CCTV was no good either. Trying to find the phone by whatever vehicle it was travelling in meant trawling a dozen local authority CCTV cameras with spotty coverage. The temptation to simply call the phone and see who answered grew stronger with every passing hour.
When the signal finally came to a stop, Purcell felt himself give a great sigh of relief. It had landed, at just gone six thirty, in a residential street in Upper Norwood.
Purcell victoriously snatched up his mobile and dialled Morton’s mobile. He answered after two rings.
‘What?’ Morton demanded grumpily. ‘I’m about to have dinner. This better be important.’
‘I’ve got your mobile.’
‘Nope. Fairly sure I’m talking to you on it.’
‘Very funny. Your anonymous tipster’s phone is active at an address in Upper Norwood. Want me to text it to you?’
Morton didn’t immediately reply. Though Purcell was miles away, he imagined Morton staring longingly at a whiskey decanter he had just set on the coffee table in anticipation of a drink after a hard day. For just a moment, he hoped Morton was about to say, ‘No, come pick me up.’
Instead Morton answered in the affirmative. ‘Don’t forget the postcode,’ Morton chastised before ringing off.
So near, but so far. For Stuart Purcell, it was time to call it a night and head home.
***
By day Upper Norwood might have been quite attractive, but by the time Morton arrived the sun had set and torrents of rain poured from the sky, giving the neighbourhood a gloomy appearance. Two nineteen-eighties council blocks loomed large in the sky to the east.
Purcell had supplied grid co-ordinates rather than a full postal address. When Morton arrived, he found that the location housed a semi-detached three-story Victorian-style house with a balcony over the main doorway.
He parked up, squeezing in behind a white van marked ‘DMC Electricals’. He strode briskly towards the door to avoid getting too wet and was presented with two doorbells: one for the upstairs flat and one for the downstairs flat.
He took a gamble and hit the button for the ground floor flat first. A young man answered. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty and seemed perplexed to find Morton on his doorstep.
‘What you want?’ He demanded. It wasn’t an English accent, but Morton couldn’t place it.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton. I’m looking for the person who has a mobile phone with the number 07500654091.’
‘It mine.’
‘Did you place a call to the emergency services last Sunday?’ Morton knew the answer. It wasn’t the same voice as the recording on DS Mayberry’s call.
‘No,’ the man said. ‘I just get phone.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It gift.’
‘You got a decade-old mobile phone as a gift?’
‘I told to bin phone. I kept it.’
‘Why?’
‘Had credit. Also, I like Snake.’
‘The game? But...’ Morton felt himself trip over his tongue.
‘I go now?’ He turned as if to retreat back inside the house.
‘I need to know where you got the phone.’
‘My boss. He give me. Say to bin it.’
‘Why would he ask you to bin a mobile phone?’
‘I say enough. Can I go?’ The man was shifting his weight from left to right foot and back again restlessly.
Aha! He thinks it’s nicked, Morton thought. ‘I’m afraid you and the phone need to come down to the station.’
‘That what I was afraid of. I get shoes.’ He turned again and went to close the door, and Morton had to quickly jam a foot just inside the door. The man seemed surprised but shrugged and went off to pull on a pair of filthy old trainers.
***
The man with the phone was Sergei Krasnodar. It turned out that the white van Morton had parked next to belonged to him. Sergei was weeks away from finishing his electrician’s apprenticeship, which was due to finish on his nineteenth birthday. Morton watched him through a one-way mirror. He was slowly chewing his fingernails and glancing around nervously.
Thank God he’s eighteen, Morton thought. He’d had enough of dealing with minors on his last case. Morton was about to go into the interrogation suite when a voice called out down the hall.
‘DCI Morton! W-wait up!’ DS Mayberry came jogging down the hallway.
‘Mayberry, you’re here late.’
‘So are you. I p-passed Purcell as I was leaving. He told me you’d gone to find the guy so I thought I’d wait. C-can I sit in on the interview?’ He looked up at Morton hopefully with big puppy-dog eyes.
‘Fine,’ Morton said. Then an idea popped into his head and he added: ‘But do one thing for me first.’
‘Anything.’
‘Take this.’ Morton handed him Sergei’s mobile phone, which was wrapped up in an evidence bag. ‘Get them to run the IMEI, prove that it is stolen.’
Mayberry took the phone, and trotted off down the hallway to carry out Morton’s bidding.
That ought to keep him busy for half an hour. Morton headed into the interview suite.
‘Sergei. Tell me about your job.’
‘I fix electrics. Most days I fix lights.’
‘Do you like doing that?’ Morton tried to build a little rapport with his suspect.
‘Yes. It tiring. Long hours. But I like know do good job.’ Sergei smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
‘It can’t pay well though.’
‘True.’
Morton met his gaze. ‘So how do you afford to live alone in London?’
Sergei broke eye contact. ‘I live Norwood. It’s not expensive.’
‘How much do you make?’
‘Fifteen thousands.’
Not enough to easily afford a one-bed apartment, even with housing benefit.
‘Do you do any other work?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t, hmm, get rid of mobile phones in return for money?’
‘That one-time thing.’
‘It was stolen, wasn’t it?’ Morton put it to him.
‘I didn’t steal phone.’
‘I didn’t say you did. My colleague has gone to find out if that phone has been reported stolen. What’s he going to find out?’
Sergei shrugged.
‘Let’s wait and find out, shall we?’
‘I need lawyer?’
‘You tell me. If you want one, I’ll get you one. But if you’re dealing with stolen goods, I’m not interested in that. I need to know if your boss might have stolen it.’
Sergei hesitated and then said: ‘It’s possible.’
‘Were you working last Sunday?’
‘No. Just weekdays.’
‘When did he give you the phone?’
‘Monday. After work.’
‘And you’ve used it since?’
‘No. I had to buy charger.’
That explains why the phone has been off for most of the week, Morton thought. Morton strained to think of anything else he needed to ask Sergei. DI Mayberry’s return saved him from having to come up with anything. Mayberry slid an IMEI report across the desk as he sat down.
Damn. Not stolen. Looks like the kid gets to skate on handling stolen goods.
‘Sergei. We’re going to have to talk to your boss about this. Could you write down his address for me?’ Morton handed him a pen and paper.
‘Thank you. Once you’re done with that, you can go. You can’t tell your boss that we talked to you though, otherwise we can charge you with perverting the course of justice. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. No tell boss. I keep phone?’
‘I’m afraid we need to keep hold of it for the moment. You’ll get it back when we’re done with our investigation.’
Sergei finished writing the boss’s address down in loopy handwriting. DMC Electricals was owned by Mr. David McArthur of Oak Cottage, The Close, Potter’s Bar, North London.
Chapter 18: Late To Bed, Early to Rise
Thursday April 10th – 08:00
Despite Morton’s late night tracking down the mobile phone he still made it into the office by eight o’clock the next morning. The first task of the morning proved to be a fairly simple one. Chiswick had readied the body of Ellis DeLange to be released to her family. Her body bore few visible signs of the damage inflicted during the post-mortem examination. Morton pinged off a quick email to Ayala to let him know to call Brianna.
The case had made the morning news again. The Impartial had run with the headline Underwear Salesman Caught Short!
The Impartial had reprinted the CCTV picture again but this time they had added a paragraph underneath.
‘Aleksander Barchester, CEO of popular women’s clothing company Wiles is thought to be the Richmond Streaker. Barchester had been attending the birthday party of murdered fashionista Ellis DeLange the night before his sojourn through Richmond in the buff. Is this a sign that the once-revered businessman saw something terrible that night and snapped? Turn to page 14 for the full story.’
‘Damnit!’ The journalists had beaten them to identifying the Richmond Streaker. It seemed they knew far more than the police. Though they had yet to connect Barchester with Brianna’s claim that he had been illicitly using the name Lord Culloden.
‘Barchester is currently en route back from New York after an extensive photo shoot for the new Simply collection that will appear later this year in the Summer Wiles catalogue. For that reason we were unable to reach Mr Barchester for comment.’
Morton had been assuming Brianna was leaking information to the press, but as far as Morton knew, Brianna was clueless as to the whereabouts of Aleksander Barchester. She didn’t even know his name. Morton had learned about the trip from Gabriella Curzon. It looked like he had two witnesses selling information to the press.
On the upside, the fact that the press hadn’t reached Barchester meant that Barchester remained blissfully unaware of the publicity surrounding him. He wouldn’t be in at Heathrow for a couple of hours yet so Morton still had time to ambush him at the airport.
Chapter 19: Homeward Bound
The trip from LaGuardia had been exemplary. Aleksander Barchester kicked back in a reclining chair in the first class cabin. His in-flight table was stacked with copies of every major paper, which he had perused while supping Dom Perignon. Unfortunately for Alex, he missed the mention of the Richmond Streaker tucked away on the middle pages of the morning edition of The Impartial. He even missed the knowing giggle of the lady seated three rows back, mistaking her curious gaze for attraction.
Alex enjoyed flying, but it had to be first class. First class meant no tussles over legroom with the row in front bashing his knees. It meant free drinks all the way through the flight, and it meant no screaming children. Alex couldn’t even complain about the Foie Gras which, while tasty, hardly lived up to the experience of the same at a decent restaurant. There was something about flying which made food bland. Alex supposed it was the pressurised cabin or something.
After seven and a half hours the seatbelt sign pinged on and a voice crackled over the plane’s intercom system. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing mild turbulence this morning. We expect to land in the next fifteen minutes, so please place your seats in the upright position with the tray folded up and ensure that your seatbelts are fastened.’
Alex picked up his glass of champagne, his fifth of the flight, and downed the last few drops before handing it to an air hostess who seemed to spring out of nowhere to take the empty glass. Alex watched her walk away, admiring her ample buttocks as they swayed. Then she stumbled slightly. The turbulence was picking up. Alex gripped his armrest with a ferocity unbecoming such a frequent flier. This was the part he hated. As the plane descended it swung to the right in alignment with Heathrow Runway Two. The pressure built up slowly as they descended. With his free hand, Alex tore open a pack of sherbet lemons and popped three in his mouth at once. They didn’t help.
By the time the plane landed, Alex could feel his ears had gone funny. When the cabin door opened to the waiting umbilical corridor of the airport, they popped gently and Alex finally let go of his armrest.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the sound system again. ‘Welcome to Heathrow. It’s sixteen degrees and balmy outside, so put away your brollies, ladies and gents, you won’t need them today. The local time is ten fifteen. Thank you for flying with Imperial Airlines. We wish you a safe onward journey.’
The seatbelt indicator light switched off, and Alex released his seatbelt, then stood to stretch his legs. It felt good to finally be on the ground. He was about to join in the dash for the exit in the hopes of getting to the front of the customs line when the air hostess picked up his hand luggage for him.
She smiled but it was forced. Her eyes revealed a look of concern. ‘Allow me, sir. We have a complimentary escort waiting for you in the terminal.’
They were met at the door by a gentleman in a suit. If Alex hadn’t been on the champers, he might have noticed that the man wasn’t wearing the corporate blue of Imperial Airlines. He blindly followed the man off the plane and into Heathrow. He didn’t even notice when they sidestepped the immediate queue of passport control in favour of a small door to one side, which the man opened with a swipe of a key card from his jacket pocket.
The hallway behind the locked door led to another door, which again opened at the touch of the man’s key card.
‘Can I get me one of those?’ Alex joked. It was only when he saw the stark grey metal walls of the interview room that Alex realised he wasn’t being given preferential treatment.
A middle-aged policeman sat on one side of a desk in the centre of the room. He had a microphone in front of him, and a pen in hand. Alex sat down.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
***
‘I’m Detective Morton. And you are?’ Morton omitted his full title deliberately to avoid giving away the reason behind being at Heathrow.
‘Aleksander Barchester. That’s Alex with a ‘KS’, not an ‘X’.’
‘Unusual spelling.’
‘My mother was Russian.’
‘Ah. Now the other formality – I need to confirm your address for me please.’
‘It’s The Culloden Estate, Shirley Hills, Croydon.’
Morton pretended to mishear him. ‘Culloden Manor, Shirley Hills, Croydon.’
Barchester didn’t correct him.
‘Doesn’t that land come with a manorial title? My apologies for addressing you as Mr Barchester before.’
Culloden smiled, puffed up his chest and held up a hand as if to wave away Morton’s apology.
‘Is it Lord Culloden then? Or Lord Barchester of Culloden?’
‘Either is fine.’
‘Really? That’s strange. My sources tell me the actual Lord of the Manor of Culloden is in his eighties. I wouldn’t have guessed you were much past fifty.’
‘I’m forty-seven!’ Culloden retorted. A split second later he realised his mistake and added, ‘And that’s my father you’re talking about.’
‘If I call him, will he verify that?’ Morton reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘Wait!’
‘You’re not Lord Culloden.’
‘No...’
‘And you don’t live at Culloden Manor. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have you prosecuted for attempting to enter the country under false pretences?’
‘I do live on the Culloden Estate. I live in the servant’s cottage on the eastern perimeter, OK? And I never lied about my name. I just didn’t say anything when you got it wrong.’
Morton smiled pleasantly. ‘Passport please.’
Barchester fished in a pocket for a moment then handed it over. Sure enough it read ‘Aleksander Barchester, Lord of Culloden’ in the name field.
‘See?’ Barchester asked.
Morton continued to look through the passport. He flip
ped to the Observations page where ‘THE REFERENCE TO LORD IS TO THE HOLDER’S NAME AND NOT THE HOLDER’S TITLE’ was printed in bold.
He turned it around so Barchester could see. ‘If you really held the title then that would say that the holder is also known as the Lord of the Manor of Culloden. Why are pretending to be him?’
‘I’m going to decline to answer. I’m a British citizen. Either charge me with something or let me go.’ He stood, as if to make his point.
‘There’s one door out of here, and it’s locked. Stop posturing and sit back down before I do something you’ll regret.’
He sat.
‘Tell me about Ellis DeLange.’
‘That useless bitch? Is that what this is about? What does she say I’ve done now? I waited a full three days before I hired a replacement. If she’d only answered her bloody phone!’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up for second there. Let’s go back a minute. You hired her. What for?’
Barchester looked at Morton as if the detective were an idiot. ‘To take photos.’
‘For your catalogue business?’
‘That’s right. We’re shooting pictures for the Summer Wiles Catalogue, which comes out in July. It’s got to go to print by the end of the month. I’m sorry if Ellis has been telling tall tales here, but I had to hire a replacement when she didn’t show up.’
‘In New York?’
‘Yes, in New York! Are we or are we not sat in an airport?’
‘She was murdered the night before you fled the jurisdiction,’ Morton said. ‘Did you kill her?’
‘No! Wait. I need a lawyer.’
‘You only need a lawyer if you killed her. But as you wish.’ Morton reached for the tape recorder. ‘Interview terminated at–’
‘Stop... I’ll talk to you. Alone. On one condition.’
‘The police don’t usually make concessions to criminals.’
Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) Page 9