Morton rose and beckoned for Mayberry to follow him. ‘She’s off her rockers,’ he whispered. ‘Baggeridge closed back in 1968, and it was in the Black Country, not London. I saw her husband’s clothing upstairs in the bedroom, and there’s no way he’s coming home. Ethel Tewson is not a reliable witness.’
‘B-but what about the b-boyfriend she saw? D-did she imagine him?’
Morton shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
***
Ayala parked outside the Swain’s Lane entrance to Highgate Cemetery. Other than the main road, it was the only place near the dump site that had reasonable CCTV. He and Rafferty had been inside for hours, poring over the tapes.
Nothing.
There were hundreds of tourists coming and going every single day, but there was nothing to suggest a murderer had passed by the camera. It didn’t help that the CCTV didn’t extend beyond the midpoint of Swain’s Lane so that the pavement on the far side went unwatched.
And Rafferty was doing his head in. What was Morton thinking, pairing them up after she’d thrown him over the fence?
The cemetery was open until five o’clock in the afternoon each day, and the foot traffic on the CCTV slowed considerably after that. The tapes from Saturday night – when the body had been dumped – showed nothing unusual, although Mrs Kennard was on the tape earlier in the day, presumably on the way to visit her late husband.
As they went back through the week prior to the murder, it was almost sad to see the lonely Mrs Kennard coming to see her husband’s grave every morning like clockwork. Every day she came in holding a bunch of flowers, and left an hour later with the previous day’s bunch clutched under her arm.
Ayala exhaled sharply. Even cigarettes weren’t doing it for him. If he was going to get paired up with Rafferty every day, then there was nothing for it but to ask for a transfer.
When the cigarette had burnt almost down to the end, he flicked it to the floor and squashed it underfoot.
‘Oi! I saw that, Bertram. I think that’s grounds for a fine, don’t you?’ Ashley Rafferty came plodding into view, a grin spread across her face.
‘Whatever.’
‘Don’t sulk, Bertie-boy. I’ll let you off if you buy the first round in the pub. We’re celebrating.’ She held up an evidence bag, which appeared to contain a small cotton swatch.
‘What on earth is that?’
‘You thick, or what? It’s a bit of cotton. I found it caught on the top of the fence. There’s blood on the edge.’
Ayala took the bag and held it up for a better view. There was the slightest twinge of pink on one edge of the fabric.
‘You think it’s from the sheet that Mrs Kennard was wrapped in?’
‘Damn right I do. The cloth was caught on top of the fence not far from her home, and there was a shrub on the other side of the fence that looks like someone sat on it. I figure the killer dumped the body over the fence the same way I put you over it: push the body against the fence, and heave with a shoulder. Then all he’d have had to do was lug the body through the trees and climb back the same way.’
‘Any proof for this little theory of yours?’
‘Plenty. There are footprints leading away from there towards the body. They intermingle with all the others at the main path, but guess what size they are?’ Rafferty taunted him.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ten.’
‘Damn.’
Same as the twins.
Chapter 6: KO
Tuesday April 7th 09:00
The incident room was buzzing by the time Morton arrived. Mayberry greeted him at the door and pointed excitedly at the drawings that he had scrawled across a large whiteboard.
Everything was neatly noted, with little QR codes printed out and taped neatly next to each item. Morton hovered over the one marked Nuvem Media Associates Financial Statements with his iPad, and a PDF pinged open.
‘Very clever,’ Morton said. ‘You think of that on your own?’
Mayberry nodded modestly.
From the files, it looked like Nuvem Media Associates was in rude financial health. Their results for the previous financial year showed two point two million in gross revenue, with a net of roughly half that. If the twins had murdered their mother, they hadn’t done it for money.
The incident room conference table filled up as Morton flicked his way through the assembled documentation. At ten past the hour Stuart Purcell, the portly chief scene of crime officer in charge of collecting and processing forensics samples, ambled in.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he mumbled over a mouthful of doughnut. ‘Anyone want one?’ He held out the box, which was large enough to have held a dozen. Only four remained, together with the grease spots that were the only evidence there had once been twelve.
‘No, thanks. Sit,’ Morton said. He looked around the table. Rafferty was sitting to his left, while Ayala had taken the seat at the opposite end of the table, as far away as it was possible to be, while Mayberry loitered near the whiteboard.
Purcell finished off his doughnut, wiped sugar-coated fingers down his shirt, and looked around nervously. ‘Shall I begin?’
‘Ayala, what are you doing hiding down there? Shuffle up. There’s plenty of space next to Rafferty. She doesn’t bite,’ Morton said. ‘Do you?’
‘Occasionally. But Dracula and I went out hunting last night, so I’m sure I can restrain myself for the rest of the meeting,’ Rafferty said.
‘OK, then. Purcell, the floor is yours.’
Purcell stood, fiddled with the drop-down screen for the projector, and then jammed a VGA cable into his laptop. His screen sprang to life on the wall. His inbox was open with a message that began Snookums, I can’t do Friday.
Before Morton could read any more, the message disappeared, leaving behind a blank desktop.
‘Carry on, then, Snookums,’ Morton said.
‘Umm... that... wasn’t mine? I...’ Purcell gazed imploringly around the room, looking for an excuse.
‘Was that a message you decrypted for someone else, then?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Yes! That’s it. It was someone else’s. Work. Not mine. Right. Two bits of news for you. Firstly, I had the lab put a rush on that cloth. It’s a match to the sheet we found with the body, and the blood is type AB too–’
‘DNA?’ Morton said.
‘Not back ‘til next week, I’d imagine. I’ll let you know. But the bigger news is the drug recovered from the metal fragment that Doctor Chiswick found embedded in our victim’s neck. The mass spec identified it as sodium thiopental, a common anaesthetic. It looks like the killer stabbed her, and then extracted her lung while she was unconscious.’
Ayala raised a hand. ‘How quick does that work?’
‘It takes about thirty seconds to render someone unconscious. Until then, she would have looked out of control–’
‘As if she were drunk?’ Morton said.
‘Yes. That would conceal it,’ Purcell said. ‘We did find gin in her home.’
‘We saw. Bottles and bottles of the stuff. All she had was that and cat food,’ Rafferty said.
‘Twenty-eight bottles in all, including one on her nightstand and another tucked inside the toilet cistern,’ Purcell said.
Morton looked up from his iPad. ‘Any sign of alcoholism at autopsy?’
‘Minor scarring on the liver. But if she was an alcoholic, then she hid it well. We found a diary in her bedside drawer. She had bake sales and flower arranging with the church, attended regular bingo–’
‘And visited her husband’s grave every single day,’ Ayala said.
‘So, we’ve got an old lady with nothing interesting going on in her life other than church outings, and two sons who had no reason to kill her. Any DNA in the house that doesn’t match Mrs Kennard?’
‘No. All samples in the house share the same mitochondrial DNA. As far as we can tell, nobody but family has been in the house,’ Purcell said.
‘But a lack of evidence is not eviden
ce of lack. Let’s assume it is the twins, then. Why would they do it if it’s not about the money?’ Morton looked around the table for suggestions.
‘An argument?’ Ayala volunteered.
‘Over what? She barely saw them.’
‘L-love,’ Mayberry said.
‘You’re thinking of old Mrs Tewson’s mystery man?’ Morton asked. Mayberry nodded. ‘Mayberry and I met an elderly lady who lives a few doors down. She saw Mrs Kennard pass by her home several times in the week preceding her death with a handsome, well-dressed gentleman caller. She also thought it was 1967.’
A small chuckle ran around the table. Morton glared.
‘Ignore the why, then. The twins fit the how. They’d know where their father was buried. That knowledge alone screams personal connection. Who else would know that sort of detail?’
‘But the evidence so far puts them in Greenwich,’ Rafferty said.
‘Does it, though?’ Ayala asked. ‘Can I borrow that, Stuart?’
Ayala took the laptop and brought up Nuvem Media Associates’ website. He clicked on the news page, and there, at the top of the page, was a fluff piece about the Près Ice launch, complete with photos. Ayala opened each in turn.
The twins were there throughout.
‘But not a single photo in which they appear together. What if one of the twins left?’
‘Th-their secretary gave them an al-al-alibi.’
‘Then we have to break it,’ Morton said. ‘This was a violent, personal and efficient murder. Who would want to kill an old lady who baked cakes for charity and played bingo in her afternoons?’
‘Robbery?’ Ayala suggested.
‘With all the stuff piled in the hallway? Nope.’
‘I think it’s a statement kill,’ Rafferty said.
Morton gestured for her to expand.
‘Her chest was ripped open. They took a lung out. Like the coroner said, doesn’t that scream “Don’t breathe a word”? It feels like it’s gang-related, which is insane because she was so old. What if the twins are caught up in something and Mrs Kennard’s death was a warning? What if it wasn’t about her at all?’ Rafferty folded her arms as if she had solved the case single-handedly.
‘Any other ideas?’
‘What if it’s a cannibal?’ Ayala said.
‘You think someone ate her lung? Ayala, only you would jump to cannibalism. Surely a cannibal would eat something a little less like offal?’ Morton said.
‘My apologies, boss. I wasn’t aware you were an expert on cannibal haute cuisine. Fine – what about a contract kill? If it wasn’t one of the twins, the killer got in and out without leaving behind a single trace of themselves. Doesn’t that sound like a pro to you?’ Ayala said in an attempt to redeem himself.
‘Ah, yes, the professional cannibal assassin,’ Morton said sarcastically. ‘Teams for the rest of today, then. Rafferty and Ayala–’
‘No!’ Ayala yelled.
‘No?’ Morton arched an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression I was in charge.’
‘I... I just meant I want to go talk to the Serious Organised Crime Agency. See if they know anything about assassins who operate this way. It’s not exactly a garden-variety MO to remove a lung.’
‘Alright, good idea. Take Mayberry with you, then. Rafferty, it looks like you’re with me.’
Chapter 7: Scotch on the Rocks
Tuesday April 7th 11:00
It took a while for Morton and Rafferty to find the offices of Près Ice. Their address was for an office building a few hundred yards from the Trocadero which turned out to be a start-up incubator, an open-plan office space shared by dozens of new businesses. After getting past a gruff security guard, they found themselves on the thirteenth floor surrounded by a sea of desks.
Each desk had a widescreen monitor, keyboard and mouse, and a laptop dock for the entrepreneurs to plug their kit into. The founders using the room were almost universally young. None looked to be anywhere near Morton’s age.
Morton approached the nearest desk. ‘We’re looking for the offices of Près Ice.’
‘Brad and Marvin? They’re over there. The pair of desks in the corner.’
‘The guys with the daft goatees?’ Morton asked before realising what a stupid question it was. Dozens of the entrepreneurs had goatees.
The man behind the desk managed to glare and nod at the same time.
Rafferty and Morton wove their way between desks, careful to avoid the many trailing wires that lay between work stations like vicious snakes waiting to trip them up.
Eventually they reached the corner where Brad and Marvin were sitting with headphones blaring out awful garage music, and their fingers danced across keyboards which went clickety-clack in time with the music. Unlike the others, they had desktops plugged in. It looked like they had been working in the incubator for a while, as their desks were piled high with boxes and personal items, unlike many of the others.
‘Heh-hem.’ Rafferty cleared her throat. They ignored her.
‘Here. Watch this.’ Morton bent down and pulled the plug on the extension cord running to their desks.
Brad and Marvin jumped up immediately.
‘What the fuck, man? Why’d you have to go and do that?’ the taller of the two demanded.
‘DCI Morton, Metropolitan Police. I’m here to ask you about the murder of Primrose Kennard. Are you Brad or Marvin?’
‘Marv. But I don’t know no Primrose Kennard. That lady sounds old.’
‘She was. I believe you know the Kennard twins–’
‘Chris and Freddy?’ The other one, whom Morton presumed was Brad, asked. ‘Damn straight we know them. They’re in charge of, like, our entire marketing budget, aren’t they, Marv?’
‘Damn right they are, Brad. And in this game, marketing is everything. What did those dudes do?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Rafferty said, stepping out from lurking behind Morton.
Marv whistled. ‘Hello, beautiful!’
Rafferty looked to Morton for a split second, muttered, ‘Fuck it,’ and stepped forward. She grabbed Marv by the arm, twisted it behind his back and slammed him into his own desk with a bang. Nearly everyone on the floor turned to look with interest.
‘Do that again and you’ll find yourself short one testicle.’
‘Lady, you’re crazy! I ain’t done nothing.’
‘Morton, don’t you smell weed? I think a search might be in order.’
Though Morton couldn’t smell anything, she must have guessed right, for Brad immediately held up his hands in surrender.
‘Look, lady, Marv’s an idiot. But give us a chance. What is it you want to know?’
‘You had a product launch on Saturday,’ Rafferty said.
‘Yeah, yeah. We’re launching our brand of ice cubes,’ Marv muttered, his face still pressed against his desk.
‘A brand of ice cubes?’ Rafferty said sceptically.
‘Yeah, let me up and I’ll show you.’
Rafferty released him, and Marv rubbed at his collarbone. He turned away for a moment and opened a freezer that was underneath the desk before withdrawing ice cubes in six different-coloured trays.
‘Allow me to present Près Ice. Detective Morgan–’
‘Morton. And’ – Morton jerked a thumb at Rafferty – ‘she isn’t the only one you need to respect. Got it?’
‘Sorry, Detective Morton, sir. Are you by any chance a whisky drinker?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Then you’ll know all about the different Scottish regions. Each region has a unique taste, and a big part of that is the water. Do you have yours neat?’
‘I add an ice cube or two.’
‘Then you’ll be adding tap water? Terrible idea. It’s like buying a Porsche and running it on supermarket diesel. The composition of the water is integral to the whisky, and if you put in ice from another area, you dilute it and change the flavour.’
‘Unless I drink it straight aw
ay before it melts,’ Morton said.
Marv looked over to Brad for reassurance. They clearly hadn’t considered that possibility.
‘Proper whisky drinkers take their time,’ Brad said after a few seconds of awkward silence.
‘You’re saying I’m not a proper whisky drinker?’
‘No, but–’
Morton decided to put them out of their misery. ‘Gentlemen, we’re not really here to debate the finer points of drinking Scotch, though for the record, I’ll take mine older than you are and served in ample quantities. The twins were at your launch party, correct?’
‘Yep,’ Brad said.
‘All night?’
Brad looked over to Marv who nodded. ‘Yeah. All night.’
‘Both of them?’
‘I... I think so.’
‘And they left when?’
‘No idea. We left at about eleven with a lovely young lady.’ Brad high-fived Marv.
Morton looked at them. They didn’t look like the kind of guys to be too successful with women. ‘What was her name?’
‘How’s that relevant?’ Marv asked.
Morton sniffed. ‘You know, I think I do smell pot–’
‘Verity. Her name was Verity. There.’
‘The same Verity who works for the twins?’
Marv nodded. ‘She came out to a late bar with us, and then on to a club.’
‘Interesting. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Chapter 8: Fallout
Tuesday April 7th 13:30
Morton had a message waiting for him at the front desk when he arrived back at New Scotland Yard after lunch.
The secretary on the front desk, a man whose name Morton could never remember, smiled at him politely. ‘The superintendent wishes to see you, DCI Morton.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
Morton nodded his thanks, headed into the lift and jabbed the button for the top floor. Getting called in was never a good sign. The superintendent was notoriously hands-off in his management of the staff, so to be called in meant that he felt something was wrong. It made Morton feel like a truant schoolboy caught outside of school bounds on a weekday.
The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) Page 4
