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

by Sean Campbell

  ‘They look the same to me.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So it’s real then,’ Morton said.

  ‘No. I said exactly. As in, they’re exactly the same. Here,’ Radley passed Morton a pen and paper. ‘Sign this twice.’

  Morton did, then looked closely at them.

  ‘See what I mean? Similar, but not the same. No one signs documents exactly the same way every time.’

  ‘It’s been printed?’

  ‘Again, no. The ink has made a bit of an indentation on the page, and it’s not the same ink as the printer. It was done with a pen. It’s not the same pen as the other signatures either.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Her signature is in black. The other two are blue.’

  ‘How is it so similar then?’

  ‘My guess is an autopen,’ Radley said. ‘Your victim was famous. She obviously signed prints of her photos. Did you find an autopen in her house?’

  ‘Ayala?’ Morton turned to his deputy. It had been Ayala’s responsibility to fill out the evidence logs for the crime scene.

  ‘What does one look like?’ Ayala asked.

  ‘The smallest are about forty-five by forty-five centimetres, usually metal with a boxy end on one side and arms sticking out of it to hold the pen or pencil.’

  ‘One sec.’ Ayala dashed out of the room, then returned panting two minutes later holding a binder full of crime scene photos. Ayala flicked through quickly, then settled on one page. He turned it around so Radley could see it.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘That’s the boy. She’s got a USB one port, so it’s not massively new.’

  ‘How would it work?’

  ‘The signature is recorded, loaded onto USB or smartcard, then inserted into the autopen. Then it’s easy to put the paper in the right position and hit the “sign once” button and you’re done.’

  ‘No PC needed?’

  ‘Not if you’ve got access to the USB key with the signature on it. I can see it in the photo, so it looks like accessing it would have been relatively easy. Whoever did it might have needed a few tries to position the signature on the dotted line, but that’s about the only complication.’

  ‘And we’ve no way of knowing who used the machine.’

  ‘You could dust for fingerprints. It wouldn’t prove what it was used for, but it would show who had been near it.’

  ‘Unless they took the obvious precaution of wearing gloves.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s the perfect crime.’

  ***

  Once Radley was on his way out, Morton and Ayala turned their attention to the crime scene documentation.

  ‘Damn!’ Ayala exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Purcell dusted the autopen already.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He only found prints belonging to our victim. I guess our footballer is smarter than we gave him credit for.’

  ‘Maybe. The will-writing software. How does it work?’

  ‘You fill in the blanks, click export, get an RTF file–’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Rich text file. It’s a really common format for saving text documents.’

  ‘When you save one, is it like when I upload a photograph to my computer?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it date stamped?’

  ‘Yes, boss, I suppose it is. It’d be stamped with whatever time the system is set at.’

  ‘So if we find the computer that created the will, we’ll be able to check the system time against the file’s timestamp to see when it was created–’

  ‘And if that time is after our victim died, we’ve nailed it,’ Ayala finished for him.

  ‘Then get me Kallum Fielder’s laptop.’

  ‘We’ll need a warrant.’

  ‘Go get it,’ Morton ordered. ‘And clear us going back to pick up the autopen from Edgecombe Lodge. We might need it to exhibit as evidence.’

  ‘You got it, boss.’

  Chapter 32: The Findy-Windy Thing

  Wednesday 16th April – 14:00

  Kallum Fielder’s Wednesday afternoon nap was cut short when DS Mayberry arrived on his doorstep. Sleeping in the afternoon was pretty normal for Kal. Filming from six every morning would throw anyone out of sync with their circadian rhythm, so it took a while for him to realise that there was a forensic team on his doorstep.

  Mayberry was about to ram the door down when Kal finally answered, bleary-eyed and wearing only boxers and a t-shirt.

  ‘W-we have a... a... f-findy-windy thing to c-come in.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Mayberry handed him a copy of the warrant, fresh from the magistrate’s court. ‘L-look at t-this.’

  Kal squinted at the paper. He didn’t have his contact lenses in. The words search and warrant swam into focus.

  ‘What in God’s name are you looking for?’

  ‘It’s in the... document. P-please step outside, s-sir.’

  Kal stepped outside, then shivered. It might have been late April, but a chill wind cut through Twickenham. A blanket was hastily found, and Mayberry was able to lead Purcell and his team inside to search.

  It was a beautiful home, rented according to the Land Registry, but certainly pricey. Kal had very few assets. Losing the rent on a detached house in Twickenham in favour of moving into Edgecombe Lodge was presumably a very appealing prospect to Kal.

  The house was pretty empty. Kal had few personal knickknacks, and most of those he did own were football related in some way. He had old shirts hung everywhere. Some were his. Some had once belonged to players that Kal had played against on the pitch. One small shelf was dedicated to television awards. They all seemed to be from low-rent magazines rather than prestigious competitions.

  Kal’s prize possession was a television large enough to be used as a cinema screen. Mayberry found Purcell staring at it with wide-eyed admiration.

  ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it? Nine feet corner to corner. It’s only 1080p mind you, but if you sit far enough back it’d be a beauty for watching films or sports on. And in the winter, it’ll double up as central heating.’

  ‘It’s n-nice,’ Mayberry said. He didn’t see the point really. Surely you could just sit closer to a smaller television.

  Kal’s office was where Mayberry headed next. They were looking specifically for personal computers and laptops. There was only one in the house. It was a brand new Dell. The box was still on the floor underneath Kal’s desk with the shipping label still attached.

  Mayberry bent down to examine the label. It had been delivered the day before. He went outside and found Kal shivering. It had begun to rain.

  ‘Y-your l-laptop. Do you have a-another?’ Mayberry asked.

  ‘Nope. Just that one.’

  ‘D-did you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘W-where is the o-old one?’

  ‘Sold it, I’m afraid. I’ve only got the one now.’

  ***

  Mayberry returned to New Scotland Yard in dour spirits. He relayed the news over a pot of coffee in the Incident Room.

  ‘It’s got to be a cover-up,’ Ayala said.

  ‘That much is obvious,’ Morton said. ‘He’s used the old one to prepare the will and ditched it before we could come at him.’

  ‘What do you want to do next?’

  ‘Pick him up,’ Morton ordered. ‘Make a splash when you do it. We need to be seen to be doing something. I want the media to know, but you aren’t to tip them off directly. If he’s the killer, great. We’ll look like the poster child of good policing.’

  ‘And if we’re wrong?’

  ‘Then we hit Kal for fraud. And we hope that Kal’s arrest allows the real killer to sleep more easily. The more relaxed they get, the more likely they are to make a mistake which will let us catch them. Grab him first thing tomorrow morning. Do it on set at the BBC in the middle of filming. He’ll be all over the news before breakfast.’

  ‘T
hen what?’

  ‘Then we watch and wait. Have someone stake out all our suspects, and call me if any of them starting acting strangely. I’ll get Kieran to meet me here tomorrow morning so we can sweat Kal.’

  Chapter 33: Making a Splash

  Thursday April 17th – 06:40

  Security at Broadcasting House weren’t best pleased to see Ayala and a half-dozen constables walk into the lobby.

  ‘Kallum Fielder. Where is he?’ Ayala demanded of the reception staff, though he knew the answer. Kal was in the middle of filming on Studio One, which was being beamed live to the nation. Morton wanted a splash, and Ayala planned to give it to him.

  After only the briefest of arguments, security escorted them through to the studio, where they found filming in progress. As soon as they made it into the studio the show’s producer, Simon Keller, stepped forward. Ayala ordered one of his team to escort Keller out lest he repeat cut to adverts before Ayala made a splash.

  Kal was sat on the sofa opposite a bungling would-be politician called Hudson Brown. He was a right-wing nut job who’d been getting airtime for his outrageous views. Kal’s eyes flicked briefly in the direction of camera five when Ayala walked in, and his facial muscles twitched in recognition before he continued with his interview segment.

  ‘Mr Hudson, if you were to come to power, what would be the first thing you would do?’ Kal read from the teleprompter.

  ‘British jobs for British workers. I would make it illegal to hire out if local talent could do the job. A booming economy starts with a booming Britain.’

  ‘But how? Would you repeal our equality legislation?’

  ‘Damn right, I would. If you’re a white man, born here in good ole Blighty, then working here is your birth right. This country needs to forget political correctness.’ Hudson stared pointedly at his host, knowing full well how offensive he was being.

  ‘A white man?’ Kal’s nostrils flared. ‘What difference does race make?’

  ‘None if you’re British. But my job is to protect British working class stock. I want to close the borders, reduce taxes and start making things here. We need to wean ourselves off the teat of cheap imported tat and get back to basics. My plan is simple: get Britain working and eradicate that which does not serve the greater good.’

  Ayala looked on from the shadows, mesmerised. Hudson Brown genuinely believed in what he was spouting. It was time to put an end to the clown show, and take Kallum Fielder in for questioning. He waved his team forward and stepped in front of the camera.

  Hudson Brown leapt to his feet. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sit down. We’re not here for you,’ Ayala said. He turned to Kal, ‘Stand up and put your hands behind your back. Kallum Fielder, you are under arrest on suspicion of forgery.’

  Kal stood slowly. He had known they were coming, and he was ready for it. He stared straight into the nearest camera, unblinking, as if the entire arrest were simply a scene in a daytime drama. ‘Forgery? There must be some mistake.’

  ‘No mistake, Mr Fielder.’

  Chapter 34: The President of the United States of America

  Thursday April 17th – 10:00

  The same interrogation suite, the same lawyer. Upon arrival at New Scotland Yard, Kal had begun yelling for a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but Elliot Morgan-Bryant of Cutler & Kass. Again. The same pie-in-the-sky-priced lawyer that represented Aleksander Barchester mere days earlier. It was no coincidence.

  ‘Tell me again why you had Ellis DeLange’s will,’ Morton said. He had a copy of their last chat in front of him. The slightest slip, and Morton would nail Kal for the inconsistency.

  ‘Safety,’ Morgan-Bryant said. ‘My client has a high-grade commercial safe installed in his home, while Ellis did not. While Ellis was a social, trusting woman, she was well aware of the footfall at her parties and felt that her documents would be safer with her long-term partner than out in the open for anyone to inspect.’

  ‘Mr Morgan-Bryant, I would appreciate it if you let your client answer. Nice to see you again, by the way,’ Morton added with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

  ‘I will let my client answer when you ask a question that hasn’t already been covered extensively.’

  ‘Mr Fielder, did you forge this will?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase. This will is forged. You claim to have been looking after it all this time. Ignoring the accusation makes you look rather guilty. Did you print and or sign this will yourself?’

  Morgan-Bryant touched his client lightly on the arm, a subtle signal to shut up. ‘What reasons do you have for questioning the document’s provenance?’

  ‘It’s damaged from excessive folding. It has had coffee spilled upon it.’

  ‘That isn’t in the slightest bit suspicious. My client has already stipulated that he received the document in that condition. If anything, it goes to show that the decision to store the will at his residence was the right decision.’

  ‘The witnesses then. You know them, do you not?’ Morton asked.

  ‘I do,’ Kal said.

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘I know them socially, through Ellis. I’m not on first name terms with either.’

  ‘Names. Glad you brought that up. One of your witnesses is, according to the will, Lord Culloden. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘Why would it?’

  ‘It’s not his name.’

  Kal’s lip twitched. ‘It’s what I’ve always known him as.’

  ‘Indeed. But I think Aleksander Barchester would probably sign a legal document in his real name, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Kal, don’t answer that,’ Morgan Bryant said quickly. ‘What are you getting at, Mr Morton?’

  ‘I think your client signed the name.’

  ‘I did not,’ Kal said, but nobody in the room believed him. He stared at the table, afraid to make eye contact.

  ‘Perhaps we could simply call Mr Barchester to verify his signature if there is a problem here?’ Morgan-Bryant suggested.

  ‘You’re also Mr Barchester’s lawyer, aren’t you? Very convenient.’

  ‘Just what are you implying, Morton?’

  ‘It strikes me as awfully coincidental, that’s all.’

  ‘You’d best watch your tone, Mr Morton. I am a respected solicitor-advocate, and I will not stand for slander.’

  The two stared in silence for a moment. Morton shrugged and took a sip of coffee. ‘Besides, it’s not just Mr Barchester. Did you forge Mr Malone’s signature?’

  ‘I did not,’ Kal said again. He continued to stare at the table.

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain why you visited Mr Malone in jail and tried to pass him money?’

  ‘That’s perfectly easy to explain. My client is friends with Mr Malone. He knows how tough it is in prison. If you don’t have money to buy basic necessities from the commissary then it is even tougher.’

  ‘It wasn’t a bribe then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do seem to have an answer for everything. The third and final signature then. Did you forge that, Mr Fielder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t use an autopen machine to place Ellis’ signature at the bottom of the document?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t prepare the will on your laptop?’

  ‘Mr Morton, you seem to be badgering my client. For the record he has clearly said that he did not prepare, print, sign or otherwise have a hand in the creation of that document.’

  ‘Did you own a laptop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you dispose of that laptop recently?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kal mumbled.

  ‘To hide your forgery?’

  ‘Mr Morton. This is getting very repetitive. If you think you have any sort of evidence, put it on the table and we’ll explain it as best we can.’

  ‘Your client is in possession of a will prepared without the assistance of a lawyer
. I believe that will was printed on your client’s old laptop, which he has now conveniently disposed of.’

  ‘She used hers.’ Kal said, his voice strengthening with renewed confidence.

  ‘Ellis used her laptop? The pink one studded with diamante stones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Our techs have examined that laptop thoroughly. The will was not prepared on her laptop.’

  ‘Does it matter where the will was prepared? It could have been printed at a library. You have nothing to connect that will and my client.’

  ‘Because he destroyed the evidence!’ Morton said.

  ‘You seem to be getting awfully close to slander again, Mr Morton.’

  ‘She didn’t make the will. It was signed by a convicted criminal and an impostor–’

  Morgan-Bryant cut him off. ‘Civil matters. The validity of signatures is for a probate court to determine. I’m sure my client will be able to produce the witnesses in question to validate those signatures.’

  ‘–that you bribed, threatened or cajoled into hiding the truth. You hid key evidence.’

  ‘Eli wanted me to have the money. She hated Brianna, and Brianna hated her. I’m not a criminal, Detective Morton. I just want to honour my dead fiancée’s wishes.’ Kal spoke forcefully, his eyes shining. For the first time in the interview, Morton believed him.

  ‘Eli hated Brianna? Why?’

  ‘They fell out when her parents died. They were wealthy, very wealthy. Eli was just beginning to come into her own as an artist. She’d just moved to Richmond. We’d been together for about a year. This was before her fall from grace.’

  ‘You mean the drugs?’

  ‘Yes. That all started when her parents died. A coping mechanism, I suppose. It wasn’t her first time. She’d experimented as a teenager, but she wasn’t famous as a teenager. The pressure was immense. Much like now, we had journalists following our every move. The starlet photographer and Fulham’s star forward. We didn’t ask for the attention, but we got it.’

  Becoming a footballer isn’t asking for attention? Morton thought.

  ‘Her parents left behind a great deal of money,’ Kal said. ‘The girls had every privilege growing up. I suppose you need to if you want to pay for a drug habit.’