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

‘Nyet, ni nada
.’

‘Sir? Sir! We can hear you. Can we have a few moments of your time please?’

The intercom crackled, and the man spoke directly to Morton in a gruff tone: ‘What do you want?’

‘We’d like to talk to you about your neighbour, Miss Ellis DeLange.’

‘What she now do?’

‘She’s dead. May we come in?’

‘Do you have warrant?’

Morton tilted his head slightly, considered appealing to the man’s better nature, then decided to try bluffing. ‘We can come back with one.’

The intercom clicked off, and Ayala turned away thinking Morton’s bluff had backfired, and then the gate began to retract with a loud clank. The motor whirred to a stop, then started up again moments after Morton and Ayala darted inside. They were met at the door by an elderly Hispanic woman who looked furtively up and down the street as if worried she might be seen talking to the police before beckoning them to come inside. The woman led them through to a grandiose sitting room with high ceilings and thick oak beams laid bare. She pointed to an L-shaped sofa, then disappeared back through the doorway.

The Old Coach House’s sitting room contrasted sharply with Edgecombe Lodge. There were few personal possessions, and those that could be seen were displayed neatly on shelves either side of the chimney. Even the logs in the fireplace were meticulously stacked. The home had an old-world feeling. It was cosy and warm, like a well-worn jacket.

Morton ignored the sofa, and moved towards the shelves. In between knickknacks there were a number of photographs. Each one showed the same man, who Morton presumed was the homeowner: a tall, Caucasian man around Morton’s age but still in good shape. All of the photos showed him in action poses. One had him knee deep in a river fly fishing. In another, he posed in a military uniform with blue piping which Morton didn’t immediately recognise. The shoulder boards were marked with the letters ‘GB’ but it wasn’t a British uniform.

As Morton tried to work out which army the uniform represented, the voice from the intercom boomed out behind him.

‘Ah. You like the photo of my uniform, yes?’

Morton turned to see the man from the photograph with a twinkle in his eye, dressed in a wide pinstripe suit, and wearing much too much cologne. ‘It’s very... imperial. Is it–?’

‘–Russian? Yes. Now, you talk. I have’ – the man glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece – ‘ten minutes, so hurry.’

‘I’ll cut right to it then, Mr...?’

‘Vladivoben.’

‘Mr Vladivoben, how well do you know Miss DeLange?’

‘I see her in the street sometimes but our conversation has never been more than that.’

‘So you know nothing of her lifestyle?’

At that moment, Vladivoben was saved from having to answer by his maid’s reappearance. She carried a tray laid with an old-fashioned bone china teapot and a plate laden down with biscuits, which she unwisely set down upon the coffee table right in front of Ayala. She poured three cups of tea, then shuffled towards the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, Morton saw her loitering to listen to the conversation, though she busied herself dusting a bookcase.

While Ayala helped himself to the biscuits, Morton pressed on with the interview. ‘Where were we? Miss DeLange. I assume you know of her fame.’

‘Her infamy, yes. My daughter has a number of her prints. But her lifestyle is her own. Around here, we live and let live. People here value privacy.’

‘Have you ever had cause to argue with Miss DeLange?’

Vladivoben’s nostrils flared. He drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. ‘You dare to come into my home and imply I had something to do with her death? I find your insinuations insulting, Mr Morton. I bid you good day. Maria will show you out.’ And with that, he swept from the room without another word.

‘Well, that was sudden,’ Ayala said. ‘What spooked him?’

Morton was saved from answering by the maid shuffling in. She stared at the floor as she entered, being careful to avoid eye contact. She was about to lead them back out when Morton tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

‘It’s Maria, isn’t it?’ Morton asked in his gentlest tone.

‘
Si
. I mean, yes, sir.’

‘Maria, did you know Miss DeLange?’

She shook her head slowly, a quizzical expression appearing briefly on her weathered face.

Acting on a hunch, Morton tried again. ‘But there is something you know, isn’t there? Did you hear or see something?’

‘I am... not sure. The lighting. It was not so good.’

‘When was this?’

‘
El Sábado
,’ Maria said.

‘Saturday,’ Ayala translated, though he needn’t have bothered.

‘And what did you see?’ Morton asked.

‘Out of my window, up in the attic. I hear noises. Someone is knocking dustbins. I look out. And I see a naked man climbing over the fence at the bottom of Miss Ellis’ garden.’

‘A naked man! Did you see who it was?’

‘No sir. All I know. Is a man, sir.’

‘Was he tall, short, black, white?’

Maria blushed furiously, but shook her head. ‘I no know, sir. It too dark and I only see from behind.’

‘Did he have any memorable features?’

The maid bit her lip, cast her gaze downwards at the floor and mumbled something.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that, Maria.’

‘He was... a small man.’

‘How short?’

‘No. Not short.
Small
.’

Morton furrowed his brows. Maria saw his confusion and pointed between her legs.

Ayala smirked. ‘¿
Lo pequeño
?’ he asked.

Maria held her thumb and forefinger aloft approximately half an inch apart.

This time, it was Morton’s turn to bite his lip to stop himself laughing. He just about kept a straight face as he said: ‘And how did you see this?’

‘
Que
?’

‘If he had his back to you, how did you see his... size?’

‘He like this at top of fence,’ Maria replied. She mimed putting one leg over a fence. ‘I see everything.’ Maria shuddered, as if she’d rather forget.

‘Very well. Thank you, Maria. You’d best see us out.’

Ayala leapt from his seat on the sofa, snatched up a handful of the biscuits for the road, and followed Morton out.

Safely back outside, Ayala burst out laughing. ‘What in God’s name was that all about?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.’

Chapter 3: Too Much Information

With several hours to go before the autopsy would be complete, and uniformed officers dispatched to carry out a general canvass, Morton decided to explore the rest of Edgecombe Lodge while Ayala dealt with the chain-of-custody paperwork.

There was one bedroom on the ground floor, a double right off the main hallway. From the lack of personal items, Morton assumed it was reserved for guests. A bay window opened out onto the front driveway, but the curtains were still drawn when Morton entered.

The bed was unmade and a half empty bottle of triple distilled vodka lay on its side atop the bedside cabinet. Plastic markers had been placed by forensics techs to mark where evidence had been collected, making it look like a confetti of rainbow-coloured plastic had been thrown in the air. Each disc was numbered with a colour corresponding to the type of evidence collected. So far, Morton had spotted discs up to the high three figures but it wouldn’t surprise him if Purcell’s team passed the one thousand mark by the time they were through processing the house.

With four more bedrooms, five bathrooms and a converted attic yet to be searched, the Forensics Department would be busy for weeks.

Most of the house was so messy that it was impossible to tell if anything was missing or out of place. A few shelves looked oddly empty, but whether that was from items gone missing or a lack of possessions, Morton couldn’t tell. Pizza boxes, which Morton recognised as belonging to a local Italian restaurant,
Trattoria Da Mondo
, seemed to be everywhere. It must have been Ellis’ favourite takeaway.

Despite the mess, the extravagant decor shone through. The entranceway was the most decadent example of Ellis DeLange’s lifestyle. Twin staircases rose to either side of the hall, a sweeping cascade of marble and oak.

The swimming pool came a close second, but although many of the house’s original features were impressive, a closer inspection revealed that all the other rooms were perfectly ordinary. Morton thought they could have been picked up and dropped into almost any two-up two-down in the country without appearing out of place.

Imitation furniture, costume jewellery and high street clothing suggested that Ellis wasn’t living quite the life she wanted her home to portray.

The mess continued upstairs except in the master bedroom, which was an oasis of cleanliness. A sleigh bed dominated the room, with an oak armoire next to it atop which sat a number of birthday cards which were displayed facing towards the bed. A few bore the message ‘Happy 30th Birthday!’ but it was the largest card that caught Morton’s eye; it read
‘Happy Birthday, Big Sis!’

Morton opened the card, scanned the handwritten message. A name, scrawled in tiny lettering in such a way that made it look as if the author’s hand had never left the page, was at the bottom:
Brianna
. Morton nodded appreciatively. That took care of identifying next of kin.

Morton surveyed a series of photographs in a collage covering the longest wall. Three women recurred throughout. In the centre was Ellis, petite and curvaceous. The woman on the right was Ellis’ likeness, but taller and thinner. The third, on the left-hand side, was about Ellis’ height, but much less careworn.

Morton peeled one of the photographs off the collage; it came away easily. He flipped it over. A blob of dried-out Blu-tack had been used to stick the photograph to the wall. Below the Blu-tack someone had scrawled in pencil,
‘L -> R: Brianna; Ellis; Gabriella, NYE 2012’
.

The three women had been photographed in various combinations throughout: Brianna and Ellis, Ellis and Gabriella, all three together. Oddly, there were none of Gabriella and Brianna alone. Perhaps, Morton mused, Ellis was so narcissistic that she preferred to display only photos that included her. It certainly appeared that way. None of the photos failed to feature Ellis.

One other figure seemed to be included in many of the photos, a man that Morton thought looked vaguely familiar. He was tall and rugged, and he appeared in the largest photograph with his arm draped casually around a much younger Ellis DeLange. She was smiling broadly and looked much more fresh-faced than in her more recent photos. Again, Morton took the photo down from the wall and flipped it over. The same swirly handwriting had pencilled ‘
Me + Kal, my 25th birthday
’ in looping cursive. The ‘i’ in birthday was dotted with a tiny heart, as if written by a schoolgirl.

The photograph was only five years old, but the difference between the happy girl in the photo and the thirty-year-old now in the morgue couldn’t be more chalk and cheese. Morton snapped a quick photo on his phone of the three girls and the man called Kal, then felt his stomach rumble. No wonder. It was getting on for three o’clock already. There was just about time to grab a quick sandwich before going to meet the coroner – if the autopsy began at the time promised, which was never guaranteed with Dr Larry Chiswick.

Chapter 4: Date with Death

Ellis DeLange’s body was tiny in death, lying atop a full-size gurney which could have accommodated her body twice over. Her eyes had been closed out of respect and a paper covering guarded her modesty. Dr Larry Chiswick leant over the body to take a final sample, his bear-like shoulders almost obscuring Morton and Ayala’s view.

Next, Doctor Chiswick picked up a hypodermic needle with his left hand, and spoke gruffly as he held it aloft: ‘I’ll be with you in a moment. Got most of your samples bagged and tagged. There was something organic under her nails. That’s already gone off to DNA. On the shelf there, you’ve got liver, brain, bile and blood samples. Just got to get this last one.’

Chiswick swept a hand towards a metal tray behind him which held the evidence, ready to be sent over to the Met’s forensics department by the diener. Morton glanced at the blood samples. The nearest one was labelled
‘Femoral Artery’
followed by Ellis’ name, and various numbers. The other was marked ‘
Heart
’.

Ayala followed Morton’s gaze and frowned.

‘Doc, why do we need multiple blood samples?’ Ayala asked as he focused hard on the row of vials. It was his first time attending an autopsy. Morton wondered how long it would be before Ayala excused himself due to the smell.

The coroner swung round, pointing the high-gauge needle in Ayala’s direction. ‘You said there were drugs found in the house. If we’re testing the full range, we need two samples because the concentration can vary in different parts of the body. Basic science, you know.’

Chiswick turned back to the body, and used the thumb of his right hand to push open Ellis’ left eyelid. Moments too late, Ayala drew back as he realised what was about to happen. The coroner deftly plunged the needle into the eye, then pulled back on the syringe end to withdraw a sample from the vitreous humour. He injected the fluid into a glass phial, then set the needle down.

Ayala retched, then bolted from the room.

‘Eight minutes. That’s a new record, even for you. You should get a new second-in-command. That lad doesn’t seem to have the stomach for this sort of work,’ Chiswick said.

‘If only. I think I’m stuck with him. Besides, if I ditch him I’ll only have Mayberry left and nobody wants that.’

Chiswick’s expression darkened. ‘I wondered who’d get stuck with him. Sorry it had to be you.’

‘Office politics. With Vaughn gone, I had to promote Ayala from within and Mayberry is Ayala’s replacement. How’s life down here treating you, Larry?’

‘Can’t complain. Compared to my patients, I’m doing dandy,’ the coroner joked.