cover-up?’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘What if, like you said, the twins didn’t pay? Taking away the evidence leaves them in a tight spot. If they come clean about the lung, they incriminate themselves for buying a lung. If they keep quiet, they look guilty.’

  ‘I never did like them. It’s logical. I’m not sure, though. The twins have plenty of money.’

  ‘It could be about the principle – that they shouldn’t have to pay. Or they could be twisting everything about-face. What if... what if the twins are blackmailing Ebstein? “Give us money or we’ll expose your entire organ donation ring”?’

  ‘By that logic, all of our victims would have to be blackmailing the doctor.’

  ‘Not if there is more than one killer.’

  ‘Kennard and Hogge are so alike that I can’t fathom two so similar killers operating in London at the same time,’ Morton said.

  ‘What if Hogge’s killer is a copycat?’ Rafferty suggested.

  ‘That would require the killer to know of the first murder. We haven’t made anything about the crime public.’

  ‘Then we have a small suspect pool who could know about the first crime.’

  ***

  Jessica Nunya QC, made her first appearance shortly after lunchtime. She demanded a private room and a coffee, and then the waiting resumed.

  Morton paced the corridor outside while Rafferty looked on with bemusement.

  ‘What’s taking them so long, boss?’ she asked at the one-hour mark.

  ‘Plainly, he’s done something wrong. It doesn’t take an hour to relay a simple denial and get legal advice on that scenario.’

  ‘Is he good for murder, or just organ trafficking?’

  ‘Right now, we don’t have enough to charge him with either. The forged document is good enough to fool a jury, and we have no physical evidence of malfeasance.’

  ‘We’ve got the twins.’

  ‘Off the record. If Kieran subpoenas them, or even arrests them, they’ll clam up and we’ll have nothing.’

  ‘So, we do nothing?’

  ‘We wait,’ Morton said. ‘If he admits enough to let us charge him, we will, and if he doesn’t, then we’ll follow him until he gives us something.’

  Ebstein finished consulting with his lawyer at 15:35 that afternoon. She emerged with a request.

  ‘My client would like to state, on the record, that he did not murder Primrose Kennard.’ She had a piece of paper clutched between her hands, which she presented to Morton. ‘This is Doctor Ebstein’s alibi for the night of Primrose Kennard’s murder. I expect you to release my client once you have had the opportunity to confirm his whereabouts.’

  Morton was taken aback. ‘He’s certainly not going anywhere before we do.’

  ‘Then I shall await y
our call to confirm that my client has been released. Good day.’

  Chapter 53: In Vino Veritas

  Thursday April 23rd 13:00

  It took a while to find the place. Ebstein’s alibi was an appointment with Gamay & Gewürztraminer on the night of the murder, and a quick internet search revealed nothing.

  The address was eerily familiar. Down Street Station was in Mayfair. At first Morton wondered if the reference to a station was simply whimsy on the owner’s part, but as he pulled up and double-parked on the street outside, he could see the trademark ox-blood glazed tile station exterior, which had scarcely changed in the century since it had been designed by Leslie Green.

  It wasn’t a functional station; trains still passed through but never stopped. The old ticket office had at some point in history been converted into a convenience shop, and the doors were shut. A discreet bell had been added off to one side. When Morton pressed it, a French voice replied immediately, ‘Gamay & Gewürztraminer.’

  It was almost comical to hear a French pronunciation of the obviously German name. Morton had to stifle a laugh.

  ‘DCI Morton, Metropolitan Police. I’m here to speak to the owner.’

  ‘Monsieur Riccard is in the middle of a session right now.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The door buzzed, and the light by the bell flicked from red to green. Morton pushed, and the door swung open gently. A security guard was waiting just inside.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Go straight on down the steps, and someone will be waiting for you at the bottom.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Morton descended the steps slowly and carefully, each step echoing in the darkness. The stairway started out as a simple, straight, narrow staircase which led underground, and then Morton found himself on a wrought-iron staircase circling deeper and deeper into the earth.

  He counted the steps as he descended, one hundred and three in all; twenty-three on the straight staircase, and eighty on the wrought-iron one. But for the lacklustre lighting, the lack of a ticket barrier, and the tired paintwork, Morton could have been heading down to any London tube platform.