‘And yet,’ Rafferty said with a grin, ‘she’s got all manner of blenders, soup makers and smoothie machines hidden under the sink.’
‘I suppose it fits with the compulsive shopping we saw in the hallway. Have you seen a diary or phonebook anywhere? We need to identify her next of kin.’
‘Back in the lounge by the TV. I’ll go.’ Rafferty bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.
‘No. You go see to the cat. I’ll find it.’ Morton tiptoed into the lounge, careful to minimise the disruption to the crime scene. He found a notepad full of phone numbers sandwiched between a well-worn church directory and a crystal ashtray.
He skimmed through to the ‘Family’ section and ran his finger down the page. There were numbers listed for Christopher and Frederick Kennard, but nobody else. Morton jotted their numbers down and headed for the front door.
Mayberry was waiting for them on the front drive.
‘What’d you find out?’ Morton asked.
‘Th-they barely kn-knew her. V-very quiet lady. L-liked to spend t-time in her garden.’
‘Is that it?’
‘N-no. They g-gave me these.’ Mayberry produced a stack of six small boxes held together with an elastic band. ‘S-said they were delivered today.’
Morton took the stack. All six boxes were from You Shop We Drop! TV.
Chapter 3: Identification
Sunday April 5th 17:30
Christopher Kennard was sitting uncomfortably in a low plastic chair in the morgue waiting room. Morton watched him for a moment from the hallway as Christopher thumbed through an old magazine and sipped from a Styrofoam cup of over-brewed coffee.
‘Mr Kennard?’ Morton called out as he entered. ‘I’m DCI Morton.’
‘It’s about time,’ Christopher said. He tapped his foot impatiently. ‘I’ve been sat here for almost half an hour.’
Morton took a seat opposite him. ‘My apologies, Mr Kennard. I know how difficult this must be for you. In a moment, I’ll take you down to identify your mother’s body, but first I need to warn you what to expect. Your mother suffered some serious injuries, so only her face will be uncovered. There may be some blood pooling on one side of her face, which will look a little like purple bruising. Would you like anyone with you during the identification? We have a chaplain on call.’
‘No, no. Let’s get this over with.’ He stood and motioned for Morton to lead on.
They walked along the corridor to the next room, where the body of Primrose Kennard lay atop a gurney with a sheet pulled up to her neck. The post-mortem was on hold until the body had been formally identified. A thoughtful diener had uncovered Primrose’s left hand should her family wish to hold it. There was a toe tag pointing out from under the bottom of the sheet, tied by string.
Christopher stepped forward and brushed his mother’s arm lightly before grabbing her hand. Morton watched him shudder in reaction to the coldness of her skin, but Christopher held on to her hand nonetheless.
‘I didn’t expect her to be so cold, so stiff,’ he said. ‘And what’s that awful smell?’
‘It’s formaldehyde. The smell tends to linger in these rooms. Take your time, Mr Kennard.’
‘I don’t need any time,’ Christopher said. ‘It’s her. That’s Primrose.’
Morton frowned. Not Mum?
Christopher let go of her hand. ‘Can I go now? I have work to get back to.’
Morton shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I need to ask a few questions first. Perhaps we’d be more comfortable back in the waiting room.’
‘I don’t have long. I’ve got a meeting to get back to.’ Christopher tapped at his watch to emphasise the point.
‘What line of business are you in?’ Morton led the way back down the corridor.
‘Advertising. My brother and I–’
Morton pushed the door to the waiting room open and then held it politely. ‘Your twin brother, Frederick?’
Christopher sat down. ‘Yeah. Freddy and I started our own consultancy firm, Nuvem Media Associates, a few years back. It was online only at first, but we’ve recently moved to new offices in Farringdon. It’s a bit surreal. We employ thirty people now.’
That must be expensive, Morton thought. ‘You’re self-made men, then?’
‘Yeah. We are. Well, we inherited a bit from Dad.’
Morton walked up to the coffee machine in the corner, offered Christopher Kennard a coffee, and, when he declined, punched the button for a flat white for himself. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost both your parents. That must be tough.’
‘Thank you. I suppose I’m still in a bit of shock. I can’t believe Primrose is gone. It seems like only yesterday that she and Dad were bickering about this, that and the other.’
‘She never remarried, then?’ The machine whirred to a stop, and Morton picked up the red-hot cup gingerly before taking a seat opposite Kennard.
‘No. She was old-fashioned. She considered herself Dad’s in this life and the next. I suppose they’re together now, at least. To be honest, it’s something of a relief.’
‘A relief? In what way?’
‘Her health hasn’t been good for a long time. She suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. It was the ciggies that did it. She’s been on sixty a day since she was sixteen.’
‘And how old is she – was she – now?’
‘Fifty-five. Dad was older than her by a decade and change. The doctors told us twelve months ago that Mum would have been dead within eighteen months without a lung transplant.’
That would explain why she’s missing a lung. ‘She didn’t find a match?’
‘Of course she did,’ Christopher said. ‘Freddy and I were a match. We donated eight months ago.’
Christopher lifted his shirt to reveal a scar bisecting his chest.
‘You said “we donated”.’
‘A lobe from each of us. She could have taken a donation from a cadaver, but the long-term prognosis is much better with living donors, and at fifty-five she could have had decades more. We each gave her a single lobe.’
Then the lung is missing after all.
Morton paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask – formalities and all that – but where were you and your brother last night?’
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. ‘We were at a client’s product launch. Why?’
Morton ignored his question. ‘Is business good?’
‘Booming. We’ve got clients in Australia, America, and all over Europe. Look, I’ve got to get back to my meeting.’
‘One more thing,’ Morton said. ‘My colleague has something of yours. Hang on. She’s in the staff room across the hall.’
Morton jogged the length of the waiting room and out of the door. He returned thirty seconds later with a cat box tucked under his arm and Detective Inspector Rafferty in tow. He set the box down on the table in front of Christopher. The cat hissed immediately and tried to claw at Christopher through the bars at the front of the cage.
Christopher pushed the box away with his foot. ‘I don’t want it. You take it. Drown it. Keep it. Take it to Battersea. I don’t care. That thing is vicious.’
Before Morton could object, Kennard stood and edged past the cat.
‘Mr Kennard!’
The door slammed shut behind him, and the cat stopped hissing.
‘Congratulations, Detective Inspector Rafferty. It looks like you’ve got yourself a cat.’
Rafferty smiled, opened the box and picked up the cat, which began to purr under her caress. ‘Who’s a good kitty?’
‘Sorry, Detective. I didn’t quite catch that.’
Rafferty cocked her head to one side bashfully. ‘Who’s a good kitty, sir?’
***
Doctor Chiswick stopped Morton on his way out of the morgue. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Surely you can’t be done with the autopsy already? It’s only been ten minutes.’
‘Come take a look,’ Chiswick said
, and then he turned to Rafferty. ‘You’ll have to wait outside. I can’t let you take the cat beyond this hallway.’
Chiswick bounded excitedly into the autopsy room, where Mrs Kennard had been placed on the autopsy table sans modesty sheet.
‘Look at the neck. There’s a puncture mark there.’
Morton peered at the cadaver. There was a tiny mark in the neck, smaller than a pinhole. Chiswick swung a magnifying class between Morton and the neck, enlarging it significantly.
‘I see it. I’m not blind, you know.’
‘I found a tiny piece of metal in there. It looks like the tip of a hypodermic needle.’ Chiswick held up an evidence bag. ‘I’ll send it over to forensics to analyse.’
‘She was drugged.’
Chiswick nodded. ‘I think so. The cut to her chest is pretty neat. She had to have been unconscious when that was done.’
‘How hard would it be to cut her open?’
‘Not particularly, if you’ve got a sharp enough knife. Without a good blade, it would have been impossible to get it this straight. There’s only minor zigzagging, so your killer has a steady hand. Exsanguination from the cut is probably cause of death, though that’s off the record until I finish this autopsy.’
‘What was she knocked out with? Chloroform?’
‘God, no. This was much more calculated than that. It had to have been fast-acting. There aren’t any signs she tried to fight back. Her fingernails are immaculate – and a fetching shade of fuchsia, to boot. Toxicology will be able to tell you more, I’m sure.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
Chapter 4: Nuvem Media Associates
Sunday April 5th 21:00
The glow from Morton’s laptop illuminated his haggard face. He’d sent the others home an hour earlier, and now the office was silent but for the gentle hum of the air conditioning unit.
Morton’s browser was open to the website belonging to Nuvem Media Associates. The homepage showed an artsy shot of a minimalist office with the strapline Welcome to the New Way of Advertising! emblazoned across it in a three-dimensional font. In the top right-hand corner of the page, Nuvem Media’s logo depicted the Gemini with a silhouetted pair of twins facing each other with their arms entwined.
Slick but tacky, Morton thought. He clicked through to the About Us page.
Morton scrolled through a wall of text in which Nuvem Media promised to Give 110% to your laser-focused media kit, leveraging cohesive synergies to deliver more than just low-hanging fruit.
‘Christ. And people buy this?’ Morton muttered. He scrolled down. ‘I guess they do.’
At the bottom of the page lay a litany of company logos depicting Nuvem Media’s biggest clients, including a multinational food company, a bank, and a well-known politician.
At the very bottom was a copyright notice: Copyright Nuvem Media Associates a/s.
What the heck is an a/s? Morton wondered. He typed it into his search bar. Nope. Definitely not Associazone Sportive Roma.
He picked up his phone and dialled the mobile number of Kieran O’Connor at the Crown Prosecution Service, who answered on the third ring.
‘Morton. What the hell do you want at this time of night?’ Kieran demanded.
‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘I’m enjoying the pleasure of a standing-room-only train service back from Snaresbrook Crown Court while lugging about three tons of paperwork with me, so make it quick.’
Morton grinned. The only time Kieran was this sarcastic was after losing. ‘Did you win?’
‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ Kieran said. ‘My star witness turned on the stand and came out swinging for the defence.’
‘Ouch. I’ll keep it quick, then. What does ‘a slash s’ mean?’
‘After a company name? It’s an Aktieselskab.’
‘An Aktie-what?’
‘It’s a Danish company. They’re like our limited companies. If the company goes under, the debtors can’t sue the shareholders. A common trick is for one Aktieselskab to be owned by another. The child company sends all the profits to the parent, and then if the child company goes bust, the shareholders still have the profits hidden away in the parent company.’
‘So, the little guy gets screwed if they go bust?’
‘Yep. It’s perfectly legal. Morton, I’ve got to dash. The next stop is mine.’ Kieran clicked off.
Morton placed his phone back down on the desk. Perfectly legal or not, it didn’t paint the twins in a good light.
He pinged Ayala and Rafferty a quick email asking them to look into the company’s financials, and those of the twins too, and then he switched back to the website in search of an address. He found it in the News section. Nuvem Media Associates’ new offices were on the Clerkenwell Road in Farringdon.
***
Clerkenwell Road was abuzz with traffic when Morton queued up at the St John’s Road intersection the next morning. By the time Morton found a parking space in nearby St John’s Square, Mayberry was already waiting for him in the coffee shop across the street from the twins’ offices.
Morton wove his way through the packed tables, waved off the questioning gaze of the barista behind the counter, and settled himself in an armchair opposite Mayberry.
No sooner than Morton had sat down, Mayberry pushed a cup of coffee across the small table towards him. ‘F-for you, b-boss,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Morton said, and then took a sip of the coffee before pulling a face. ‘What the heck is this?’
‘V-vanilla p-pumpkin m-mocha.’
‘Bloody hipster cafés,’ Morton muttered, though he noticed that Mayberry continued to sip his own drink contentedly. ‘Anything interesting going on over there?’ He jerked his head towards the office across the road.
Through the cars, Morton could see that the building had a glass frontage interrupted only by advertising slogans on vinyl signs which hung from the ceiling.
He and Mayberry had a prime table in the front of the café. It would have been a perfect vantage point if not for the traffic screeching past.
‘N-nothing. They h-had a t-team meeting at n-nine.’
Morton checked his watch. Half past nine. ‘So, nothing in the last half an hour, then. Have the twins been there the whole time?’
Mayberry nodded.
‘Have you been able to spot any physical differences between the twins?’
‘N-no. They l-look like two p-p-peas in a pod. L-look.’
Mayberry pointed as the traffic lights at the St John’s intersection turned red and traffic crawled to a halt. The twins were in a room on the right-hand side of the ground floor. They had taken their jackets off and slung them over the backs of their chairs. Both were wearing identical shirts, yet neither wore a tie, instead opting for a casual, open-collared look. The twins were standing at either end of a table tennis table, bats in hand. Morton watched a ball flit rhythmically back and forth between them.
‘T-they’ve been p-playing for a-ages.’
‘Nice work if you can get it. It doesn’t look like their employees have it so easy.’
The rest of the staff were in the main room. All were tapping away at laptops around a central desk. It seemed to be set up in such a way that if any of them began to slack, the others would immediately see it.
The twins carried on playing, oblivious to the detectives’ gaze. After what seemed like an eternity, for Morton’s vanilla pumpkin mocha had gone from piping hot to lukewarm, the twins picked up their jackets and disappeared through a door at the back of the office.
‘Right. They’re gone. Come on,’ Morton said, and motioned for Mayberry to get up.
They abandoned Morton’s unfinished mocha and wove through the traffic to reach Nuvem Media Associates. The office was much more spacious up close, made even more so by the minimalism with which it had been decorated. The flooring and walls were clad with stark white tiles which made Morton’s footprints reverberate loudly as they entered.
A receptionist was sit
ting behind a tiny desk well away from the main action. Only she paid Morton and Mayberry any heed as they entered. She was a tall, lanky woman with red hair and a pinched nose that gave her an air of smug superiority, and when she smiled she displayed a row of brilliantly white and totally even teeth which Morton supposed had to be porcelain caps. A name badge pinned to her blouse read Verity.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?’ Verity asked.
‘Hello, Verity. I’m DCI Morton. This is Detective Mayberry. We’re trying to confirm the details of the product launch you organised on Saturday night.’
‘Oh, the Près Ice launch?’ Verity said. ‘It was fabulous. We rented out the Painted Hall for that one and had an absolute blast.’
‘Could you tell me which members of your staff were in attendance?’ Morton asked.
‘All of us. They’re one of our biggest clients, so we had to spend the whole night schmoozing them. Champagne, glamour girls, the works. We had industry professionals in, a whisky tasting, and the usual product presentation. Chris handled the presentation, while Mark’ – Verity turned towards the main desk and gestured at a squat, balding gentleman in an ill-fitting suit who was jabbering away on the telephone – ‘handled the whisky tasting.’
‘And F-Freddy?’ Mayberry said. ‘W-what did he do?’
‘General schmoozing. He did the projector for the presentation too.’
‘What time was that?’
Verity frowned, bit the tip of the fingernail on her index finger, and then said: ‘At nine o’clock, I think. It lasted about half an hour.’
Morton paused. The body had been found by the nine o’clock tour group on Sunday morning, and time of death had been put at eight to ten hours prior, meaning Primrose Kennard had died between eleven o’clock and one in the morning, well after the presentation.
‘And w-what h-happened after that?’ Mayberry asked.
‘We networked. Carriages were at midnight.’
‘Did the twins stay all evening?’ Morton asked.
Verity nodded. ‘I was with them all night.’
‘Both of them? Together?’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 27
