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 pathologist 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 away 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 superintendent was waiting for him when he knocked. He was sitting behind his desk with a copy of The Impartial spread out in front of him and the twins sitting in two chairs in front of his desk.
‘Superintendent. Mr and Mr Kennard. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘David, come on in. Grab a seat. These gentlemen came to see me early this morning. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.’
Morton took his seat and leant back. ‘What misunderstanding would that be, sir?’
‘These gentlemen have been in to complain that you’ve been harassing their clients.’
‘Harassment? Hardly. We went to verify their alibis, which was wholly justified as a matter of procedure, and especially so in this case. Their secretary lied to us.’
Freddy threw Morton a dirty look. ‘Verity? What did she say?’
‘She told us she was with you two all night. Your clients told us she was with them.’
‘Did you ever consider that we might have all been together?’ Freddy said.
‘Were you?’
‘In a way,’ Christopher said. ‘We were all at the same event.’
‘Which you could have left.’
‘We didn’t!’ both twins cried in unison.
‘Can you prove that?’
Freddy stood up. ‘Guilty until proven innocent, is it? When did that law come in?’
‘Gentlemen,’ the superintendent said, ‘things are getting a little heated here. DCI Morton was just doing his job.’
‘Him doing his job cost us our biggest client. Près Ice dropped us this afternoon. They don’t want to be associated with’ – Freddy mimed air quotes with his fingers – ‘a “potentially toxic brand.”‘
Morton paled. This was why he’d been summoned. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry to hear that Près Ice dropped you. I had to follow up on your alibi. It’s standard procedure. Verity did you no favours by lying for you.’
‘We didn’t ask her to!’
‘But she did lie, all the same. You have to see how that looks.’
‘It looks like we have staff who are loyal to a fault. I’ll be talking to Verity later. But you need to stop harassing us. We did not kill our mother. There’s photographic evidence, for God’s sake! Just check out our website. We were at a product launch!’
‘None of your photos show you both at the same time. Do you have any more pictures that you didn’t publish?’ Morton said.
‘So, it’s a twin thing. We look alike, so one of us must be a killer. Do you think we swapped clothes or something? How childish.’
‘It’s interesting you say that. You were wearing identical shirts and the same suits. It would have been child’s play to swap over your tie and cufflinks, wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re insane. And deaf. We. Didn’t. Kill. Her.’ Freddy jabbed his finger towards Morton with every word, and then stormed off towards the exit.
The other twin, Christopher, remained behind. ‘I don’t know what you want from us, Detective Morton, but we can’t prove a negative. I’d like you to stay away from my brother and me. Every second you spend investigating us is another second for the real killer to get farther away. If you’ve got to talk to us again, do it through our lawyer. He’ll be in touch.’
Chris rose and followed his brother out of the superintendent’s office.
Morton cursed. The lawyers were at it again.
Chapter 9: Winner, Winner
Wednesday April 8th 13:00
‘Jump and jive, number thirty-five!’ The voice echoed throughout the hall, booming through the silence. A plump lady with a contralto voice was sitting behind a desk where she rolled a large metal cage with a hand crank to churn out the bingo balls.
Morton loitered at the back of the hall with Ashley Rafferty by his side. Highgate Regal ran the bingo hall as a low-budget option for the over-sixties, and business was booming. Hushed voices whispered throughout the hall, chatting quietly over fifty-pence bingo cards.
‘Tickety-boo, sixty-two!’ the caller called out.
The players lurched into action once more. ‘Bingo!’ cried a voice towards the back.
‘Where was that?’ asked the plump lady. ‘Raise your hand so I can see you.’
A skeletal hand topped with far too many garish rings slowly rose into the air, and the plump lady darted forward to check the card.
‘We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen! That’s it for now. We’ll be back in a little bit, after I’ve had lunch. Dale and the boys will be bringing around your tea and biscuits shortly.’
Morton edged towards the longest table, where two women, one of whom was perched atop an overly large mobility scooter, and a man were lamenting how close they had come to winning.
‘One more and that trip to Brighton would have been mine!’ said the lady sitting atop the mobility scooter.
‘I know the feeling. I never win. It’s only fifty pence a time, but that sure adds up,’ said the woman next to her.
Morton approached them slowly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m DCI Morton, and this is DI Rafferty. Do any of you know Primrose Kennard?’
‘Why? What’s she nicked now?’ said the woman on the mobility scooter.
‘Shh, Phyllis, you shouldn’t say stuff like that. It was only a rumour.’
‘I saw her, Marlene,’ said Phyllis. ‘Those security guards in the Shop’N’Go dragged her off to their office. Jeremy saw them too, didn’t you, Jezzer?’ She elbowed the man next to her in the ribs none too gently.
Jeremy, the sole man in the group, looked uncomfortable.
‘I say we give him a break. Jezzer doesn’t want to talk about it,’ Marlene said.
Phyllis scowled. ‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ She turned to Morton. ‘He’s been trying to seduce Prim for ages now. A right lothario, he is, and eighty-two years old with it. Dirty bastard.’
Rafferty burst out laughing. Poor Jeremy had turned a bright shade of red at the sudden attention and slunk down in his seat as if to hide from view.
‘Ladies, I’m sure Jeremy’s love life is fascinating, but can we steer the topic back to Mrs Kennard, please?’ Morton said. ‘When did you see her last?’
Marlene turned to her friend. ‘Wednesday. It was Wednesday, wasn’t it? That was the night Primrose won a line, didn’t she, Phyllis?’
‘That she did,’ Phyllis said. ‘It was only five pounds, but she seemed pleased as punch.’
‘Never. Who’d want to hurt an old lady? Primrose could be a bit standoffish, but she couldn’t have annoyed anybody that much. Are you sure it was murder?’ Phyllis looked from Morton to Rafferty as if expecting them to admit that it was, in fact, an accident after all.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You sure? How’d she die?’ Marlene chimed in.
Morton saw expectant faces staring at him. He’d have to tell them. ‘The killer ripped her lung from her chest.’
He expected horror, but Jeremy and Marlene merely sat in silence while Phyllis let out a small gasp.
‘Ooh,’ Marlene cooed. ‘Someone stole her new lung? That is a funny business.’
‘New lung?’ Rafferty feigned ignorance in an attempt to see just how much the ladies knew.
‘Prim had a lung transplant, see,’ Marlene said. ‘She had something wrong with ‘er, see. She never said what, exactly, but she was in hospital for a while.’
Morton and Rafferty exchanged an odd look. Primrose’s transplant was common knowledge, then.
‘Was it done on the NHS?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Like any private doctor wants to do proper medicine. Her boys gave her a lobe each, and came out of it fit as a fiddle. Dead proud of ‘em, she was.’ Phyllis nodded sagely, as if she too had raised Freddy and Chris.
Morton watched as Rafferty’s jaw dropped, the wise woman playing the fool. ‘The twins donated lung lobes? Is that safe?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Do I look like a doctor? Lassie, I wouldn’t know. But I assume the twins are still walking and talking.’
‘Yes, they are,’ Morton said. ‘Would you know of any reason someone might have wanted to hurt Primrose?’
‘Robbery, maybe?’ Marlene volunteered.
‘Aye, that’d be it,’ Phyllis agreed. ‘She had loads of stuff. New clothes and jewellery every week, that one.’
Morton turned to the old man. ‘Jeremy, what do you think?’
‘Bingo!’ Jeremy cried, and waved his card in the air. On it, in blue marker, he’d drawn a car.
‘Don’t mind him. He’s been gaga for a decade. Can’t believe I was married to ‘im once,’ Phyllis lamented.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 29
