Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (13 page)

‘My name’s not Max,’ the grocer joked. ‘But if it’s three minutes then no problem.’

‘The video will be about three minutes. You’ll have to watch it twice. We’ll also have to invite the defendant’s lawyer to attend plus one of my colleagues from the identification unit.’

‘I’m here working ’til five. If you can do it on my bosses’ time then I’ll do it, but you get to explain why I wasn’t working if any customers complain.’

‘Great. I’ll go get that set up and I’ll be back here before bananas.’

Chapter 21: Hook-A-Duck

Morton was impressed. Mayberry’s video identification parade had confirmed that the Richmond Streaker was Aleksander Barchester, which gave Morton the ammunition he needed to bring him in.

Barchester’s Friday afternoon meeting was interrupted by uniforms coming to arrest him on the charge of indecent exposure. It was unlikely he’d ever get time for mere nudity. He’d probably get away with community service or even just a fine. As if a few grand would make much difference to a man of Barchester’s wealth. But while Barchester wasn’t likely to be bothered by money, he did care about his reputation.

Morton made sure Barchester was brought in the front of New Scotland Yard, right past the journalists camped outside. If the case had to be in the news, it was best for Morton’s team to be seen to be doing something. Once inside the building, Barchester had been hastily escorted to a holding cell while awaiting his lawyer.

His lawyer was well known to Morton. Elliot Morgan-Bryant of Cutler & Kass had crossed Morton’s path on more than one occasion. He was expensive, sharply attired and as dirty as they came. On Morton’s last dealing with him, Morgan-Bryant had been representing a man connected with the notorious Bakowski crime syndicate, whose boss was still at large.

‘Ready to begin?’ Morton asked once the lawyer and his client had been offered time to confer. They nodded and Morton started recording the interview.

‘You seem to be becoming the man of many names,’ Morton quipped once the formalities of time and parties in attendance had been committed to tape. ‘Aleksander Barchester, Lord Culloden and, perhaps most famously of all, The Richmond Streaker. Which one shall we use for today’s interview?’

‘Let’s start with my client’s name, shall we?’ Elliot said.

‘If you insist. Mr Barchester, witnesses have testified that you were running through Richmond naked on the morning of Sunday 30th March. Were you?’

Morgan-Bryant raised a hand. ‘Don’t answer that.’

‘If he doesn’t answer, we can infer guilt from his silence. We have CCTV footage and an eyewitness. If your client wants to minimise his sentence, now would be the time to start doing something about that.’

‘I was naked,’ Barchester said, much to the chagrin of his lawyer, who fixed him with a stare. ‘But I wasn’t streaking. I didn’t intend to cause any offence. I just... lost my clothes,’ he finished lamely.

‘Lost your clothes?’ Morton repeated disbelievingly. ‘How did that happen?’

‘I had a few too many to drink that night.’

‘Such that you misplaced your clothes? And where perchance did you lose them?’

‘Edgecombe Lodge, as you well know. I told you before, I was sleeping with Gabriella Curzon.’

‘In the downstairs guest bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’ll be your DNA on the sheets. Would you care to volunteer a DNA sample?’

The lawyer interjected: ‘I don’t think he will.’

‘OK. I’ll put it another way. We know your semen is on the sheets. Will we find that DNA anywhere else in the house?’

Aleksander grimaced. Morton had him and he knew it.

‘On a towel perhaps? But then you wouldn’t be too worried about that. We know you fled out the back door. So where else will we find your DNA?’ Morton smiled. ‘Sleeping with Ellis?’

‘Fine. Yes, I was sleeping with Ellis.’

‘Blimey. You are doing well for a man of your, ahem,
size
.’

Aleksander blushed. ‘You can’t say that! You’re a policeman!’

‘You noticed!’ Morton mocked. ‘I certainly can say that. I don’t
need
to but I can. On record in court if it’ll help.’

‘Enough!’ Morgan-Bryant snapped. ‘Just what do you want out of my client, Morton?’

‘I want the truth,’ Morton said. ‘I want him to tell me exactly what happened on the night Ellis died. I also expect your client to plead guilty and pay whatever fine he gets for the nudity.’

‘And in return?’

‘In return I’ll make sure that
as little as possible
detail is contained in the court record. I see no need to bring this up with your Board of Directors. Anything civil is no concern of mine. Is that fair?’

The lawyer turned to his client, who nodded. ‘I’ll take the deal.’

‘What really happened that night?’

‘I slept with Gabby,’ Barchester said. ‘She did tell me she was pregnant. But she also said she was going to get rid of it. I offered her money not to. I don’t know if it’s mine or not. She inferred that it is. She turned me down, said that I was pathetic and that she’d be ashamed if any child of hers bore even a passing resemblance to me. I slapped her. Open-handed. I shouldn’t have, but she kept pushing my buttons. She mocked me. Then she bit me.’ Aleksander rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm for inspection.

Morton looked at it. He could see a very faint impression of a bite mark. ‘Go on.’

Barchester withdrew his arm, and rolled his sleeve back down. ‘We fought. I wasn’t wearing anything. She had on a t-shirt and trousers. Before I knew it, she’d gone out of the room screaming. I thought it was a shakedown. I went after her to try and stop her, with just a towel around me. She just wanted Kal and Paddy to see her as the victim. Of course, they did. What man wouldn’t try to protect a beautiful damsel in distress? They threatened me. I fled out the back door. It was dark and I tripped. My towel caught on a rosebush and down I went. I knocked the bins over as I did so. Instinct took over and I ran.’

‘And?’

‘And I didn’t stop running. I went to the park because I knew it was open. I thought I was going to freeze to death. The next morning I went back.’

‘How did you get in?’ Morton said.

‘I climbed the back fence and went through the kitchen door. The same way I left. It was still unlocked. It was still early, about six. I nabbed my clothes, got dressed and let myself out the front gate.’

‘Did you lock it?’

‘Didn’t need to. It clicked shut behind me. As did the front door.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘I went back to my car. I got in, and drove to my office. I had enough time for a quick scrub in the bathroom, and then grabbed my suitcase from under my desk. I got my flight and headed to New York for the shoot. I was supposed to meet Ellis there, as you know.’

‘What did you do when she didn’t turn up?’

‘I called. No answer on the landline and her mobile was off. I figured she blew me off because of Gabby. They’re best friends, so I was never going to win that one. Then you had me stopped coming back.’ Aleksander glared at Morton.

‘You’re welcome. I think that covers what we need. I will ensure our deal is honoured, but I can’t guarantee our prosecutor won’t be adding fraud charges for pretending to be Lord Culloden.’ Morton rose as if to leave.

‘Wait!’ Barchester gestured for him to sit back down. ‘I wasn’t being dishonest. My mother worked as a servant on the Culloden estate in the late sixties. She had an affair with the Lord of the Manor. Lord Culloden is my father. It’s why I use his name. It’s also why I moved into the Servant’s Cottage. I never had much of a family growing up... I suppose that’s also why I snapped at Gabby that night. Children aren’t pawns to be traded.’

‘Interesting. But it’s not a defence to fraud. I’ll leave you to talk to your solicitor about that one.’ Morton stood, and headed for the door.

‘Wait!’

Morton turned. ‘What now?’

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For not ruining my life.’

Chapter 22: Money, Money, Money

Saturday April 12
^th
– 09:15

Morton managed to make time for a wonderful Friday night out with Sarah on the town, but his Saturday was more than boring enough to make up for it. Armed with only a headache, he was in work by eight o’clock. The building was quieter than on weekdays, yet still it hummed with a quiet efficiency. Crime didn’t sleep and neither did Scotland Yard.

Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true of those in the banking system. It was a minor miracle that Morton got a response over the weekend at all. Warrants had been obtained and served on some of the city’s biggest banks in order to obtain the financial details of Morton’s five primary suspects: Brianna Jackson (née DeLange), Aleksander Barchester, Gabriella Curzon, Kallum Fielder and Patrick ‘Paddy’ Malone.

Those details didn’t arrive until shortly after nine, by which time Morton had been joined by DI Bertram Ayala, who came in toting a bag full of bagels and two large cups of fancy coffee from the bakery down the street.

‘Look at this. They’re all bloody broke. Patrick Malone doesn’t have two pennies to rub together on paper. The only cash he’s got going in comes from the taxpayer.’ Morton pushed a stack of printouts towards Ayala.

After an interval Morton said, ‘Hello. What do we have here? Our friend Mr Barchester might not be a Lord, but he is worth a few quid. Nearly half a million in cash on deposit with a private bank,’ Morton said.’

‘Isn’t that the minimum deposit for Coutts?’ Ayala asked.

‘No idea. Look at Barchester’s last three bank statements. It looks like he’s been transferring £1,500 a month to Miss Curzon. Every month on the third. I wonder what that’s for.’

‘Charity? She is a student and we know they’ve been sleeping together. Or money for sex. Sounds like prostitution.’

‘Sounds like being married... Though perhaps without the sex,’ Morton said with a chuckle.

‘Gabriella isn’t the only one getting handouts. Look at Brianna’s bank statement. Two grand a month coming in from our victim.’

‘In one lump sum?’

‘No. Dribs and drabs throughout the month, but always adding up to about two thousand. Is that relevant, chief?’ Ayala asked.

‘It’s certainly curious. That would be a good reason not to kill her.’

‘Unless she’s been getting greedy.’

Ayala flipped through Brianna’s bank statements. ‘The amounts haven’t changed, boss. Two grand a month give or take a couple of quid going back for years. Why now?’

‘Good question. And what of our victim? She’s giving away two grand a month, but barely keeps the same again for herself. I know I’d do anything for family, but that seems rather extravagant. Ellis had to have much higher outgoings than her sister. There’s a big difference between paying rent on a place in Southwark and maintaining a huge house in Richmond.’

‘But she was making it. She’s just about stayed in the black.’

‘What’s the estate worth? Check with the Land Registry and see if there’s an outstanding mortgage on the house.’

‘I already did, boss. The house has a charge registered in favour of Aleksander Barchester Holdings Limited.’

‘Her boss lent her money? That’s insane. Why not just go to a bank?’

‘Yes, but it’s recent. She had the whole thing paid off ten years ago then remortgaged Edgecombe Lodge a few months ago. Perhaps that’s when the money from her days as a big shot ran out.’

‘If I suddenly ran out of money, I’d come clean and stop giving away what I had left,’ Morton said.

‘Would you though? Wouldn’t pride come into it? If you’ve been seen as the family provider for years, and suddenly you can’t contribute, are you sure you’d never be tempted to fake it? Ellis might have assumed she’d be back in the big leagues sooner rather than later so it didn’t matter if she gave away the money. By the time she realised that wasn’t going to happen, it was too late. She’d committed, and to pull out months or years after the fall from grace could have been too much to bear. She gave away the money not out of sisterly love, but to save face.’

‘That’s certainly possible. In which case, where did the £10,000 in the safe come from? There’s more to the money than meets the eye.’

‘What’s our next move, boss?’

‘We find the man that called in the anonymous tip. It’s time to pay a visit to Mr David McArthur of
DMC Electricals
.’

Chapter 23: The Thief

Saturday April 12
^th
– 15:00

Potter’s Bar was a commuter haven. Located just off the M25, and with a local train and tube station nearby, living in Potter’s Bar was a nice compromise between the City and the country. It was technically in Hertfordshire, which meant Morton was on borrowed turf. He’d pinged off an email to a colleague with Hertfordshire Constabulary as a courtesy before he and Ayala left, which was acknowledged while they were on the A1 headed towards the home of David McArthur, owner of
DMC Electricals
and the boss of Sergei Krasnodar.

McArthur lived in a detached property with a generous garage which doubled up as his home office.
DMC Electricals
had been incorporated and the shares in the company were split between McArthur and his wife, presumably to maximise their combined tax allowances.

The company had showed a healthy gross profit of two hundred thousand in the last year accounts had been filed. The net was less than a third of that, which immediately put Morton on edge. Few electricians owned such well-proportioned homes. Oak Cottage, as McArthur had named it, in 2007 had cost him a cool £950,000. It was possible that McArthur had inherited money, but Morton thought it more likely that McArthur was doing work off the books. It wasn’t illegal to take cash payments for work, but it was illegal to fail to declare them.

As they approached the door, a homemade “
Beware of the Dog!
” sign came into view.

‘That’s got to be to scare off salesmen, right?’ Ayala asked.