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

by Sean Campbell

  ‘Didn’t Ellis fall out with her parents over that?’

  ‘Sort of. They weren’t best pleased, but really their disappointment was with her life choices. She turned down Cambridge for her art. It was risky. She could have had a comfortable professional life, but she gambled everything. It paid off. Her dad had begun to come to terms with it. They didn’t see each other much, but the relationship was on the mend.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘They died. That one fateful December night their car went into the river. That was five years ago.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have brought the sisters together?’

  ‘Perhaps it should have, but for the money. Her parents left everything to charity. Their family home went to the National Trust. Their money went to charities for cats, dogs and the rainforest. All the girls got were their parents’ personal belongings. Eli got her mum’s jewellery. Brianna got the antiques.’

  ‘Was the jewellery worth much?’

  ‘Not really. Her parents were a real rags-to-riches story. Eli got the jewellery, which was sentimental. Brianna got more financially.’

  ‘But she still wasn’t happy with that?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t. She wanted more. She wanted to challenge the will. She even went to a lawyer about it. But Eli dissuaded her in the end. She agreed to help support Brianna financially.’

  That would explain the monthly bank transfer. ‘And did she?’

  ‘For the most part. After the press ravaged her reputation, work became harder to come by. My football career ended when I busted up my foot. We’ve had a couple of lean years. Eli’s photography is all freelance. One month, we’ve got plenty. The next, it’s beans on toast for tea. But she always made sure Brianna was taken care of, even if that meant hardship for her.’

  ‘That’s an interesting story. It doesn’t verify who signed the will. Do you seriously want me to believe she signed a valid will using an autopen?’

  The lawyer jumped straight in. ‘There’s nothing wrong with an autopen. If it’s good enough for the President of the United States to sign a bill into law using one, then it’s certainly good enough to authenticate how someone wishes to dispose of their assets. And again, Mr Morton, you’re straying into a civil dispute.’

  ‘Last time I checked, Kallum Fielder was not the President of the United States. Mr Fielder, this is only going to get worse for you. Right now you’ve forged a document. If you attempt to probate that will then you will be committing fraud. If you come clean now, I will ask the prosecutor to recommend leniency.’

  ‘No deal, Mr Morton. You don’t have anything on my client.’

  ‘I think a jury will see it differently. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, Mr Fielder. Famous men attract a lot of attention in prison. You might think you’re the big name on campus when you’re in the news, but inside you won’t feel so lucky.’

  Morgan-Bryant shrugged. He’d heard it all a million times before. Prison was bad, yada yada yada. His client was far more emotional. His knuckles tightened into fists of rage, and he looked like he was ready to explode. But when he spoke, it was remarkably calm and not at all what Morton was expecting.

  ‘How dare you, Mr Morton. You sit there all high and mighty, but threaten me with prison. You insinuate that I’ll be raped by other inmates, as if it were just part of the punishment. You sicken me. If I were a woman, you’d never ever dare threaten me with rape as a way of coercing a confession. What makes it less abhorrent when it’s male-on-male? Do I deserve it? Is that what you’re saying? Our laws prohibit cruel and unusual punishment, don’t they? No, Mr Morton, I will not give you the satisfaction of crumbling under such a threat. Get out of my sight. I have nothing more to say.’

  Morton sat there, stunned. Kallum Fielder was not your typical ex-footballer.

  Chapter 35: Thicker Than Water

  Thursday April 17th – 20:00

  Sarah brought coffee in to Morton at eight o’clock. He blearily took the mug, then excavated a space for it in the pile of paperwork which had become a mountain atop the dining table.

  ‘Busy day?’ Sarah asked. She slipped an arm around her husband’s neck.

  ‘You have no idea.’ Morton continued shuffling through papers.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘My new Detective Sergeant, Mayberry, is causing me all kinds of headaches. The poor sod had a stroke a few years back and suffers from a speech disorder. He knows what he wants to say, but he ends up saying something different. I had him execute a search warrant this week. He called it a “findy-windy thing”. Can you imagine it? Defence counsel is making a mountain out of a molehill and have filed a formal complaint.’

  ‘Are you going to have to fire him?’

  ‘I wish it was that easy. He’s engaged to the Superintendent’s daughter. Mayberry would have to do something extreme to get himself fired. But if he does, you can bet your bottom dollar that it’ll be me that catches the flack for it.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yet. Take a look at his personnel file.’ Morton handed over a thick file. It contained all of Mayberry’s police test scores.

  Sarah rifled through the file. ‘Wow.’

  ‘100% in numerical reasoning. 100% in verbal reasoning too – before his stroke of course. He even aced the written exercises. He clearly isn’t stupid. But now he’s a liability.’

  ‘It sounds frustrating,’ Sarah said.

  ‘It is. Not nearly so frustrating as my case though. I’ve got a killer in the house at two o’clock in the morning, but every one of my suspects had either left well before then or has an alibi.’

  ‘Then someone has to have returned, or the alibis are fake.’

  ‘That was my thinking too,’ Morton said. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve just realised we’ve been talking about work all evening. How was your day? Did you have lunch with Nick?’

  ‘I did indeed. Your son says hello, and can he borrow a grand for a post-graduation blowout?’

  ‘Hah. He wishes. What did you say?’ Morton asked.

  ‘I said he could have a grand towards doing a postgraduate degree instead.’

  ‘Our money is as safe as houses then.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. If being a student for another year gets him a stay of execution on finding a real job, he’ll jump at it in a heartbeat.’

  ‘I guess we’ll just have to hope no university is daft enough to let him in.’

  ‘I saw Stephen today too.’

  Morton’s expression darkened. His older son hadn’t spoken to him voluntarily in almost a year. He’d barely had a text message from him despite attempts to reconcile.

  ‘He’s moving to Dubai, for six months.’

  ‘Why on earth would he move to Dubai?’ Morton asked, though privately he wondered what difference it would really make to their relationship.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Maybe. Ask me again when this case is over.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. It’s about time you two made up.’

  Chapter 36: Got Your Back

  Friday April 18th – 09:00

  Morton summoned a very nervous DS Mayberry to his office first thing the next morning. Morton felt like the living dead despite copious quantities of caffeine. He hadn’t slept well at all. It seemed almost impossible to find a way to work with the younger officer without either of them ending up out on the street.

  He was tempted to simply fire Mayberry. He’d risk the wrath of the Superintendent and Human Resources, and possibly even a lawsuit for discrimination, but it would put things back to normal.

  That wouldn’t be fair. Poor Mayberry didn’t ask to have a stroke.

  But then again, Morton didn’t ask to have poor Mayberry join the team either. The other option was to keep him away from any suspects, which seemed less cruel but would still hamper Mayberry’s career. What good is a policeman who can’t go near a criminal?

  His m
ind kept flicking back and forth. When Mayberry knocked on the door, Morton called out for him to come in.

  ‘You a-asked to see me, s-sir?’ Mayberry stuttered.

  ‘I did. Mayberry, we have a problem. There’s been a complaint made,’ Morton began, being exceptionally careful to keep his language neutral and non-accusatory.

  ‘By w-who, sir?’

  ‘Mr Fielder’s lawyer. He alleges misconduct when we searched his client’s home. He claims that we tried to execute, and I’m quoting him exactly here, a ‘findy-windy thing’. Did we?’

  Mayberry’s began to tear up, and he hung his head. ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you can see my dilemma here. We can’t risk recurrence here. We didn’t seize anything of real value under this search warrant, so this time it’s almost a case of no harm, no foul. But imagine if we had seized critical evidence. Poor Kieran would have had to spend many hours to try and fend off defence counsel. Not to mention the poor publicity.’

  ‘Am I t-toasted?’ Mayberry asked.

  Morton stared at him for a full minute. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. ‘I will not be firing you for this. However, we need to find a way to make this work before it gets us both fired. Is there anything that helps with finding the right word?’

  ‘Writing.’

  ‘Then write. We don’t mind it if you need to take a little time when you speak. We’re a team here. But I also think it is best if we minimise your contact with suspects. Is that a fair assessment?’

  Mayberry nodded.

  ‘Then for now, I’d like you to do some investigative work for me. I need you to run down CCTV for me to find any hint of our suspects. At Richmond Station. Near the homes of suspects. Even night-buses in the area. I want no stone left unturned. Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then I want you to sit in the Incident Room and draw a timeline of the night of the party. I want arrival and departure times. I want everything noted in both British Summer Time and Greenwich Mean Time. Colour-code it. Add pictures. I want a crystal clear display showing what our suspects were doing, when and where they were when they did it,’ Morton said. It was make-work really but it ought to keep Mayberry occupied for a day or two.

  ‘T-thanks, boss,’ Mayberry said.

  Morton rose, and offered a handshake to his junior officer. Mayberry looked at Morton’s hand, but didn’t take it.

  Instead, he hugged him.

  Chapter 37: Bad Blood

  Friday April 18th – 09:30

  Mayberry’s timeline display was beginning to come together by the time Morton assembled the team for their morning briefing. It was, by any standard, a distinctly masculine team. All of the senior officers were men. It hadn’t always been that way.

  Perhaps it’s time to give some serious thought to bringing Ashley Rafferty on board. She was certainly competent enough, and she’d keep Ayala on his toes. But not now. It was too soon.

  Morton pushed thoughts of team members past and present from his mind. He needed a clear head. From the corner of his eye, Morton saw Stuart Purcell shuffle into the room. The Chief Scene of Crime Officer lurked by the door.

  ‘Stuart. How kind of you to join us. We saved you a seat.’

  Morton waited for Purcell to waddle awkwardly towards the end of the conference table where there was an empty seat, and then began his briefing.

  ‘Gentlemen. We’re at a crossroads in our investigation. We began with five suspects who could plausibly have killed our victim. I think we can rule out only one. It seems highly unlikely that Aleksander Barchester, also known as Lord Culloden, could have been the killer. We have CCTV of him running along the high street towards Richmond Park and the corresponding return journey the next morning. We know our victim was dead by the time he returned. Does anyone disagree?’ Morton looked around the room. Stuart Purcell looked blankly at him. Morton noticed that the biscuit tin had mysteriously migrated from the side table to Purcell’s end of the conference table.

  Ayala put on a brave face. He always did when he was about to play devil’s advocate in the full knowledge that Morton would ridicule him for it.

  ‘What if–’

  ‘He left, came back, left again, came back again but didn’t bother to dress in the interim?’

  ‘Err, yeah. Pretty much. I know it’s left field but picture this – the streaking is an attempt to set up his alibi. He could easily have returned via the back streets to commit murder. He was gone in the small hours of the night. Nobody would have seen him.’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Morton conceded.

  Ayala looked relieved.

  ‘But it’s not remotely likely either. If Maria’s recall is correct, that means he would have had to voluntarily out himself as having a micro-penis. It would have meant voluntarily sleeping in the buff in Richmond Park, and it gets seriously windy there at night. It would have meant committing one crime, and risking the embarrassment of being ridiculed in the press, just to hide another. The man is the CEO of a major company. You think Wiles like this publicity?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘But what? Tell me then: just what did Aleksander Barchester have to gain from killing her?’

  ‘Maybe she was defaulting on the money she owed him?’

  ‘So then he’d repossess the house. Barchester isn’t short of cash. His bank account is flush. He hired one of the priciest lawyers in London. The victim died on her birthday. That can’t be a coincidence. Everything about this murder screams that it’s personal.’

  ‘Maybe she knew about his fraud,’ Ayala said.

  ‘You think he told her on the night of her birthday? As far as we know, he didn’t even speak to her that night. No. I’m not buying it. He was gone well before she died, a little after midnight by all accounts. Multiple witnesses saw him go. They were there for almost an hour after he went. We’ve got him on CCTV a couple of hours later coming back from the Park. There just wasn’t enough time for him to get in, kill her and get out. If he wanted Ellis dead, he’d have many better opportunities at his disposal. Let’s not forget that he tried calling her in New York. Angry calls. Emails. He left voice messages for her.’

  Purcell raised a pudgy hand.

  ‘Yes?’ Morton said,

  ‘He’s not committing fraud. He really is the son of Lord Culloden. He’s a bastard, but that’s the least of his worries,’ Purcell said.

  ‘DNA came back positive? Good work. Let the real Lord Culloden know, and thank him for his assistance for me. Any other objections or can we rule Aleksander Barchester out?’

  No objections were made, and Mayberry ceremonially picked up a red pen with which to strike out Aleksander Barchester’s name on the white board.

  ‘Kallum Fielder. Where are we?’ Morton asked.

  ‘He’s on CCTV almost home at forty-two minutes past midnight, so he probably left less than ten minutes after midnight,’ Ayala said. ‘He was visibly drunk on the CCTV footage, and he was stumbling slowly. If he made it home for just after one then the clocks would have changed just as he got home. He got into work late that day, but only ten minutes late as he parked at ten past five in the morning. Thirteen miles in traffic is about an hour so he left just after four, suited and booted ready for work.’

  ‘That gives a two-hour window in which he was either asleep or heading back to Edgecombe Lodge to murder the girlfriend we know he argued with. Let’s keep holding him on the fraud for the moment. To my mind, he’s unlikely to have made it back in that state with that sort of timeframe. If it took him an hour to stumble home then he’d have needed to sober up remarkably quickly to be a viable suspect. Keep looking for any sign of a return journey on CCTV between Twickenham and Richmond. If you don’t find any, we’ll rule him out. Next.’

  Ayala volunteered again. ‘Gabriella and Paddy alibi each other. At no point were either of them alone in the house–’

  ‘As far as we know,’ Morton said.

  ‘We’ve got them leaving
at about one. They’re on CCTV by Richmond Station at 02:17 British Summer Time. We can clearly see them getting in a cab. I ran the plates, found the cabbie and called him. His GPS records show he took them back to the Barbican, though he doesn’t remember them in particular.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Morton mused.

  ‘What are you thinking, boss?’

  ‘Two options. They both did it. Not impossible. Malone could probably be persuaded by a woman as beautiful as Gabby, but he was drinking heavily. We’ve got nothing to suggest they could have done it together.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or they split up. Unless we can break their mutual alibis, we’re going to have to strike them for now. Mayberry, would you mind putting an orange X next to them on the board? Thanks,’ Morton said.

  ‘Then we’re only left with Brianna. She’s the next of kin. If we’re right about the probate fraud, and it looks like we are, then she’s got three million reasons to want her sister dead. We know there was bad blood there.’

  ‘The only problem is a complete lack of evidence. She left incredibly early. There’s nothing to suggest she came back. Richmond is a long way from Southwark. After the tubes closed, it would have been pretty awkward getting back without taking a cab. Circulate her photo at the taxi rank by Richmond Station. See if any of the locals picked her up that night.’

  ‘Where does that leave us, boss?’

  ‘It leaves us up a creek without a paddle, that’s where it leaves us. Find me something, anything. We need to close this as soon as humanly possible. There’s an extra week’s leave on the table for anyone who can break the case.’

  The team rose as if to go about their business, but then Purcell raised a pudgy hand.

  ‘Uh, chief?’ Purcell said.

  The team, as one, sank bank into their seats.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I still need comparators. You want your DNA evidence, I’ll need something to compare it to.’

  ‘Who are we waiting on?’

  ‘I’ve got Paddy, Kal and Barchester from their arrests. But the girls are a blank, and we’ve got far too many samples on-site to sift through without reference samples.’