Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (7 page)

So far all the papers were taking the same tack. Ellis DeLange had been found dead and the famed DCI Morton had picked up the case. A few of the sleazier tabloids made reference to an old article about Ellis. Back then it had been her fall from grace that had interested the media. One day, Ellis had been the darling of the fashion world. The next, she was its scapegoat. Drugs were involved, but she was never prosecuted. Morton made a mental note to find out why charges had not been brought.

‘Look at this. Three days from being discovered dead to hitting the front page of every major newspaper. We’ve got a fairly artsy piece in this one talking about her photography. Apparently some schmuck thinks he’s a millionaire after putting an original print on eBay and seeing it sell for a cool one point two mil. As if the buyer is ever going to pay up!’

‘Ayala, get your nose out of the gossip column. Unless the papers know something we don’t, we’ll ignore them as long as we can. Is Purcell still in the Incident Room? Good. Go get him.’

Morton watched as Ayala left, then pulled out a notepad and began to jot down what they knew so far. The victim had died at home on the night of her thirtieth birthday during a celebratory party which had been attended by numerous guests. She was alive after most of them were gone, but had spent the majority of the party sulking after a fight with her equally famous boyfriend which he claimed was about money. By the end of the night, she had just six people in the house including her: her boyfriend, her sister, her best friend, the mysterious impostor, and her alleged drug dealer.

Five suspects. One argument. One multi-million-pound property in Richmond. One career criminal. And one complete unknown.

The door to Morton’s office creaked as Ayala returned with the Chief Scene of Crime Officer, Stuart Purcell, trailing in his wake. Where Ayala was exceedingly tall, chiselled and overdressed for the office, Purcell was the polar opposite. His chubby cherub-like features belied a seriousness and attention to detail that Morton admired – and he had a box of doughnuts tucked under one arm.

Purcell set the box on the edge of the desk where it perched atop a pile of old files. ‘Help yourself, gents.’

Ayala waved off the offer of a doughnut.

‘Counting calories again?’ Purcell asked with a grin.

‘Nope. Just not piling them on like there’s a shortage on. Some of us actually need to be able to run after criminals.’

‘Touché. I’ll stick to the better-paid, safer work that comes with doughnuts. Speaking of food, did you guys spot the pizza boxes all over our victim’s house?’

Ayala nodded, not removing his gaze from the box of doughnuts. ‘Hard to miss them. They were from
Trattoria Da Mondo
. Tiny place, a few doors up from Richmond Station. I called them up. Evidently, Miss DeLange was a fan. They don’t normally do deliveries, but she’s only five minutes around the corner and she tips well so they make an exception if it’s quiet enough to spare someone for five minutes.’

Morton tapped his fingers lightly on the desk. ‘Did they deliver on the night of the party?’

‘The guy I spoke to didn’t know. Apparently three brothers own the place, and they alternate which nights they work.’

‘Hmm. It’s probably not important. She could have picked them up or sent someone else to pick them up or they could be from a month ago. There’s so much junk you’d never be able to tell. Send Mayberry anyway. Visiting a pizzeria should be just about within his sphere of competence. What have we got in the way of DNA, Stuart?’

The tech swallowed a mouthful of doughnut. ‘Hundreds of samples. We don’t have the time to test everything, but I think we can make a good start by looking at a couple of the more relevant samples.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as a toothbrush with male DNA stored in the en-suite to the master bedroom–’

‘Which probably belongs to the boyfriend, Kal Fielder,’ Morton said.

‘That was my thinking too. That sample’s donor has been all over the house so it’s a fairly safe assumption. I found seminal DNA from another donor–’

‘In her bedroom?’

‘Actually, no. We haven’t finished processing the bedroom yet. It was on a towel caught on a rosebush outside.’

‘Our mystery nudist.’

Purcell’s eyes flew wide open. ‘
Nudist
?’

‘Yep. We’ve got a witness who saw a man fleeing the scene in the buff after midnight.’

‘That doesn’t seem like much of a getaway plan for a murder. If it were me, I’d wear dark clothing and sneak away.’

‘Quite. If he isn’t Kal Fielder then we’ve got two other male suspects. Door number one, Paddy Malone, convicted drug dealer. Door number two, our impostor Lord Culloden.’

‘Or it could be a third person entirely,’ Purcell suggested.

‘I doubt it. We’ve got the victim plus five others in the house when she died, as far as we know. We know this DNA is male, and we think it isn’t the boyfriend. Process of elimination says our most likely suspects are Malone and our unknown male.’

‘There’s nothing to suggest the DNA was from that night.’

‘The towel was outside. If it had been there for longer, why wouldn’t she have brought it back inside? It fits with the timeline – a man flees the house wrapped in a towel which gets caught on the rosebush. He then jumps the fence and disappears into the night,’ Ayala said.

‘I don’t buy someone committing murder but not having the faculties to get dressed before fleeing. And where did the clothes go? I didn’t see any trousers or shirts on the scene. Did you?’ Morton asked, a flash of a lost suit jacket flitting briefly into his mind. The orphaned jacket had to come from somewhere. Morton pushed the thought away. The presence of a suit jacket alone was immaterial. It could have been left by any of the guests who attended earlier in the evening.

‘Nope. No men’s shoes, shirts or trousers at all. Not even an overnight bag for the boyfriend,’ Purcell said.

‘Then someone else took them, which presupposes someone else being in the house, alive, after our nudist – which means he isn’t the killer. And five become four.’

‘The partygoers aren’t our only suspects. What if the neighbour, Vladivoben, killed her?’

‘Over a simple noise complaint?’ Morton countered. ‘Why not simply phone us? As motives go, that’s weak. What about money? Who gets the house? That’s got to be worth a good three million.’

‘We didn’t find a copy of Ellis’ last will and testament anywhere in the house, though there was a safe stacked with £20 notes hidden inside. And yes, they did all end up in the evidence log. Ayala watched me count them into an evidence bag,’ Purcell said.

‘No will means the sister gets the lot. Three million quid buys a lot of motive.’

‘If Ellis had money then why would she have been arguing with the boyfriend about money? And she could have a will in a bank deposit box or with her solicitor,’ Ayala said.

‘Then find out. Call her bank and her lawyer. If there’s a will, I want to know about it. What else did we find?’

‘Plane tickets for Heathrow to New York, and a receipt showing Ellis made a payment to the USA’s Electronic System for Travel Authorization website. It confirms Kal’s story and explains why no one thought she was missing.’

‘That’s pretty convenient timing. Who would have known about her travel plans, apart from Kal?’

‘She could have told anyone at the party. Who hired her for the New York gig?’

‘We don’t know. The details are probably on her laptop, which needs to be decrypted. It’s in the queue.’

‘Bump it to the top.’

Purcell shook his head. ‘No can do. You’re not the only Murder Investigation Team, and this isn’t exactly crucial.’

Morton glared. ‘What can you give me then?’

‘I can give you a thermostat. Ellis had a fully automated system which was designed to save energy by only heating rooms that are in use or are going to be in use. In theory it could have cut her energy bills by at least–’

Morton glared again. ‘Anything useful? Like evidence I can actually use?’

‘N-no... I suppose not.’

‘Then get going and see what you can do to expedite my DNA.’ Purcell bit his lip and nodded sheepishly before scooping up the leftover doughnuts and scurrying from Morton’s office as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him.

Once Purcell was gone, Ayala said: ‘That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?’

‘We don’t have time to dawdle here. The press are only going to get more voracious and we’ll come under scrutiny. Better he hears it from me than the Superintendent next week.’

‘You think this is the Matthews case all over again.’

‘No... It’ll be worse. Our victim is famous. Thank God the press haven’t caught wind of our fake Lord of the Manor yet. That sort of scandal mixed with violence and new money would have the journos from
The Impartial
frothing at the gills.’

‘Any clue who he is?’

‘I think there’s a work connection. How else would she have come into contact with him? If Purcell can get that laptop open then we can find out who she’s been working with.’

‘Maybe the sister would know? We’ve got to speak to her again to find out about her inheritance.’

‘Right you are. Go call our victim’s bank now, and see if you can find out who her solicitor is. I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To send Mayberry out on a wild pizza chase.’

***

Morton found DS Mayberry in the Incident Room, poring over a whiteboard adorned with the names of party attendees that Brianna had printed off of her social media account.

Mayberry had drawn a crude mobile phone to the right of each of those he had managed to contact, and a red X against those who had been due to attend but had been no-shows on the night. About half the list had such an X.

‘Mayberry, do you have a minute?’

‘Y-yes, boss,’ Mayberry stuttered. Mayberry had a speech impediment. Occasionally he stuttered. But he often used the wrong word, which sometimes had unintended consequences.

‘How’s the canvass going?’

‘Pretty well. We’ve been out on the paths of Richmond all week. Lots of... home... home...’

‘Homeowners?’ Morton prompted.

Mayberry nodded vigorously. ‘They knew Ellis lived in the local area, but none of those we spoke to were on smiley terms with her. W-we did learn that our naked man was sawn–’

‘Seen,’ Morton corrected automatically.

‘–throughout Richmond. He was spotted r-running along the high street.’

‘Drunk?’

‘We don’t think so. He was sawn–’

‘Was seen!’ Morton corrected, again.

Mayberry screwed up his face, apologised, and continued: ‘Sawn in the darkness heading up towards Richmond Park by a few of the homeless folks that sleep near there. The main gates are locked at dusk, but pedestrians can get in around the clock. We think he slept in the park because the next sighting was him coming back out of the park and heading down Church Road at about six.’

‘Anyone snap a photo?’

‘N-no. I’m trying to find somewhere along the road with, erm, moving v-video thing.’ Mayberry frowned as he searched for the right phrase.

‘CCTV?’

‘Yes. To get a picture. All we know is he’s white, about six foot tall and in his late thirties to early forties.’

‘Well, that narrows it down to about three hundred thousand Londoners... Good work, Mayberry. I’ve got another job for you. At the crime scene we found dozens of pizza boxes from
Trattoria Da Mondo
. I need to know if they delivered to her on the night she died, and if so at what time.’

‘I’m on it... and boss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks for giving m-me another chance.’

Morton nodded, spun on his heel and headed for the car park. Mayberry might be a halfwit, and he might be the Superintendent’s future son-in-law, but he was a half decent halfwit.

Chapter 11: Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital

Tuesday April 8th – 15:00

It was nearing three o’clock by the time Morton and Ayala made it to the Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital where Brianna worked. As soon as they walked into the clinic, a particularly aggressive Dachshund began to yip and pulled on its lead. Ayala leapt away in surprise, eliciting a wry smile from the older officer.

‘Down!’ The Dachshund’s owner grunted. ‘Sorry ’bout that. He’s not used to strangers.’

‘Nor, it seems, is my detective,’ Morton said before heading for a small hatch at the back of the reception through which a secretary could be seen tapping away at a laptop.

‘Afternoon. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton. Is Miss Brianna Jackson available, please?’

‘She’s in the back cleaning out the cages. Go on through the door to your left then all the way down the hall to the back. I’ll buzz you in.’

The secretary pressed a button under the desk and the door buzzed loudly. Once on the other side they proceeded as instructed and found Brianna on her hands and knees with a sponge in one hand and a bucket of soapy water next to her. A strong odour of wet dog pervaded the air.

At the sound of their footsteps, Brianna looked up.

‘Detective Morton! Did we have an appointment? I’m afraid I’m about to finish for the day.’

‘We’ll keep this brief then. Firstly, have you seen your sister’s will?’ Morton was careful to avoid letting on that, as far as he knew, there wasn’t one.

Brianna’s eyes widened. ‘Her will? No... Am I a beneficiary? Shouldn’t her lawyer be telling me this?’

‘We haven’t discovered one. Our inquiries lead us to believe your sister died intestate, which would mean that her immediate family will inherit – subject to inheritance tax of course.’

‘Knock me down with a feather! I’m all she had. I get everything?’ Brianna smiled toothily then suppressed her greed the moment she saw Morton’s revolted glare.

‘As I said, we can’t confirm the absence of a will, but if she doesn’t have one then yes, I suppose you do. I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Ask away!’ By now, Brianna’s gaze had drifted off to the side dreamily. Morton supposed she was mentally spending her sister’s estate.