‘Did she ever call?’
‘Twice. Once was when she was arrested. She’d fallen in with a gang, though I don’t think she realised it. One of them asked her to take a backpack over to another friend. Faye had no idea what was in it. She ended up going down for possession.’
Morton rolled his eyes. He’d heard a lot of sob stories in his day. ‘And the second call?’
‘That was last week, when Mark went missing.’
‘You mean when Mark was murdered,’ Morton retorted.
‘We don’t know that for sure. The doc hasn’t determined cause of death. It could be an accident.’
‘An accidental kidnapping plot. That’s a new one to me.’
‘She wasn’t the only person in his life. You’re jumping to the conclusion that she did it because all you see is a criminal,’ Rafferty protested.
‘But we can’t rule her out,’ Morton said.
‘I saw her, David. Her grief, her anguish. That was genuine. What if we can prove it?’
‘How?’
‘Her handwriting. I had her write down everything she could think of about his usual routine.’ Rafferty produced the note from her handbag. ‘This handwriting is looping, girly, feminine.’
‘And?’
‘And the kidnap note isn’t.’
Morton thought for a moment and then raised his hands in surrender. ‘We’ll have to get a handwriting expert to confirm that. But it still doesn’t prove she didn’t kill him.’
‘So, what’s your case theory? She killed him, and someone else faked a kidnapping? You think we’re looking for a team of two?’ Rafferty looked from Morton over to Ayala, and then to Mayberry, searching out an alternative idea.
‘It could be the brother,’ Ayala said. ‘What was he like?’
‘Quick to sell Mark out. He practically yelled that Mark was a womaniser. If Mark was cheating, then that could point back at Faye,’ Rafferty said.
‘We’re into wheels-within-wheels logic territory here,’ Morton said. ‘Jake could be pointing the finger to distract us from looking at him. We could be looking at the spurned lover, annoyed that Faye is back in Mark’s life.’
‘Or his lover’s partner, angry at her for cheating,’ Ayala said, throwing another possibility into the mix.
‘Ignore the love angle for a moment. We’ve got no evidence either way,’ Morton ordered. ‘Who else is there?’
Rafferty’s hand shot up. ‘Pip Berryman. He worked with Mark and landed Mark’s whale client when Mark didn’t show.’
Morton turned to Mayberry. ‘Write him on the board. Anyone else?’
‘The other woman,’ Ayala said. ‘The one he’s been cheating on Faye with.’
‘We’ve discussed that. Unless you’ve got some sort of evidence, it’s pure speculation,’ Morton said.
‘I t-think I c-can prove it,’ Mayberry said. He pointed at Mark’s phone, which Rafferty had bagged and brought back to examine. ‘L-look at h-his messages.’
Morton picked up the phone. ‘You had IT crack this?’
‘Y-yes. It’s p-pay as you go.’
‘Good lad.’
The phone unlocked with a single swipe, and Morton went straight for Mark’s messages. Auntie Ethel, boring. Brother, nothing interesting. Faye, already on record from looking at her phone.
‘Aha!’
There, listed without a name, was a number which Mark had texted almost daily for over a year. The messages were prolific, at all times of the day and night, and many were graphic in nature.
‘H-he’s b-been sexting her.’
‘Or him,’ Ayala chipped in. ‘What? We don’t know.’
‘Let’s find out.’ Morton put the phone on speaker, placed it in the centre of the conference room table, and dialled the number.
It rang eight times, and then went to voicemail.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Laura. I can’t take your call right now, so leave me a message!’
***
‘That’s odd,’ Chiswick mused.
Each of the victim’s organs had been weighed and the result compared with the normal weight established over tens of thousands of historical autopsies. Mark Sanders’ lungs were almost bang-on average weight. He hadn’t drowned.
If, as Chiswick had hypothesised, Mark Sanders had been drowned in the canal, then his lungs would show signs of emphysema aquosum, more commonly known as waterlogged lungs. It was a neat explanation for Mark’s death. He hadn’t been shot, stabbed, or physically assaulted. Toxicology wasn’t back yet, but there were no signs of poison in his system, either.
Drowning just seemed to fit. The most obvious signs – petechial haemorrhaging, Paltauf’s spots, the presence of pulmonary surfactant, etc – were missing, but that could easily be explained by the time Mark had been submerged in the canal.
But, alas, no water on the lungs meant no drowning.
Back to the drawing board once more.
Chapter 22: It’s Never Lupus
Monday 20th June, 15:00
Rafferty’s judgement was usually sound, but Morton had to know for sure. They searched the boat quickly and quietly, and found nothing of note.
One thing Morton did snag was a shopping list in Faye’s handwriting.
‘Why do you want that? I’ve already got a handwriting sample,’ Rafferty said.
‘Because she knew you’d be taking that note. If she wanted to fake her handwriting, it would have been child’s play to plant the note on you, and thus fool us as to who had written the ransom notes. She’d have no reason to conceal her handwriting when she was doing a shopping list.’
The shopping list, Rafferty’s note, and the two ransom notes were quickly taken down to forensics for analysis. The handwriting analyst was a Frenchwoman, a newcomer to the Met by the name of Gabrielle Boileau. Around her neck, she was wearing a Huguenot cross on a gold chain which offset her piercing blue eyes and the perfectly white teeth that could have come from a magazine.
She started talking as soon as Morton arrived, without pomp or ceremony.
‘You’ve got two authors. No ifs, no buts. One person wrote this sample and this sample.’ Gabrielle Boileau indicated the shopping list and the note Rafferty had supplied. ‘Another person wrote these two.’ Boileau indicated the ransom notes.
‘How sure are you?’
‘I’m always sure, cher. I don’t make mistakes, and I don’t take to policemen questioning my work, either.’ Her accent made it sound like she was saying “please-men”, and Morton had to slyly suppress a smile.
‘Could you walk me through how you know that? Pretend I’m a simpleton who doesn’t know anything about this.’
Morton could have sworn he heard her mutter: ‘Pretend?’ but she turned briskly back towards the notes.
‘Look at the ransom notes. Strong, even pressure, no hesitation. There is a slight lean to the left. The letters are perfectly formed,’ Gabrielle said.
‘I can see that.’
‘A blind man could see that. On the other hand, these’ – she pointed to the shopping list and note – ‘are scratchy, hesitant, flowery, and uneven. The writing slopes to the right. The samples are wholly inconsistent.’
‘Could someone fake this difference?’
‘Is it possible? Oui. Likely? Non. Cher, this woman is not your kidnapper.’
Morton cursed. He hated being wrong.
The first suspect was always the lover. Faye had motive if she knew Mark had been cheating. She was the new thing in Mark’s life. She had access to the boat. Except for the pesky note, Morton would have sworn he had Faye Atkins bang to rights.
God, he hated being wrong.
Worse still, he’d have to apologise to Rafferty.
Chapter 23: Love, Life, and Betrayal
Monday 20th June, 16:45
Faye arrived shortly before teatime on Monday. Yet again, it had meant Rafferty physically going to fetch her for Faye to agree to an interview, and only then on the condition that it was informal.
/>
They made a space in the visitors’ room on the ground floor. It was brightly lit, with colourful walls, and a small collection of kids’ toys had been placed in a basket beneath the window.
Morton took the seat beside the basket, leaving Rafferty and Faye to sit opposite him.
‘Hi, Faye. How are you holding up?’ he asked once they were all seated.
At Morton’s suggestion, Rafferty had broken the news in private before they left the boat. He wanted to know how she’d react away from the station, and would then benchmark that response against her emotions during the interview. While the note ruled her out as the faux-kidnapper, Morton had learned the hard way never to trust a witness.
‘I’m okay. It still hasn’t sunk in that Mark is... gone. I don’t know how I’ll cope without him.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss. Can you tell me a bit about Mark?’ Morton said.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me about his work,’ Morton said, starting with the less controversial of the two topics he needed to bring up.
‘He’s a Project Manager for Berryman Financial Services. They’re actually an IT company; the financial part refers to their clients,’ Faye said. She seemed to almost be reeling it off by rote, despite the note of pride in her voice.
Morton scribbled in his notepad. She was still using the present tense when she referred to Mark, as if he were still alive. ‘It sounds competitive. What were his colleagues like?’
‘Awful. They kept trying to poach his sales. He’s been there for a couple of years, and every week he’d tell me a new story about someone trying to take credit for what he’d done. There was one guy, Pip, who just wouldn’t give up.’
Morton arched an eyebrow disbelievingly. Pip Berryman was the owner’s son and was heir to a large fortune. He didn’t seem the type to need to get competitive with an unqualified school leaver like Mark.
It was time to segue into relationships. ‘Was he outgoing? Did he have a large group of friends?’
‘It’s always been the three of us, really. Mark, Laura, and I.’
Laura. Morton’s eyes danced. ‘Who’s Laura?’
‘Our best friend,’ Faye said. ‘We’ve known each other since preschool. We’ve been inseparable ever since.’
Morton cut to the chase, hoping to surprise her. ‘Did you know Mark’s been sending sexually explicit messages to Laura?’
Faye looked shocked. ‘She’s my best friend! She’d never do that. You’re wrong. Dead wrong.’
Morton held up Mark’s phone with one of the less-explicit messages on display. ‘Is this Laura’s number?’
As if in slow motion, Faye thrust a hand into her bag to retrieve her phone and then opened her own contacts list. She scrolled down to Laura’s number and mouthed each digit as she compared.
‘That bitch.’
Chapter 24: Can’t Stop Loving You
Tuesday 21st June, 10:45
Laura Keaton had long since moved on from Ilford. Gone was the accent, and gone were the mannerisms of the council estate. She had long since traded the London Borough of Ilford for the shining steel and glass of a luxury penthouse flat thirty seconds from the centre of Canary Wharf.
It didn’t take a genius to realise she was trading on her looks. She had three GCSEs, and not one above a grade D, hardly cause for sudden wealth. Nor would the six months she’d spent working in an Ilford nail salon stand her in good stead for her dizzying ascent into London’s middle class.
The flat, and the money, belonged to Tim Fowler. Unlike Mark, Tim really did work in finance. He worked for one of the old firms, the market makers, and made a much more consistent margin than many bankers. He was older, wiser, and probably should have known better. Like many a man, he was a fool for a pretty face.
‘She is really pretty,’ Rafferty said grudgingly.
She was standing with Morton outside the interview suite at the Met. Laura had come in voluntarily, ostensibly to help with enquiries.
‘Is she?’ Morton said. He cast a sly glance at Laura. She was pretty attractive.
‘Don’t play that game with me. You’re telling me you didn’t notice the pearly white teeth, the enormous boobs, and the porcelain-perfect skin? Not to mention all the diamonds dripping from her fingers. I’ve seen less bling in the Tower of London.’ Rafferty put her hands on her hips and sighed enviously.
‘All I see is a murder suspect.’
Rafferty smirked. ‘Liar.’
Morton ignored her. ‘You can watch from here. I think if we both interview her, she’ll shut down.’
‘Going on the Morton charm offensive, are you? Isn’t she a bit young for you?’ Rafferty chided him as he headed into the interview suite.
Morton sat down, produced a blank tape to record the interview, and unwrapped it in front of Laura.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Standard procedure, I’m afraid. You don’t mind, do you?’ Morton said.
‘Not at all.’
The tape was begun, the formalities completed, and Morton quickly settled into the rapport-building stage of the interview. ‘You’ve known Mark and Faye for a long time, haven’t you?’
‘Since we were kids. Faye’s like my sister.’
‘She said exactly the same thing,’ Morton said.
He watched as Laura began to open up to the interview. She leant forward more, and her hands became more animated. She didn’t even know she was doing it. Morton mirrored her posture, closing the gap between them.
‘She did? That’s so sweet of her.’
‘Was Mark always part of your group?’
Laura leant back a tiny bit, apparently uncomfortable with the sudden shift to Mark. ‘Not always. I mean, we knew him back then. Ilford’s a small place, and he lived one street over when we were little, but it wasn’t until we were teenagers that we really hung out.’
‘Isn’t he older than you?’
‘Yeah, he is. Like five years. That’s probably why we didn’t hang out so much. He was always the cool kid, and then, when his dad got their first boat, he was always throwing parties on it.’
‘That sounds exciting. I’m... old, and I’ve still never been to a boat party.’
‘You should! They’re amazing,’ Laura said. ‘Like, the first one I ever went to – I was, like, fifteen–’
And Mark was twenty, Morton thought.
‘– And we had this bottle of vodka, and then...’ her voice trailed off as she realised that she was confessing, on tape, to underage drinking.
Morton waved her off. ‘I’m not going to arrest you for underage drinking.’
‘Right. Well, like I said, it was one hell of a party.’
‘When did Faye and Mark start dating?’ Morton said.
‘It was a while after that. They flirted for ages. Mark thought of himself as a bit of a player. They started dating properly, like, six months before she went to prison. I'm not sure when it became Facebook-official. I can check?’
‘Thank you, but no. Were they happy together?’
‘Absolutely. He was her whole world.’
‘Was she his?’ Morton said craftily backing her into the corner.
She hesitated, and then said, ‘Yes. He loved her.’
‘Hmm,’ Morton said. He let the silence build between them and then produced a folder of printouts of messages Laura and Mark had exchanged. ‘Perhaps, then, you might know why Mark was texting another woman?’
‘He can’t have been. He wouldn’t.’ Laura’s voice had an edge to it, a tremor that hadn’t been there before.
‘He did. We have his mobile.’
‘Who is she?’ Laura said with a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. She knew it was her number and should have owned up to it straight away.
‘Let’s find out.’ Morton nodded towards the observation window. Out of sight, Rafferty dialled Laura’s number. Her phone began to ring.
‘Fuck.’ She blushed fuchsia.
‘You were
the other woman.’
‘Please don’t tell Tim. It was just... I like the attention. I liked a man my own age wanting me that way.’
‘Was it physical?’ Morton said.
‘We kissed. Once. It was a mistake.’
‘You never slept with him?’
‘Never.’
‘You’re sure?’ Morton eyed the tape recording. If she said yes, he would have to tell her about Mark’s HIV status. If she continued to deny it, his status was confidential – and none of her business.
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Okay. Thank you for coming in. If anything changes, please give me a call. Interview terminated at eleven twenty-two.’
***
Faye’s attention seemed to come and go. Her eyes were glazed over, and she seemed not to notice Rafferty watching her intently. She wouldn’t answer Rafferty’s questions except to insist that she and Mark had not slept together since she was released from prison.
Visiting a genito-urinary medicine clinic was always a stressful situation, and more so than ever when it was such a serious test. If Mark was HIV positive, then Faye had to get tested. They had no way of knowing if Mark had been positive before Faye was incarcerated, and the risk was too great.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you? Faye? Hello?’ Rafferty reached forward and gently touched Faye on the arm.
‘What’re you doing? Don’t touch me!’ Her expression contorted into one of anger.
Rafferty was taken aback. ‘Sorry! I just wanted to check you were sure you don’t need me to come in with you.’
‘Come in where?’ Faye demanded, as if she had suddenly awakened to find herself in a medical waiting room.
This time, it was Rafferty’s turn to look bewildered. ‘In the exam room?’
‘Oh... no. I’ll be fine.’
A nurse came to call for Faye a few minutes later. Rafferty decided to wait. Faye would no doubt need a lift home.
Rafferty’s thoughts turned to the other woman, Laura. It was obvious that she too had slept with Mark, but until Laura admitted that, Rafferty’s hands were tied. The boss’ orders were strict: Mark’s status was confidential, and they could only tell someone who was, by their own admission, at risk of exposure from his activity.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 7
