Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (14 page)

‘One way to find out.’ Morton knocked the door, and the sound of barking erupted from the hallway inside. They heard a man’s voice, the same South London accent as on the call recording, as he tried to hush the dog.

The door swung open, and a scruffy nose tried to press its way between its owner and the door. The man pushed the dog back inside and opened the door. The dog sat behind its owner and eyed the detectives warily.

‘Don’t mind him. He’s a big softie really.’

‘What kind of a dog is he?’ Morton asked.

‘German shepherd–malamute cross. The best alarm system money can buy. What can I do for you, gents?’

‘We’re investigating the murder of Ellis DeLange.’

‘Lass in the news this week?’ McArthur said. ‘Wish I could help you, but Richmond is a million miles from Potter’s Bar. You’d be better off canvassing there.’

‘You didn’t call in a tip to our hotline then?’

McArthur paled, then clenched his jaw. ‘Why would I have anything to do with it?’

Morton pulled his phone from his pocket and hit play. The recording blared out, ‘
Dead body. Edgecombe Lodge. Richmond. Doors open.’

‘That sounds an awful lot like you, Mr McArthur.’

‘That’s much too deep for my voice. Besides, it sounds an awful lot like a lot of men in London, Mr...?’

‘Morton. DCI Morton. Not all men in London give the phone that made that call to their apprentices–’

The door slammed shut.

‘Quick!’ Morton yelled, ‘around the back!’

Ayala sprinted to the side of the house and out of view. Morton eyed up the door, swore under his breath then charged at it. At the last second, he threw his right leg out towards the right-hand side where the door was locked, and slammed his heel into the door. His momentum carried him forward and his foot collided with the door with a loud crack. The door splintered immediately, but didn’t collapse. He pulled back, steadied himself so that he could aim again, being careful not to hit the lock itself, and then kicked again.

The door swung inwards, leaving a chunk of wood attached to the lock on the right-hand side. The dog was waiting for him just inside, but scarpered when the door came crashing inwards. Morton spotted light at the back of the property, through the kitchen. The door to the back garden was already open.

Morton ran. His legs ached from the exertion of taking the door down, but he powered through the house as quickly as he could. He raced past the stairwell, through the hallway into the kitchen and towards the backdoor. He just reached the back door when he heard a floorboard creak above him.

McArthur was trying to double bluff them. Morton doubled back, then darted up the stairs. At the landing on the first floor, he paused for a second. Ayala had gone around the back. If he were McArthur, he’d be trying to get out of the front of the house.

The garage!
The double garage was beneath a bay window, the perfect escape onto the street. Morton turned and vaulted back down the stairs four at a time, and emerged from the front of the house just as McArthur dropped from the roof of the garage to the ground outside with a ‘whoomph’.

Morton dived towards him, using his weight to pin the suspect down. ‘Mr McArthur! You’re under arrest on suspicion of handling stolen goods.’

Ayala reappeared from around the side of the house.

‘Been for a nice stroll, have you, Bertram? Help me get this heffalump into the back of the car, will you?’

***

Before McArthur could be brought into an interview suite, he demanded to speak to a lawyer. McArthur was turned over to the Custody Sergeant and processed. The search of his person turned up an iPhone, a wallet and a set of car and house keys. He was then photographed and swabbed, and his DNA sample sent for urgent comparison to the samples on file for the DeLange murder.

McArthur wasn’t in the system already. He didn’t have so much as a speeding ticket to his name. He didn’t have a go-to lawyer, which meant he got stuck with whoever happened to be the duty solicitor for the day.

Unfortunately for Morton, the duty solicitor was a little more competent than average. Genevieve Hollis was a direct access barrister, and an advocate for criminal rights to boot.

‘And on a Saturday too. Don’t lawyers have social lives?’ Morton bemoaned his misfortune.

‘She can’t be any worse than that snake, Elliot Morgan-Bryant,’ Ayala replied.

‘Oh, yes, she can. She’s
honest
.’

***

An hour later, and Morton and Ayala were seated opposite Ms Hollis and the suspect in Interview Suite One. McArthur had been given plenty of time to consult with his lawyer, and looked visibly more relaxed than he did in Potter’s Bar. He leaned back in his chair and smirked at Morton.

‘Let the tape reflect that Mr McArthur is smirking in response to my last question. I’ll ask you again, Mr McArthur, was the voice on the tape you?’

‘It doesn’t sound like me, does it?’

Morton produced an evidence bag which contained the Nokia 3310 that Sergei Krasnodar had had on his person. He then placed McArthur’s own iPhone next to it, and began to tap away at the screen.

‘I think, Mr McArthur, that the reason it sounds slightly different is that you used an app to modify your voice. This app in fact.’

Morton turned the phone around so that McArthur and his lawyer could see it. The iPrankCall app was open on screen.

‘Mr Morton! You had no right to search my client’s phone.’

‘I disagree. He waived any expectation of privacy when he failed to set a simple password. Besides, we would have unlocked it anyway. It’s not unreasonable to suppose this phone might have been stolen–’

‘So run an IMEI check,’ the lawyer suggested.

‘Or,’ Morton continued, ‘that the phone might contain evidence like the contact details of your client’s fence. And what’s this? An audio file within the app? Let’s just play that back.’

‘
Dead body. Edgecombe Lodge. Richmond. Door’s open,’
echoed throughout the interview suite.

‘That’s pretty damning if you ask me. Clever too. I assume you played the distorted voice back to your simple Nokia to avoid detection.’

‘So I went to the house,’ McArthur said. ‘Big deal. I didn’t steal anything.’

‘You didn’t steal anything. Really? And what exactly were you doing there then?’

‘Looking. Don’t you ever get curious about what a rich person’s house looks like?’

‘You want me to believe that you just happened to trespass on Ellis DeLange’s property the day after she was murdered.’

‘Doesn’t matter what you believe, Mr Morton.’ McArthur grinned and jerked his head towards his lawyer. ‘She says trespass ain’t a crime. It’s a tort. So tell me what you think I stole, Mr Morton.’

‘Did you break in?’

‘Nope.’

‘So you’re now saying you just happened to trespass on the property of a famous photographer on the day after she was murdered, and that the house was unlocked. That’s pretty far-fetched.’

‘Truth can be stranger than fiction, can’t it?’

‘You smug git. I put it to you that if you’re willing to break into a house then you were there to steal. Do you deny it?’

‘Categorically.’

‘Then our search of your home won’t turn up anything, will it?’

The smile from his face vanished.

‘I’d like to speak with my lawyer.’

‘Fine. Interview terminated at 13:04.’

***

At half past two, DS Mayberry returned with the search team. Mayberry seemed to be walking a little taller when he led the team into the Incident Room where Morton and Ayala awaited their return.

‘That dog is v-vicious!’ Mayberry stuttered. He thrust his arm towards them; a minor mark could be seen on his forearm.

‘The dog’s got nothing on that front door. I practically dislocated my hip getting in,’ Morton quipped. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense. What did you find?’

Mayberry whistled loudly, and a WPC trotted into the room carrying a pink suitcase, the wheeled kind popular with travellers who only take carry-on. It was in an oversize evidence bag and the label read
‘Oak Cottage, 13:35, April 12
^th
’
.

‘Nice work. Chain of custody paperwork complete?’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘Impressive. Let’s have a look inside then.’

Mayberry laid out a polythene liner on the table and proceeded to decant the contents of the suitcase.

‘Clothes?’ Morton said.

The suitcase was full of women’s clothing. Underwear, trousers, three blouses, a skirt and a gown were inside together with a hairbrush and various toiletries.

‘Looks like about a week’s worth.’ Ayala said. The case was about two thirds full.

‘And we’re sure it belongs to Ellis?’

‘She’s a size six. So are these clothes. McArthur’s wife wears a fourteen. It fits.’

‘See if we can get DNA samples from the hairbrush and toothbrush to be on the safe side. Good job, Mayberry.’

‘Th-th-thanks, boss.’

***

‘Interview resumed at 15:16. Present are Mr David McArthur, Ms Genevieve Hollis, Detective Inspector Bertram Ayala and DCI David Morton.’

Ayala held up the suitcase.

‘Do you recognise this, Mr McArthur?’ Ayala asked.

‘Should I?’

‘It was found in your house.’

McArthur shrugged, as if to suggest that suitcase could be his.

‘Do you regularly wear women’s clothing, Mr McArthur? No judgement if you do,’ Ayala said.

‘No!’ McArthur spat.

Morton smiled. Nothing like pride to elicit a reaction. ‘Then to whom does it belong, Mr McAthur?’ he asked.

‘Ellis DeLange. I... borrowed it.’

‘You borrowed it?’ Morton mocked.

‘Yes. I’m a fan. I was always going to give it back. I had no intention of permanently depriving Miss DeLange of the goods.’

‘Her estate you mean. And I’m fairly certain your lawyer told you to say that. So now your story is that you found an unlocked multimillion-pound house on the day the celebrity owner of the home died, then borrowed her suitcase unilaterally before phoning us using a voice-modifier app? That’s one heck of a tall tale. You ever thought about writing fiction, Mr McArthur?’

‘My client has already answered you, Mr Morton. Unless you can prove intent to steal, this interview is over.’

Why would anyone steal clothing? Morton wondered. Unless... they wouldn’t. There was one thing Ellis wouldn’t go on a business trip without.

‘Mr McArthur, what else was in the bag? Did it contain all of Ellis DeLange’s photography equipment?’

McArthur turned to his lawyer and whispered in her ear.

‘Mr Morton, my client is a Good Samaritan. He went out of his way to call you to notify you of a murder that you had no idea happened. Can we put our cards on the table here?’

‘By all means.’

‘If, and this is hypothetical of course, my client were to admit to stealing camera equipment, would that confession be enough to get him a deal?’

‘Stolen goods don’t interest me, Ms Hollis. If your client tells us everything in writing – including how he knew the house would be empty – then he walks out of here a free man. Do we have a deal?’

McArthur nodded.

‘The recording can’t see you nodding, Mr McArthur.’

‘Yes, we have a deal.’

An hour later, Morton was back in his office clutching a written witness statement. He placed it on his desk and turned on his desk lamp, then began to read while Ayala peered over his shoulder.

WITNESS STATEMENT OF DAVID MCARTHUR

On the morning of March 30th at around eleven o’clock in the morning, I went to Edgecombe Lodge in Richmond. The homeowner, Ellis DeLange, was previously known to me as she hired my firm, DMC Electricals, on multiple occasions. On the last occasion we were hired to install a Smart Thermostat in her residence.

When I set up the system, I demonstrated the ‘Holiday’ feature to Miss DeLange. It allows you to tell the system when you will be away from the house for a protracted period. I set up the system so that it emailed me a notification whenever this feature was used.

Miss DeLange had entered a holiday into the system from the 30th of March so I knew the house would be empty. I went to the house, alone, and let myself in (I installed the gate for Miss DeLange on a previous occasion). I began to explore the house. I was drawn to the swimming pool in the back of the house, as it is the only domestic pool I have ever seen.

When I entered the pool area, I saw her floating face down in the pool. I assumed she had drowned. I fled Edgecombe Lodge, snatching up the suitcase on the way. It was packed and ready to go in the hallway, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.

I then phoned the police anonymously to tell them about the body, and I sold everything I could that was in the bag.

I make this statement in exchange for full immunity from prosecution.

‘Blimey. Purcell was right. Nobody tell him or we’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘Too late, boss. Look who’s standing outside.’

Sure enough, the plump technician was in the hallway. Someone had given him a heads up.

‘Let him in.’

Ayala opened the door and Purcell bounded into the room like an overgrown puppy.

‘Stuart, I’d like to congratulate you on realising the importance of the thermostat,’ Morton said through gritted teeth.

‘Thanks,’ Purcell said modestly. ‘But that isn’t why I’m here. I got a copy of your witness statement, and we’re totally wrong.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said we were wrong. All our times are off.’

‘How so?’

‘Your thief. His deal is contingent on telling the truth, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘He says he went to Edgecombe Lodge at eleven o’clock.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The thermostat showed he came in at ten o’clock.’

‘He could have got the time wrong.’

‘I thought so too. Until I took another look at that thermostat. It isn’t programmed to take into daylight savings. It never made the switch to British Summer Time. It should have gone forward an hour at one o’clock that morning and it didn’t. McArthur was right and the thermostat was wrong. All of our assumptions, all of our timings, they were off by a full hour.’