‘Well, no. Everyone tends to circulate on their own at these things.’
‘So, you can’t be sure they were both there all night?’
‘I suppose one of them could have gone out for a cigarette break without me.’
‘Verity! What are they doing here?’
Freddy and Chris appeared from the back of the office. The entire room fell silent as the twins skidded to a halt in front of Morton and Mayberry. A waft of smoke hit Morton as they arrived. I guess they went out for a cigarette break.
The twins really were two peas in a pod. The only visual difference Morton could see between them was their choice of attire: they had monogrammed cufflinks marked ‘C’ and ‘F’ respectively, but from a distance Morton doubted whether anyone but family would be able to tell them apart.
Verity held up her hands as if to defend herself. ‘I was just–’
‘Just what?’ Chris snarled. ‘Haven’t you got work to do, woman? Don’t stand around chit-chatting. Shoo.’
Verity clenched her teeth, but she stood her ground. ‘I was just telling the nice detectives that I was with you all evening on Saturday.’
Freddy turned to glare at Morton. ‘You’re investigating us? Stop wasting your time and go find the real killer – and we’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand there gormlessly in our entranceway. It’s off-putting to clients. Now, is there anything else you need, or will you be on your way?’
‘We’ll be on our way, gentlemen.’
Once they were back outside, Morton turned to Mayberry. ‘They really didn’t like us being there, did they?’
‘N-no.’
‘I think one of them could have left part of the way through the product launch, don’t you? A bunch of drunks wouldn’t have noticed if one twin disappeared while the other didn’t. If they swapped cufflinks, I dare say they could have fooled Verity too. How far is it from Greenwich up to Highgate?’
Mayberry checked his phone. ‘T-ten miles, b-boss.’
‘About an hour in Saturday night traffic, then. If the product launch was done by half past nine, and one of them left then, they could have made it up there by half ten,’ Morton concluded. ‘That would give them plenty of time to kill their mother, dump the body and disappear into the night.’
Chapter 5: In the Dark
Monday April 6th 13:00
Morton and Mayberry walked the long way from Archway Tube to Primrose Kennard’s home. Throngs of people, a mix of locals and tourists, ambled with them as they made their way along Highgate Hill towards the northern end of Swain’s Lane.
For Morton, it felt almost like coming full circle.
‘I was born over there.’ He jerked his head towards Whittington Hospital as they passed the front entrance. ‘So was my sister.’
‘I d-didn’t kn-know you have a sister,’ Mayberry said, his forehead creasing up as if he were straining to remember a family member he’d never met.
Morton looked away for a moment, unable to make eye contact. Finally, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he muttered, ‘She’s gone now. Long gone.’
Silence fell, and Morton quickened his pace as they turned onto South Grove, a quiet street that separated Swain’s Lane from the main road. Up ahead they saw Ayala and Rafferty scouting out the CCTV in the area as ordered. Morton waved to them and then carried on south towards Primrose’s home.
Four doors away from the crime scene, Morton stopped in his tracks.
‘B-boss, w-why h-have we stopped?’ Mayberry asked.
‘I see a curtain-twitcher,’ Morton said, and pointed. Behind velvet curtains, an elderly lady was sitting in a bay window, eyeing the detectives as they walked past.
‘A w-what?’
‘Curtain-twitcher. It’s what my old mum used to call ‘em. Nosy neighbours who watch the world go by from behind the safety of their curtains. Shall we go and say hello?’
Morton led the way down a short cobblestone path until they were faced with an old oak door upon which hung a sign beneath a heavy old knocker. It read The View. Morton seized the knocker and rapped three times. The crack of metal on wood reverberated through the house, and soon after came the sound of shuffling inside.
The door opened to reveal an elderly lady propped up by a walker, which she leant on heavily.
‘You’re the plod, aren’t you? What are you waiting for? Come on in before that shrew next door sees you.’ And with that she turned away and began to shuffle ever so slowly into the house.
Morton cracked a smile and held out his hand in an ‘after you’ gesture. He and Mayberry followed the homeowner, one small step at a time, until she had resumed her position in the bay window, where she cast a beady eye at a couple passing by.
‘It’s not the same, you know. Used to be quiet ‘round here. Now it’s all flats and tourists. The name’s Ethel Tewson, by the way, but you’ – she pointed a gnarled finger at Mayberry – ‘can call me Babe. Everyone does.’
Mayberry turned a bright shade of red, and Morton had to bite his lip to avoid laughing.
‘Mrs Tewson, we’d like to talk to you about one of your neighbours, Primrose Kennard,’ Morton said.
He stood a few feet away from Mrs Tewson and scanned the room. There were no chairs, and the floor was devoid of any clutter. The only mementos that Morton could see were an old cigarette roller and a leather-bound photo album propped up on an easel above the fireplace. It was open to an old black-and-white photo of Mrs Tewson lying on the beach reading.
‘Oh ho ho. That one thinks she’s whiter than white, she does. But I see her coming and going with her bags. She thinks I’m batty, you know. Gives me a little wave every day as she walks past. Not seen her lately, though. Last time was, hmm, let me see.’
Mrs Tewson turned away from the window for just a moment and snatched up a moleskin notebook that Morton hadn’t noticed. She flipped it open to where a ribbon was being used as a bookmark and then ran her finger slowly down the page. She alternated between glancing up at the road and checking the notebook, as if someone might take the opportunity to walk by unnoticed while she consulted the book.
‘Saturday morning,’ Mrs Tewson said finally. ‘That’s when I saw her last. She went past at nine thirty-five in the morning and came back three-quarters of an hour later.’
‘D-did y-you see her after th-that, Mrs Tewson?’ Mayberry said.
‘Are you deaf, boy? I told you. Last time I saw her was Saturday morning. It’s all right here in my book. And I told you to call me Babe.’
Morton looked out the window. Mrs Tewson had a clear view of almost one hundred and eighty degrees up and down the street. From the fixation she had with staring out the window, Morton doubted she missed much.
‘Have you seen anyone loitering around near Mrs Kennard’s lately?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw a gentleman in a suit. He was exceedingly handsome, much more so than plain Mrs Kennard. I think she was having an affair with him. I’ve seen him a few times, coming and going. He’s always walking a good fifty feet behind her, as if they need to hide it. It’s not like her Hubert is around anymore to stop her.’ Mrs Tewson groaned loudly, and her eyes darted to her watch. ‘Dearie me, I’ve forgotten my pills. Would one of you be a dear and go fetch them for me? They’re upstairs in the bedroom, first door on the right. Big pink bag full of boxes. Just bring me all of them, if you don’t mind, dear. I’d go myself, but those stairs do tire me awfully.’
Morton nodded and spun on his heel. He bounded up the stairs and found the bedroom where Mrs Tewson had said it would be. Inside was a large double bed with a wardrobe on either side of the bed, and a small dressing table atop which sat Mrs Tewson’s pill bag. One of the wardrobe doors was open. Inside Morton could see men’s suits hanging neatly in dry cleaner’s bags, and a pair of leather brogues sitting in the bottom looking well-polished but covered in a layer of dust, as if they hadn’t been worn for some time.
Morton snatched up the pill bag and made his way back down to
the sitting room. In his absence, Mayberry had fetched a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs from the kitchen. Morton handed over the bag and took the empty seat.
‘Does anyone live here with you, Mrs Tewson?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Tewson said as she rustled through the pill bag. Boxes seemed to be coming out, almost at random, too fast for Morton to see what they all were. Mrs Tewson set them down next to her in the window bay.
‘I live with my husband. My Mark’s at work, though, right now, dear, so if you want to talk to him, you’ll have to wait. He’ll be down the mines ‘til six, and it’ll take him a while to get home, so you’d have to come back at about eight.’
Morton shared a quizzical look with Mayberry. ‘The mines? Mrs Tewson, there aren’t any mines around here.’
Mrs Tewson turned away from the window, the pills momentarily forgotten, and this time she didn’t attempt to steal glances at the street. She stared at Morton as if he were an idiot.
‘Of course there’s a mine. He’s down Baggeridge Colliery right now. Why would you say such a thing?’ Mrs Tewson looked from Morton to Mayberry and back again, desperate for reassurance.
‘Mrs Tewson, what year is it?’
‘Nineteen sixty-seven, dear. When else would it be?’
‘My apologies, Mrs Tewson. The date must have slipped my mind. I’m getting a little forgetful in my old age,’ Morton said. ‘Do you need any help popping those pills? No? OK. We’ll be on our way. Thank you very much for your time.’
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 meticulously 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 evidence 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.’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 28
