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

by Sean Campbell

  ‘Yep. We’ve got a witness who saw a man fleeing the scene in the buff after midnight.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem like much of a getaway plan for a murder. If it were me, I’d wear dark clothing and sneak away.’

  ‘Quite. If he isn’t Kal Fielder then we’ve got two other male suspects. Door number one, Paddy Malone, convicted drug dealer. Door number two, our impostor Lord Culloden.’

  ‘Or it could be a third person entirely,’ Purcell suggested.

  ‘I doubt it. We’ve got the victim plus five others in the house when she died, as far as we know. We know this DNA is male, and we think it isn’t the boyfriend. Process of elimination says our most likely suspects are Malone and our unknown male.’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest the DNA was from that night.’

  ‘The towel was outside. If it had been there for longer, why wouldn’t she have brought it back inside? It fits with the timeline – a man flees the house wrapped in a towel which gets caught on the rosebush. He then jumps the fence and disappears into the night,’ Ayala said.

  ‘I don’t buy someone committing murder but not having the faculties to get dressed before fleeing. And where did the clothes go? I didn’t see any trousers or shirts on the scene. Did you?’ Morton asked, a flash of a lost suit jacket flitting briefly into his mind. The orphaned jacket had to come from somewhere. Morton pushed the thought away. The presence of a suit jacket alone was immaterial. It could have been left by any of the guests who attended earlier in the evening.

  ‘Nope. No men’s shoes, shirts or trousers at all. Not even an overnight bag for the boyfriend,’ Purcell said.

  ‘Then someone else took them, which presupposes someone else being in the house, alive, after our nudist – which means he isn’t the killer. And five become four.’

  ‘The partygoers aren’t our only suspects. What if the neighbour, Vladivoben, killed her?’

  ‘Over a simple noise complaint?’ Morton countered. ‘Why not simply phone us? As motives go, that’s weak. What about money? Who gets the house? That’s got to be worth a good three million.’

  ‘We didn’t find a copy of Ellis’ last will and testament anywhere in the house, though there was a safe stacked with £20 notes hidden inside. And yes, they did all end up in the evidence log. Ayala watched me count them into an evidence bag,’ Purcell said.

  ‘No will means the sister gets the lot. Three million quid buys a lot of motive.’

  ‘If Ellis had money then why would she have been arguing with the boyfriend about money? And she could have a will in a bank deposit box or with her solicitor,’ Ayala said.

  ‘Then find out. Call her bank and her lawyer. If there’s a will, I want to know about it. What else did we find?’

  ‘Plane tickets for Heathrow to New York, and a receipt showing Ellis made a payment to the USA’s Electronic System for Travel Authorization website. It confirms Kal’s story and explains why no one thought she was missing.’

  ‘That’s pretty convenient timing. Who would have known about her travel plans, apart from Kal?’

  ‘She could have told anyone at the party. Who hired her for the New York gig?’

  ‘We don’t know. The details are probably on her laptop, which needs to be decrypted. It’s in the queue.’

  ‘Bump it to the top.’

  Purcell shook his head. ‘No can do. You’re not the only Murder Investigation Team, and this isn’t exactly crucial.’

  Morton glared. ‘What can you give me then?’

  ‘I can give you a thermostat. Ellis had a fully automated system which was designed to save energy by only heating rooms that are in use or are going to be in use. In theory it could have cut her energy bills by at least–’

  Morton glared again. ‘Anything useful? Like evidence I can actually use?’

  ‘N-no... I suppose not.’

  ‘Then get going and see what you can do to expedite my DNA.’ Purcell bit his lip and nodded sheepishly before scooping up the leftover doughnuts and scurrying from Morton’s office as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him.

  Once Purcell was gone, Ayala said: ‘That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t have time to dawdle here. The press are only going to get more voracious and we’ll come under scrutiny. Better he hears it from me than the Superintendent next week.’

  ‘You think this is the Matthews case all over again.’

  ‘No... It’ll be worse. Our victim is famous. Thank God the press haven’t caught wind of our fake Lord of the Manor yet. That sort of scandal mixed with violence and new money would have the journos from The Impartial frothing at the gills.’

  ‘Any clue who he is?’

  ‘I think there’s a work connection. How else would she have come into contact with him? If Purcell can get that laptop open then we can find out who she’s been working with.’

  ‘Maybe the sister would know? We’ve got to speak to her again to find out about her inheritance.’

  ‘Right you are. Go call our victim’s bank now, and see if you can find out who her solicitor is. I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To send Mayberry out on a wild pizza chase.’

  ***

  Morton found DS Mayberry in the Incident Room, poring over a whiteboard adorned with the names of party attendees that Brianna had printed off of her social media account.

  Mayberry had drawn a crude mobile phone to the right of each of those he had managed to contact, and a red X against those who had been due to attend but had been no-shows on the night. About half the list had such an X.

  ‘Mayberry, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Y-yes, boss,’ Mayberry stuttered. Mayberry had a speech impediment. Occasionally he stuttered. But he often used the wrong word, which sometimes had unintended consequences.

  ‘How’s the canvass going?’

  ‘Pretty well. We’ve been out on the paths of Richmond all week. Lots of... home... home...’

  ‘Homeowners?’ Morton prompted.

  Mayberry nodded vigorously. ‘They knew Ellis lived in the local area, but none of those we spoke to were on smiley terms with her. W-we did learn that our naked man was sawn–’

  ‘Seen,’ Morton corrected automatically.

  ‘–throughout Richmond. He was spotted r-running along the high street.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘We don’t think so. He was sawn–’

  ‘Was seen!’ Morton corrected, again.

  Mayberry screwed up his face, apologised, and continued: ‘Sawn in the darkness heading up towards Richmond Park by a few of the homeless folks that sleep near there. The main gates are locked at dusk, but pedestrians can get in around the clock. We think he slept in the park because the next sighting was him coming back out of the park and heading down Church Road at about six.’

  ‘Anyone snap a photo?’

  ‘N-no. I’m trying to find somewhere along the road with, erm, moving v-video thing.’ Mayberry frowned as he searched for the right phrase.

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Yes. To get a picture. All we know is he’s white, about six foot tall and in his late thirties to early forties.’

  ‘Well, that narrows it down to about three hundred thousand Londoners... Good work, Mayberry. I’ve got another job for you. At the crime scene we found dozens of pizza boxes from Trattoria Da Mondo. I need to know if they delivered to her on the night she died, and if so at what time.’

  ‘I’m on it... and boss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks for giving m-me another chance.’

  Morton nodded, spun on his heel and headed for the car park. Mayberry might be a halfwit, and he might be the Superintendent’s future son-in-law, but he was a half decent halfwit.

  Chapter 11: Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital

  Tuesday April 8th – 15:00

  It was nearing three o’clock by the time Morton and Ayala made it to the W
alworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital where Brianna worked. As soon as they walked into the clinic, a particularly aggressive Dachshund began to yip and pulled on its lead. Ayala leapt away in surprise, eliciting a wry smile from the older officer.

  ‘Down!’ The Dachshund’s owner grunted. ‘Sorry ’bout that. He’s not used to strangers.’

  ‘Nor, it seems, is my detective,’ Morton said before heading for a small hatch at the back of the reception through which a secretary could be seen tapping away at a laptop.

  ‘Afternoon. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton. Is Miss Brianna Jackson available, please?’

  ‘She’s in the back cleaning out the cages. Go on through the door to your left then all the way down the hall to the back. I’ll buzz you in.’

  The secretary pressed a button under the desk and the door buzzed loudly. Once on the other side they proceeded as instructed and found Brianna on her hands and knees with a sponge in one hand and a bucket of soapy water next to her. A strong odour of wet dog pervaded the air.

  At the sound of their footsteps, Brianna looked up.

  ‘Detective Morton! Did we have an appointment? I’m afraid I’m about to finish for the day.’

  ‘We’ll keep this brief then. Firstly, have you seen your sister’s will?’ Morton was careful to avoid letting on that, as far as he knew, there wasn’t one.

  Brianna’s eyes widened. ‘Her will? No... Am I a beneficiary? Shouldn’t her lawyer be telling me this?’

  ‘We haven’t discovered one. Our inquiries lead us to believe your sister died intestate, which would mean that her immediate family will inherit – subject to inheritance tax of course.’

  ‘Knock me down with a feather! I’m all she had. I get everything?’ Brianna smiled toothily then suppressed her greed the moment she saw Morton’s revolted glare.

  ‘As I said, we can’t confirm the absence of a will, but if she doesn’t have one then yes, I suppose you do. I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Ask away!’ By now, Brianna’s gaze had drifted off to the side dreamily. Morton supposed she was mentally spending her sister’s estate.

  ‘Do you know Lord Culloden’s full name?’

  ‘Beats me. I only met him a few times. We aren’t on first-name terms. Ellis worked with him, I think. Or for him, maybe?’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Or anything else?’

  ‘He drives a Mercedes. An old one, like forty years old. He always said it’s a classic. Junker, more like it. The thing was a rust bucket on wheels. Ooh, do you think I could get me a new one of those?’

  Morton ignored her. ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Black... No, dark blue... or black. I don’t know. It was dark.’

  ‘Anything else you know about him?’

  Brianna cocked her head to one side. ‘He’s banging that little tart Gabby, Eli’s model friend.’

  ‘That would be Miss Gabriella Curzon?’

  Brianna nodded. ‘That’s her. She worked with Eli too. Used to be a model, see.’

  ‘Used to be?’ Ayala asked.

  ‘Yeah. She went back to university last year. Now thinks she’s all high and mighty.’

  ‘What’s she studying?’ Morton said.

  ‘Law. She’ll never make it. Not unless blowjobs count as oral persuasion.’ Brianna laughed heartily at her own joke.

  ‘And where does she live?’

  ‘Tottenham Court Road. I went there once. Quite nice, but oh so loud! I can’t imagine sleeping with that noise roaring below. I suppose you want her address. I’ve got it in my phone. I suppose I’ll be getting a new phone soon too!’

  Brianna pulled out her phone, and typed in her PIN carelessly. 5051. Morton made a mental note, just in case.

  ‘Aha, here it is. 1 Eastcastle Place, Bernard Street. It’s right bang in the middle of Fitzrovia.’

  Ayala leapt into action, dutifully scribbling the address into the notebook he kept stowed in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Save your paper, detective. I know where it is.’ Morton turned to Brianna. ‘One last question: do you use pentobarbital here?’

  Brianna’s jaw went slack for a split second, but she covered up her surprise quickly. ‘Of course we do. This is a veterinary clinic and it’s sometimes necessary to put animals to sleep.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  On the way back out, Morton said under his breath: ‘I guess we now know where Ellis was getting her pentobarbital fix.’

  ‘Maybe. Just because she had access, it doesn’t mean she’s dealing.’

  ‘Are you really that naïve? Get a sample from the receptionist.’

  Morton lengthened his stride as soon as they were back into the reception area, and made for the exit.

  ‘Hey! Where are you going?’

  ‘Home. It’s late. Get me that sample. See you bright and early.’

  ***

  Morton knew something was up the moment he walked through the front door. Tuesday was his night to cook, so the sight of Sarah wearing an apron made him suspicious.

  ‘What’d you do?’ he asked knowingly.

  Sarah turned away from the stove to flash a smile, then said, ‘Nothing... yet.’

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce and hand cut French fries. There’s been a Barolo airing on the dining table since first thing. Would you mind pouring while I plate up?’

  Morton picked up the bottle, and wiped dust from the label with a napkin to reveal it was a 1985 vintage: the good stuff, which Morton never thought worth buying for himself, but which they inevitably got given by Sarah’s side of the family every Christmas.

  ‘Now I know you want something! Tuesday the eighth...’ Morton murmured to himself, trying to work out if he’d missed a special occasion. He poured the wine, allowing himself a generous glass, then swirled it around before inhaling deeply. Notes of pepper, dried berries and chewy tannins hit him immediately.

  ‘Wow.’

  Sarah leaned through the doorway. The apron was gone, revealing a slinky black dress. ‘I told you it’d be worth the wait.’

  ‘You certainly are. The wine isn’t bad either.’

  Sarah chuckled. ‘You old charmer, you.’

  ‘So, what is it? Did I forget something or are you after something?’

  They both knew it was the latter. Morton’s memory was virtually infallible – for things he considered important anyway.

  ‘Just a second.’ Sarah disappeared back towards the kitchenette. Morton heard the clang of cutlery as dinner was served, and she reappeared a minute later. After setting the plates down and lighting a candle in the centre of the table, Sarah sat down and took a sip of wine. Morton looked on expectantly, his food untouched.

  ‘You know you keep saying no to retiring,’ Sarah began but was cut off.

  Morton flared up. He couldn’t help but raise his voice. ‘How many times do we have to discuss this? A man doesn’t hit fifty and immediately lose his marbles. I’ll keep going until they won’t let me any longer.’

  ‘Whoa! Slow down. That isn’t where this is going. And don’t let that get cold.’

  Morton bit his lip sheepishly. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘So you should be. As I was saying, you’re not giving up anytime soon, and the kids have long since flown the nest. I’ve been thinking – if you’re not on the scrap heap just yet, then I’m not either.’

  Morton took a bite of the steak, chewed and then swallowed. ‘You want to go back to work?’

  ‘Back? I’m not sure I got a great deal of work done in the first place.’ Sarah gave him an accusatory glare.

  ‘Hey! That took two to happen. It wasn’t all my fault.’

  ‘I want to go back to university,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what I want to study yet, but lots of people our age are going back to it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s only part-time, and we
can definitely afford it. I’ve been talking to the admissions officer at Brunel, and she told me I could qualify for any one of a number of master’s programmes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know I’m too old really, and that I probably won’t go back to work after, but it would be great to get out and learn something new.’

  ‘Sarah... I said yes. Twice. I think it’s a great idea. You don’t need to sell me on this. What do you fancy studying?’

  ‘I was thinking that I might look into journalism or maybe criminology. Speaking of journalism, have you seen today’s paper?’ Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Morton sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. I’m in it.’

  ‘No, but your victim is.’

  ‘Where’d you hide our copy of The Impartial?’ Morton rose, as if to go look for it.

  ‘It’s in the recycling box in the kitchen–’

  Morton stomped off to find his newspaper.

  She called after him: ‘David! Leave it! You haven’t finished your steak yet.’

  But he was long gone. He found the newspaper right at the bottom of the recycling box. Sarah was always so predictable. It wasn’t his first time to the media circus rodeo.

  He flattened the newspaper out on the sideboard, and flipped quickly through the pages. He didn’t have to look too far. Ellis DeLange’s death had warranted a two-page spread on pages eight and nine. Morton ignored the blown-up pictures of Ellis which compared her picture at twenty-five with the most recent picture they could find, as the reporter had come to the same conclusion Morton had. Ellis had not aged well.

  ‘Damn!’ Morton exclaimed. Two paragraphs in, Morton spotted his worse fears.

  ‘Ellis had allegedly been abusing pentobarbital. More commonly thought of as the drug which will put down a sick dog, pentobarbital can be abused to induce euphoria.’

  Sarah appeared behind him, and lightly touched his arm.

  ‘They know about the drugs, even down to the specific type taken. That shouldn’t have hit the newspapers yet!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You know what this means? There’s got to be a leak in my department.’

  ‘If there were, wouldn’t they know more? I’ve read all the papers today. None have said anything about a naked man running from the scene in the dead of night, and you know that would be front page news,’ Sarah argued.