Half a million pounds. Half a million reasons to kill. Mayberry had seen people die over much less.
‘S-she’s d-dead.’
‘Then, Brian King is soon to become a very rich man. You think he killed her for it?’
Mayberry hesitated. He didn’t want to jump to a conclusion. ‘Rafferty t-thinks so,’ he said diplomatically.
‘What does Morton think?’
‘H-he’s not involved.’
Brodie turned to face Mayberry with an incredulous stare. ‘You’re running a case without the big man? Does he know?’
Suddenly, Mayberry found the insurance documents on-screen absolutely fascinating. He could feel the heat of Brodie’s eyes boring into him.
‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Brodie tutted. He seemed almost cheerful at being ahead of the office gossip. ‘Who’s running the case? Bertram? No, not the new girl? How’s Ayala taking that?’
Mayberry gestured at the screen. ‘W-why f-five hundred thousand?’
‘I’d guess they picked an amount just big enough to cover the total amount they had on their mortgage. They borrowed half a mil to buy their place originally, and they’ve got just over two hundred grand still to go.’
‘T-that’s a lot,’ Mayberry said. He didn’t need to add “on a policeman’s salary”.
‘That’s London for ya, laddie. I sold my place in Glasgow before I moved down here to take this job. It was only just enough for a bloody deposit.’
Brodie had never mentioned his past before. Mayberry looked at him curiously.
‘What? Ya wonderin’ why I moved? The missus wanted to live in the big city. The world’s yer oyster down here, isn’t it? The world’s best museums, thousands of pubs, sporting events and gigs every night. There’s always something to do. I guess we just needed a change. Not that I don’t miss Glasgow, mind you. I can’t find a battered Mars Bar and a pint for three quid in the East End now, can I? Anyways, is there anything else you need?’
‘W-what’s his credit like?’
Mayberry expected Brodie to turn his attention back to the computer once more, but Brodie was ahead of him. ‘Eight hundred and change. Need the exact number, laddie?’
‘N-no.’ It wouldn’t make a jot of difference. If Brian King’s credit record was clean, his bank accounts were healthy, and his mortgage high but manageable, then he probably didn’t have motive to kill his wife for money. ‘W-what about social m-media?’
‘Sod all, laddie. He tweets about Aston Villa far too much for my liking, but if being a card-carrying member of the Claret and Blue Army is a criminal offence, then we’re going to need more resources to tackle that hive of scum and villainy. Those Brummies seem to get everywhere, even this far south.’ Brodie gave a hearty laugh and pointed across the room to another desk, where an IT analyst Mayberry didn’t know was sitting with headphones on. He hadn’t heard a thing. On the desk was an Aston Villa mug.
‘T-thanks for everything,’ Mayberry stammered. His next stop was the morgue for the autopsy results. He hated talking to Dr Larry Chiswick. He never could get a word in edgeways.
‘Don’t mention it, laddie. And don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to Morton.’
Chapter 8: Too Perfect
It was too clean, too professional. Whoever had killed Angela King had to have killed before. To leave a body but no witnesses, a gunshot wound but no bullet, to kill without leaving a hair out of place – that took skill, practice, and training.
Rafferty knew just who had those skills. The vic’s husband was a police marksman. He had confirmed kills on record. He’d been through the Met’s forensics training. He had access to guns. And Rafferty just didn’t like him. There was something definitely off about him, but before she could confront him, she needed evidence.
Rafferty looked around the empty Incident Room. It wasn’t the same as Morton’s, and she regretted having to hide away from him, but Silverman had been explicit: Morton was not to know that Rafferty had been assigned her first case.
In the corner farthest from the door was the tatty old cork board with the victim’s name and photo at its centre. Everything they knew had been noted in Mayberry’s meticulous handwriting, just as Morton would have ordered done. The beauty of Mayberry’s cursive seemed to mock the empty space on the board. Where there ought to be definitive forensic details, evidence samples, fingerprints, and witness statements, there were none. All they had was a preliminary report from Dr Chiswick, not that they had needed a pathologist to tell them that Angela King had been shot. There was also a short statement from Leon, the bartender, outlining how he’d come to find the body.
It just wasn’t enough evidence.
The case seemed simple: a woman dead by a method that screamed trained marksman; her husband a trained sniper. Rafferty desperately wanted one and one to equal two. Knocking out her first case in record time would bode well for her future.
It just seemed too perfect. Morton had always taught her to look at the domestic partner first. A husband – and it was almost always a husband, rather than a wife – was the most likely suspect in any murder investigation.
King’s background fit the profile, too. He had reprimands on record for using excessive violence, and, not even a month ago, he’d been involved in a misfire incident on Pall Mall where a businessman had been mistaken for a terrorist.
Rafferty was jerked out of her thoughts when her phone buzzed. King’s partner was waiting for her downstairs. Rafferty looked around the incident room on her way out, then pocketed the key. She hurried downstairs hoping she wouldn’t cross Morton in the hallway. She felt like a fugitive on the lookout.
She made it to reception unscathed and found Abby Fields waiting for her. She was older than Rafferty by perhaps half a decade, with elegantly carved features and piercing green eyes that stared unblinkingly at Rafferty. Fields was part of the blue berets. It was her job to drive the BMW X5 that had been specially modified to carry all of the weapons that Brian King might need. She’d been with him for years, and her disdain at being summoned showed on her face.
‘Why am I here, Inspector?’ she demanded almost immediately.
‘Ms Fields, thank you for taking the time to see me. Would you be so kind as to come up to my office?’ Rafferty said.
Fields cut her off with a glare. ‘I have nothing to hide. If you have questions, ask them.’
Her voice was just loud enough to draw the attention of passers-by in the lobby. With a nod of her head, Rafferty led Fields to the west side of the lobby, where a cluster of empty chairs awaited them. Once they were sitting down, Rafferty leant forward and spoke quietly. ‘I need to ask you about Brian King and his relationship with his wife.’
The older woman sighed, leant back, and regarded Rafferty warily. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.
Rafferty raised an eyebrow, keen not to let on that she had no idea what Fields was talking about.
‘They’ve had some trouble, okay? And it’s not because of me, before you ask. I know the rumours that go around this place. Every man in here thinks that a single woman must be in want of a suitor,’ Fields said.
‘So, why was their relationship on the rocks?’
‘He took the job home with him. He hasn’t stopped talking about that accident–’
‘The misfire?’
Fields nodded. ‘It hit him hard. He’s always been an emotional one, but guilt isn’t something Brian is used to. He tried to use her as an outlet, and she got sick of it, resentful, even. He used to be so loving and attentive, and since then, he’s been preoccupied, moody, withdrawn. He hasn’t been sleeping properly, and she booted him to the sofa so she could get some shut-eye. After a while, she threatened to leave if he wouldn’t agree to counselling which he did. He’s getting better, but it’s not an overnight thing.’
Rafferty locked eyes with Fields. ‘So, he’s emotionally all over the show, but you don’t think he killed her.’
‘I know he didn’t.’
&n
bsp; ‘How?’
‘He was with me.’
Rafferty stared.
‘Not like that. We were on a job. Check the logs if you don’t believe me. Thompson should have signed off on them by now.’
Rafferty thanked her for her help and rushed off to her makeshift office to check the paperwork. Sure enough, there had been a call-out on the night of the murder, which Angela Fields and Brian King had both attended. His alibi was rock-solid.
And yet, Rafferty mused, the kill had all the hallmarks of a professional. It was clean, quick, and well-planned. It was the sort of kill that took training to accomplish without leaving evidence.
Could Brian King have arranged Angela King’s murder without getting his hands dirty? Rafferty wondered. For now, it seemed, that was the best lead she had.
***
The drive to Ayala’s was supposed to give Rafferty time to clear her head, but by the time she parked up illegally outside his home just south of the Millwall Docks, Rafferty was downright angry.
He’d texted her claiming to be ill. She knew damned well he wasn’t. The odds of Ayala claiming his first sick day in six years the moment he was assigned to work for Rafferty were one in a million.
She walked the path along the dock quickly and found his front door nestled down a short pathway through his front garden. She banged on the door.
‘Ayala! I know you’re in there!’
When he didn’t answer straight away, she banged on the door again. ‘Police! Open up!’
The door finally cracked ajar, still latched, and Ayala’s mug appeared in the crack between door and frame. ‘Very funny. What do you want? I’m sick.’
‘Let me in. We need to talk.’
Ayala made to shut the door, forcing Rafferty to jam her foot in the gap. ‘We don’t need to do anything, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m allowed to take a sick day.’
‘Not when you’re not sick.’
‘Fine. Move your foot.’
Rafferty complied. For a moment, she half-expected him to slam the door shut again, but he duly undid the latch, opened the door, and stood aside to let her pass into a small house with kitschy memorabilia on every available surface. He beckoned her to follow him through to a small kitchen, where he set a pair of teacups down on a rickety old oak table.
‘Tea?’
‘Go on, then.’
She watched him in silence as he fumbled to make tea the proper way.
‘Milk? Sugar?’
She nodded for the first and declined the second. Ayala seemed to be dragging his heels as if he were desperate to avoid a difficult conversation. He finally sat himself down opposite her and met her gaze.
‘What’s really up?’ she nudged gently.
‘It’s not fair,’ Ayala said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been with him for years, I’ve been a detective inspector for the last three, and you get a shot before I do? Who’d you blow?’
The hairs on Rafferty’s neck rose up, and anger coursed through her veins. As quick as a flash, her hand shot out to slap him. It only registered when she saw the outline of her palm upon his cheek. ‘How dare you. You know why I’m in charge? It’s because I act like I’m in charge. You’re a competent detective, Bertram, but you never show any initiative. You wait for Morton to tell you what to do, like a puppy dog. Just lingering on his team for years doesn’t earn you the right to lead. If you want to lead, be a leader. Right now, I’m in charge. Are we going to have a problem, or are you going to get in line and help me give Angela King justice?’
She had just slapped a subordinate. In any normal circumstances, that would be grounds for dismissal, but she didn’t care. She had earned this. If Ayala wanted to be petulant, he could do it on somebody else’s time.
Ayala stared glumly at his tea, veering between shock and indignation. Finally, he looked up, his expression cowed, and bit his lip. ‘I can’t. I won’t work for you. And if you try to force me, I’ll tell Morton you’ve stolen a case we both know should be his. If the new chief hadn’t put him on desk duty, he’d have solved Angela King’s murder by now. You want justice for Angela King? Morton’s the man to get it for her.’
As Ayala spoke, Rafferty’s rage grew. Her jaw was set, her arms tense. Through clenched teeth, she growled at Ayala.
‘Be in work tomorrow morning, or else. This is the last chance I’m giving you.’
She swept from the room without a backwards glance. How dare he?
Chapter 9: The Union Rep
Brian King was not alone when he arrived at the interview suite at New Scotland Yard. No doubt his partner had tipped him off that they were looking at his relationship with his wife, so he had brought back-up. The man accompanying him, Kirk Addison, was wiry and grey-haired, with a ruddy complexion that belied an intelligent wit. He was a veteran of the Metropolitan Police group of the Public and Commercial Services Union, and honour-bound to attend any hearing at the request of a union member.
There was no sign of Detective Inspector Ayala. He had not listened to Rafferty’s demands. Ayala had to know he was forcing her hand, but dealing with that would have to wait. There was a killer to catch, and Rafferty was still convinced she was staring right at him.
Rafferty shook Addison’s hand, careful to match her grip to his. He wasn’t one of those men who tried to crush her hand in a primal show of dominance, unlike the man he represented, and Rafferty felt a surge of grudging respect.
The formalities were sorted without ceremony. Once the tape was recording, Rafferty shuffled forward in her chair, made direct eye contact with Brian King, and let an uncomfortable silence begin to build. It was a technique Morton had used many times before. Suspects felt compelled to fill the void with something – anything – to avoid the silence. But not this one. Brian King was too old and too smart to fall for such a basic tactic.
Eventually, Rafferty caved. ‘You and Angela were in counselling.’
‘Yep,’ King said, his face betraying nothing. If Rafferty could imagine the cold, hard, expressionless features of a cold-blooded killer, Brian King would fit that description perfectly. His eyes were steel grey tinged with a hint of blue, and they bored into Rafferty like a drill.
‘Why?’ she prodded simply.
His eyes narrowed angrily for a moment, then the emotionless mask returned. He could feel, after all.
‘That’s private,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it is. Are you declining to answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ Rafferty said, and pretended to shuffle her notes as if searching for something. ‘Let’s talk about what happened in February.’
King glared and looked over to his union rep.
‘That’s a matter of public record,’ Addison said slowly. He looked searchingly at his client as if wondering why this was an issue.
‘It is. I’d like to hear it in his own words, if I may,’ Rafferty said with a mirthless smile.
‘Fine,’ King said. He exhaled deeply, flexed his fingers against his forearm, and began. ‘On the third Saturday in February, we were called to an incident at Covent Garden market. It was late at night, the bars were crowded, and there was movement everywhere. The call was that a man was holding up the crowd with a gun in the lower level outside the Punch and Judy. We quickly assumed a position on the level above, and I was the point man.’
‘What happened?’
‘A man was wearing a hoody. He was tall, dark–’
‘Black?’ Rafferty prompted.
King glared. ‘Yes. As I was saying, he was in a dark corner, and he had his right hand inside his pocket. There was blood on the floor nearby, and members of the public were screaming and running back and forth.’
Rafferty watched King carefully as he spoke. His voice had begun neutral, even, and low. As he told his story, there was a quiver in his voice, a staccato of emotion.
‘He wouldn’t take his hand out of his pocket–’
‘Which hand?’
‘Right. He was scr
eaming something, but I couldn’t hear what over the din. He had his left hand raised in a pointing gesture and kept jabbing it at a woman nearby as if he were threatening her.’
‘Was he?’
‘No. But I didn’t know that until... after...’
Rafferty folded her arms and looked across the table at him, her manner that of a stern schoolteacher. ‘Until after you shot him,’ she finished for him.
‘Yes,’ King said, his tone suddenly matter-of-fact once more. ‘I believed there was a danger to life and limb, and I acted accordingly. I’d do it again.’
‘For someone with very little regret, it’s weird to see a counsellor about the guilt,’ Rafferty chided.
King howled, an animal wounded. The sound reverberated around the interview suite as he sobbed. ‘He was a child, OK? I didn’t mean to kill him. How was I supposed to know he was the victim?’
‘He was the victim?’ Rafferty echoed.
The police rep interjected. ‘I think you know the rest, Inspector Rafferty. The victim was a young man who had been stabbed. His hand was inside his jacket to stem the bleeding, and the screaming was from pain. The blood was his. Mr King had no way of knowing this in the split second he took to make the decision. After Borough Market, the acid attacks in the East End, and everything else that had happened, he couldn’t take the chance. It’s obvious he regrets it. How and why is this pertinent to your investigation?’
Rafferty was forced onto the back foot. If King was genuinely contrite, and it was some form of post-traumatic stress disorder that had fractured his relationship with his late wife, could he be an innocent man?
‘Who does Mr King think killed his wife?’
‘How would he know?’ Addison said.
‘Okay,’ Rafferty said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll rephrase the question. Angela was shot at short range by someone who knew how to handle a gun. Mr King works with firearms professionally. Would he not agree that her murder has an element of professionalism to it?’
‘You want him to agree that his wife’s murder was professional?’ Addison echoed in disbelief. ‘What is this, TrustPilot for criminals? Five out of five stars, would be murdered by again? This interview is over, and I will be talking to Ms Silverman about your lack of sensitivity.’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 54
