Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (6 page)

They parked up in Wheelwright Street around the corner, prayed that they wouldn’t return to another parking ticket which, while they’d never pay it, would mean extra paperwork to get it cancelled, and then headed around to the main entrance.

‘This your first time to Pentonville, Ayala?’ Morton asked as they neared the entrance.

‘Yep. Impressive entrance.’

The doorway was a tall, thick, wooden door set into a whitewashed Victorian building dating back to 1842.

‘It’s not half as impressive as Wormwood Scrubs. That’s a prison entrance to brag about. They’ve got a door just like this one, but guarded by two huge towers,’ Morton said.

They walked in, and Morton paused before they reached security. ‘Got your papers?’

Ayala nodded. Morton had forced him to pick up photographic ID and proof of address from his flat on the way up to the prison.

‘Great,’ Morton said, then strode for the security desk. He pressed his forefinger against the guard’s biometric reader and the light pinged green.

‘Hey! Wait up!’ Ayala called out. Morton pretended not to hear him, and went around the nearest corner to pick up a coffee from the vending machine hidden there.

Eventually, Ayala caught up with him. But not before being fingerprinted, photographed and entered into the prison’s biometric system.

‘Hey, you could have warned me!’

‘And miss all the fun? At least you only have to go through that once,’ Morton said then added under his breath ‘...per prison.’

‘Which way?’

‘Down the hallway,’ Morton said with a smile. There were seven residential wings in four buildings coming off the main entrance hall. Francis Patrick Malone, or Prisoner A7745BW as he was known inside, was still in the A-Wing where all new arrivals went for their first night in Pentonville or, in Paddy’s case, his first night back.

The prison housed nearly thirteen hundred inmates, though it was rated for only nine hundred and thirteen. Overcrowding was a perpetual problem, as were rats.

‘Funny. Quit messing with me, would you? This places gives me the creeps.’

‘Fine. Got a quid I can borrow?’

Ayala dove into his pocket and pulled a handful of shrapnel. He picked out a solitary pound coin and handed it over.

‘Cheers. I need it for the lockers. All personal belongings – your phone, your wallet, your keys, they all need to go in a locker. The mechanism needs a pound coin.’

Ayala pouted. ‘But you just took my only pound coin!’

‘Yep. I guess we’re sharing,’ Morton said.

Once all the formalities were out of the way, they were escorted to an interview suite where a tape recorder and two sealed blank tapes sat on the desk waiting for them along with a pencil and notepad. The notepad looked like it had once been spiral-bound, but someone appeared to have taken the precaution of removing the metal rings that held it together.

Paddy was led in a few minutes later, shackled and looking dejected. He sat down opposite Morton and Ayala and immediately slumped in his chair like a sullen teenager.

Morton unwrapped the tapes in front of Paddy, and began to give his usual spiel about why he was taping the interview.

‘Yeah, yeah I’ve heard it all before. I’ve got the right to remain silent, blah blah. This ain’t my first time at the dance. What the feck do you want?’ Paddy demanded.

‘Before we begin, I must advise you that–’

‘That I’m entitled to a lawyer. Don’t want one. How about a hooker? Can you do me one of those?’

‘Very droll. Am I to assume then that you’re happy to talk to us without a lawyer?’

‘Yup. I ain’t done shit, so you can’t pin it on me. I’ve been strip-searched, offered rehab, and then you pigs come right on dinner time. It’s getting cold in my cell right now, and if I don’t get back soon my new cellmate will eat it. It’s pie and mash night. Five o’clock. Every night. Why you gotta come at just after five?’ Paddy whined.

‘Ellis DeLange. You were at her thirtieth birthday party.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘So? It was a deadly party. Loads of us were there.’

‘Not everyone at the party has a rap sheet for dealing.’

‘Some gobshite say I was supplying? ’Cause I wasn’t. Hump off and find some other patsy.’

‘Did you see Ellis that night?’

‘Duh. It was her birthday,’ Paddy said.

‘And when did you leave?’

‘Dunno. Late.’

‘Anyone see you go?’

‘Yeah, Gabby. We were together the whole time.’

‘Run us through the last bit of the party. The few minutes before you left.’

‘I was in the kitchen, getting bladdered and playing poker with Kal when Gabby came running out, crying about something. Kal scarpered, leaving me with her. Then that posh twat–’

‘Lord Culloden?’ Morton interjected.

‘So he says. He came out to talk to Gabby. Seems it was him that upset her. I told him where to stick it, and we left. That was that.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Walked to Richmond Station, grabbed a taxi and went home.’

‘And where was the birthday girl during all this?’

‘Upstairs. She’d been doing shots since seven, and headed to bed early.’

‘You didn’t see her on the way out?’

Paddy shook his head.

‘Or anyone else?’

‘Nah. Just Kal, Gabby ’n’ me and the prick. That was it.’

‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual?’

‘Nope. I had a few drinks, played cards and came home with Gabby, the hottest girl at the party. Didn’t see nothing, don’t know nothing.’

‘You know Ellis is dead.’

‘Yep. I didn’t do it. Got me an alibi. I gotta tell you that feels good. I shouldn’t have to prove I didn’t do nothing, but today I can. Ask Gabby. Now if there’s nothin’ else, I’ll be having my dinner.’

Morton hit the button to end the recording, handed Paddy the information notice he was obliged to give him and then watched as Paddy immediately crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor, and then he was gone.

‘So what do you think of his story?’ Ayala asked.

‘Malone’s a natural liar. I’d bet my pension he’s still dealing. A bit odd that he volunteered an alibi so easily. But his story isn’t going to be hard to verify. Richmond Station is CCTV central, so if he didn’t get a cab there, it was a stupid lie to tell.’

‘And if he’s not lying?’

‘Then we’ve got a conundrum, because his story puts Ellis DeLange alone in her house at the time of her death.’

‘What if Lord Culloden didn’t really leave? Or Kal? Just because Paddy thinks they left, doesn’t mean that they did.’

‘Right you are. Nothing to prove Paddy didn’t double back either. But right now, they all seem to agree that they left and our victim was alive when they did. Anyone could have left and come back.’

‘They could all be in on it?’

‘Possible but not likely. Can you imagine a good reason that a dealer, a peer, a model and a television presenter would decide to murder a friend?’

‘OK. Someone else then? Vladivoben?’

‘Possible, but we’ve no evidence to indicate that. It’s also possible that Kal killed her and then just moved the body later. So far no one is claiming to have seen our victim since she was in her bedroom so how did she make it downstairs to the swimming pool?’

Chapter 9: The Culloden Estate

Tuesday April 8th – 11:00

Lord Culloden’s address was listed as The Culloden Estate, Shirley Hills, Croydon. It was a thirty-five minute drive from New Scotland Yard, and about the same distance from Richmond in quiet traffic. Once past zone one, the roads were plain sailing and they made it out to Croydon only marginally slower than the Sat Nav’s estimate.

Culloden Manor was situated off a private road, a few minutes from the A232. When Morton and Ayala arrived, they were greeted by a thick stone wall and an impressive security gate at the foot of the driveway. Morton was surprised to see an elderly guard sat in a hut just inside the estate. When the guard saw Morton pull up the driveway, he shuffled from his seat and walked with a limp towards a pedestrian gate off to one side.

Ayala leaned in conspiratorially. ‘He doesn’t look like much of a security guard, does he? One good chase and it’d be all over.’

Morton scowled. ‘If you think being old counts you out, I’ll find you a transfer to another department tomorrow.’

Ayala fell silent.

The elderly guard rattled a great key ring full of keys, eventually found the right one and then unlocked the gate before ambling over to Morton’s car to rap on the driver’s-side window. Morton slid it down with the touch of a button.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton, and this is Detective Inspector Ayala. We’re here to see the Lord of the Manor.’

The old man frowned, as if trying to work out if he had forgotten an appointment.

‘Is he expecting you?’ he asked.

‘We don’t have an appointment. Would you be kind enough to phone up and ask if he might be able to see us?’

The old man limped off, and Morton watched him return to the guard hut. He spoke animatedly on the telephone. When he’d finished, he hit a switch which opened the main gate.

‘Straight up the driveway. The main house is about a mile down. You’ll be met at the front door. And mind the daffodils. Someone’s already run over one of the beds this year, and his Lordship wasn’t best pleased.’

Morton nodded. The drive was lined with oak trees whose branches entwined overhead, causing dappled light to splay across the gravel driveway. It really was quite pretty, and made a pleasant change from the drab grey of inner-city London.

About halfway down the road, Morton passed an access road going off into the woods. Eventually the drive ended in a great circle that stopped in front of an enormous oak door guarded by a pair of stone gargoyles stationed either side. The Manor was a grade one listed building with stone parapets that loomed overhead. According to Morton’s research, the Manor was the site of a minor skirmish during the War of the Roses. He imagined archers lining up at the narrow windows to rain death down upon those assaulting the Manor.

Just as the guard had promised, a man waited for them on the front steps. He was a short, grey-haired man who had to be at least sixty.

‘Lord Culloden, I presume?’ Morton said.

‘His Lordship is not at home at present. I am merely the butler. Lady Culloden asked me to see you through to the living room, if you’d care to follow me.’

He swept through the doorway with Morton and Ayala trailing in his wake. They strode briskly along the hall and into a sitting room blessed with a double-height ceiling and enormous bay windows opening out onto the rear of the property. The gardens were as grandiose at the back as they were at the front. A gardener perched on top of a stepladder dangling over a hedgerow. He hoisted a pair of hedge trimmers that looked like they could decapitate a man. As Morton watched, he struck the hedge quickly and several branches fell to the ground leaving behind a level top. There was something to be said for working outdoors, especially in the springtime.

A floorboard creaking snapped Morton out of his reverie, and he turned to see a young lady enter. Morton glanced at Ayala, who flashed a cheeky grin. If this was Mrs Culloden then Mr Culloden was surely the luckiest pensioner on the planet.

‘Lady Culloden?’ Morton said.

‘Indeed. I am she.’

‘You’re Lord Culloden’s wife?’

‘Correct. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘We were hoping to speak with your husband.’

‘That, my dear, was readily apparent. However he is not here, as you can plainly see. Perhaps I can assist you?’

‘This is a matter of some delicacy, My Lady–’

‘Please, call me Harriet. Lady Culloden makes me sound like an elderly lady who lives in a great big house with a dozen cats, and I hate cats.’

‘At least you’ve got the big house,’ Ayala said.

‘Quite.’ Harriet turned up her nose at Ayala and sniffed.

Morton continued gingerly: ‘As I was saying, we’d like to talk to your husband about a party he attended in Richmond on the night of Saturday the 30th March.’

‘The 30th of March you say? This year? There must be some mistake. We were in Venice for the weekend. I can send Grant to fetch our plane tickets if you so wish.’

‘That would be helpful.’

Harriet picked up a small glass bell from a side table that Morton hadn’t previously noticed, and rang it once. A high-pitched ring echoed throughout the room and the man who had greeted Morton and Ayala at the steps reappeared.

‘You rang, m’lady?’

‘Fetch me our plane tickets from his Lordship’s study. The ones from our trip to Venice last month.’

‘At once.’

Grant spun on his heel and disappeared. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Silence ensued as the trio waited for Grant’s return. When he did, he appeared with a small silver platter atop which sat an envelope. Harriet took it from Grant, nodded her thanks and handed it to Morton.

Morton upended it, and two return plane tickets spilled out. First class. Harriet and Lord Culloden were indeed out of the country over the weekend of Ellis DeLange’s birthday.

‘Harriet, why do these tickets say Mr and Mrs Culloden?’

‘My husband’s title is a manorial one. Technically, he is Mr Culloden, Lord of the Manor of Culloden but that’s such a mouthful. Everyone simply calls him Lord Culloden for convenience. I’m sorry to say such titles carry little weight with the sort of riffraff who run airlines.’

‘Do you know Miss Ellis DeLange?’

‘The photographer? The one who the papers say was murdered? Heavens no. We would never consort with anyone like that.’

Morton wanted to curse. He knew the papers would report the death, but he didn’t think it would be quite so quick. Not only did they now have an impostor pretending to be an elderly landowner to track down, but now the press would be breathing down his neck. Instead, he forced himself to smile politely.

‘Thank you for your time, Lady Culloden.’

Chapter 10: Missing Something

Tuesday April 8th – 13:00

By the time Morton and Ayala arrived back at New Scotland Yard, Mayberry had assembled the press clippings from the daily newspapers and placed them on Morton’s desk. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The same large photograph of Edgecombe Lodge, no doubt taken through the gaps in the gate using a long-range camera lens, was splashed across the front pages of all of the major daily newspapers. A tiny caption in the corner of the image credited the copyright to Rafe Soros Photography.