Chapter 47: Connections
Tuesday April 22nd – 08:30
Mayberry made swift progress tracking down the unknown PAYG numbers. He had made contact with all the major networks and asked them to ping the locations of those phones over the weekend.
From that, he had been able to discern who owned each phone. One number pinged most frequently near Birkbeck University where Gabriella was a student. Another had pinged off a tower near the Culloden Estate. Mayberry marked that one down as belonging to Aleksander Barchester.
A third had been in Portland Place during Kal’s filming sessions for Wake Up Britain!, and the fourth number which the victim had frequently called belonged to someone who spent most of their time in Southwark. Mayberry wrote down Brianna next to that one. The fifth and final number had not been on for a while, but by process of elimination, Mayberry scribbled down Paddy Malone next to that one albeit with a question mark.
He pinged off a quick text to Morton telling him that the phone numbers had been identified, and then scanned through the call logs. The phone companies had supplied the recent calls made by each of the PAYG phone numbers.
Unsurprisingly, the number that Mayberry thought belonged to Paddy had a history of texting a large number of people. His logs alone ran to thirty thousand lines, most of them to different numbers, one or two texts at a time. They were almost certainly clients of his. Mayberry forwarded the lot on to a colleague in the drugs squad.
The most interesting thing wasn’t the number of calls placed to each other, but the times of those calls. He pinged Morton another text: ‘Boss, you’re going to want to see this.’
When Morton arrived, Mayberry had collated all the information he’d found, and was ready to explain the lot. He’d take the time to write out what he wanted to say to minimise stuttering too.
‘B-boss. They all c-called each other. All the t-time. But l-look at wh-when they called,’ Mayberry said. He pointed to the calls from Ellis to Aleksander Barchester and vice versa.
‘Two o’clock in the morning, three o’clock in the morning,’ Morton read. ‘Nice spot. She’s called him on the Wiles switchboard as well, so we can’t rule out business solely on the timing.’
‘In the m-middle of the night? Not l-l-likely.’
‘Not likely, but not impossible. Both of them travel for work so they might not appreciate normal office hours as much as those of us who do nine-to-five jobs. I think the use of a PAYG burner phone for the calls is more interesting. Barchester wanted to keep it quiet.’
‘And E-E-Ellis didn’t?’
‘Ellis lived alone. She didn’t have to hide who she called early in the morning. We know she had an online account for her billing so she wouldn’t have needed to even hide paper bills. Kal would have no reason to go looking through her Virgin Media account. I think they were sleeping together.’
‘Wh-why?’
Morton thought Mayberry had a point. Barchester was much older, and he wasn’t good-looking. ‘Money I expect. Hang on. I’ve had a thought. Barchester was paying for Ellis to go to Sparks Rehabilitation Clinic. We know that costs £2,000 a week. What if the charge on Edgecombe Lodge in favour of Aleksander Barchester was security for that? I can’t see how she was going to pay him back otherwise.’
‘M-makes sense to m-me. How do we convince it?’
‘We don’t need to prove it. He isn’t a suspect. We can just ask. He has no reason to lie. But if he was having an affair then it does give someone else motive, doesn’t it?’
‘Wh-who, boss?’ Mayberry said.
‘Gabriella, of course. We already know she’s pregnant with his child. We know they fought on the night of the murder. What if, instead of fighting about her drinking as Barchester claimed, they fought about Ellis? I can’t see a woman like Gabriella being too happy about a man like Barchester sleeping with her best friend.’
Morton’s phone rang. ‘One minute,’ he said to Mayberry. ‘DCI Morton.’
‘David, it’s Stuart. I need you down here.’
‘Ah, I was going to call you. Is there any male DNA on the sheets in the master bedroom that doesn’t belong to Kallum Fielder?’
‘Forget about the sheets. There’s something much more interesting in the DNA evidence.’
‘Then spit it out, man.’
‘Two of the guests were related to the victim.’
Two? ‘Who?’
‘No idea. We don’t have samples for Brianna Jackson or Gabriella Curzon yet. Both declined to volunteer a sample.’
‘Brianna is her sister. We know that. Let’s take it as read there’s nothing unusual going on there, and that they really are siblings. Is the other match male or female?’
‘Female. It’s a half-sibling match. No shared mitochondrial DNA but thirteen chromosomes in common.’
‘A half-sister then. That’s got to be Gabriella Curzon.’
‘That’s what I thought too.’
‘I’ll go pick her up. Let’s compel DNA evidence and prove it.’
Chapter 48: The Queen Did It
Tuesday April 22nd– 10:45
Morton quickly obtained a search warrant for the home of Gabriella Curzon. It was impossible to compel Gabriella to volunteer a DNA sample, but if they could find a reason to arrest her then her DNA could be taken without consent. They had the testimony of Aleksander Barchester that Gabriella was taking drugs, which was enough to satisfy a magistrate to let them go fishing in Fitzrovia.
Morton stood outside Gabriella’s apartment, bashed three times on the door and yelled ‘Police, open up!’
When no reply was given, he motioned for Ayala to break down the door down.
The junior officers went in first.
‘Clear!’ one shouted. The call was echoed as officers checked the bathroom and kitchen. Then Morton, Ayala and Mayberry began their search.
Morton headed for the bathroom. There was a small glass shelf above the sink upon which sat an electric toothbrush. Morton reached inside his jacket and surreptitiously swabbed the brush while no one was looking. It wouldn’t be usable in court, but he’d be able to confirm the relationship anonymously if push came to shove.
‘Boss! You’ve got to see this,’ Ayala called out from the bedroom. Morton found Ayala stooped over a desk in the corner of the bedroom. A shelf about the desk had a strip light mounted along the bottom and a row of thick heavy textbooks on top of it.
‘She’s got legal textbooks. So what?’ Morton asked.
‘Look at the one that’s open.’
Morton closed it over, keeping his finger on the page, and read the spine: Llewellyn and Dean on Probate.
‘Look at the page she was reading,’ Ayala said. It was headed Intestacy Rules, and a section had been highlighted.
Where a person has died intestate, his or her estate shall pass as follows:
To the parents, in equal share.
If none exist, to brothers and sister of full blood.
If neither parents nor siblings of full blood survive, then the estate shall pass to half-brothers and half-sisters in equal share.
The phrase “Half-sisters” had been underlined and highlighted. Morton swore.
‘She knows.’
‘How?’
‘Does it matter?’ Morton said. ‘She could have known for years.’
‘But boss, it doesn’t matter. Brianna is a full sister, so she’ll get the whole estate. It doesn’t matter if Gabriella is a half-sister or not.’
‘Read the paragraph towards the bottom of the page,’ Morton said.
Ayala leant in to close to read the tiny text. He read aloud: ‘Bona Vacantia. Where no parties entitled to inherit under the Intestacy Rules exist the estate shall be deemed to be Bona Vacantia, and shall pass to the Crown.’
‘Not that bit, you idiot. As if the Queen is a bleeding suspect.’ Morton pointed slightly lower down the page.
Survivorship Period: Pursuant to the Administration of Estates Act 1925, a person of a class entitled
to inherit under the Intestacy Rules must survive the deceased by a period of 28 days. If they do not do so, then they shall be disregarded and the estate shall be divided amongst other members of that class. Where none exist, it shall be distributed to the next class in the hierarchy.
‘What does that mean, boss?’
‘We need to find her – and fast,’ Morton said.
Ayala scrunched up his forehead, and scratched his temple. Morton watched him. It was as if cogs were whirring ever so slowly.
“Oh my god. Ellis died on the 30th of March. That means Gabriella gets everything if...’
‘If Brianna dies before the 27th of April.’
‘But that’s less than a week from now!’
‘Then we’d best get moving,’ Morton said. ‘You take Mayberry and find Gabriella. I’ll go warn Brianna.’
Chapter 49: Lost
Tuesday April 22nd – 11:30
Speed cameras flashed repeatedly as Morton slammed his foot down driving from Fitzrovia. He’d probably tripped three or four cameras on the A301 alone. It was a minor miracle that the streets weren’t too clogged at the back end of rush hour.
Morton felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, and his heart thundered in his chest. He knew it had to be about the money, but he’d never thought that it could be Gabriella behind the death of Ellis DeLange. And who would have guessed that they were half-sisters? They looked a little alike, but Morton had put that down to both being in fashion, and hanging around together. Gabriella was so much younger that she didn’t have the weather-worn look of her half-sister.
He came to a screeching halt outside the Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital. A mere three miles had taken him nearly fifteen minutes despite his speeding.
Morton leapt out of the car, and dashed inside. The same receptionist from his earliest visit was behind the counter, and Morton could see from the reflection in her glasses that she was surfing the net rather than working.
‘Brianna Jackson. Where is she?’ Morton barked.
‘She’s not here. And quieten down. You’ll disturb the animals.’
It was true. Morton’s arrival seemed to have caught the attention of a number of dogs in the waiting room. A Doberman stood to attention, its hackles raised, and stared intently at Morton.
‘Where is she?’ Morton said, more quietly but just as quickly.
‘Home, probably. She’s not working today.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Nope. Tuesdays she’s usually on. But she called the boss, and I got the message not to expect her.’
‘Did she say why she wasn’t coming in?’
‘Not to me. Nobody tells me nothing. I’m just the daft temp on reception. But if you see her, tell her she owes me one. I’m not supposed to be cleaning out the housing. The agency don’t pay me enough for that.’
‘Right,’ Morton said. He was barely listening as the receptionist spoke. He was halfway out the door before she could finish what she was saying.
***
‘Ayala. Tell me you’ve found her,’ Morton spoke to the empty cabin of his car. He was on hands-free on his mobile as he drove the half mile to Brianna’s bedsit.
‘I’m on my way, boss. I’ll text you the moment I’ve got her.’
‘Good. Brianna wasn’t at work. I’m heading to her apartment now.’
Morton clicked off, and rocked back and forth. Traffic seemed to be getting busier. Halfway to her apartment, Morton got stuck in a queue behind a great column of cars on the A215. There’d been an accident up ahead.
‘Sod it,’ Morton said, and yanked the steering wheel abruptly to the right. He slammed his foot down and shot across the road, cutting off traffic coming the other way. He narrowly missed causing a second accident, and shot onto a garage forecourt. He switched off the motor. Another quarter of a mile to go.
Morton ran. He sprinted past the scene of the accident that had caused the tailback, and turned right onto Amelie Road. Thirty seconds later, he came to a halt outside Brianna’s building.
He glanced at his watch. Just over a minute. Not bad for an old feller, though it was far from his quickest ever run. He took a few short, sharp breaths and then tackled the stairs. After what felt like a marathon running up the stairs, Morton screeched to a halt outside Brianna’s front door. He slammed his fist against the door, causing it to reverberate in its frame.
‘Brianna! It’s Detective Morton! You need to open up, right now!’
No answer. ‘Brianna!’ Morton yelled again. He pressed an ear to the door for any signs of life within. ‘This isn’t an arrest. Open up!’
A door opened, but it wasn’t Brianna’s. A neighbour shuffled out into the hallway.
‘Can you keep it down? My baby is tryin’ ta sleep here, man.’
‘Have you seen Brianna Jackson?’
‘Yeah. She gone. That girl left hours ago. I heard her door bang shut.’
‘Where’d she go?’
‘Do I look like her keeper?’ The neighbour slammed the door, making as much noise as Morton had if not more.
Strike two. I hope Ayala is having better luck.
Chapter 50: In the Wind
Tuesday April 22nd – 11:52
Ayala gave a sigh of relief. The boss had sent him off to find Gabriella Curzon, which was much easier than traipsing across London in search of Brianna. He already knew where Gabriella was.
Her university timetable was pinned to the wall above her desk. Ayala scanned down the day’s schedule:
09:00 – 10:00: Criminal Evidence (Seminar Group A), TS305
10:00 – 11:00: Family Law (Seminar Group B), TS206
11:00 – 13:00: Equity and Trusts (Lecture), B35
‘Anyone know where Birkbeck School of Law is?’ Ayala had asked of the search term rifling through Gabriella Curzon’s flat. He’d been pointed in the right general direction easily enough, which led him almost half a mile due east until he hit Gower Street. But once he got that far, there was no sign of any lecture hall.
Gower Street was a major north-south artery running all the way up to Euston Road, and he was about halfway down it. Ayala whipped out his mobile and searched for an address for the Law School, which told him to head up to number four.
But number four was obviously an office. It wasn’t a lecture theatre. He rang the doorbell. No answer.
Ayala spun around on the spot, looking up and down the street. Nothing looked vaguely like a law school. The entire street seemed to consist of townhouse after townhouse as far as he could see.
People milled by as Ayala searched. Ayala spotted a group clutching textbooks in their hands heading down a side road to the east. Students!
‘Hey!’ he called after them. ‘Where’s the law school?’
They shook their heads, and the nearest one held up a textbook that read ‘Human Psychology: The Truth in Emotion’.
Ayala followed them anyway, hoping to find students who did know where to look. He walked along Keppel Street, and a grand building with a sign that read Senate House Library came into view. He was close. When he turned onto Mallet Street the throngs of students seemed to grow larger. Ayala could hear voices yammering away in a dozen languages, none of which he spoke.
The throng were all headed in one direction. Ayala jogged through the crowds until he reached Torrington Square, where a security fence separated the hallowed halls of academia from tourists who had taken a wrong turning while looking for the British Museum.
Ayala almost went too far to the east, but a quick double-check of the map on his phone stopped him from straying onto the adjacent campus belonging to the School of Oriental and African Studies. The big building in the centre of Torrington Square, which seemed to be a hive of student activity, seemed like the logical place to start. He entered, and saw a security guard just inside.
‘Detective Inspector Ayala, Metropolitan Police. Where’s B35?’ Ayala showed the man a photo of the timetable from Gabriella’s apartment. He held out his I
D for inspection.
The guard took his time checking that Ayala was who he said he was, and then beckoned. ‘Follow me.’
He followed the guard downstairs, and along a corridor until a door marked B35 came into view. The door opened into the back of the lecture theatre, and creaked loudly as Ayala made his way inside. A middle-aged man at the front of the room looked up quizzically, then to the clock on the wall.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
Ayala smiled, and walked down to the lectern behind which the lecturer stood. A giant projector screen showed a slide entitled ‘Secret Trusts’.
The lecturer paused mid-sentence as Ayala approached, trailing off before finishing his explanation of how secret trusts allowed gifts to be made outside of a formal will.
‘Detective Inspector Ayala, Metropolitan Police. I’m looking for Gabriella Curzon,’ Ayala said. He looked around the lecture theatre, then recoiled as bright light from the projector almost blinded him. He cupped his hands like a visor and tried again. Students looked at him curiously. But there was no sign of Gabriella.
‘Gabriella Curzon! Has anyone seen Gabriella Curzon?’ he yelled.
A muffled voice replied from the back: ‘She’s not here.’
‘Who said that?’ Ayala demanded.
A hand rose in the third row from the back. Ayala moved as if to talk to her where she sat, but then the lecturer coughed politely. ‘Outside,’ the lecturer said. ‘Please.’
‘Ah. Sure. Miss, could you join me outside please?’ Ayala asked of the student who had raised her hand.
She followed him out into the hallway, dragging her backpack and notes along with her.
‘You didn’t need to bring your things with you.’
‘Oh yes, I did. You’ve just saved me from another hour of boredom.’
‘You’re friends with Gabriella?’
‘Friends? No. Not really. We swap notes sometimes. And we cover for each other.’
‘Cover for each other?’
‘On the register. We have to sign in to each class, and they check out attendance percentages to make sure we’ve been showing up. Totally pointless, ’cause we just sign each other’s name. It’s not like they run handwriting analysis on the lists. I mean, they caught a guy red-handed once, but that was just bad luck. Pretty much everyone does it. You saw all the empty seats in there. How many of us would you say there were?’
Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) Page 19