Mayberry’s trip to the Hub had proved fruitful. Brianna left the district line service, as Morton predicted. She had alighted at Kew Gardens using a second Oyster, which was a pay-as-you-go card.
It seemed to Morton an absurd loophole. To buy an Oyster card, the traveller simply paid a small deposit. Transport for London offered a form to register a card, which was quite handy, as it meant it could be cancelled should it be lost, but registration was never required. It was entirely optional.
Morton supposed it came down to privacy, or the illusion thereof, not that Londoners really enjoyed much privacy. For a city where everyone lived in cramped shoeboxes, travelled on sardine-like public transport and flocked en masse to the few green spaces as soon as the sun came out, Londoners seemed to love the illusion of being alone.
Even on the tube, with a carriage packed heel-to-toe, Londoners were notoriously staid. Heaven forgive the poor tourist that smiles at another human being on the Northern line. Morton rarely took the tube as his badge let him park pretty much wherever he wanted.
The worst part was that isolation makes for poor witnesses. With everyone so focussed on what they are doing at any given moment, they tend not to notice what others are doing.
Morton paced up and down, pausing to stare at the exhibits photographed on the Incident Room wall. The crime was a contradiction. Nothing that could have been used as a weapon was left. But none of the suspects could easily have brought such a weapon with them.
‘Unless...’ Morton muttered to himself. He quickly flicked through the printouts of the crime scene photographs. She’d died on her birthday. What if the murder weapon had been a birthday gift?
Nothing jumped out at him. It was almost like it hadn’t even been a birthday party. There was no evidence of gift wrap, though they had found a small assortment of greetings cards in Ellis’ room.
The door creaked as it opened, and Ayala came in.
‘You’re late,’ Morton said.
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Why are you late?’
‘I overslept. It won’t happen again.’
‘Damn right it won’t.’ Morton felt his temper rise suddenly.
‘Whoa. What’s up with you?’
‘What’s up with me? I’ve got a murder to solve, and my team can’t make it in for nine o’clock. Where the hell is everyone?’
‘I saw Mayberry on the way in. He’s gone down to Computer Crimes. He said he’d found something interesting in our victim’s emails.’
‘What did he find?’
‘She’d booked herself into rehab. She was planning on going the moment she finished her New York trip.’
‘Nobody mentioned that,’ Morton said. ‘Perhaps they didn’t know.’
‘If she was getting clean... then why throw a party with so many temptations?’ Ayala asked.
‘One last blowout? Or perhaps she was intending to tell them that night? The fight. Did you ever believe it was over money? That she’d stolen two hundred pounds?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Now it seems even more ridiculous. If she was getting clean, she wouldn’t be stealing money for drugs.’
‘She had nembies in her system,’ Ayala said.
‘She did... I guess it doesn’t prove much. She wanted to give up. So what? Don’t most druggies want to? It’s doing it that’s the difficult part. This doesn’t add up.’
‘Boss. What if she split up with Kal? He’s an addict too. If she really wanted to quit, maybe she wanted him gone.’
‘Or she wanted him to quit with her. Plausible. But we’ve ruled him out.’
‘Could either Brianna or Paddy have been affected by the decision to quit?’
Morton stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Absolutely. We know she had to get her drugs somewhere. Paddy says he didn’t supply her.’
‘And drug dealers never lie,’ Ayala said sarcastically.
‘Not when they’re offered blanket immunity. He could have told me about it, and been off the hook. This way he doesn’t get immunity because he didn’t disclose. I think someone else was her dealer. Think for a second, where have we been that we could have found Pentobarbital?’
‘The veterinary clinic! Brianna!’
‘Exactly.’
‘You think Brianna was her dealer, then?’
‘I do, and I think the £2000 a month we saw Ellis transferring to her sister–’
‘Was payment?’ Ayala said.
‘Yep, and if I were her then I wouldn’t want that money to stop. Would you?’
‘Nope. I wouldn’t. I can’t say I’d kill for it though.’
‘But it isn’t killing for the £2000. It’s killing for the whole estate. People have killed for far less,’ Morton said.
‘But we already knew about the estate. What is Mayberry looking at down at Computer Crimes?’
‘Let’s go find him and find out.’
Chapter 45: The Dungeon
Computer Crimes had a different vibe to the rest of New Scotland Yard. Where Morton’s floor was staid, practical and authoritative, the Computer Crimes guys had Red Bull and comfy chairs. Monitors ran the length of every available space, often two to a computer.
Mayberry was sat down at the back of the department. It looked like he’d resorted to writing down all of his conversation with the tech sitting next to him.
Mayberry waved Morton and Ayala over.
‘Gentlemen,’ Morton greeted them.
‘Morning,’ the tech said. ‘I’m Zane Lightbody.’
‘Poor you!’ Ayala said with a grin.
‘Now, now, Bertram. Play nice,’ Morton said.
Ayala’s grin dissipated.
‘What exactly are we up to, gentlemen?’
‘Your victim was trying to book herself into the Sparks Rehabilitation Clinic. It’s a lock-down rehab overlooking Windsor Park,’ Zane said.
‘We knew she’d emailed. How far did she get?’
‘She paid a deposit. The balance was to be paid on check-in. But get this: she contacted them about multi-person discounts.’
‘She wanted to take Kal with her,’ Ayala suggested.
‘Unless Kal is a woman, I don’t think so. Sparks is a women-only facility,’ Zane said. He brought up their website, and right there in bold it advertised the clinic as ‘The UK’s #1 Clinic for Women to Rebuild Their Lives’.
‘That’s a bit of a mouthful. I’d be looking for a new marketing guy, or gal, if I were them,’ Morton said. ‘If not Kal then it’s got to be her sister.’
‘Or her best friend,’ Ayala said.
‘Right. We’re stuck with two options again. A pattern seems to be emerging. Did she email either of them about it?’ Morton asked.
Zane shook his head. ‘No emails. No texts either. If they talked about it then they did it face to face.’
‘No emails about rehab, or no emails at all?’
‘Nothing. Her email looks like it was mostly for business use, and a bit of online shopping.’
‘Stranger and stranger. There’s got to be a second phone. What about her landline?’
Zane pulled up Ellis DeLange’s laptop, and opened her e-billing account for Virgin Media.
‘Hang on, are we supposed to be able to do that? Go into a victim’s online billing account at will?’ Ayala asked.
‘Quieten down, Bertram. She’s dead. I think, in the circumstances, she’d rather we know how much her phone bills were than let her killer off the hook. Get a bit of perspective,’ Morton said. ‘Go ahead, Zane.’
‘Here we go. We’ve got calls to several numbers. One is a landline belonging to Kallum Fielder–’
‘No surprises there,’ Ayala said.
‘One is the number of the Wiles switchboard.’
‘That’ll be Aleksander Barchester then.’
‘And the rest are to mobiles. All pay-as-you-go. All unregistered.’
‘Damn. This lot do seem to operate under the radar,’ Ayala said.
‘That’s no
surprise. We’ve got a model, a television presenter and a drug dealer. They’ve every reason to jealously guard their privacy. Do me a favour. Call the numbers, see if you can match up the voices to our suspects.’
‘W-we already d-did, boss,’ Mayberry stuttered.
‘And?’
‘V-voicemail answers get us nowhere. No custom r-recordings.’
‘Find a way then. Look up where the phones have been active, and see if the locations can be matched to our suspects. Ayala, I need you to call the management team at Sparks. They might well throw up doctor-patient confidentiality, but if you can I want to know who she was trying to book for. And find out what their standard rates are too. The place looks pricey, but Ellis wasn’t cash rich.’
‘You think she had funding elsewhere?’
‘She had to pay for it somehow.’
Chapter 46: Rehab
Monday April 21st – 15:15
Sparks Rehabilitation Clinic was a little over twenty miles from Richmond. It was situated on the eastern perimeter of King George VI Coronation Grove, and was technically within the parish of Englefield Green.
Its nearest neighbours were a golf course, a spa hotel and a tiny pub that served the locals. Morton wondered if it were wise to situate a rehabilitation clinic so near to a pub, but he suspected it was the kind which would fall deathly quiet should a stranger venture inside.
He needn’t have worried. Sparks was far enough from its neighbours to qualify as out in the sticks. Proper road gave way to gravel driveway and the crunch of stones under tyres as Morton approached.
The building was beautiful. It wasn’t as homely as Culloden Manor, but it was much bigger, with a front façade stretching many hundreds of feet wide.
The west wing appeared a little more modern than might be expected. A giant glass frontage had been added, as if part of the old building had been chopped away and rebuilt.
Morton clicked his car’s immobiliser with a press of his key fob, and headed for the reception. Above him, dozens of pairs of eyes appeared in the windows on the second and third floor, watching him as he approached. Morton felt a shiver run down his spine, and was immediately thankful that he was visiting on a sunny Monday afternoon in April rather than a dark wintery night.
At the reception, he was greeted by a burly young man in a corporate polo shirt and khaki slacks.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Morton. I rang earlier.’
‘I’m Matt. Welcome to Sparks.’
‘One of your would-be patients, Miss Ellis DeLange, was murdered two weeks ago.’
‘We’re aware of that. How can we assist you?’
‘When was Miss DeLange due to come to you?’ Morton asked.
‘I’m afraid that’s privileged information, Detective.’
‘She’s dead. There’s no one left to fight for her privacy. We know she booked in.’
‘Detective, I’d love to help you, but I have rounds to do. Walk with me,’ Matt said.
Morton followed Matt through reception up to a locked door marked ‘Staff Only’ and averted his eyes as Matt punched in a security code.
‘Tell me about Sparks in general then.’
‘Sparks is a complete lockdown facility. All of our guests are self-committed–’
‘They choose to be locked up?’
‘Yes, they do.’ Matt led Morton down a short hallway which ended in another security door. ‘This is our airlock system. It’s the only way in or out of the facility. This door only opens when the door behind us,’ Matt waved a hand over his shoulder, ‘is closed.’
‘What about fires?’
‘We’ve got fire doors installed as required. This is a listed building so they’re interspersed throughout the wings a little haphazardly, but we can clear the building in three minutes if we have to. Patients do occasionally hit the fire alarm to break out for the night, but it’s not common. Our guests choose us because we get results. They’re free to leave at any time, as long as they accept that we do not allow guests to return within six months of a walkout.’
Once they were past the security door, they came into what could have been mistaken for a plush country hotel – if not for the patients milling about in grey shirts and sweatpants.
‘Do they have to wear those?’
‘The uniform? Yes. They’re not fashionable, but they are comfortable – and we provide them, which reduces the need for searches on arrival. We’re going through here next,’ Matt said. He indicated a double door to their left.
They entered a grand hall which had wood panelling along every wall, and a grand piano in the centre. A dozen or so sofas had been laid out in a zigzag bisecting the room.
‘This is our lounge. The bar at the back serves tea, coffee and any medicine that our patients need. This is a totally dry establishment so we have no booze anywhere on-site.’ Matt walked over to a patient, leant in and asked her something quietly. She nodded, and Matt returned to Morton, who looked on with curiosity.
‘What kinds of addiction do you treat?’ Morton asked.
‘Any kind of compulsion you can think of. Drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling. One of our patients is a compulsive texter.’
‘A what?’
‘Can’t stop texting people. She’s always attached to her phone, the poor lass. We’re getting more and more enquiries like that. Just this morning, a lady called to ask if we could take her daughter. She’s addicted to an online video game apparently.’
‘Are you going to take her?’
‘Heavens, no. We don’t take minors here. Imagine locking up an impressionable teenage girl with nymphomaniacs and drug addicts.’
‘Sounds like an experience some teenagers would pay a fortune for. How much do you charge?’
‘Two thousand.’
‘Per treatment?’
‘Good lord, no. Per week. That buys you half a twin room and basic rations. We do occasionally cater to the rich and the famous, so there are upgrade packages available too. At any given time we’ve got roughly eighty of our ninety beds filled, so there’s a bit of a waiting list.’
‘And this is paid for by the taxpayer?’
‘This is a wholly private facility. We do some insurance work. But it’s mostly self-funded.’
‘And was Ellis self-funding?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that. Mr Morton, I’m afraid I have to dash. Would you mind if Melissa took you back to reception? She’s been here even longer than I have, so I’m sure she can answer any further questions you might have.’ Matt pointed to the woman he’d spoken to the moment before.
‘Sure. Thank you for your time, Matt.’
With that, Morton was left with Melissa.
‘Hi,’ she said shyly.
‘Hello.’
‘Are you the policeman? Matt said I have to take you back.’
‘Lead on then,’ Morton said. He followed her out of the dining room, looking up and down the halls as he went. ‘What’s it like in here?’ he asked.
‘It’s OK,’ Melissa said. ‘I don’t really like it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Does Matt ask you to escort guests often?’
‘Sometimes. We get a lot of visitors, and I do get a little lonely in here.’
Morton looked at her, trying desperately not to ask what she was in for.
‘Anorexia,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘You don’t have to be bashful, Detective. Ask whatever you want to ask.’
‘Did you meet Ellis DeLange when she visited?’
‘I did. She was awful nice to me. We spoke for a few minutes.’
‘Can I ask what about?’ Morton said.
‘What it’s like here, why she wanted to come here, that sort of thing.’
‘Why did she want to get clean?’
‘She said she was having a birthday soon,’ Melissa said. ‘And that she couldn’t keep going as she was. I didn’t think she was going to come here though.’
�
�Why was that?’
‘Her friend didn’t seem very interested.’
‘Her friend?’ Morton asked as they approached the first security door. From this side, it had an intercom button only. Melissa pressed it, and they were buzzed through.
‘Yes. She had another woman with her.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘I don’t know. Sort of like her, I guess.’
Brianna, Morton thought immediately. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Melissa.’
‘Is there anything else you need to know?’
‘Did she mention how she was paying for her stay?’ Morton asked.
‘No. She didn’t,’ Melissa said sadly, as if afraid to disappoint Morton with her answer. ‘But we can check.’
‘How?’ Morton asked. They buzzed the intercom for the second door, and it again swung open, allowing them back into reception.
‘It’ll be on the computer. The one over there. Matt’s password is “mustang”. I help him in the office sometimes.’
Morton looked over at the desk. Matt’s PC was on, and locked on the login screen. He knew he shouldn’t look. It would make admitting the evidence difficult.
Melissa saw him looking. ‘Oh, you’re not allowed, are you?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Morton said.
‘Can I look?’
Morton bit his lip. If he said yes, he was procuring the illegal search. If he said no, he’d miss out.
Melissa saved him the trouble of answering. She unlocked the PC and opened up Sparks’ patient files.
‘How do you spell her name?’
‘D-E-L-A-N-G-E,’ Morton replied. He wondered if that small indiscretion was enough to put him on the wrong side of defence counsel.
‘Here we are. Her deposit was paid for by A. Barchester. Do you know him?’
‘I do. Can you print me that out?’
‘OK.’
Morton’s heart began thumping in his chest as a large industrial laser printer whirred to life. It was loud enough that he was sure Matt would hear and reappear to confront them. But he didn’t.
Sixty seconds later, Morton walked out the door with Ellis’ patient file in hand.
Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) Page 18
