Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3)

by Sean Campbell

Kal’s biceps twitched again. ‘No. That can’t be.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. Her sister identified the body late last night.’

  ‘But you’ve got to be mistaken. Eli is in New York! She can’t be dead. She just can’t be.’

  Morton glanced at Ayala. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘She’s doing a shoot there. She left over a week ago.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Kal paused to think, raising his hand to his lips to bite his nails as he did so. Morton made a mental note: two nervous tics. Finally, Kal replied: ‘Sunday morning. The 30th. She had a midday flight from Heathrow to La Guardia. She’s due back in a few days.’

  ‘And when did you last see her?’

  ‘The night before she left. Her birthday.’

  ‘Mr Fielder, your girlfriend never made it onto her flight. We believe she was killed on the night of the party.’

  ‘Killed? You think Eli was murdered?’

  ‘Yes. And we know you two argued that night.’

  ‘You think I did it?’

  ‘Did you or did you not have an argument in front of witnesses that night?’ Morton said.

  ‘Yeah, but it was no big deal. Couples argue.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m crazy. I accidentally left my wallet on her nightstand when I got changed before the party. When I remembered and went back for it, the wallet was empty. Her room is upstairs, and our guests were in the main living room, so only Ellis could have touched it.’

  ‘How much was in there?’

  ‘Two hundred pounds. I had to walk home that night.’

  ‘When the argument happened, did you leave straight after?’

  ‘Not right away. She yelled, I yelled. She’s been stressed about turning thirty for weeks. I thought I’d let her cool off. She stayed in her room, and I went back to the party. She was still asleep when I left.’

  ‘It was all verbal then? You didn’t hit her at all?’

  Kal shook his head.

  ‘So we won’t find your DNA underneath her fingernails?’ Morton asked on a hunch.

  Kal folded his arms, hiding his hands from the detectives. Morton looked at him carefully. Up close, Kal looked a lot less youthful than on the television. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt looked unironed.

  ‘Alright. So she scratched me. Doesn’t that make me the victim?’

  ‘You’re still breathing. You don’t look like a victim to me,’ Morton said.

  Kal stared in apparent disbelief at Morton.

  Ayala took the opportunity to jump in. ‘Kal, you know you’re not at all like I expected.’

  ‘Yeah, and what did you expect? You think I ought to be more street, just ’cause I’m black? Boy, I went to Harrow. I’m from Twickenham. Not all homies are from the ’hood.’

  Ayala cocked his head to one side. He knew how prejudiced people could be. That still didn’t stop him blurting out: ‘But you used to be a footballer! And you spell Callum with a ‘K’! What’s with that?’

  Kal glared, and turned to Morton. ‘You going to let him talk to me like that?’

  Morton shrugged. ‘I’m curious as to the spelling too.’

  ‘It’s simple. Actor’s Guild rules say my name has got to be unique and it was a pain having two different spellings, so I changed my name by deed poll. I am officially Kallum now. Callum Fielder ain’t exactly as unusual as Detective Ayala, you see. What’s his first name anyway?’ Kal jabbed a finger towards Ayala.

  Ayala’s face scrunched up. He hated his name.

  ‘It’s Bertram,’ Morton volunteered helpfully with only a hint of amusement.

  Kal laughed mirthlessly. ‘Your name is Bertram Ayala and you’re giving me stick for an alternative spelling? That’s some nerve.’

  Ayala clenched his jaw. Morton saw that he was about to lash out, and quickly changed the topic: ‘When did you leave the party?’

  ‘Maybe an hour or two after we argued. The party was dying not long after midnight. I know that ’cause people left to get the last tube out of Richmond. Eli was still sleeping, so I joined Paddy in the kitchen–’

  ‘Paddy Malone?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. We were playing Texas hold ’em when Gabby came running into the kitchen. She had tears running down her face, mascara going everywhere. I figured that was my cue to split. I don’t need none of her drama. Besides, it was a Saturday night. We start filming the Sunday morning show at half past five.’

  ‘Who was there when you left?’

  ‘Eli obviously. Paddy was there trying to comfort Gabriella. On the way out I saw that prick, sorry, Lord Culloden, running after Gabriella. Figures that he’d be the one to upset her. I’ve never liked that guy.’

  ‘So just the five of you?’

  ‘Far as I know, yeah.’

  ‘And where did you go?’

  ‘I told you, home. My place in Twickenham. It’s only half an hour or so away on foot.’

  ‘Can anyone verify your whereabouts?’

  ‘I live alone, if that’s what you’re asking. I went to bed. Got up the next morning, went to work.’

  ‘You could have gone back, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. So screw you and your accusations.’ Kal rose, shot a nasty glance at Morton and huffed off towards his dressing room.

  Morton turned to Ayala. ‘He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is. Boss, is that his producer over there, the guy who called out cut earlier? We should verify he made it to work... and if he did, whether he was acting normally. I doubt anyone could murder their girlfriend then head in to work on TV a few hours later.’

  ‘Let’s find out. Hey! Wait up,’ Morton shouted.

  The producer spun around, and looked at the detectives curiously.

  Morton walked towards him. ‘You’re the producer for Wake Up Britain!, right? Did you work last week on Monday?’

  ‘I work every bleeding day, five in the morning ’til five at night. I’m not the talent.’ The producer made air-quotes with his fingers as he said the word talent.

  ‘Kal Fielder. What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s photogenic, but he’s arrogant and lazy. It isn’t a good combination. But somehow he gets the ratings so I’m stuck with him.’

  ‘Was he working last Sunday?’

  ‘If you can call it that. He swanned in late, obviously drunk or high, bloodshot eyes and wearing a creased shirt. We only just made it on-air for the live morning segment thanks to the time it took make-up to make him look presentable... and even then, we had to avoid close-ups.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘Half hour. It doesn’t sound much, but when everything is planned down to the minute, any delay is intolerable.’

  ‘Is he usually late?’

  The producer glanced at an LED clock on the wall that Morton hadn’t noticed. ‘Only recently. He’s been looking dishevelled all week, like he’s not sleeping well. Do you need anything else? I’ve got to be in Studio Two in three minutes.’

  ‘No, that’s all. Thanks for your time.’

  Chapter 7: Parole

  Monday April 7th – 12:00

  The roads were gridlocked as Morton and Ayala headed back from Portland Place. Morton strummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel as he waited for the traffic lights to change in his favour.

  Ayala sat in the passenger seat with an iPad in one hand, and a can of diet cola in the other. ‘Francis Patrick Malone. Goes by the name of Paddy but that’s no surprise. I bet every Irish guy has been called Paddy at least once.’

  ‘His mother called him Francis. That’s his name. I wonder how annoyed he gets when we use it. If only I knew someone who hated his first name,’ Morton said, then shot a sly glance at the passenger seat.

  ‘Whatever his name is, this guy’s got a rap sheet as long as my arm. Possession, dealing, burglary, fencing and petty theft. He’s not even a good criminal. He’s cur
rently out on licence for his last conviction. He got busted dealing liquid ecstasy. How’d he get to know someone as famous as Ellis?’ Ayala asked. He splayed back in his seat, holding up the iPad up at an odd angle to try and maintain his 3G connection so he could peruse the Police National Computer Database that housed the details of Malone’s convictions.

  ‘School,’ Morton replied without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They went to school together. 1995 to 2000, they went to Lower Holloway Community School.’ The light changed and Morton accelerated sharply before turning right towards the Barbican Estate.

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Says so in his rap sheet. He was convicted for dealing there after he turned eighteen. She’s got her school listed on her Wikipedia profile. Doesn’t take a genius to use a search engine,’ Morton said. He patted his left trouser pocket, where he’d stashed his mobile.

  ‘No, but it does take a decent Internet connection,’ Ayala grumbled.

  ‘Or you could call his probation officer. I assume your phone still works.’

  ‘Just about. Only two bars, boss.’

  ‘Ring him. Get him to meet us there.’

  ‘Meet us where?’

  ‘The Barbican Estate. We’re going to talk to Frank.’

  ***

  Morton pulled the car over and swung into a space barely larger than his car. Paddy Malone lived alone in a one-bedroom flat paid for by the state. He was allegedly unemployed, but had been in prison as recently as a few months ago. He’d been let out early on licence, despite being a repeat offender. The prisons were simply too full to waste the space on a low-level drug dealer.

  Morton stepped out of the car, and led the way down a narrow alley. Halfway down, he snapped a right-hand turn into an even narrower alleyway with steps climbing up a level towards Malone’s flat block.

  The building was a brutalist, concrete monstrosity, one which had at some point become a listed building. Morton jogged into the foyer, pausing to call over his shoulder: ‘Come on, fortieth floor. You ready for the climb?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding, boss.’

  ‘Luckily for you, I am. The lifts are in order today. Last time I was here, all three were out of order. We only had to go as far as the eighteenth floor then, but I thought I was going to have a heart attack by the time we made it.’ Morton hit the call button, and the middle lift doors pinged open.

  They rode in silence, their noses scrunched up to avoid inhaling the smell of urine in the lift. The longest sixty seconds of his life later, Morton darted onto the fortieth floor’s landing, and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Wow. Look at that view.’ Ayala pointed out of a large window facing south across the City of London. People could be seen scurrying around ant-like, unaware they were being watched from above. At this height, London seemed serene, almost peaceful. In the sunlight, even the other two concrete towers that made up the Barbican Estate looked relatively attractive.

  ‘Where’s the probation officer?’ Ayala asked.

  ‘You tell me. You called him.’

  ‘I only got his secretary. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.’

  One of the lifts pinged behind them, and a tall woman in her mid-thirties stepped out. She was attractive and Morton sensed from her confident gait that she was the sort who could easily handle herself. He’d seen her loitering in the lobby on the way in.

  ‘Are you gentlemen here for me?’ she asked.

  Morton shot a glare at Ayala. ‘Ashley Rafferty?’

  ‘That’s me. I’m Ashley Rafferty.’ Ashley offered a hand in greeting. Her grip was as firm as any man’s, but much softer too.

  ‘I’m DCI Morton. This is Bertram Ayala. Unfortunately my colleague was under the impression you were a man.’

  ‘So that’s why you flew past me on the way in. Not to worry. I get that a lot. Shall we get going? He’s the seventh door on the right.’ Ashley pointed down the corridor.

  They marched in step to Malone’s front door.

  ‘Francis Patrick Malone! Police.’

  A sing-song voice answered groggily. ‘Show me the warrant. Shove it under the door.’

  ‘We’re just here to talk.’

  ‘Feck off then. I don’t have to talk to you.’

  ‘No, but you do have to talk to me, don’t you Paddy?’ Ashley said. ‘Open up. Now.’

  Morton smiled. She really could handle herself.

  Chains jangled and then Paddy’s door opened. He shuffled sideways, careful not to open the door too far and risk giving the police a glimpse inside. He shut the door behind him.

  Patrick, like Ellis, was thirty years old. Tattoos, sufficiently amateur that Morton suspected they might be prison tats, snaked up and down his exposed forearms. He wore baggy jeans with his hands thrust inside his pockets. Cheap cologne hit Morton immediately. It seemed that Patrick had no appreciation of the concept that less is more.

  ‘Oh no, mister. We’re not having this conversation out here. Open the door, or else.’

  ‘I’ve got company,’ Paddy lied.

  ‘So get rid of them. Or we can take you back to Pentonville now if you’d prefer. I don’t need to remind you that it’s part of your licence that permits inspection of your residence on request.’

  ‘Fine.’ He opened the door reluctantly. The inside of the flat was breezy and spacious with much more room than most London flats. Paddy led the way inside and sat down in the living room. A patio door was open out onto a concrete balcony where clothing hung on a washing line.

  ‘You going to take a seat, or are yous waiting for an invitation?’

  ‘Nice try, Paddy. Let’s have a quick look around first.’ Ashley made a beeline for a door at the rear of the flat which evidently led through to Paddy’s bedroom.

  He shot up and ran after her. ‘Hey! Miss Rafferty. Don’t go in there. I said I’ve got company.’

  She ignored him, and knocked on the door. ‘Anyone in there?’

  When there was no reply, she opened the door. A musky, dank smell wafted out immediately. Ayala and Morton followed closely behind.

  ‘You, stay by the doorway,’ she said to Paddy.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Ayala asked.

  ‘What do you think I’m looking for? He’s a drug dealer, and I’m his PO. I’m checking to make sure he’s got clean bed sheets,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘No need to be rude,’ Ayala replied.

  ‘And there was no need for you to assume I was a man either. Want to call it even?’

  Morton looked on bemused. Then he spotted something. ‘Ashley. Look inside that pillowcase. That looks awfully lumpy to sleep on.’

  ‘You’ve a good eye, DCI Morton.’ Ashley picked up the pillowcase, then turned it inside out. A small plastic bag, the kind used to keep sandwiches fresh, fell out. It was full of pills.

  ‘What have we got here?’

  ‘That’s not what you t’ink it is,’ Paddy declared.

  ‘It looks like Miaow to me.’

  ‘Naw, it’s Bubble. Perfectly legal.’

  Ayala looked at Morton quizzically who replied under his breath: ‘It’s basically mephedrone. The law hasn’t caught up with all the legal highs yet. Miaow was banned a few years back but Bubble hasn’t been.’

  ‘It’s not a crime, all right?’ Paddy looked anxiously from Morton to his parole officer.

  ‘If it is what you say it is, then maybe it isn’t a crime. But it is a violation of your parole. Francis Patrick Malone, you are under arrest, and will be recalled to prison for a fixed period of 28 days.’ Ashley turned to Morton. ‘Sorry, DCI Morton, but your interview will have to wait. He’ll be processed in about four hours and back in his cell at HMP Pentonville by tea time if you still want him.’

  Thirty seconds later, and they were gone. Morton and Ayala found themselves back outside having wasted a trip.

  ‘Did she just nick our suspect?’

  ‘Yes, Bertram. I t
hink she did. Of course we now know where to find him. Can you sort out a Prisoner Production Form for Mr Malone, then get it over to the Governor at Pentonville?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  They headed for the alleyway back to the car.

  ‘Where we going next, boss?’

  ‘I’ve got Lord Culloden’s address in the Sat Nav but I think that’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow. It’s a fancy place way out in the country. For now, it’s back to base to sort some of the paperwork we’ve got piling up and then we’ll head up to the prison.’

  ‘Via a sandwich shop?’ Ayala asked hopefully.

  ‘Fine, but it’s your turn to buy.’ They rounded the corner into the final alleyway, and the car came into sight.

  A bright yellow and black parking notice was affixed to the windscreen.

  ‘Not again!’

  Chapter 8: HMP Pentonville

  Monday April 7th – 17:15

  It was still daylight when Morton and Ayala arrived at Her Majesty’s Prison Pentonville. Despite its name, the prison wasn’t really in Pentonville. Instead, it was about a mile north, almost equidistant between Caledonian Road underground and Caledonian Road & Barnsbury railway.

  They parked up in Wheelwright Street around the corner, prayed that they wouldn’t return to another parking ticket which, while they’d never pay it, would mean extra paperwork to get it cancelled, and then headed around to the main entrance.

  ‘This your first time to Pentonville, Ayala?’ Morton asked as they neared the entrance.

  ‘Yep. Impressive entrance.’

  The doorway was a tall, thick, wooden door set into a whitewashed Victorian building dating back to 1842.

  ‘It’s not half as impressive as Wormwood Scrubs. That’s a prison entrance to brag about. They’ve got a door just like this one, but guarded by two huge towers,’ Morton said.

  They walked in, and Morton paused before they reached security. ‘Got your papers?’

  Ayala nodded. Morton had forced him to pick up photographic ID and proof of address from his flat on the way up to the prison.

  ‘Great,’ Morton said, then strode for the security desk. He pressed his forefinger against the guard’s biometric reader and the light pinged green.

  ‘Hey! Wait up!’ Ayala called out. Morton pretended not to hear him, and went around the nearest corner to pick up a coffee from the vending machine hidden there.