Friday May 1st 15:00
Ebstein and his lawyer appeared precisely on time, as Morton knew they would. He had called Jessica Nunya’s clerk to arrange the time personally.
The doctor appeared dressed impeccably in a white button-down shirt and sombre blue tie that screamed ‘trust me’. His lawyer was lugging her red QC’s bag made from damask cotton which was stamped with her initial. She was clearly struggling with the weight of whatever it was she had inside. The doctor remained oblivious.
Morton had arranged for the twins to sit in the waiting area inside reception in plain view of the entrance. To guarantee that Doctor Ebstein saw the twins, Morton made Ebstein wait for him at reception for several minutes past the arranged time.
The plan seemed to work. The moment that Ebstein saw the twins, he paled considerably and stopped dead in his tracks. He twisted to whisper something to his lawyer.
‘Good afternoon!’ Morton called out cheerfully. ‘We’ve got a room set up for you. If you’d kindly put these on.’ Morton handed them visitors’ badges, and then waved for Frank the security guard to buzz them through to the back.
‘Thank you for your cooperation today, Doctor, and good to see you again, Ms Nunya.’
Morton led them through the twisting hallways of New Scotland Yard at a good clip, keeping up his end of the conversation with cheerful observations on the weather. Neither Ebstein nor Nunya looked impressed.
‘Before we begin, can I have a moment with my client?’ the lawyer asked.
If it’s genuinely a moment this time, Morton thought. ‘Absolutely. You take the conference room, and I’ll wait outside.’
Thankfully, this time Ebstein needed only a few minutes to consult his lawyer, and it didn’t take a genius to work out what they were discussing. If Ebstein had fallen for the ruse and thought that the twins might send him to jail, then there was every chance that he would fold.
The doctor had regained some of his composure by the time Morton sat down. He looked almost resigned to the idea of prison, though Morton suspected that the doctor’s idea of what prison was really like had been inspired by television documentaries.
The first words out of his lawyer’s mouth were, ‘What’s on the table?’
Morton smirked. A lesser lawyer would have demanded a deal, and in doing so given away their client’s obvious guilt. This one was good.
‘If,’ Morton began, using the hypotheticals with which criminal lawyers were only too familiar, ‘your client has information that we do not have, then we would be willing to countenance a reduced sentence in return for such assistance as he could provide.’
I sound like Kieran, Morton thought. He’d clearly spent much too long hanging around the prosecutor. There was no guarantee of a reduced sentence. All Morton and Kieran could do was offer to make representations to the court on the defendant’s behalf.
‘A reduced sentence would be unlikely to sway my client. If immunity were on the table...’
‘Immunity for what?’
‘Any offences my client might have committed. Do you even have authority to negotiate this? Where is the prosecutor?’
‘Would you like to speak to him?’ Morton asked.
‘Absolutely.’
Morton had taken the precaution of ensuring Kieran would be available. The lawyer was in his office. Morton made a call from his mobile to him, explained the situation, and then put him on speakerphone.
‘O’Connor speaking. Who is in the room?’
‘DCI Morton for the Metropolitan Police,’ Morton said. ‘I’m here with Jessica Nunya QC, representing Doctor Isaac Ebstein.’
It was all for the benefit of the tape.
‘I’m not prepared to offer blanket immunity. If Doctor Ebstein were willing to plead to a section 3 offence–’
‘Using a false instrument? No chance.’ Nunya’s tone was almost mocking.
‘It’s the best offer he’s going to get. If he pleads guilty to s3 fraud, I will drop all the other charges – on the condition that he did not participate in the murder of Primrose Kennard.’
‘No deal,’ Nunya repeated. ‘His testimony is worth more than that. A guilty plea to s3 could see him in jail for up to ten years.’
‘He’d get far less, and you know it. It’s that or I charge him as an accessory to murder and throw the book at him for fraud and perversion.’
Nunya looked over to her client. Once more he had turned rather pallid. ‘I need to take instruction from my client.’
‘Then, do so. You have an hour.’
***
Ebstein took the deal.
His lawyer had clearly fought against it while Morton was out of the room. She was packing away her brief when he returned, and Morton caught sight of the paperwork on the table. Ebstein’s signature was in the bottom right-hand corner. It was a practice known as “endorsing the brief” and meant that the lawyer had told the client what they thought, and the client, Ebstein in this case, had decided they knew better.
Morton didn’t blame him. Hotshot lawyer or not, the idea of facing a murder charge rather than pleading guilty to fiddling with some paperwork was an easy choice. Ebstein’s career would probably be over. The NHS wouldn’t want a convict on the books. Nor would anyone in private practice.
For Ebstein, the future would hold a short stint in a minimal security prison, and then the bliss of early retirement.
The doctor’s patients would be the ones to suffer. By all accounts Ebstein was a talented surgeon. If harm caused and harm prevented were tallied, Ebstein would still be in the black.
Morton had placed a blank MG11T form and a black biro on the table and then waited while Ebstein wrote out his witness statement.
An hour later Morton was standing in his office holding a completed form.
Witness Statement
(CJ Act 1967, s.9, MC Act 1980, ss.5A(3)(a) and 5B, MC Rules 1981, r.70)
Statement of... Isaac Ebstein
Age if under 18... Over 18
Occupation... Doctor
This statement (consisting of two pages and signed by me) is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.
Signed, Isaac Ebstein
Two years ago I required a kidney transplant to survive. After months on the waiting list, those I worked with set up an appeal for all the staff to be tested for compatibility. Miraculously we found a match, Doctor Byron Carruthers.
At that time I did not know Doctor Carruthers personally. Despite this, he agreed to donate a kidney to me. The transplant took, and I recovered fully.
After that, Doctor Carruthers became an advocate for donation generally and live donors in particular. He donated blood, plasma, and sperm as frequently as he could and forcefully encouraged those around him to do the same.
Eventually he became an altruistic donor. He gave away a liver lobe to a stranger.
This legitimate organ donation came to an end when the NHS refused him permission to make an altruistic donation of a lung lobe. The Ethics Committee felt that multiple altruistic donations were going too far. It is highly unusual to make even one altruistic donation. They implicitly questioned Carruthers’ motives and his sanity.
When he could do no more through proper channels, Carruthers came to me with a plan to continue his work off the books. Whenever a patient could not get a legitimate organ transplant, Doctor Carruthers would attempt to procure the required organ. He bribed families to donate organs legitimately. He stole from cadavers in the event of cardiac deaths. He illegally opted patients into being organ donors without their knowledge or consent. Finally he donated his own organs.
I helped him do it.
When Primrose Kennard came to me as a patient, she needed two lung lobes to be transplanted. Her sons were viable candidates, but one could not donate due to a case of hepatitis C. Carruthers wa
s a match. I implanted Carruthers’ own lung into Primrose Kennard. This was risky, unethical and illegal.
I did it anyway. Carruthers has a certain charisma. His logic made sense. He told me that these people did not deserve to die – and I agreed with him.
I do not agree with what he is doing now. I have no direct knowledge that he killed or harmed Primrose Kennard. I cannot testify that he is her murderer. I can only say that Carruthers has the access, skill, and means to kill without detection.
Another such patient, Olivia Hogge, received an off-the-book bone marrow donation from Doctor Carruthers. She too was found murdered.
Finally, Mr Niall Stapleton, who received blood legitimately given to the NHS blood bank by Doctor Carruthers, was also found murdered.
I do not believe it coincidence that multiple patients connected to Carruthers have died.
Signed, Isaac Ebstein
‘You happy?’ Morton asked Kieran.
‘Delighted. We wanted a killer, not a misguided doctor, and this is enough to get us the real criminal. Take a copy of Ebstein’s witness statement back to the magistrates and get your search warrants in order.’
‘With pleasure.’
Chapter 60: Finally
Friday May 1st 16:00
It wasn’t the same magistrate on the bench when Morton returned to Westminster Magistrates’ Court. Part of Morton was relieved. The first attempt to compel Byron Carruthers to give up a DNA sample had gone woefully wrong. On the other hand, it would have been satisfying to see the original magistrate relent in the face of Ebstein’s witness statement.
Morton’s application was approved in no time, and not only for Carruthers’ DNA, but for his financial history, his office, and his home.
The team caused a stir when they arrived on Carruthers’ doorstep thirty strong. The entire building was quickly surrounded, and a large swathe of the forensics department waited in the wings to sweep through Carruthers’ home.
A second team were off at Carruthers’ office, ready to strike at the same time.
‘Go.’ Morton gave the word over his radio and texted the office search team to give them the green light.
Carruthers’ door swung inwards with a bang, and the team charged inside. The doctor was sitting on his sofa. At the sound of the intrusion, he turned and smirked.
‘You could have knocked.’
The bastard’s got style. Can’t deny that. ‘Byron Carruthers–’ Morton said.
‘That’s Doctor Carruthers to you. I didn’t go to medical school for nothing.’
‘Byron Carruthers,’ Morton repeated with a glint in his eye, ‘this warrant authorises us to search your home and to take a DNA sample from you.’
The doctor reached out without getting up. ‘I’m sick. You’ll have to come to me.’
Morton reluctantly walked over to him and pressed the warrant into his outstretched hands. He lazily skimmed the document, taking far longer than he needed.
‘This appears to be all in order. Shall I say ah, or would you prefer to draw blood?’
‘A saliva swab will suffice. Purcell, would you do the honours?’ Morton stepped back to allow the chubby scene of crime officer to waddle forwards and collect the sample.
‘I assume you’ll be turning my house upside down now,’ Carruthers said. ‘Is there something in particular you’re looking for? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ Morton said in a falsely sweet tone.
Turn the house upside down they did. Scene of crime officers trampled all over the four-bedroom property, searching everywhere and taking swabs. Morton followed as his team tore apart every nook and cranny. Everything that could have been used in the commission of a crime was seized, from the kitchen knives to a sheet of tarpaulin they found in the garden.
‘Boss!’ Ayala called out. ‘Over here.’
On a small shelf in Carruthers’ home office were medical supplies, chief among them surgical scrubs, a nickel scalpel handle and a partially used box of one hundred sterile stainless steel scalpel blades. Morton had them bagged and then took the bag through to the lounge, where the doctor had remained under Rafferty’s watchful eyes throughout the search.
‘Would you care to explain this?’ he asked the doctor.
‘It’s a scalpel. It cuts things.’
‘Why do you have it at home?’
‘Practice,’ Carruthers said smugly. They couldn’t disprove it.
‘Practice? You’re an anaesthetist!’
‘Everyone needs to keep their edge sharp, Mr Morton. I have more than one skill to offer.’
‘You practice at home?’ Morton said. ‘Then you won’t mind if we test for blood.’
‘You’ll find blood. I regularly practice on animals. I’m sure you’ve got lab tests that will be able to confirm that. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘Your surgical scrubs. How many sets do you have?’
‘Several. I can’t say I keep an eye on them. They’re cheap and disposable,’ Carruthers said.
I’ll bet they are. He’s not daft enough to leave bloody scrubs lying around. ‘Thank you for your time, Doctor.’
***
Rafferty had pulled the boring job of looking through Carruthers’ bank accounts. His affairs were relatively simple. He had a day-to-day account for bills, a savings account worth about six months of his usual expenditures, and a stock portfolio spread across all of the FTSE100. His house was paid off, and his pension was an old NHS scheme which he had been grandfathered into.
Simply put, Carruthers was a wealthy man. With no children to support, he and his wife had enjoyed every perk of their upper-middle-class income. They’d holidayed in Bermuda and the Cayman Islands, joined a fancy golf club (though, as far as Rafferty could tell, seldom visited), and made generous donations to all sorts of causes.
What Rafferty had hoped to find was evidence of foul play. If he was running an organ transplant ring, then he should have illicit income that was unaccounted for. The numbers didn’t show that. He had no cash deposits, and every penny he received was from legitimate pay.
If anything, he was losing money. He made large cash withdrawals at irregular intervals, tens of thousands in all. It could be drugs, or women, or gambling. Or he could simply be spending far more money than a policewoman could ever dream of having to spend. It seemed that expenditure could easily expand to accommodate wealth. If only wealth could expand to accommodate expenditure.
The withdrawals were consistent in location. He always used the free ATMs provided in NHS hospitals, and every withdrawal was for £250, the maximum possible.
Perhaps he had a secret account that Rafferty simply couldn’t find. Or he had it hidden away somewhere other than his home or office.
Or he could be innocent.
Chapter 61: Serials to Catch a Serial
Monday May 4th 11:00
A weekend away from the stress of hunting down serial killers was enough to reinvigorate Rafferty. She struck upon an idea while pondering what Carruthers might be spending all that cash on.
Bank notes were never intended to be traced. They had serial numbers, which meant it would be possible in theory to trace a note being deposited at a bank or withdrawn from an ATM, but there was no system in place to force the banks to track them. Even if they did trace notes when they were withdrawn from the bank, the notes would be quickly spent, and tracking who received the money after that would require some legwork. Smaller denomination notes, in particular, would be likely to circulate many times before ending up back in the banking system.
There was no way in hell Rafferty would ever be able to find the notes Carruthers had withdrawn in the past, even if she could identify them from the source ATM’s records.
The doctor was nothing if not habitual, and his habits had continued throughout his alleged illness. He was still using the same ATMs, and every withdrawal appeared to occur between one and three o’clo
ck. If Rafferty could mark the notes before Carruthers got to the ATM, then she would know which notes he had withdrawn. Rafferty could flag the serials with the banks so that if they were deposited later on, then she could question the person who deposited them and work backwards from there. In theory.
It was a long shot, but it was worth a go.
***
Morton’s approach was more pragmatic than Rafferty’s. He went for the old-school approach – take Carruthers’ picture and show it around. His first stop was Ethel Tewson. It was she who had identified a man following Primrose Kennard, and Morton hoped she would recognise the doctor.
He found her right where he had left her: sitting in a window and watching the world go by. Her face lit up when she saw Morton. She clearly recognised him. He was ushered in, and a plate of biscuits was pushed beneath his nose.
‘Mrs Tewson,’ Morton began.
‘Babe. Call me Babe. Everyone does. Well, everybody I know, not that that’s many people anymore. I don’t get many visitors, you see.’ She looked at Morton eagerly, as if desperate to seize upon some human connection.
‘I’d like to ask you about the man you saw following Primrose Kennard.’
‘Him? Haven’t seen him lately. Not in weeks. I haven’t seen her, either. Do you think they’ve run off together?’
‘Mrs Tewson,’ Morton said gently, ‘Primrose is dead. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes seemed to lose focus, as if she were struggling to stay in the moment. ‘So, then. This man. What do you want to know?’
‘Can you remember what he looked like?’
‘Oh, yes. Handsome fellow. Tall. About as tall as you. He walked a bit funny, following behind Prim as they went. I wasn’t sure if they were together at first, but then I saw they were.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He lit up her cigarette, see. What a gentlemen. They don’t make ‘em like they used to. Are you married, Detective Morton?’
Morton held up his hand, showing his wedding band. ‘I am.’
‘Shame. All the good ones are taken. Or gay. Lord knows they don’t want to talk to me.’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 45
