'Hi, is that Terrence Quinn?'
'It is. Who am I speaking to?' Quinn's tone was cautious, wary of nuisance callers.
'This is Detective Inspector Ayala from the Metropolitan Police.'
'How can I verify that?'
Taken aback, Ayala didn't respond.
'Officer, how can I verify who you are?'
'Call the Metropolitan Police switchboard – 020 7230 1212. Ask for Detective Inspector Ayala. That's A-Y-A-L-A. I work in Special Operations.'
'OK.' Without further ado, the line went dead.
Ayala wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. No one had ever questioned his identity on the telephone before, and it didn't occur to him that it might simply be a stalling tactic.
Ayala stared at the phone in front of him and began to hum as he waited. Ten minutes later he was still willing the phone to ring. He resolved to give it five more minutes before he called Quinn back, then pocketed the cordless phone and went to grab a coffee from the vending machine in the hallway.
Seconds before Ayala's arbitrary callback deadline, his Mozart ringtone reverberated around the cramped office.
'Hello?'
'Hi, Detective Ayala. Sorry for the delay. I'm in a teleconference with my lawyer on the other line. How can I help you?'
'I'm investigating a murder. I need to trace the owner of one of your watches from a serial number.'
The line went quiet. Only an incoherent mumble let Ayala know he was still there. Evidently, Quinn had chosen to relay the request to his lawyer.
The line crackled as Quinn switched back to Ayala.
'I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Detective. Our customers are very private individuals. Our watches cost a considerable sum, and those with the money to buy them value confidentiality.'
'Mr Quinn! This is a murder investigation. With all due respect, damn your customers' secrecy!'
'I have nothing more to say on the matter. Goodbye, Detective.'
The line went dead. Ayala cursed.
CHAPTER 12: LOW CREDIT
Sarah waited until her husband left, gave him five minutes in case he had forgotten something, then triple-bolted the front door. She flipped up her laptop lid, and then fished a slip of paper out of the safe.
The household finances were David's domain, but Sarah was the more computer-literate spouse. She'd checked their credit card statement online the night before while they were both in the sitting room, but had only had a moment to peruse the details. She needed to be sure before she confronted him.
Sarah brought up David's eBanking website. It wasn't a simple password system. The first eight digits from David's credit card had to be entered to log on to the system, and then Sarah punched in their postcode and David's full name, and finally the password Sarah had scribbled on a scrap of paper. David had hated putting it down on paper, but it was too long to remember when they had so many online accounts. For a little bit of extra security he'd written the code back to front.
The page refreshed, and she was in.
'Available credit: £115.28. Current balance owed: £4,884.72.'
Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. They were five thousand pounds in hock. What the hell had he been buying?
Sarah clicked on the balance to see the most recent transactions. There were six listed, with the newest charge at the top of the screen.
'£680.32 WorldPay
'£1311 Sage Pay
'£1922.44 PayPal *DIAMONDJEWLZ CAMDEN
'£850 WESTERN UNION
'£120 ORCHIDS DIRECT
'£0.96 PayPal * Tubit Games'
'Flowers and jewellery? I knew that bastard liked to look, but I never thought he'd cheat on me again. I'm going to kill him!'
Tears began to stream from Sarah's eyes, turning her carefully applied make-up into a panda mask. She thumped the sofa in anger, and her laptop fell to the floor with a thud.
'Who is she, David? If it's that trollop at work, I will slap her, even if it is in a police station.'
***
Despite his being a relatively youthful thirty-two, Kiaran O'Connor's office eclipsed that of David Morton in both size and luxury. It was divided into a front and rear section, with two paralegals and a secretary guarding the inner sanctum. As soon as David set foot inside the inner office, he was forced to weave his way around stacks of statute books, case folders and printouts that were arranged haphazardly in teetering piles. They clearly made sense to Kiaran as he shuffled around, taking papers from one pile and adding them to another.
'Kiaran, what we need is a search warrant. We found a watch with the body in the Marshes. Ayala had forensics acid-wash the back plate, which gave us a serial number. Keppler Oechslan know who bought it, and when. This isn't a garden-variety watch; it's practically bespoke, a really high-end model, though it is fairly old now. I need to see their records.'
Kiaran O'Connor stopped sorting paperwork, and looked up; his gaze met Morton's. 'If it's so old, why would they still have records?'
Morton shrugged, 'Authentication? Preventing copycats?'
'That's farfetched, David, and you know it.'
'Kiaran, if they didn't have anything then they'd have simply said so. They actively consulted counsel then refused our request. Why bother using a valuable resource rather than simply saying 'Sorry, we don't have anything' and moving on?'
'OK, do we know where the records are?'
Morton winced, 'We're hoping they've got them at their London subsidiary. Could all be cloud-based, though.'
'Well, that's a great answer, David. Really convincing. The magistrates are going to love it.'
'We've got to try, Kiaran. We're running out of leads here. It's an engraved watch found on a dead child. That's got to be enough to secure a warrant to search corporate records?'
'I'll give it a go.' While Kiaran's tone conveyed doubt, Morton stifled a sigh of relief at getting the prosecutor on board. Without him, there would have been no chance of a warrant.
***
Inside the concrete edifice of Highbury Magistrates Court, Kiaran surveyed the crowds of bustling legal forum. It was the usual crowd: drunks, dealers and thieves, the kind of client that that passed through every week. Among the down-and-out petty criminals, Kiaran could see the occasional hardened criminal waiting to be committed to the Crown Court.
The desolate interior, by no means as shabby as the view from the outside, was entirely functional. Benches were scattered along narrow hallways leading to the courtrooms. The downtrodden loitered in the wings waiting for their cases to be called, while lawyers strutted to work shrouded in their self-importance.
Even seated among the crowd outside Court One, Kiaran's six-foot-three frame, clad in barrister's gown, could not be missed. He cradled his horsehair wig in his hands as he waited for his case to be called. Putting it on too early caused his shaved head to sweat, and it could quickly become itchy.
When his case was called, he rose to his feet then strode briskly into Court One. As it was an ex parte application, the defence table to his right was empty. An usher and two members of the public rounded out the courtroom, but they were behind him, well out of eyeline.
At the end of the room, a crest hung on the wall behind the magistrate with the motto of 'Dieu et Mon Droit' embossed in gold. God and my right, Kiaran mentally translated. He was still baffled as to why the English court system had their motto in French.
Beneath the crest, a solitary justice of the peace sat on a raised dais. Wooden panelling, as well as elevation, physically separated him from the lawyers, court staff and the defendant's dock.
'Your Worship,' Kiaran addressed the bench, 'if it may please the court I would present an application under section eight of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984.'
The lay magistrate waved in assent. He was not a lawyer, and clearly just wanted to get down to the details. An usher stepped forward to take Kiaran's form, marked 'Criminal Procedure APPLICATION FOR SEARCH WARRANT (Crimi
nal Procedure Rules, rule 6.30; section 8, Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984)' up to the bench. The form was a simple one, and had been completed by Morton hours earlier but Kiaran had chosen to deliver the application to answer the thorny issue of whether the material was on-site. The magistrate flicked through rapidly, and then looked up expectantly.
'Sir, a child was murdered and the body dumped in Hackney Marsh. On his person was an expensive Swiss watch. Forensic investigation revealed that this watch was etched with a unique serial number which could identify the purchaser and therefore identify the body. The owners of the records have refused access.'
Satisfied that the application had cleared the first hurdle requiring there to be a serious arrestable offence, the magistrate nodded. 'Where are the records? Are they printed records or digital?'
Kiaran paused. The questions put them on rocky ground as he needed to show that material records were kept on the premises of Keppler Oechslan.
'Sir, the manufacturer is Keppler Oechslan, and the address is as detailed in the form supplied to the court. We're unsure of the medium at this time.'
'Then you don't really know if the records are on-site at all.'
'Not definitively, no,' Kiaran admitted, 'but they only have one registered address in the country. It's highly probable that the material is on-site, or access to it can be had on-site.'
The magistrate waggled a gnarly finger at Kiaran. 'That sounds awfully close to a fishing expedition, Mr O'Connor.'
'Your Honour, this is a murder investigation. We're talking about forty-year-old purchase records for wrist wear here, not an intrusion into a private home or medical records.'
The magistrate paused for a moment then capitulated, 'I'll allow it. I trust there are no concerns about privileged material?'
'Sir, these are simple purchase records. Nothing unusual about them.'
'And you think this will yield relevant evidence?'
'Unequivocally,' Kiaran said more firmly than he believed.
The magistrate made a snap decision. He only had a few minutes to deal with each case. 'Application granted.'
Kiaran nodded his thanks, and then stood stock-still in the courtroom as he waited for either the magistrate to exit, or another lawyer to enter. Thanks to an antiquated custom known as dressing the court, Kiaran was prohibited from leaving the judge alone in the courtroom. Kiaran cursed Morton as he watched the hands on his watch tick by. When the magistrate finally rose, Kiaran pulled off his wig and sprinted for the robing room. He was due on the other side of London, and would have to run for the tube.
CHAPTER 13: WAREHOUSE
Argall Way was about half a mile north of where the body had been found. Keppler Oechslan's UK subsidiary was being run from a pair of old warehouses. It used to be a prosperous area when the nearby canal had been used to ferry goods around, but the M25 circular had pulled most of the industrial units further out of London.
'Doesn't look like a high-end watch manufacturer to me, Chief.' Ayala eyed up a broken window in an adjacent building.
'It's a rough area. But with London rent the way it is, it must make financial sense being out here,' Morton answered.
'I guess the rough look hides the value of the goods they're moving too. I'd have gone for a little boutique in Hatton Garden personally.'
'You can't move volume without a warehouse, and this place is enormous. It looks like the front door is just for the site office. Let's go ahead of the others and serve this warrant.' Morton indicated for the search team to wait by the kerb until summoned by radio.
Automatic doors slid open as Morton approached the building, opening out into a cramped office area filled with four desks, one in each corner. The desk nearest the door was empty. A brunette in her twenties twirled the cord of her desk phone around a finger as she chatted with a customer, while another clerk with hot pink nail varnish that matched her hair shuffled papers.
At the last desk a middle-aged man with a burgeoning waistline eyed them from behind his laptop. He wore a double-breasted suit with a wide navy pin, and looked the epitome of middle management. In the bank of steel cabinets behind the businessman, Morton could see a hazy reflection of laptop screen which displayed a game of solitaire.
'Terrence Quinn?' Morton hazarded a guess.
'No, sorry. Mr Quinn isn't in today.'
'What's your name?'
'Gregory Dillon. I'm the warehouse manager.'
'Well, Greg, this is a warrant to search your premises for records pertaining to the sale of a watch with the registration code UNQAC1979CBMTL.' Morton surveyed Greg intently, watching for any reaction.
'1979? We haven't digitised that far back yet.' Greg glanced over at one of the girls on the other desk, who was now off the phone and listening intently to the conversation. 'Have we, Tracey?'
'No sir.'
'But you do have the records?' Morton queried, his gaze never leaving Greg.
'Well yeah, but...'
'But what?'
'We sell a lot of watches. And our records from back then aren't exactly organised.'
'Show us.'
Greg led Morton and Ayala through a key-coded door. 8678. Morton made a mental note, just in case. Behind the door a long corridor appeared to run the length of the warehouse. Low-wattage bulbs hung bare in the ceiling, serving up dull illumination. Keppler Oechslan had not yet made the move to the newer energy-saving bulbs.
As they traversed the corridor, the trio passed a number of doors. Those on the left were windowed, with a view over the warehouse floor. Boxes were piled neatly on thin metal frames. Plastic wrapping materials posed a trip hazard to anyone brave enough to venture in, with thick plastic strapping in abundance near the loading bay. Staff in fluorescent jackets could be seen unpacking crates, packing boxes and driving forklift trucks. Greg wasn't kidding when he said they sold a lot of watches.
At the end of the corridor, they came to a thick metal door with no windows. Greg fiddled with a tiny iron key and then the door swung inwards with a loud creak, as if no one had been in the records room for a long time.
'Gents, this is the records room.' Greg sported a nasty grin as he stood aside to let the detectives past.
'Oh crap.' Ayala dragged out the first syllable, the sound coming out much like a dog whimpering.
Beyond the doorway, there were stacks of crates piled high, and loose paper was scattered everywhere. Under the deluge, Morton could just about make out the remnants of office furniture.
Morton frowned. According to Ayala the serial number had been verified by Keppler Oechslan's website, so it didn't make sense for them to have only paper records. He asked Greg about it.
'Our system recognized the format. That's all. We've been using fourteen-digit serials for years.'
'Then how did it know the warranty had expired if it didn't check against a database?'
'The year of manufacture is in the middle of the serial. The computer checks that, and then compares it to the current date. We round up, so it gives some customers a few extra months. It's better than adding a full date to the code.'
'Right. Thanks. We'll take it from here.'
Greg left them alone with the morass of dusty paperwork, and Ayala's shoulders sagged as if he knew what was coming next.
'Ayala, go get the lads in. You'll be here all night.'
'I'll be here all night? Where are you going?'
'I'm taking my wife out for dinner.' Morton smiled sadistically; being in charge did have its perks.
***
Sarah alternated between sipping the wine, a rioja from Valencia, and watching her husband for any sign of duplicity.
'So now Ayala's got to sort through thousands of old documents. Some are yellowed and faded. It reminds me of the time that old DCI Crombie had me out looking for those stolen wigs and told me to comb the area. It took me months to get the joke.' Morton paused, expecting at least a polite chuckle from his wife. When none was forthcoming, he realised something was up.
<
br /> 'What's wrong? You usually love my jokes.'
'You know damn well what's wrong.' She kept her voice low. There were other couples dining only a few feet away, and she didn't want to cause a scene. Yet.
Morton frowned, 'What are you talking about?'
'Don't play coy with me.' Her voice had become shrill, and the nearest table began to stare.
'Sarah, I really have no idea what you're talking about, but keep it down. We're causing a scene here.'
'I found them,' she hissed.
'The brochures?' Morton asked.
'No, the charges on the credit card. Five thousand pounds, David! Who the hell is she?'
'Where is this coming from? I haven't touched the credit card!'
Silently, Sarah delved into her handbag, then thrust a printout of the credit card statement at David.
His eyes widened as he read the document, then contracted with suspicion.
'It's got to be a mistake. I haven't authorised any of these charges, except for Orchids Direct. I ordered those for you for Valentine's Day next month.'
Sarah's expression softened, 'So, you're not cheating on me?' Her tone was hurt, but hopeful. Maybe it was all one big understanding.
'Sarah, I love you. Apart from that one time...' Morton trailed off. He looked at Sarah, with puppy dog eyes.
It worked. Fighting back the tears, Sarah sobbed, 'Can we go home, David?'
'Of course we can.' Morton signalled a nearby waiter for the bill.
The waiter looked bemused. Few diners had only an appetizer and one drink each. He left to fetch the bill all the same. When it arrived, Morton glanced at the bill then handed over his Amex, which was promptly inserted into a wireless chip and PIN machine. He punched in his PIN.
'Card Declined.'
Annoyed, Morton handed the machine back to the waiter. 'Sorry, I think I must have hit a wrong number. Can you clear the transaction?'
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