‘Yeah. There.’ Ayala pointed. ‘Right next to that TV.’
Ayala turned the microscope on, and the television screen flickered to life. ‘Cool!’
‘Boys and their toys,’ Rafferty muttered. ‘Let’s have a butcher’s, then.’
It took a few minutes of Ayala twiddling the dials before the diamonds came into focus, but when they did, they were writ large upon the screen.
‘They look perfect,’ Rafferty said.
‘Too perfect. We’re at 100x magnificent. We should be seeing inclusions in the stones. Small dark bits,’ he added.
‘I know what inclusions are. Can’t you get flawless grade diamonds?’
‘Sure. But they’re graded flawless if you can’t see inclusions at 10x magnification. We’re looking a lot closer. And look at the edges.’ Ayala pointed at the screen.
‘What about them?’
‘They’re too round. That’s a giveaway.’
‘Hang on. In the corner. That’s not perfect,’ Rafferty said.
There was something on the girdle. Ayala moved the focus over to it.
‘That’s just a laser inscription. It’s not an inclusion. It’s part of the security. All expensive diamonds are laser-etched with a serial number.’
‘Ayala.’ Rafferty looked at him as if he were an idiot, her hands planted on her hips.
‘What?’
‘Think about it.’
‘What?’
‘I’m only going to say this once. They’re. Not. Diamonds.’
‘I bloody know that, woman.’
‘So, why then, Bertie boy, do they have a laser inscription on them that would only be applied to a diamond?’
‘Huh.’
Ayala sat there, flummoxed, while Rafferty went in search of someone who might be able to decipher the codes. By the time she returned, Ayala had begun to write down a list of each code inscribed in the stones in the hopes of finding a pattern.
Zane followed Rafferty inside, pulled up a chair back-to-front, and sat down near Ayala. ‘I hear we’ve got some diamonds which aren’t diamonds which are inscribed like diamonds. Sounds fun.’
‘Yeah. We were inspecting the fake stones and found laser inscriptions on the girdles, like on real, valuable diamonds.’
‘Is that the list of codes?’ Zane said. ‘Mind if I take a look? Codes are kinda my thing.’
Without waiting for permission, he snatched up the list. His jaw dropped as he read.
‘What is it, Zane?’ Rafferty asked. ‘Are they random gibberish designed to make the fakes look good, or what?’
‘They’re not gibberish,’ he said slowly. ‘They’re Bitcoin addresses.’
‘And what are they?’
‘Cryptocurrency. Digital money.’
‘How much are they worth?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Let’s find out.’
Zane went to fetch his laptop. When he returned, he loaded up his own bitcoin wallet and executed a digital transfer from the 30-bit wallet denoted by the first code on the list.
Successfully redeemed: 50 Bitcoins.
‘Holy shit. How many of these codes are there?’
‘Seven hundred and twenty.’
‘If each of these Bitcoin wallets holds fifty Bitcoins, then you’re sitting on thirty-two thousand Bitcoins.’
‘What’s that worth in pounds sterling?’ Rafferty asked.
Zane clicked through to find the current exchange rate of Bitcoins to GBP. ‘These stones are worth just north of ten million pounds.’
Chapter 33: Hiding in Plain Sight
Monday April 13th 15:00
The morgue was as quiet as ever. Morton passed a diener in the hallway, and but for a nod, the morgue assistant might as well have been a ghost in the night.
Chiswick could be heard singing loudly as he worked. It wasn’t a song that Morton recognised, but then Chiswick wasn’t much of a singer. As Morton approached Exam Room 4, he heard the whir of an electric motor. Chiswick was busy cutting open a corpse.
When he saw Morton lurking in the hallway, Chiswick gave him a quizzical glance, killed power to the motor, and emerged wearing a plastic bib that was streaked with blood.
‘David. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Chiswick extended a bloody-gloved hand.
Morton looked at the hand and then back up at Chiswick.
‘Ah. Right. Sorry about that.’ Chiswick wiped his hand down his chest.
‘Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk about an old case you worked. Amoy Yacobi.’ Morton watched the pathologist carefully for a reaction.
Chiswick didn’t react. His brow furrowed up as if he was trying to recall the name. Finally, he said, ‘What about him?’
‘You remember the case?’
‘If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’d be hard to forget. He was the guy they found hanging from a meat hook over Smithfield’s way, right?’
‘That’s him.’
‘His throat was cut, and he bled out,’ Chiswick said. ‘What more do you need to know?’
It was oddly terse. The pathologist was rarely so defensive about his past cases.
‘Could you have missed anything?’ Morton asked.
‘How bloody dare you, David! Since when have you known me to half-arse anything?’ Chiswick’s cheeks flared, and he turned sharply on his heel and stomped off towards his office.
Morton thought the pathologist was gone, but then he heard a printer whir to life. Chiswick returned carrying a bundle of paper a quarter of an inch thick. He roughly thrust the printouts at Morton.
‘That’s everything I’ve got.’
Morton balanced the pile on his left arm and began to flick through. There were blurred photos of the tattoos Morton had seen in the crime scene photos, but they didn’t belong to any gangs that Morton knew of. He made a mental note to shoot a copy over to Xander Thompson for a second opinion.
Yacobi’s medical history was included in the file. He’d been shot, stabbed and beaten three times in the six months preceding his death. On the last occasion he’d been stabbed sixteen times and had required an enormous blood transfusion of six pints just to survive the night.
‘Look all you like,’ Chiswick said. ‘There’s nothing in there that’s medically relevant to his death. His throat was cut and he bled out. End of story.’
Chapter 34: Exposure
Monday April 13th 16:00
Morton caught up with Ayala and Rafferty after his meeting with the pathologist. The Bitcoin revelation made sense. It was physical, yet intangible. Safe, but moveable. It came as no surprise that a member of the Bakowski family would get creative with stashing away their ill-gotten gains. The biggest win was that the discovery cleared Morton and Ayala of all wrongdoing and fixed what could have been a lingering stain on their reputations despite their innocence.
Morton had just enough time to ping off two emails before the next meeting of the day.
The first was to Xander Thompson to bring him up to speed. The second was to Kieran O’Connor at the Crown Prosecution Service. The lawyer had been instrumental in obtaining Proceeds of Crime Act seizures of the Bakowski family’s ill-gotten wealth, and the Bitcoins would now need to be the subject of such an application.
The meeting was an unpleasant one. The superintendent had summoned Morton again.
‘Sit.’
‘Sir, I–’
‘I said sit down, Morton.’
Morton sat. He felt like a naughty schoolboy being chastised for turning up to class late. ‘Sir?’
‘Did I or did I not tell you not to harass the Kennard twins? Did we not sit in this very office with them and promise to leave them the hell alone?’ The superintendent thumped his fist down on his desk, causing his mug to jump clear off the desk and land on its side, mercifully devoid of liquid.
‘That was before new evidence came to light.’
‘What bloody evidence?’
‘The twins came up in connection with two other murder investigations. I wa
s well within my rights to ask them for an alibi. They agreed to the interview.’
‘Oh, they did, did they? Then, why did I just take a call from their lawyer?’
‘I guess they had a form of buyer’s remorse, sir. But the Kennard twins aren’t why you’re angry with me,’ Morton said. ‘You’re angry I sent Mayberry into danger.’
‘You’re damned right about that. The more I think about it, the more apparent it is how reckless you’ve become.’
Morton stood. ‘If you honestly think I made the wrong call, then fire me.’ Morton eyed the superintendent, fearing for just a moment that brazenly calling the superintendent’s bluff could backfire.
‘I’m not going to fire you.’
‘Then we’re wasting time that I could be using to catch a killer.’
‘Morton. Wait. This is your final chance. If you contact the twins again without talking to their lawyer first, I will fire you. You cannot keep ignoring orders and expect to remain in the Met’s employ. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Then take this.’ The superintendent stretched out a hand containing a scrap of paper which had the name of the twins’ lawyer and his contact details scrawled on it: Tenchi Shimizu, In-House Counsel, Nuvem Media Associates.
Chapter 35: Only the Guilty
Monday April 13th 15:45
The teacher proved to be the hardest to watch of them all. She rarely left the privacy of her flat, and so I had to watch her on the few occasions that she did. I found it odd how little she socialised. For someone of her age, she had few friends – even fewer than the old lady. After weeks of surveillance, I had seen just one repeat visitor. A boy. He had to be the key to understanding her lifestyle.
He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. About her age. And yet he wore a school uniform. It was right there on his chest, the logo of St Balthere’s Academy. The boy visited her daily between three thirty and three forty-five, just after school got out.
It took time to be able to follow him without being seen. I thought I had been spotted last week, just for a moment, when he turned to stare in my direction.
This afternoon he was running a little late. He walked by the bus stop at a brisk pace, and I saw him disappear along the alleyway that led to her flat.
I made it to her home thirty seconds after he did and pressed my eye to the gap in the fence at the bottom of the garden. He was on the doorstep, ringing the bell. She opened the door and greeted him with a kiss.
The pair were not merely a student and his teacher. They were lovers.
I reached into my jacket pocket. No; not now. She was with an innocent. The boy could not be harmed. Her end would have to wait.
Chapter 36: Another One Bites the Dust
Tuesday April 14th 06:30
Henry MacIntyre was fast approaching sixty years of age. In his long life he’d served as a submariner, raised two boys, and become a deacon in his local church. He lived a life that was extraordinarily ordinary. His morning routine was simple. He rose before the rest of the world, unlocked the doors at St Balthere’s Academy, and set about readying the place for the school day.
The first clue that all was not right presented itself upon Henry’s arrival at the front gate. The gates were unlocked; the padlock which usually held them shut was clicked tight about one half of the gate, rendering it ineffective.
‘Bloody night crew,’ Henry muttered. While it was his job to unlock each morning, the task of locking back up fell upon the night caretaker, who swept the halls after the teachers had left and was supposed to lock everything up behind him.
Henry’s first task of the day began as normal. He pulled gloves and a bag from his pocket and began to clear the detritus that inevitably littered the path. It was then that he saw the figure on the bench.
‘Ms Hogge? Is that you?’ Henry called out. When she did not reply, he moved closer. He saw that her eyes were wide and unblinking. He dashed forward and seized her wrist in search of a pulse.
She was cold to the touch, and as he recoiled she slid forward. Out of instinct, Henry caught her and instantly regretted it. Her body felt... wrong. She was like jelly, wobbly and unstructured. He lay her down along the bench, pulled out his phone, and debated who to call first: the police or the principal.
‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit.’
***
The fourth body was by far the most disturbing, though it didn’t seem that way at first glance.
An irate Scotsman had called it in. He was something of a janitor, though Morton soon found out that the man disliked that title. Head Groundsman. That was what he called himself. In any event, he opened the doors and picked up the rubbish.
Saint Balthere’s doors would not be opening today. The lady on the bench was Olivia Hogge. According to MacIntyre, she had been a Modern Foreign Languages tutor.
‘So, she taught French, then?’ Ayala had quipped. ‘Does everybody have a fancy title around here? Can I start calling myself Chief Justice Ayala, Protector of the Realm now?’
‘Sure. I’ll have new business cards printed up later today,’ Morton replied. ‘Your new duties include fetching me coffee and beginning the door-to-door canvass to see if anybody saw anything.’
‘In the middle of the night? Fat chance,’ Ayala said.
‘And be sure to introduce yourself using your new title. We’ve got to make sure you’re taken seriously,’ Morton said with a smile.
Morton watched as Ayala sauntered back down towards the school gates. He could see a crowd of parents waiting on the other side, no doubt primed to pelt anybody who dared to walk past them with questions about just what was going on.
The body had been covered by a hastily assembled forensics tent to shield Olivia Hogge from the view of any children, and the scene of crime officers were processing the area around her for trace evidence. As of yet there was no sign of the pathologist. Police tape had been strung up from the gate down to the swings, and then back around the tent to the fence.
He beckoned Rafferty over from near the gates, where she had been doing crowd control. ‘Any sign of him?’
‘Nothing yet. Can’t we just look at the body?’ Rafferty pleaded. ‘If we don’t touch it, then it’s no big deal, is it?’
Morton had to concede the point. It was freezing, and the relative shelter of the forensics tent seemed appealing. They ducked inside and found Olivia Hogge laid out just as Henry MacIntyre had left her.
The chief scene of crime officer, Stuart Purcell, was bent forward, rifling through the handbag next to the body.
‘Morning, Stuart,’ Morton said. ‘Anything interesting in there?’
Purcell straightened up. ‘She wasn’t robbed. Cash, the latest smartphone, car keys. The killer left everything.’
‘Well, bag the lot and send them to Evidence,’ Morton said. ‘What about prints?’
‘Everywhere. Thousands and thousands of ‘em. It’s a school playground. We’ve got kids’ prints, parents’ prints, and teachers’ prints. Any one of them could be our killer, or none of them could be.’
Morton nodded his thanks and allowed the bigger man to edge past him bearing a bundle of evidence bags. Once Purcell was gone, Morton had a clear view of the body.
Olivia Hogge was a pretty woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with auburn hair and skin that looked as pale and smooth as Aegean marble. In death her complexion was pallid, and yet, with her gossamer silk blouse and gold jewellery dripping from her fingers, she seemed to be dressed up as if ready for a night out. Morton could easily have mistaken her for being asleep.
‘What do you think, then, boss?’ Rafferty said. ‘Jealous boyfriend?’
‘Maybe. I suspect we’ll know more when the pathologist arrives. Until then, we have to leave her as she is. Let’s go find the headmistress.’
***
The headmistress was in the school’s main hall with a few dozen teachers and Henry MacIntyre, who
seemed to be enjoying his newfound celebrity. Morton and Rafferty slipped into the back of the room unnoticed as Henry was telling the assembled teachers his story.
‘And there I was, minding my own business, when I saw her, cold as ice, her eyes burning into mine, unblinking. I knew straight away she was gone. ’Twas the way she was sitting there, all unnaturally still and stiff, leaning against her handbag on that bench. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a body.’ MacIntyre held up his hands modestly. ‘God knows I’ve been at war. I’ve killed my share of men and beasts. This was something else. She was dolled up to the nines, all prettied like she was going out on a date. Poor Ms Hogge. Such a tragic end to a girl who never had much luck to begin with. I say we raise a glass or two in her honour down at The Library tonight!’
‘Hear, hear!’ one of the teachers exclaimed.
Once the crowd had finished murmuring their respects to Poor Ms Hogge, the headmistress harrumphed loudly to draw attention her way.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the school will be closed today while the police have the run of the grounds.’
Everyone in the room cheered, excited at the prospect of a day off, and then fell silent again almost immediately at the incongruity of cheering while a colleague lay dead.
‘That does not mean you have the day off. I expect to see you working on lesson plans, marking, and your upcoming personal performance review plans. If you do not feel you have anything to be done, then come see me and I will find something. Am I clear?’
The crowd dispersed, allowing Morton and Rafferty to break through to the front of the hall.
By the time the crowd had filed out, only two women were left standing at the front of the hall. One was the headmistress, a short, squat lady with curly brown hair. Morton knew her name to be Mrs Gibbs, for it had been inscribed on the entrance sign underneath the school logo.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 38
