‘Make syrup with the vanilla and chipotle, mix as usual with tequila and top it off with some champers and a dash of bitters. Want to try it?’ Grace asked. ‘On the house... for research, right?’
Rafferty laughed. ‘I wish.’
‘Another time, then.’
‘I could do that,’ Rafferty said. ‘Was Angie popular?’
‘She did alright, yeah. She had that “sexy older woman” vibe going on – and she was always willing to buy a round for anyone at the bar. She was a bubbly one.’
‘Did you know she was married?’
‘I did, yeah. She always took the ring off when she walked in, and slipped it back on as she left. It wasn’t too subtle.’
Rafferty drained her teacup and poured another. ‘Was she really here last Saturday?’
‘For a while. I don’t know when, though. I heard she was shot about ten, is that right?’
‘How’d you hear that?’
‘Newspaper.’ Grace stood, walked behind the bar, and came back with a stack of the week’s newspapers. She flicked through the pile as Rafferty drank her second cup of tea. ‘I saved ‘em all, just in case. Angie’s one of us, and we all want to see her killer bang to rights.’
Grace handed over a newspaper, and Rafferty scanned the text. It said little beyond mentioning that Angie had been shot at ten o’clock and had died less than an hour later at the Royal Brompton. Of course it was The Impartial. The byline was credited to Martin Grant, the guy who’d got in her face at the press conference.
‘Thanks,’ Rafferty said. ‘Did you see her talking with anyone in here that night?’
‘I don’t think so, but you’re welcome to come back this evening when we’re open and talk to some of the regulars.’
‘I just might do that.’
Chapter 39: Divide and Conquer
Rafferty had texted to explain her absence. The news had broken that morning, and Morton was not best pleased. It was the sort of basic information that Rafferty ought to have turned up during her initial investigation. The cheating spouse angle was as obvious a motive as any, and yet, Morton reflected, it would not have made a jot of difference. Why did it matter to whom Angela King was attracted?
The students had been divided up among the team at random, and Morton himself had drawn Kane Villiers and Danny Hulme-Whitmore. The latter was a non-starter as far as Morton was concerned. He seemed to be dealing, but no minor criminal could have committed the series of murders that Morton was tasked with investigating.
Kane, on the other hand, seemed smart, competent, and dangerous. The fact that he would so brazenly lie to Danny about a dead uncle seemed capricious, but it was the only major flag. There was one man who, though Morton was no fan of his, would surely be able to tell.
He knocked on Doctor Jensen’s office door a little after nine thirty. The doc usually set aside Tuesdays to catch up on his paperwork, so Morton knew he would be in the office.
‘Hello, Doc,’ he said.
‘Morton! This is a surprise. What’re you after?’
‘I need that human lie-detector brain of yours,’ Morton said as he lingered in the doorway. ‘I want to know if the man I’m dealing with, Kane Villiers, is capable of murder. I think he could be a psychopath.’
That was the magic word: psychopath.
‘A real live psychopath, eh? Come on in. Shut the door behind you.’
Morton clicked the door closed behind him, took the sole chair that wasn’t piled high with folders, and waited for the doc’s full attention.
‘I’m investigating a serial killer. My recent class of eight students were set the task of committing the perfect murder. The exercise was intended to teach them how to think like those we have to catch.’
‘An admirable goal,’ Jensen said.
‘That’s what I thought!’ Morton said. ‘But it turns out someone slipped up and let a psychopath get into the course. One of the students has been committing each murder in turn using the feedback I gave them to make their murder more difficult to solve.’
‘Fascinating,’ Jensen said. ‘Absolutely fascinating. What were the murders?’
‘A woman was shot with a frangible copper bullet at close range, a man was asphyxiated by carbon dioxide piped into his home from the sewers, another man was somehow forced to jump off the top of his office block, and the last victim was torn to pieces by an MRI machine.’
‘I saw those in the news!’ Jensen said, suddenly animated. ‘I would never have fathomed that they were all killed by the same person. What diversity!’
‘Cool it with the admiration, Doc,’ Morton cautioned him. ‘I need to work out who it is, and I need to do it fast. Each murder has been committed on Saturday night at ten o’clock–’
‘Why?’ Jensen interrupted him. ‘Why ten o’clock? What’s so special about that time on that day? It seems ritualistic. Whoever your killer is, that time is significant to their life somehow. Choosing the same time and day is a compulsion, not an active choice. They feel they need to kill then for whatever reason.’
‘Good spot,’ Morton conceded. ‘I assumed they were just taunting me.’
‘Oh, they most certainly are.’
‘So, this is about me?’
Jensen nodded. ‘I think whoever it is thinks they’re smarter than you – and they may be right.’
‘Then how do I find out which of them it is?’
‘Play to their pride,’ Jensen said. ‘Make them think they’re winning. Remember playing Monopoly as a kid? The fun bit wasn’t your opponent giving up. It was crushing them slowly. It was that bit where you had a set and they didn’t, and every round, they slowly descended towards bankruptcy, and then finally crash-landed at rock bottom.’
‘Speak for yourself, Doc,’ Morton said. ‘I’d have given up the moment it was impossible to win.’
‘That’s exactly what you need to do. Make them think they’re winning. They must know you’re investigating a serial killer, but they may or may not know that you know that it’s one of them.’
Morton paused, unsure for a moment exactly what the doc had actually said with so many conditional negatives. ‘You think I should let them know I’m looking, but make them think I’m looking for someone else.’
‘Exactly,’ Jensen said. ‘If you can’t work it out from the evidence you’ve got, then let the taunts go unanswered. Make them think you’re way off track, and lure them into taunting you more.’
‘What if they change their plans, accelerate, kill someone else, and swap their modus operandi to something totally wacky that I’ll never see coming?’
‘They won’t. It’s not part of the game. They’re giving you every chance, here. They didn’t have to use the murder methodologies you worked out in class. If they just wanted to kill people, they’d have done it by now, and they’d get away with it, too. These murders are brilliant. They’re the work of a superior mind. Does this Kane Villiers fit that mould?’
Morton shrugged. ‘He’s sharp, but is he smart enough for this? I don’t know. The big red flag for me is how easily he lies. During yesterday’s profiling exercise, he made up a story in which his uncle died during a botched protest, almost as if he wanted us to investigate him. Could that be him taunting me?’
Jensen looked unsure. ‘It’s cheeky, but is an obvious lie really a taunt? He had to know that you’d disprove it in minutes. He could be testing to see if you’re investigating him, but that doesn’t mean he’s the killer. Your students might have put two and two together themselves. They know what murders you discussed in class. I’m sure many of them made notes. Wouldn’t they have noticed all these murders in the news? It doesn’t take a genius to connect them if you’ve got that inside information.’
***
Morton decided on the direct approach. He would confront Villiers about his fake uncle story and see what he had to say for himself. It was a good thing that he’d left the students the Tuesday free to write up the profiles he’d assigned as thei
r homework. Morton checked with Human Resources to get his address and then had Brodie ping his mobile to make sure he was at home before heading out.
The address was in Wembley Park, not far from the stadium. Victoria Avenue was rammed when Morton arrived. There were cars double-parked all along the road. There must be an event on at the stadium, he decided. He eventually found a space and parked with inches to spare on either end.
The Villiers house looked like most of the others in the row. It was a simple home: two up, two down, semi-detached, with a driveway out front.
Morton walked up to the front door and knocked.
‘Coming!’ shouted a voice from within. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a plump woman in her mid-fifties.
‘Hi, I’m looking for Kane Villiers,’ Morton said.
‘Villiers... Villiers... I know that name! That was the couple who lived here before us.’
Morton flashed his identification. ‘I’m confused, ma’am. I was led to believe this was his address.’
What was even more confusing was that Brodie had confirmed that Villiers’ mobile had pinged off a local tower recently. He was definitely in the vicinity of the house.
The woman smiled, humouring him. ‘I’m afraid not, officer. It’s just me and Jack. We’ve been here a good two years now.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any identification that I can see?’ Morton asked, and then added apologetically, ‘Formalities and all that.’
She looked less than enthused, but she said without protest, ‘Come on in, officer, and I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton said as he stepped into the parlour.
The house felt like it belonged to an old couple. The décor was dated. There were few hints of technology to be seen beyond an old radio, and the photos on the wall were of the woman and a husband her own age.
‘Wait here.’
The woman disappeared into a back room, and Morton could hear her shuffling boxes around. She came back huffing and puffing, a thin film of sweat upon her brow.
‘Will this do?’ she asked, handing Morton a thick envelope.
He decanted the contents into his right hand. It was a solicitor’s letter confirming that Mr and Mrs Jack Bartley had purchased the home he was standing in from Kane and Alexa Villiers almost two years ago.
Villiers had been married? Morton hadn’t seen that coming. There was no ring on his finger, or the tan lines that would have hinted at a recent divorce. It went against the profile, too. Any man who could sustain a long-term relationship such that he got married was markedly less likely to be a serial killer.
‘Yeah,’ Morton said, his brows furrowed in confusion. ‘That will do fine. Thank you for your time, Mrs Bartley. May I make a copy of this for our records?’
She nodded, let him use his phone to scan the documents, then escorted him to the door, obviously pleased to see the back of her unexpected visitor.
The moment the door closed, Morton phoned Brodie back.
‘Brodie.’
‘Brodie, where’s Kane Villiers’ phone?’
‘I told you, it’s at his house,’ Brodie said.
‘It’s not. I’m here. He doesn’t even live here.’
‘Hang on. I’ll ping your phone and tell you how far you are from him. You’re twenty feet from him, boss, at most. Are you sure you’re not missing something?’
‘I’m sure I am, but he definitely doesn’t live here.’
Odder and odder. Where on earth was Kane Villiers?
Morton made a beeline for his car and paused before he fired up the engine. He dialled Kane’s number and waited.
‘Kane speaking.’
‘Hi, Kane, it’s DCI Morton. Where are you?’
‘I’m at home.’
‘Right,’ Morton said. ‘Could you come outside, please?’
‘Err... no.’
‘Why not?’ Morton demanded. There was a pause, and he could almost hear the cogs turning in Villiers’ brain.
‘I just got out of the shower.’
‘Give it up, Kane. I’m not an idiot. What’s going on?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Please,’ Morton said.
‘I... oh, hell. You’re outside it now, aren’t you? I’ll be there in five.’
True to his word, Kane emerged onto the kerb within five minutes. He appeared not from the front door, but from the bushes alongside the house.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘I’m a squatter, okay? My divorce ruined me. This house,’ Kane said, gesturing at the Bartley couple’s home, ‘is the house I grew up in. I inherited it. When I got divorced, I had to sell it to pay my now ex-wife and my lawyers.’
Morton looked from Kane to the house. ‘How’re you squatting in a house two people live in?’
‘They don’t know there’s a basement. I didn’t convert it legally, so it’s not on the plans. I used to use it as a man cave. Now I live in it, and sneak out of my family home like a thief in the night. Please don’t tell anyone.’
It could have been a lie. It sounded utterly preposterous.
‘Show me,’ Morton ordered.
Kane did. They snuck back the way he had emerged, and came to a fire escape underneath the bushes. An earth-coloured mat lay atop of it. Kane pulled it aside, flipped the hatch open, and gestured for Morton to descend.
‘Don’t worry,’ Kane said. ‘I’m right behind you.’
That, Morton thought, was exactly what he was worried about. Had the genius serial killer just pretended to be a moron in order to lure him to a random basement? His biceps flexed as he desperately wished he were carrying a gun right now.
He emerged into what Kane had called a man cave. There was a small bathroom in the corner, a sofa bed extended and covered in cushions, and a large television.
Kane shut the hatch behind him and pressed a finger to his lips in a “shush” gesture.
‘I have to whisper, else they might hear me. I wait until they go out before I do anything loud, like take a shower.’
‘That’s disgusting. You’ve lived like this for two years?’
‘Yes, ever since I sold the house.’
Morton gave the man an astonished look.
‘But don’t worry. I’m not your serial killer,’ Villiers whispered.
‘What?’ Morton said, a little too loud.
‘Shhh. Look, we all know. It’s obvious. Someone is committing all the crimes we discussed in class, only better. Everyone’s talking about it.’
Shit, Morton thought. They did know. Jensen was right.
‘I won’t tell,’ Villiers said. ‘As long as you don’t.’
‘Then, why did you make up a fake uncle who died?’
‘Fun,’ he said. ‘I like messing with Danny. Do we have a deal? My silence for yours?’
It wasn’t as if Morton had much of a choice, and what harm was he doing, anyway? It was creepy as hell, but Morton could sympathise with a man losing his home.
‘Deal.’
Chapter 40: Money, Money, Money
The lesbian angle to Angela King’s death got Rafferty thinking. Almira el-Mirza had been assigned to her to investigate. Could there be a connection there?
She’d started with the basics: a background check, financial report, and a social media search. One thing had struck Rafferty immediately: el-Mirza was loaded. She wasn’t just rich, either. She was filthy rich, or “minted”, as Rafferty’s brother Paddy liked to say.
Her home in Notting Hill was, according to Land Registry records, owned outright. No mortgage. To own a home at twenty-eight was a miracle. To own a home in Notting Hill was outlandish. To have it without debt was unthinkable. And yet there it was, in black and white: she’d bought it for cash, for just over two million plus stamp duty and legal fees.
Where on earth was the money coming from?
It wasn’t, it seemed, from her parents. Her accounts showed a nominal few hundred being transferred internationally. The rest
was coming from an online payment processing company. Almira had been making withdrawals of varying amounts. None were huge alone, but the aggregate income was substantial.
‘Where’s it all coming from?’ she wondered aloud as she trawled through the mountains of paperwork Brodie had sent over. It couldn’t be criminal in nature, unless the team responsible for background checks had failed miserably. Rafferty couldn’t rule that out.
It was no use. The paper trail started and ended with the payment processor.
Rafferty dialled Kieran O’Connor’s number. He answered in a hushed tone.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘I’m due in court in ten, so make it quick.’
‘I need to track some unexpected funds. There’s no way the payment processor is going to cooperate if I just ask. Do you think I can get a warrant?’’
‘What’s your evidence like?’
‘The suspect earns sod all but has loads of dough.’
Kieran tutted. ‘Private money?’
‘Not as far as I can tell. Her parents are rich, but their support payments are small and regular. This is a pattern of varying amounts over and over.’
‘Can’t you just ask your suspect?’ Kieran said after a pause. ‘If she hides it, we can use that to compel records. I have to dash.’
He hung up on her. ‘Bastard,’ Rafferty muttered. Kieran was always doing that. Mr Important Lawyer never bothered to actually say goodbye at the end of a call.
It was time to talk to Almira.
***
The team were overworked, and the stress was beginning to show. Morton was fielding calls from the press, fending off the demands of the victims’ families without offending them, and drowning in leads that went nowhere. Even Sarah’s home cooking couldn’t lift his mood.
He hadn’t managed to rule any suspects out, and yet nobody had left any evidence that they were the killer.
Kane’s excuse – that he had been at home on each of the Saturday nights – couldn’t be verified, as he lived alone. Morton’s gut said he hadn’t done it, but gut instinct alone was a poor basis on which to gamble the lives of thousands of Londoners. He picked at his dinner listlessly.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 66
