Cleaver Square

by Sean Campbell

  The Superintendent spotted Morton looking at the waistcoat, and mistook his revulsion for interest. 'Lovely, isn't it? My wife had it made for me by a friend of hers. He's got a shop down on Jermyn Street. Wouldn't normally shop there, oh no,' the Superintendent shook his head as if London's second most exclusive street of tailors was beneath him, 'Saville Row all the way normally, but Marcus is a dear friend to my Becca. Shall we?' He gestured for Morton to open the door, and then followed him through.

  'Now then,' he continued once he was settled, 'this case, Joe Bloggs Junior. What's it all about? You've had staff running left, right and centre but from what I've been told you're getting nowhere.'

  'I'm not sure who told you that, sir,' but Morton knew. It had to be the newcomer, Detective Inspector Mayberry. The rest of his team had been with him on and off for eons, and knew better than to rat him out to the bureaucracy.

  'Never you mind that, my boy,' the Superintendent replied.

  Morton's teeth gnashed together at my boy; He was a grown man in his fifties, thank you very much.

  'But I need to know there's a reasonable prospect of a conviction in the pipeline here. We're throwing dozens of men behind it full-time, and you don't appear to be getting anywhere. Even the CPS has logged well over a hundred man-hours on this.'

  Morton bit his tongue, paused, then responded diplomatically, 'Well sir, it's an unusual case. The body was dumped in the Marshes towards the back end of last year. No name, nothing to identify him forensically. We thought we'd found his identity when we linked his watch to a Charlie Matthews, but apparently Charlie is alive and well. He's currently living with a foster family in south London. '

  'So how did Joe come to possess Charlie's watch?'

  'That's where this case takes another interesting turn. The watch originally belonged to Eric Matthews.' Morton paused to collect his thoughts while his boss looked deep in thought.

  'Eric is legally Charlie's father, but their DNA has no alleles in common. On the other hand, DNA confirms that Joe is Eric's son, so it makes sense that he was wearing his father's watch. The last record we can find of the watch was with Charlie's long-term foster family, the Grants. It's perplexing in all honesty, sir. We've got one dead boy whom we have no record of but is definitely related to Eric Matthews, and then we have Charlie, the legal son of Mr and Mrs Matthews, who is not biologically related to his father.'

  'Sounds like they've been switched somewhere,' said the Superintendent

  'That's a possibility but how it all fits, we don't know. What I do think is that if we can run down how these boys' lives are intermingled then we'll be able to give Joe back his identity at the very least. It might even lead us to Charlie's real identity. This could be much bigger than a simple murder case.'

  'Very well. How do you propose doing that?'

  'I'm going to run down Charlie's past, and see who he really is.'

  'But if the investigation into Master Matthews yields another dead end, the trail ends?'

  'Potentially, sir, yes.'

  'Then you've got until you exhaust that lead to find something that justifies our continued allocation of resources to this case. This isn't the only investigation we have open. Find something and quickly or this goes to the cold case team, and you know what kind of backlog they've got.'

  'Very well, sir. I'll update you when I know more.' Morton turned to leave. He'd invent something to appease the Superintendent if he had to. He wasn't going to leave the dead boy without a name, and he certainly wouldn't let a child's identity be usurped.

  'And Morton?'

  'Yes sir?'

  'Do go check out Marcus' Tailors. You look awfully scruffy, old chap.'

  CHAPTER 36: LITTLE HATTERS WOOD

  The Lovejoy household was a middle-class suburban affair. The Lovejoys took in so-called trauma cases, those children who had lost their parents or guardians to accident, injury or homicide. The Lovejoys never kept children for long. They were specially trained counsellors, and in so much demand that their charges typically only spent around a month in the Romford suburb.

  La Casa Lovejoy, as Adrian Lovejoy affectionately called it, had started out as a simple four-bed semi-detached home. It was seconds from the local bus links in Whitchurch Road, and, being in the middle of an oval block, enjoyed an enormous garden.

  Demand for the Lovejoys' expertise exceeded the space they had available to care for their charges. The Local Authority had stepped in to help the Lovejoys, allowing Adrian to obtain a mortgage for the house next door. The combined houses formed a home big enough for the extended family.

  Adrian spent his days clearing up after the children, while his long-suffering wife Pru tried to keep the house in order amidst a constant whirlwind of activity.

  Despite the biting winds, Adrian was outside when the police arrived. He was lovingly he rims of his people carrier's tyres, oblivious to the visitors standing above him.

  'Mr Adrian Lovejoy?' Morton's voice oscillated as his teeth chattered in the cold, having had to suffer Ayala's unfathomable preference for keeping the heating off on their drive from New Scotland Yard in order to 'improve fuel economy'. Ayala was studying his manicured fingernails, sheepishly avoiding eye contact with his partially frozen superior.

  'Good morning!' Adrian beamed, enthusiastic for the chance to have an adult conversation. The smile, combined with rosy red cheeks, gave Adrian the appearance that Santa Claus would have sported had he gone on a serious diet, and burned several thousand calories a day chasing small children around.

  'Hello, sir, we're here to talk to you about a former charge of yours, one Charlie Matthews. Might we step inside?'

  'Yes, yes, of course. Do forgive my manners. My office, I think. Anywhere else is likely to be bedlam. Do you know we've got eight children with us, right now? What are they thinking? It's just Pru and I. We can only chase after so many charges at one time! Three under-fives, for God's sake! One minute we're running a nursery, the next we're trying to stop the older ones from sneaking out and smoking. Utter lunacy,' his words came out in a rush, a verbal machine gun of conversation.

  'Quite. We're a little stretched ourselves, sir,' Morton observed dryly.

  'Ah yes, I saw the newspaper. Didn't get a chance to read the whole article. One of the little ones upchucked all over it at breakfast. Fussy little eater, that one. Didn't it say something about the Met being short of funds, cutting basic pay and all that? Bonkers if you ask me. If your bobbies are broke, they're much more likely to be on the take.' Adrian continued to aim a barrage of questions and comments at them as he led the way to his study.

  Ayala looked like he wanted to agree, and Morton was forced to silence him with a glare.

  'I can't say I agree with that, sir, but the logic is faultless,' Morton said tactfully.

  'Here we are.' Adrian ushered them into his office, clicking the door shut behind them.

  'Mr Lovejoy,' Morton began after they had sat down.

  'Please, call me Adrian.'

  'OK. Adrian, do you remember Charlie Matthews?'

  'Oh yes. We had him here for about a month. Only left a few weeks ago. Lovely lad, a bit quiet. He ate his own weight in chocolate given half an opportunity. Is he in trouble?'

  'No sir, we're just following up some routine enquiries. Nothing to be concerned about.'

  'Thank goodness. I was quite fond of the little tyke. He was a whizz at fixing electronics. See that computer over there?' He pointed at an old machine tucked away in the corner,.'Helped me put that back together. Took to it like other kids play with Lego.'

  'Is this Charlie?' Morton produced the picture of Charlie Matthews supplied by Children's Services.

  'That's him,' Adrian confirmed.

  Morton unrolled a copy of the facial construction. 'What about this boy? Do you know him?'

  'No,' he replied almost too quickly, and then continued hesitantly, 'Should I?'

  'We believe he may be a relative of Charlie's. Did he ever mention a sibling
?'

  'Not once. But he barely said anything.'

  'In that case, I think that's everything. Thank you for your time, Mr Lovejoy.' Morton rose, proffering a handshake.

  'You're going so soon? But I haven't even had time to offer a coffee. One for the road?'

  'No, thank you. We'd best be getting back. Thanks again.'

  Back outside, they climbed into Ayala's aging Mercedes.

  'Well, that was a waste of time,' Ayala volunteered.

  'Maybe, maybe not. They only had Charlie for a month.'

  'Shame the Grants are dead.'

  'They are, but their neighbours aren't. Charlie was there for almost a decade. Let's see if they remember anything.'

  'Right you are, boss.' Ayala turned the ignition, blasting frigid air around the car.

  'Bloody hell, that's cold.'

  'Bet you wish you'd said yes to that coffee now, eh boss?'

  ***

  'You have reached your destination.' The robotic voice emanated from the satellite navigation system, prompting Ayala to pull over and kill the engine.

  'This road looks like an old Roman road, don't you think?' said Morton. Dalkeith Grove was as straight as an arrow.

  'No idea. Looks like modern suburbia to me, not much different to the place we just came from.'

  'You know, for a detective, you've got no sense of subtlety.'

  'So, how's this any different?' Ayala demanded.

  'Well, for a start it's more affluent. Every house is detached. Some are mock-Tudor in style; you don't find that on a council estate. Most of the driveways are full, many with two or three cars.'

  'Looks just as icy to me.'

  'Just shut up, and get out of the car. That's an order.' Morton swung his door open, and placed his right foot gingerly on the ice, causing it to crackle underfoot.

  No repairs had been carried out at the Grant residence. At first glance, it didn't seem too damaged. The walls were still in place, barely stained with a lick of smoke. Closer inspection revealed melted uPVC lintels, and warped glass. The only obvious damage was that the roof had collapsed inwards, but even that would not be discerned by a casual passerby, thanks to the angle from the street.

  The neighbouring homes had minor smoke stains, but had been saved by the actions of the Fire Brigade. Morton veered towards the house to the left of the Grant residence. A trampoline in the garden, the kind designed for one, suggested they had a child, and might therefore be more apt to remember the boy next door.

  They rang the neighbour's doorbell, and heard a chime reverberate throughout the house. A 'No solicitation' sign was prominently displayed in the front bay window.

  A woman answered the door, a sleeping baby cradled in her arms.

  'Hello, I'm Detective Chief Inspector David Morton, and this is Detective Ayala. Do you know a Charlie Matthews?'

  'I knew a Charlie, but I don't think his surname was Matthews. He lived next door,' she shifted the baby up and down as she spoke, willing it to stay asleep.

  'Perhaps you knew him as Charlie Grant?' Morton wondered if the Grant's had imposed their surname on their adoptive son.

  'Yep, I knew the Grants. Mrs Grant and I used to go to spinning classes together. Sad what happened to them.'

  Morton pulled out a picture of Charlie. 'Is this him?'

  'Sorry, that's not him. That's not the boy who lived next door.'

  Morton switched the photo for the facial reconstruction of Joe Bloggs Junior. Recognition dawned on her face immediately. 'That's him! The hair's a bit different, but that's unmistakeably the boy from next door.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yeah, I'm sure I am. Hang on; I might have some photographs from the Diamond Jubilee Street Party we threw last summer. Shall I go look?'

  Half an hour later, the detectives were headed back to New Scotland Yard. The photographs were definitive: Joe Bloggs Junior was Charles Anthony Matthews, son of Eric and Jacqueline Matthews, and grandson to one Cecil Matthews.

  'If our dead kid is the real Charlie Matthews, who the hell is the impostor?' Ayala's question hung in the air of the saloon. Morton had no answer.

  CHAPTER 37: GONE

  Twenty-four hours after Tina had been expected to return home, Morton formally registered her as missing. Morton had hoped that the twenty-four hour deadline elapsing would galvanise Missing Persons into action, but that assumption was to prove overly optimistic.

  'Sir, we have two hundred thousand missing persons every year. We can't simply send half the department on a wild goose chase across London. We've got all the pertinent details. I suggest you continue to make your own enquiries.'

  All Morton had to go on was a slightly nasal telephone voice, but in Morton's mind the clerk he was talking to was a snotty-nosed, zit-faced jobsworth. He was clearly irked at having to go off-script and actually deal with the complainant.

  'This isn't a mid-life crisis case. She hasn't upped and left without a word to her friends or family. Tina Vaughn is one of our own.'

  'I appreciate that, sir,' the clerk said.

  'Do you? What you're telling me is that your department is going to do next to nothing. Get me the Initial Investigating Officer. Better yet, send him up to my office. I'll be here until ten tonight.' Morton hung up the phone, knowing he'd made a ridiculous demand.

  Morton tried to think what more he could do to find Tina beyond wandering the streets aimlessly. She'd been expected back at dinner time Sunday, and it was fast closing on 8 p.m. Monday. She wasn't the kind to disappear without notice.

  He dug into his drawer and pulled out a yellow legal pad then laid it in front of him on his desk and began to jot down his thoughts in an attempt to organise them.

  Missing Person: Tina Vaughn

  Relatives: One sister, Catrin Vaughn (Next of Kin)

  Friends: All in the force (?)

  Relationship status: Single

  Medical conditions: None

  Financials: Cards untouched; Alerts placed on all accounts

  Photographs: On file

  DNA: On file

  What was she doing when she went missing? Unknown.

  Morton underlined the last point. It was the million-dollar question. Morton thought he'd heard her say she was running errands for Kiaran, but the prosecutor denied he had assigned her any such task.

  He racked his brains for their last conversation, but the only other detail he could recall was that she'd promised to be back for dinner. She hadn't gone into work; her security card was last logged as entering Scotland Yard on Saturday. Her phone was not connected to the network, but that could be simple battery failure. A request had been sent to Tina's network provider to see if they could find her last known location. It wouldn't take them long to respond given the simple geometry involved. All they needed to do was use signal strength to guesstimate how far she was from the three nearest masts, then triangulate her location.

  It wouldn't be much help if she was last seen at a tube station, but it would be a starting point. The only problem was the wait. Morton snorted into his coffee. The chance of getting a response that night was about as good as the Initial Investigating Officer traipsing up to his office.

  Knowing that he could do little for Tina until the morning, Morton decided to take one more look at the Incident Room data wall before calling it a night.

  The door to the incident room was ajar when Morton arrived, light spilling out into the hallway.

  'Ayala. What are you doing still here?' The junior detective had been off the clock for over three hours now.

  'Evening. I knew I wouldn't sleep, so thought I may as well spend the time trying to be productive.' Ayala's eyes were bloodshot, with dark bags hanging underneath them.

  'Worried about Tina?'

  'Yeah, and this case. Who the hell is our impostor?'

  'No idea. Who would want to impersonate a child?'

  'I'm sure I heard of a case where a thirty-year-old woman pretended to be a child. Could we have another one of t
hose on our hands?' Ayala said.

  'I doubt it. The kid has barely hit puberty. You can't fake not having hit adolescence.'

  'So, what's your theory?'

  'I think there's money involved. Someone helped our impostor become Charles Matthews. What if they saw the watch, and realised just how much our orphan was due to inherit?'

  'But where did the kid come from?'

  'I don't know. No one is missing a child, and our faux-Charlie seems to have a poor command of the English language. He could be from anywhere.'

  'Then we talk to Children's Services,' Ayala suggested.

  'Eventually we'll have to, but I'd like some idea of how they got switched first. We also need to work out if this is a one-off, or if it could be more systematic than that. The switch has to have happened after the fire at the Grant residence, as the neighbours knew Joe rather than the child with the Lattimers. I can't rule out the Grants being involved, but they're dead. Sometime between Dalkeith Grove and the end of Charlie's stay at the Lovejoys the boys were switched.'

  'You think the Lovejoys are in on it, boss?'

  'Maybe,' Morton replied cautiously. 'We're going to have to tread carefully here. It could be a simple mix-up. If our fake Charlie has a criminal record, then he might have seen such a switch as an opportunity. If he noticed the real Charlie disappear, he could have assumed his identity to get away from another foster parent or something,' Morton postulated dubiously.

  'That doesn't ring true. He's barely above the age of criminal responsibility. Besides, wouldn't his prints be in the system?'

  'He'd have been tried in the Youth Court, everything sealed.'

  'But that negates any need to impersonate someone else.' Ayala stifled a yawn.

  Morton shrugged. 'I'm pretty much spit-balling here. I've never heard of a case where one child has impersonated another. I doubt any child would know how records work in Youth Court anyway. We can't assume a twelve-year-old would act logically.'

  'So, why are we assuming it wasn't the Lattimers?'

  'I can't see how they'd have had the opportunity to substitute in a fake Charlie. They haven't had him long, and surely their son, what's-his-name?'