Cleaver Square

by Sean Campbell

  'Watching. Charlie ought to be home soon, and I want to see if he walks home alone; if he comes back out, and where he goes if he does.'

  'Right... But why? We know he isn't related to Eric Matthews but you can't seriously be thinking he's involved in the murder of our Joe Bloggs Junior?'

  'I'm not suggesting the kid is a murderer. But if he's an impostor, he's got to have had help. That help is probably responsible for Joe's death.'

  'Hey, I'm getting paid either way.' Tina reclined her seat then kicked back and closed her eyes.

  After an eternity of silence, Morton roused Tina from her nap, 'It's 4:15 p.m., and he's just walking down the south side of the square towards number 36B.'

  Tina sat up. 'Not alone. Is that the Lattimer kid?'

  'Looks like it.'

  'Damn. I doubt Mrs Lattimer would be any happier us talking to him than Charlie.'

  Morton shrugged. All they could do was wait until Charlie next emerged from the Lattimer residence.

  CHAPTER 27: WAITING GAME

  'He's not coming out. Let's go,' Tina pleaded.

  'We're not leaving after three hours,' Morton said flatly.

  'But I need to pee!' she protested for the third time that afternoon.

  Morton tossed a bottle and a funnel in her direction. 'Women.'

  Tina caught the bottle one-handed. 'You've got to be kidding me?'

  'Yeah, I am. There are a few bars on the Kennington Road. Go to one of those.'

  'But there's a pub right there.' Tina pointed towards the corner of the square.

  'Yes. Right past number 36B. If you walk the other way, you won't be seen.'

  'David, you're taking this far too seriously. It's just a kid. He's hardly going to have any counter-surveillance training.' Tina smirked. 'What are we even watching for?'

  'I'll know it when I see it.'

  Tina twirled her curly brown hair around her index finger. 'Is this just a ploy to spend time with me?'

  Morton glared, not dignifying her with a response.

  'It is, isn't it?'

  Morton continued to stare at the Lattimers' front door, acutely aware of the heat between them. Tina leant in, notes of sweet vanilla perfume wafting towards him. Almost without conscious thought Morton turned his head, meeting her gaze. Ivy eyes drew him in, their pupils widening visibly as the distance between them closed to mere centimetres. At the last moment, Morton turned his face away.

  'I can't.' He glanced guiltily at his wedding band.

  'You can't fight how you feel forever, David.' Tina reached for the door handle, then stepped out of the car. Once she was outside, her posture sagged, and she took short quick strides into the darkness, obviously keen to put distance between them.

  CHAPTER 28: ROCK BOTTOM

  The orange light of dawn illuminated the copper coinage that had tumbled onto the bed. The pile included only a smattering of gold and silver coins. It was like being a kid smashing open his piggy bank all over again. Morton pushed his reading glasses up on his nose and surveyed the amassed shrapnel. To his eye, it looked like less than twenty pounds. He had half a tank of petrol, and the room was prepaid for another night. Once the bank confirmed the credit card charges were waived, he'd at least have some credit. But he'd had nothing back from either the bank or the fraud squad about his own money, and his lawyer, Teddy, had not been optimistic about a speedy resolution.

  Morton picked up his mobile and dialled, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the phone to ring at the other end.

  'Nick? It's Dad. Can I borrow your sofa?'

  ***

  Amelia Laker rearranged the conference table, shifting around the laptop and paperwork. It was totally unnecessary, but it was a nervous habit and Amelia was exceptionally nervous.

  It had started out like any other day, with the usual assortment of arrogant motorists making her bicycle journey into work as hellish as ever. But the fun of London travel had paled when she arrived for work.

  Instead of 'Investigation', 'Trend Analysis' and 'Reach Projections', her Outlook Calendar had been cleared to make way for an appointment labelled 'DCI David Morton'. It was a perplexing appointment. What would a Detective Chief Inspector want with a mere fraud investigator? Not just any DCI either, but the legendary David Morton.

  Amelia double-checked the conference room. Laptop, check. Wi-Fi signal, check. Projector and VGA cable, check. Comfortable chairs, check. She had liberated those from one of the other offices in place of the usual furniture.

  A window opened out onto the street below, pedestrians scuttling along like ants. Being on the thirteenth floor came with a real feeling of power. Three sharp knocks roused Amelia from her thoughts.

  'Mrs Laker?' A deep voice emanated from the doorway.

  Amelia turned to see a less-than-immaculately presented detective. 'It's Miss Laker, but please call me Amelia.'

  'Thank you.' The detective took a seat without waiting for an invitation, opting for the chair nearest the door.

  'Coffee?'

  'Please.'

  For a moment, neither spoke as the clang of spoon on china filled the room.

  'You're probably wondering why I'm here,' Morton said.

  'Yes sir. It's not every day my diary gets cleared for a last-minute meeting.'

  'This is actually a personal matter. I'm not here in a professional capacity.'

  'Then, with all due respect, why are you here? And why was my diary cleared without consulting me?' Amelia's nostrils flared as her hope of career advancement dissipated.

  'I was the victim of identity fraud. In the last two weeks every bank account I own was systematically emptied. Every credit card maxed out. Loans were applied for in my name. Even my shares and pension funds were cashed in.' Morton could have been reading out a restaurant menu. It was dispassionate, factual. Amelia had seen emotional burn-out a few times before, and the man sat opposite her was showing all the signs. Her anger vanished as she imagined the hell he would be going through; it was strange to put a face to the victim in her line of work.

  'OK,' Amelia flipped up her laptop, and began typing. The projector on the ceiling buzzed as it whirred to life and threw a replica of Amelia's screen onto the whitewashed wall at the north end of the conference room.

  'Are these details correct?'

  Morton nodded. A scanned copy of the report he had filed stood larger than life on the wall.

  'OK. I see you've been issued with a crime reference number. I assume the banks have agreed to cancel the credit charges?'

  'I'm expecting confirmation of that any day now.'

  'And you've got CIFAS protection?'

  'Yep.'

  'Then, what do you want to get from this meeting?'

  'I want to know what you're doing to catch the criminals that did this.' Morton spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. Surely it was obvious?

  'Mr Morton, if I may be frank with you... We don't generally do much beyond this point. Let me explain what my role is. I am a data analyst. I look at all the information we gather, like your report, but from hundreds of victims. I look for trends – which banks are being hit, any commonality between victims such as visits to the same shops or use of the same cash machines. Their purchase histories get compared with tens of thousands of other purchase histories. We ask why these people have been subject to fraud. Generally, we trace things like duplicated cards easily. If all our victims ate at one restaurant, then it's easy to identify the location the crime was committed. If they all belong to the same gym, likewise.'

  'So, does the crime I suffered match any other profiles?'

  'Not exactly. Your losses aren't localised, nor are they consistent with suspected local criminals. Initial investigations would suggest your details were stolen online. The Internet is a big place, Mr Morton. We know you probably weren't one victim in a group as no one else has come forward with the same problems. You could have been specifically targeted.'

  'So you've done basically nothing?' />
  Amelia looked like she'd been slapped, but recovered quickly. 'I'm sorry you feel that way. I'm only one person, and there's only so much time in the day.'

  'Yeah? Well, thanks for sparing a whole five minutes of it.' Bile rose to Morton's lips, his ire at the injustice bubbling just beneath the surface of his usually cool demeanour.

  CHAPTER 29: PRYING EYES

  Dark skies gathered long before Ayala surfaced from Kennington tube station. It was a short hop on the northern line from Ayala's apartment near the Barbican, and had seemed easier than trying to park. The sight of the clouds gave Ayala pause; at least a car would have kept him dry.

  Less than two minutes away from the station, Ayala almost missed the turn-off for Cleaver Square tucked alongside the local art college. Some Internet research had told Ayala that the neighbours were likely to be affluent and middle class. With properties costing well over a million pounds, the square was the preserve of the rich despite being a simple terrace design that dated back to 1789.

  Unlike most London roads, the square was set out sequentially, with house numbers 36A and 37 adjoining the Lattimer residence. The floor had been set a little higher at number 37 compared to the others, an outlier among an otherwise neat row of arched doorways. Ivy ran around the lintels.

  Ayala hoped the neighbours would be a useful source of information. Terraced homes were notorious for thin adjoining walls, and noise would carry easily. Ayala knocked smartly on number 36A, the home of a local politician according to Ayala's research. A 'Vote Conservative' plaque could be seen in the kitchen window. There was no answer. Ayala knocked again, rain starting to fall as he waited. Beads of water began to form where they lay on his overcoat. If he didn't get inside soon, he would be soaked. There was no light visible through the half moon of glass above the doorway.

  Number 37 yielded more luck, an elderly lady answering the door an eternity after Ayala heard 'Just a second!' called out from the back of the property.

  'Hello?' With greying hair tied neatly in a bun, the homeowner appeared to be in her late sixties. Yellow gardening gloves covered her hands, with her wrinkled skin visible between the end of the gloves and the start of her sleeves.

  'Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm Detective Ayala with the Metropolitan Police. May I come in?'

  'Has something happened?' Rheumy eyes widened in anticipation of bad news.

  'No ma'am, just a few questions I'm hoping you can help me with.'

  The woman's relief was palpable. 'Please officer, do come in.'

  The sitting room looked as if it had been lifted from the fifties. A collection of tea cosies studded the shelves, with no television or laptop in sight.

  'Would you care for a cup of tea? Oh dear, where are my manners. I'm Ethel Hawkins.' Now that she knew Ayala's presence was benign, Ethel looked positively delighted at the prospect of company.

  'Yes please, Mrs Hawkins.'

  'English breakfast or Earl Grey?'

  'Earl Grey, please, Mrs Hawkins.'

  'You'll be taking that with lemon then.' It wasn't a question.

  'I suppose I will. Could I have two sugars with that, please?'

  Once his thirst was quenched, Ayala settled back in an armchair. 'I'm here about the boy next door.'

  'James? He's a lovely kid, fetches my paper for me every evening.'

  'No ma'am, I'm here about Charlie Matthews, the Lattimer's foster child. Do you know him?'

  'I didn't know his surname, but I've met him.'

  'How would you characterise him?'

  'Lonely. He sometimes follows James around like a puppy. Never says anything. I've seen him sat out in the square, lost in his own little world.'

  'Where in the square?'

  'On one of the benches. Usually the one on the opposite side of the square, right in the middle.'

  'Is this him?' Ayala showed her the facial reconstruction of Joe Bloggs Junior.

  'Oh no. That's not the boy I know.' Mrs Hawkins' voice wobbled as she tried to work out whether she was mistaken.

  'How about this picture?' Ayala showed her a copy of Charlie Matthews' photo from his Children's Services file.

  'Oh yes, that's him!'

  'Have you ever seen him wearing a gold watch?

  'No, never.' Mrs Hawkins hesitated, as if unsure whether to add something more.

  'Is there something else?'

  'He talks to himself. It's not even a conversation. I walked past him, and he was just saying 'Fine, thank you' over and over again.'

  'Hmm, that's very interesting. I'm not sure if it's germane but we'll look into it. Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Hawkins.'

  'You're welcome, dear. Feel free to stop by anytime for a cup of tea.'

  ***

  Morton had slept fitfully. His mind had gone around in circles trying to work out what he was missing in the Joe Bloggs Junior case. Ayala's visit to Cleaver Square confirmed that the impostor had been in place for as long as Charlie had been living with the Lattimers, which was no surprise. The body had been in the ground longer than that.

  He had eventually dropped off a couple of hours after midnight, only to be awoken by his son drunkenly coming through the front door not much later. A shadow accompanied him, indicating Nick was not alone.

  By the time Morton's half-past-six alarm went off, serious bags had formed under his eyes. He stretched as he woke, trying to work the knot out of his lower back. A five-foot sofa and a six-foot man meant a foetal sleeping position that was not conducive to a healthy back.

  The kitchen was at the rear of the property, just off the living room. It was cramped, but Morton easily found eggs, bacon and a frying pan.

  'God, that smells good.' A female voice flitted through from the lounge. Turning towards the sound's source, Morton saw a nubile blonde towelling off her hair, nothing covering her modesty.

  Seeing David, she screamed.

  'Nick! There's a fat old man in the kitchen!' She ran from the room, hands trying to cover her modesty. Her towel remained wrapped around her hair like a turban.

  Morton would have found the scene highly amusing, if he had not just been called fat. He ran his fingers over his stomach. Perhaps he could stand to lose a few pounds.

  Nick came running down the stairs, tennis racket in hand.

  'Crap. I'd forgotten you were coming over.' He turned towards the stairs, 'Mia! It's OK. It's just my dad.'

  'Humph!'

  'So, Dad. You staying long? I can see this getting a bit awkward.'

  Morton eyed up his still-drunk progeny. 'No son, I'll find somewhere else to doss.'

  CHAPTER 30: TIME TO TALK

  'What we need are Charlie's fingerprints or at least one more interview now that we have questions to ask him,' Morton said.

  Coffee cups littered the conference table. The entire Murder Investigation Team had been assembled to discuss how to move forward, but most of the room were avoiding DCI Morton's gaze.

  'David, how are we going to get Mrs Lattimer to agree to that? She's already brought him in once. And what exactly are we going to be asking him this time that we couldn't have asked last time?' Tina bit her lip, expecting swift reprisal but Morton merely smirked.

  'Last time, we didn't know he wasn't related to Eric Matthews, his supposed father. We had no idea he might be an impostor. We didn't even question him on his poor English. There has to be some sort of hole in his story. I think if we keep him talking long enough, he'll give us something inconsistent that we can pursue.'

  'That's not going to be easy. Don't forget we're limited by the ABE guidelines. He's not an adult so we can't deliberately railroad him, nor is he guilty of any crime. It just doesn't seem fair.

  'You think it's unfair? We've got a dead child without a name. That child deserves dignity in death, even if he didn't have it while he was alive. As to staying within the rules, I have every confidence in your ability to coax it out of him. We'll have his guardian and his social worker on hand to keep things above board. If we ove
rstep, I'm sure they'll object on Charlie's behalf.' Morton glanced around the room at his team, looking for any further objections. 'You guys satisfied?'

  'Yes, but how do we get Mrs Lattimer to agree?' Tina asked.

  'We don't. Ayala does. We know how much he loves befriending middle-aged women, don't we?' Morton winked at his junior officer, careful not to directly reference the Christmas office party.

  'Fine. I'll do what I can.' Ayala glared.

  Morton grinned. If looks could kill.

  ***

  Ayala licked the back of his hand, and then sniffed. Reassured that the breath mint had worked its magic, Ayala pressed the button for floor 14. He took a moment to straighten his tie as the lift silently ascended towards the office of Ogden & Thwaite, Chartered Accountants.

  The double doors slid open, revealing a large hallway divided by floor-to-ceiling glass which separated the various offices sharing the fourteenth floor of the Canada Water skyscraper. At the end of the corridor, the space opened onto a viewing deck with panoramic views over Canary Wharf.

  Ayala approached a rounded visitor's desk set between the offices. 'I'm here to see Mrs Brenda Lattimer of Ogden & Thwaite.'

  A svelte redhead looked up from her magazine, then drawled: 'Do you have an appointment?'

  'No, but...'

  'Then you'll have to make one,' the redhead interrupted Ayala before he could explain his presence.

  'Miss, I'm a plain clothes detective,' Ayala thrust his ID at her, 'and I need to talk to Mrs Lattimer as soon as possible.'

  The redhead flicked her hair. 'Wait here.'

  She disappeared into the door behind the desk, reappeared momentarily behind the glass wall to Ayala's left, then vanished completely through another door.

  Once she was out of sight, Ayala leant over the desk and tugged out a thick red diary marked 'Appointments'. It was in chronological order, and the current day was marked by a gold ribbon. It fell open to the right page, and Ayala scanned through Brenda Lattimer's schedule. She had an appointment booked at midday for one hour, but the next hour was clear on the diary. Ayala checked his watch; it was quarter to one. He wouldn't have to wait long.