Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (8 page)

‘Do you know Lord Culloden’s full name?’

‘Beats me. I only met him a few times. We aren’t on first-name terms. Ellis worked with him, I think. Or for him, maybe?’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Nope.’

‘Or anything else?’

‘He drives a Mercedes. An old one, like forty years old. He always said it’s a classic. Junker, more like it. The thing was a rust bucket on wheels. Ooh, do you think I could get me a new one of those?’

Morton ignored her. ‘What colour was it?’

‘Black... No, dark blue... or black. I don’t know. It was dark.’

‘Anything else you know about him?’

Brianna cocked her head to one side. ‘He’s banging that little tart Gabby, Eli’s model friend.’

‘That would be Miss Gabriella Curzon?’

Brianna nodded. ‘That’s her. She worked with Eli too. Used to be a model, see.’

‘Used to be?’ Ayala asked.

‘Yeah. She went back to university last year. Now thinks she’s all high and mighty.’

‘What’s she studying?’ Morton said.

‘Law. She’ll never make it. Not unless blowjobs count as oral persuasion.’ Brianna laughed heartily at her own joke.

‘And where does she live?’

‘Tottenham Court Road. I went there once. Quite nice, but oh so loud! I can’t imagine sleeping with that noise roaring below. I suppose you want her address. I’ve got it in my phone. I suppose I’ll be getting a new phone soon too!’

Brianna pulled out her phone, and typed in her PIN carelessly. 5051. Morton made a mental note, just in case.

‘Aha, here it is. 1 Eastcastle Place, Bernard Street. It’s right bang in the middle of Fitzrovia.’

Ayala leapt into action, dutifully scribbling the address into the notebook he kept stowed in his jacket pocket.

‘Save your paper, detective. I know where it is.’ Morton turned to Brianna. ‘One last question: do you use pentobarbital here?’

Brianna’s jaw went slack for a split second, but she covered up her surprise quickly. ‘Of course we do. This is a veterinary clinic and it’s sometimes necessary to put animals to sleep.’

‘Thank you for your time.’

On the way back out, Morton said under his breath: ‘I guess we now know where Ellis was getting her pentobarbital fix.’

‘Maybe. Just because she had access, it doesn’t mean she’s dealing.’

‘Are you really that naïve? Get a sample from the receptionist.’

Morton lengthened his stride as soon as they were back into the reception area, and made for the exit.

‘Hey! Where are you going?’

‘Home. It’s late. Get me that sample. See you bright and early.’

***

Morton knew something was up the moment he walked through the front door. Tuesday was his night to cook, so the sight of Sarah wearing an apron made him suspicious.

‘What’d you do?’ he asked knowingly.

Sarah turned away from the stove to flash a smile, then said, ‘Nothing... yet.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce and hand cut French fries. There’s been a Barolo airing on the dining table since first thing. Would you mind pouring while I plate up?’

Morton picked up the bottle, and wiped dust from the label with a napkin to reveal it was a 1985 vintage: the good stuff, which Morton never thought worth buying for himself, but which they inevitably got given by Sarah’s side of the family every Christmas.

‘Now I know you want something! Tuesday the eighth...’ Morton murmured to himself, trying to work out if he’d missed a special occasion. He poured the wine, allowing himself a generous glass, then swirled it around before inhaling deeply. Notes of pepper, dried berries and chewy tannins hit him immediately.

‘Wow.’

Sarah leaned through the doorway. The apron was gone, revealing a slinky black dress. ‘I told you it’d be worth the wait.’

‘You certainly are. The wine isn’t bad either.’

Sarah chuckled. ‘You old charmer, you.’

‘So, what is it? Did I forget something or are you after something?’

They both knew it was the latter. Morton’s memory was virtually infallible – for things he considered important anyway.

‘Just a second.’ Sarah disappeared back towards the kitchenette. Morton heard the clang of cutlery as dinner was served, and she reappeared a minute later. After setting the plates down and lighting a candle in the centre of the table, Sarah sat down and took a sip of wine. Morton looked on expectantly, his food untouched.

‘You know you keep saying no to retiring,’ Sarah began but was cut off.

Morton flared up. He couldn’t help but raise his voice. ‘How many times do we have to discuss this? A man doesn’t hit fifty and immediately lose his marbles. I’ll keep going until they won’t let me any longer.’

‘Whoa! Slow down. That isn’t where this is going. And don’t let that get cold.’

Morton bit his lip sheepishly. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘So you should be. As I was saying, you’re not giving up anytime soon, and the kids have long since flown the nest. I’ve been thinking – if you’re not on the scrap heap just yet, then I’m not either.’

Morton took a bite of the steak, chewed and then swallowed. ‘You want to go back to work?’

‘Back? I’m not sure I got a great deal of work done in the first place.’ Sarah gave him an accusatory glare.

‘Hey! That took two to happen. It wasn’t all my fault.’

‘I want to go back to university,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what I want to study yet, but lots of people our age are going back to it.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s only part-time, and we can definitely afford it. I’ve been talking to the admissions officer at Brunel, and she told me I could qualify for any one of a number of master’s programmes.’

‘Yes.’

‘I know I’m too old really, and that I probably won’t go back to work after, but it would be great to get out and learn something new.’

‘Sarah... I said yes. Twice. I think it’s a great idea. You don’t need to sell me on this. What do you fancy studying?’

‘I was thinking that I might look into journalism or maybe criminology. Speaking of journalism, have you seen today’s paper?’ Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Morton sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. I’m in it.’

‘No, but your victim is.’

‘Where’d you hide our copy of
The Impartial
?’ Morton rose, as if to go look for it.

‘It’s in the recycling box in the kitchen–’

Morton stomped off to find his newspaper.

She called after him: ‘David! Leave it! You haven’t finished your steak yet.’

But he was long gone. He found the newspaper right at the bottom of the recycling box. Sarah was always so predictable. It wasn’t his first time to the media circus rodeo.

He flattened the newspaper out on the sideboard, and flipped quickly through the pages. He didn’t have to look too far. Ellis DeLange’s death had warranted a two-page spread on pages eight and nine. Morton ignored the blown-up pictures of Ellis which compared her picture at twenty-five with the most recent picture they could find, as the reporter had come to the same conclusion Morton had. Ellis had not aged well.

‘Damn!’ Morton exclaimed. Two paragraphs in, Morton spotted his worse fears.

‘Ellis had allegedly been abusing pentobarbital. More commonly thought of as the drug which will put down a sick dog, pentobarbital can be abused to induce euphoria.’

Sarah appeared behind him, and lightly touched his arm.

‘They know about the drugs, even down to the specific type taken. That shouldn’t have hit the newspapers yet!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You know what this means? There’s got to be a leak in my department.’

‘If there were, wouldn’t they know more? I’ve read all the papers today. None have said anything about a naked man running from the scene in the dead of night, and you know that would be front page news,’ Sarah argued.

‘I suppose you’re right. But we only just found out about the pentobarbital.’

‘So someone in Ellis’ life spilled the beans. Money is a formidable temptress.’

Morton crumpled up the paper, and threw it back in the recycling. ‘It’s got to be the sister.’

‘Maybe. You can find out in the morning. I’ve got a movie in. Come take the evening off. I even made dessert.’

‘You really did think I’d say no. I would never do that to you. It’s your choice what you want to do with your days.’

‘Well then, I choose a quiet night in with my husband.’

Morton smiled. The question of who was selling details of his investigation to the press could wait.

He wouldn’t have to wait long.

Chapter 12: Wake Up Britain!

Wednesday April 9th – 07:30

Kal wasn’t doing his normal breakfast segment. The fifteen minutes normally allotted to discussing who might win in the Wednesday evening Premier League fixtures had been ditched in favour of what the viewers really wanted to hear about: the murder of Ellis DeLange.

It was an open secret at the studio that Kal and Ellis had been an item, so when the producers had been offered the opportunity of an exclusive interview with the dead girl’s little sister, she had immediately roped in Kal to round out the show, and so Kal sat not on the presenter’s sofa on the
Wake Up Britain!
set but on the guest sofa instead. Kal would have preferred to have stayed in bed, but orders were orders, and at least this way Brianna wouldn’t be able to stab him in the back.

Brianna sat to his right looking every bit the grieving sister. Her mascara had been artfully smudged to give the appearance that she simply couldn’t hold back the tears and she clutched a box of tissues in her left hand.

Kal’s co-host, Meredith Creswell, sat forward on her sofa to listen to Brianna speak.

‘Growing up with my sister was... Do you have a sister?’ Brianna asked.

Meredith nodded. ‘Two.’

‘Then you know what it’s like. She annoyed me constantly. We competed over clothes, jewellery and boys. She could be incredibly frustrating. She had to win at everything, and everything had to be done her own way. She was so smart. Twelve ‘A’ grade GCSEs. Our parents always said she could have done anything. But Ellis didn’t want to be a lawyer or doctor. She chose photography. On her eighteenth birthday, she packed her bags and moved to a squat in Covent Garden with an older man. The rest, as they say, is history.’

‘She sounds like a real free spirit.’

‘She was. But she always had time for me. When I needed to talk, she was there. And when our parents died...’ Brianna said, then paused to sob. She dabbed at her perfectly dry eyes with a tissue, and when the camera panned back, Kal could see she had brushed the corner of her eyes with artificial tears.

Brianna huffed, then pretended to pull herself together with a shudder. ‘It’s been just the two of us for a while now. Our parents died a few years back, and Ellis, well, Ellis didn’t take it too well.’

Meredith shuffled forwards to the edge of the sofa, and leant towards Brianna. ‘That’s an understatement! I remember she was all over the papers back then.’

‘Our parents’ demise started her on a downward spiral. They weren’t exactly old.’

‘It was a car crash, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. One night the roads were icy, and Daddy lost control. Mummy died within minutes. When Dad found out she didn’t survive the crash, he became despondent. Three days later, he was gone. It was like they were soulmates and couldn’t survive without each other.’

‘Did you sister ever stop taking drugs?’

‘I hope so. I never saw her take them. She was always careful to hide that part of herself away from me. Whenever I was around, she was the perfect big sister. But the police say she still had some in her system on the night she died.’

‘What happened that night?’

‘I don’t know. It was her birthday. The big three oh. We had a party at her home in Richmond. The last time I saw her, she was arguing.’ Brianna shot a nasty glance at Kal.

‘With who?’ Meredith stared intently. Apparently, she had not been primed to expect this titbit of information.

Brianna waited for hush before she turned the knife in. ‘Kallum Fielder,’ she whispered softly, just loudly enough for the microphone attached to her lapel to catch what she was saying.

A gasp rose through the audience as they collectively contemplated that the murderer might be in their midst. A silence fell as everyone in the studio turned to Kal for a response.

Kal exhaled deeply. He knew it would come out sooner or later, but he didn’t expect the accusatory glances he got when he replied. ‘It’s true. We did argue–’

Before Kal could finish his sentence, the screens around the studio cut suddenly to black. Meredith placed her hand to her ear as she strained to hear a voice over her radio.

‘We’ve cut to previews,’ Meredith said. ‘You’ve got a two-minute reprieve, Kal.’

A producer bolted forward from the back, and waved a warm-up artist into action. The man, who was paid to keep the audience in a ready state, leapt into action and began talking to the audience.

Kal pulled his microphone off, and gesticulated rudely towards the producer. ‘What the hell, Si?’ he asked the man. The producer was Simon Keller, a legend among the crew of
Wake Up Britain!
Kal had known him for years.

‘You know what’s up. If you’re about to admit something, you need to talk to legal first. Don’t do something stupid here.’

‘I’m not. Eli and I argued. It wasn’t serious. Couples argue.’

Simon looked doubtful. He glanced over at Brianna, who was watching Kal with an expression of curiosity.

‘Si, I didn’t kill Eli. Let me clear my name. I know you want the ratings,’ Kal implored.

‘Thirty seconds!’ a stagehand yelled out. Kal began to tuck his microphone wire back underneath his shirt.

Simon nodded briskly, then stepped back off the stage just as the cameras began rolling again.

The stagehand held up five fingers then began putting them down one by one. ‘Three...two...one!’

Meredith smiled. ‘Our apologies for the interruption, we had some technical difficulties for a moment there. I’m here with Brianna DeLange and Kallum Fielder discussing the death of Ellis DeLange. Kal, you were just saying how much you regret your last interaction with Ellis.’