The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) (17 page)

‘That’s him.’

‘His throat was cut, and he bled out,’ Chiswick said. ‘What more do you need to know?’

It was oddly terse. The coroner was rarely so defensive about his past cases.

‘Could you have missed anything?’ Morton asked.

‘How bloody dare you, David! Since when have you known me to half-arse anything?’ Chiswick’s cheeks flared, and he turned sharply on his heel and stomped off towards his office.

Morton thought the coroner was gone, but then he heard a printer whir to life. Chiswick returned carrying a bundle of paper a quarter of an inch thick. He roughly thrust the printouts at Morton.

‘That’s everything I’ve got.’

Morton balanced the pile on his left arm and began to flick through. There were blurred photos of the tattoos Morton had seen in the crime scene photos, but they didn’t belong to any gangs that Morton knew of. He made a mental note to shoot a copy over to Xander Thompson for a second opinion.

Yacobi’s medical history was included in the file. He’d been shot, stabbed and beaten three times in the six months preceding his death. On the last occasion he’d been stabbed sixteen times and had required an enormous blood transfusion of six pints just to survive the night.

‘Look all you like,’ Chiswick said. ‘There’s nothing in there that’s medically relevant to his death. His throat was cut and he bled out. End of story.’

M
onday April 13th 16:00

Morton caught up with Ayala and Rafferty after his meeting with the coroner. The Bitcoin revelation made sense. It was physical, yet intangible. Safe, but moveable. It came as no surprise that a member of the Bakowski family would get creative with stashing away their ill-gotten gains. The biggest win was that the discovery cleared Morton and Ayala of all wrongdoing and fixed what could have been a lingering stain on their reputations despite their innocence.

Morton had just enough time to ping off two emails before the next meeting of the day.

The first was to Xander Thompson to bring him up to speed. The second was to Kieran O’Connor at the Crown Prosecution Service. The lawyer had been instrumental in obtaining Proceeds of Crime Act seizures of the Bakowski family’s ill-gotten wealth, and the Bitcoins would now need to be the subject of such an application.

The meeting was an unpleasant one. The superintendent had summoned Morton again.

‘Sit.’

‘Sir, I–’

‘I said sit down, Morton.’

Morton sat. He felt like a naughty schoolboy being chastised for turning up to class late. ‘Sir?’

‘Did I or did I not tell you not to harass the Kennard twins? Did we not sit in this very office with them and promise to leave them the hell alone?’ The superintendent thumped his fist down on his desk, causing his mug to jump clear off the desk and land on its side, mercifully devoid of liquid.

‘That was before new evidence came to light.’

‘What bloody evidence?’

‘The twins came up in connection with two other murder investigations. I was well within my rights to ask them for an alibi. They agreed to the interview.’

‘Oh, they did, did they? Then, why did I just take a call from their lawyer?’

‘I guess they had a form of buyer’s remorse, sir. But the Kennard twins aren’t why you’re angry with me,’ Morton said. ‘You’re angry I sent Mayberry into danger.’

‘You’re damned right about that. The more I think about it, the more apparent it is how reckless you’ve become.’

Morton stood. ‘If you honestly think I made the wrong call, then fire me.’ Morton eyed the superintendent, fearing for just a moment that brazenly calling the superintendent’s bluff could backfire.

‘I’m not going to fire you.’

‘Then we’re wasting time that I could be using to catch a killer.’

‘Morton. Wait. This is your final chance. If you contact the twins again without talking to their lawyer first, I will fire you. You cannot keep ignoring orders and expect to remain in the Met’s employ. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘Then take this.’ The superintendent stretched out a hand containing a scrap of paper which had the name of the twins’ lawyer and his contact details scrawled on it:
Tenchi Shimizu, In-House Counsel, Nuvem Media Associates.

M
onday April 13th 15:45

The teacher proved to be the hardest to watch of them all. She rarely left the privacy of her flat, and so I had to watch her on the few occasions that she did. I found it odd how little she socialised. For someone of her age, she had few friends – even fewer than the old lady. After weeks of surveillance, I had seen just one repeat visitor. A boy. He had to be the key to understanding her lifestyle.

He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. About her age. And yet he wore a school uniform. It was right there on his chest, the logo of St Balthere’s Academy. The boy visited her daily between three thirty and three forty-five, just after school got out.

It took time to be able to follow him without being seen. I thought I had been spotted last week, just for a moment, when he turned to stare in my direction.

This afternoon he was running a little late. He walked by the bus stop at a brisk pace, and I saw him disappear along the alleyway that led to her flat.

I made it to her home thirty seconds after he did and pressed my eye to the gap in the fence at the bottom of the garden. He was on the doorstep, ringing the bell. She opened the door and greeted him with a kiss.

The pair were not merely a student and his teacher. They were lovers.

I reached into my jacket pocket. No; not now. She was with an innocent. The boy could not be harmed. Her end would have to wait.

T
uesday April 14th 06:30

Henry MacIntyre was fast approaching sixty years of age. In his long life he’d served as a submariner, raised two boys, and become a deacon in his local church. He lived a life that was extraordinarily ordinary. His morning routine was simple. He rose before the rest of the world, unlocked the doors at St Balthere’s Academy, and set about readying the place for the school day.

The first clue that all was not right presented itself upon Henry’s arrival at the front gate. The gates were unlocked; the padlock which usually held them shut was clicked tight about one half of the gate, rendering it ineffective.

‘Bloody night crew,’ Henry muttered. While it was his job to unlock each morning, the task of locking back up fell upon the night caretaker, who swept the halls after the teachers had left and was supposed to lock everything up behind him.

Henry’s first task of the day began as normal. He pulled gloves and a bag from his pocket and began to clear the detritus that inevitably littered the path. It was then that he saw the figure on the bench.

‘Ms Hogge? Is that you?’ Henry called out. When she did not reply, he moved closer. He saw that her eyes were wide and unblinking. He dashed forward and seized her wrist in search of a pulse.

She was cold to the touch, and as he recoiled she slid forward. Out of instinct, Henry caught her and instantly regretted it. Her body felt... wrong. She was like jelly, wobbly and unstructured. He lay her down along the bench, pulled out his phone, and debated who to call first: the police or the principal.

‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit.’

***

T
he fourth body was by far the most disturbing, though it didn’t seem that way at first glance.

An irate Scotsman had called it in. He was something of a janitor, though Morton soon found out that the man disliked that title. Head Groundsman. That was what he called himself. In any event, he opened the doors and picked up the rubbish.

Saint Balthere’s doors would not be opening today. The lady on the bench was Olivia Hogge. According to MacIntyre, she had been a Modern Foreign Languages tutor.

‘So, she taught French, then?’ Ayala had quipped. ‘Does everybody have a fancy title around here? Can I start calling myself Chief Justice Ayala, Protector of the Realm now?’

‘Sure. I’ll have new business cards printed up later today,’ Morton replied. ‘Your new duties include fetching me coffee and beginning the door-to-door canvass to see if anybody saw anything.’

‘In the middle of the night? Fat chance,’ Ayala said.

‘And be sure to introduce yourself using your new title. We’ve got to make sure you’re taken seriously,’ Morton said with a smile.

Morton watched as Ayala sauntered back down towards the school gates. He could see a crowd of parents waiting on the other side, no doubt primed to pelt anybody who dared to walk past them with questions about just what was going on.

The body had been covered by a hastily assembled forensics tent to shield Olivia Hogge from the view of any children, and the scene of crime officers were processing the area around her for trace evidence, but as of yet there was no sign of the coroner. Police tape had been strung up from the gate down to the swings, and then back around the tent to the fence.

He beckoned Rafferty over from near the gates, where she had been doing crowd control. ‘Any sign of him?’

‘Nothing yet. Can’t we just
look
at the body?’ Rafferty pleaded. ‘If we don’t touch it, then it’s no big deal, is it?’

Morton had to concede the point. It was freezing, and the relative shelter of the forensics tent seemed appealing. They ducked inside and found Olivia Hogge laid out just as Henry MacIntyre had left her.

The chief scene of crime officer, Stuart Purcell, was bent forward, rifling through the handbag next to the body.

‘Morning, Stuart,’ Morton said. ‘Anything interesting in there?’

Purcell straightened up. ‘She wasn’t robbed. Cash, the latest smartphone, car keys. The killer left everything.’

‘Well, bag the lot and send them to Evidence,’ Morton said. ‘What about prints?’

‘Everywhere. Thousands and thousands of ‘em. It’s a school playground. We’ve got kids’ prints, parents’ prints, and teachers’ prints. Any one of them could be our killer, or none of them could be.’

Morton nodded his thanks and allowed the bigger man to edge past him bearing a bundle of evidence bags. Once Purcell was gone, Morton had a clear view of the body.

Olivia Hogge was a pretty woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with auburn hair and skin that looked as pale and smooth as Aegean marble. In death her complexion was pallid, and yet, with her gossamer silk blouse and gold jewellery dripping from her fingers, she seemed to be dressed up as if ready for a night out. Morton could easily have mistaken her for being asleep.

‘What do you think, then, boss?’ Rafferty said. ‘Jealous boyfriend?’

‘Maybe. I suspect we’ll know more when the coroner arrives. Until then, we have to leave her as she is. Let’s go find the headmistress.’

***

T
he headmistress was in the school’s main hall with a few dozen teachers and Henry MacIntyre, who seemed to be enjoying his newfound celebrity. Morton and Rafferty slipped into the back of the room unnoticed as Henry was telling the assembled teachers his story.

‘And there I was, minding my own business, when I saw her, cold as ice, her eyes burning into mine, unblinking. I knew straight away she was gone. ’Twas the way she was sitting there, all unnaturally still and stiff, leaning against her handbag on that bench. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a body.’ MacIntyre held up his hands modestly. ‘God knows I’ve been at war. I’ve killed my share of men and beasts. This was something else. She was dolled up to the nines, all prettied like she was going out on a date. Poor Ms Hogge. Such a tragic end to a girl who never had much luck to begin with. I say we raise a glass or two in her honour down at The Library tonight!’

‘Hear, hear!’ one of the teachers exclaimed.

Once the crowd had finished murmuring their respects to Poor Ms Hogge, the headmistress harrumphed loudly to draw attention her way.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the school will be closed today while the police have the run of the grounds.’

Everyone in the room cheered, excited at the prospect of a day off, and then fell silent again almost immediately at the incongruity of cheering while a colleague lay dead.

‘That does
not
mean you have the day off. I expect to see you working on lesson plans, marking, and your upcoming personal performance review plans. If you do not feel you have anything to be done, then come see me and I will find something. Am I clear?’

The crowd dispersed, allowing Morton and Rafferty to break through to the front of the hall.

By the time the crowd had filed out, only two women were left standing at the front of the hall. One was the headmistress, a short, squat lady with curly brown hair. Morton knew her name to be Mrs Gibbs, for it had been inscribed on the entrance sign underneath the school logo.

‘Mrs Gibbs?’ Morton said.

‘I’m Lucy Gibbs. You must be the police.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Morton. This is Detective Inspector Rafferty. Could we have a moment in private?’

The headmistress followed Morton’s line of vision over to the unknown woman. ‘This is Belinda Powell, my deputy. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of her too.’

‘Very well, ma’am. How well did you know Ms Hogge?’

‘I didn’t, really. She wasn’t employed here,’ Gibbs said curtly.

‘She wasn’t?’ Rafferty said disbelievingly.

‘No. She was a cover supervisor. She did a few days here and there for us, whenever we needed a substitute.’

‘When did she last work here?’ Morton asked.

‘I don’t know. It was a while back. Six or seven months, I’d say?’ The headmistress looked over to her deputy, who looked put out at being dragged into the conversation.

Belinda Powell pursued her lips, deep in thought. ‘It was the term before last. She covered for Dobson when he broke his ankle, remember?’

‘So it was, Ms Powell. So it was.’

‘Why hasn’t she worked since?’ Morton asked. ‘Surely you’ve needed cover since?’

The deputy headmistress looked like she wanted to say something, but Gibbs cut in. ‘She was sick. Poor dear.’