Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5)

by Sean Campbell

  It didn’t explain the gambling, either. Ayala had been dispatched to talk to the betting shop to try to size up Jake’s losses. The exact amount wasn’t important. What was important was where the money he was losing had been coming from.

  ‘R-Rafferty?’ Mayberry stammered. He was sitting at Jake’s desktop, hammering away at the keyboard.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The n-numbers don’t add up.’

  ‘We know that. A child could spot that,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘N-not his. H-his clients.’

  That got her attention. ‘Show me.’

  ***

  Morton was waiting for Jake’s lawyer to arrive. He had requested one immediately, which was the sign of either a very guilty man or a very smart man. Jake didn’t strike Morton as a smart man.

  The question was, what was Jake guilty of? It was obvious he had been pilfering money from his clients. None of them had lost much – fifty pounds here, a hundred there. A blip on the radar for a large corporation. Jake had stolen a little from a lot of people rather than a lot from a few. That was smart.

  What wasn’t smart was his total failure to hide it. The fraud was unbelievably straightforward. Each payroll cycle, Jake added a little extra to the total he paid out in wages on behalf of each client, and then sent the client a summary. Jake was abusing the system to hide in plain sight. The businesses that employed him were hiding the employee salaries from their own employees by outsourcing payroll, giving Jake ample opportunity to fudge the numbers, with the accounts staff none the wiser. As long as the amounts weren’t egregious, nobody noticed, and Jake made out like a bandit by stealing little and often.

  The lawyer arrived, late as usual, and began strutting his stuff. ‘Darren Passek. I represent Jake Sanders. Where is he?’

  ‘Waiting in interview suite three for you. Please knock on the door when you’re ready to begin,’ Morton said.

  The lawyer walked off, his lanky arms swinging beside him. After a short consultation, he knocked on the door, and Morton could finally begin questioning Jake.

  ‘Mr Sanders, thank you for coming in,’ Morton said.

  ‘Like I had any choice.’

  ‘You’re not under arrest. You’re free to go at any time, but I would appreciate your co-operation,’ Morton said.

  Jake seemed to relax, leaning back a little in his chair. His lawyer nodded in assent, and Jake said, ‘Okay. Fire away.’

  ‘Where were you on the evening of Sunday June 12th?’

  ‘I was on my boat for most of the day, but I also went over to help Mark out with a bit of maintenance work on The Guilty Pleasure. It wasn’t anything complicated. We made sure the bilges were clear of oil and water, swapped out his fan belt because it was starting to crack, double-checked the couplings, and topped off the battery with fresh deionised water. Nothing too difficult, really, but Mark didn’t like doing it. He always needed me for that sort of stuff. Dad used to do it for him until he...’ Jake dabbed at his eye with an imaginary tissue.

  Morton scribbled as if making notes, though he didn’t need them. He watched Jake out of the corner of his eye. Jake still appeared fairly relaxed. ‘When were you aboard the boat?’

  ‘Late afternoon? Early evening? I can’t remember.’

  ‘And, who did you see?’

  ‘Mark. Obviously.’

  ‘Did you see Faye?’

  ‘No,’ Jake said. ‘I think she was inside, getting ready for their dinner party. After we were done with the engine, we took a look at the outside of the boat, checked for any cracking, respooled up the ropes and the like. Nothing too strenuous. It was an excuse to sit up top and have a beer, really.’

  ‘Okay. How did Mark seem to you that afternoon?’

  ‘Normal. Well, stressed, actually. He was itching to get some work done before dinner, so we didn’t spend all that long working on the boat.’

  ‘What was Mark stressed about? The sales pitch you told me about last time we spoke?’ Morton asked.

  Mark squirmed in his seat. ‘That... and Faye. He was having second thoughts about them living together. She was getting clingy, and he hated that. He’s always been a free spirit, my Mark.’

  He’s quick to point the finger at someone else, Morton thought. ‘You said that last time. You thought he was seeing another woman. Do you know who?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn he’s been sending explicit messages to Laura Keaton?’ Morton asked.

  ‘No way! That old dog. She’s an absolute fox. I’d kill for one night with that woman.’ Jake beamed a smile, and then realised what he’d said.

  The lawyer, Darren Passek, cut in, ‘My client didn’t mean that literally.’

  ‘Noted. Mr Sanders, did you know about Mark’s life insurance policy?’ Morton said.

  ‘He had life insurance? But he was twenty-seven!’

  Morton showed him the paperwork. ‘It looks like it was through his work for Berryman. A hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Can you read the line at the bottom, there, marked “beneficiary”, please?’

  ‘Jacob Luke Sanders. Holy shit. You don’t think I...?’ Jake’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No!’

  Darren Passek’s arm shot out again. ‘I think I need a few minutes with my client.’

  It wasn’t a request.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ Morton said. ‘Interview suspended at 15:32.’

  Chapter 28: Moving On

  Friday 24th June, 15:00

  Dreary Alperton was beginning to wear thin. The smell of biscuits from a nearby factory had been a draw at first, but it soon became sickly. The towpaths were littered with rubbish, and the noise from Wormwood Scrubs Prison to the south rang out every hour, on the hour, throughout the day.

  There was only one thing for it. Faye would have to move the boat once more. She’d done it before, so she knew she could do it again. She didn’t know exactly how she had managed it, especially with the tunnels, nor did she know where she’d be moving on to, but move, she would.

  Faye debated texting Rafferty first. Rafferty had been great. She had come around as often as she could, and it almost felt like the two of them belonged on the boat together. Faye had come to think of her as a big sister. However, with the investigation into Mark’s death, it struck Faye that Rafferty was far too busy to ask her to help move The Guilty Pleasure.

  There was a map on the dining table. The Grand Union stretched for miles in both directions. The farther out Faye took the boat, the more open space there was to moor up.

  Mark’s plan didn’t list an exact location for each stop. He’d mentioned some of the farther-out places, and they all looked to be within an afternoon’s travel, even at a sedate three miles an hour. Faye read them aloud: ‘Sudbury, Uxbridge, Denham, Rickmansworth.’

  It seemed the only way on was to head west.

  The radio blared cheerfully as Faye studied the map. ‘Folks, it may be summer, but be sure to wrap up tight and lock your windows and doors. There’s warm air coming in off the Atlantic, and it’s blowing up a gale.’

  Out of the window, the clouds were grey, and the towpath was pooling with water. A light wind whipped across the surface of the canal, rocking The Guilty Pleasure. So much for the great British summer.

  ***

  Jake Sanders and his lawyer found themselves in the interrogation suite once more. The lawyer looked browbeaten, worn down, and tired. The fire in his belly, the need to defend an innocent man, seemed to have atrophied. Still, Passek puffed up his chest self-importantly, straightened his tie, and leant forward with his elbows on the desk.

  ‘What’s on the table?’ Passek demanded.

  Morton met his icy glare and smiled politely. Lawyers were so predictable. ‘Plead guilty, and you can probably save on your legal fees,’ Morton said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘What if my client has information relevant to your investigation?’

  Morton spread h
is hands as if in mock surrender. ‘Then he can either divulge it, or we can add perverting the course of justice to the charge sheet.’

  ‘Throw us a bone, here. Any deal has got to involve a bit of give and take,’ Passek said.

  ‘Give me the information, and I’ll take it to the prosecutor. If it’s worthwhile, I’ll plead your client’s case,’ Morton said. ‘I’m not in the business of guarantees, but Mr O’Connor is usually lenient when we’ve been given good information.’ Morton was referring to Kieran O’Connor, one of the brightest Crown Prosecution Service lawyers of his generation. He and Morton usually saw eye to eye, though they’d had their fair share of disagreements.

  Passek laughed haughtily. ‘You want us to just trust you?’

  ‘No. I don’t want anything. You’re the one asking me for a favour, here. Give me the information if you want me on your side. Or say nothing, and I’ll ensure that Mr O’Connor throws the book at your client. No doubt you’re aware of his reputation as a prosecutor.’

  Jake sat forward. ‘I want to talk. I want Mark’s killer brought to justice as much as anyone. His killer deserves to die for what they did, but I’ll settle for life behind bars.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Morton said.

  ‘Tim Fowler knew Mark was sleeping with his girlfriend. They fought about it a while back. Tim punched Mark in the face.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two weeks before he died. Tim invited Mark up for an after-work beer. When Mark got there, Tim floored him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? Tim has a motive!’

  ‘You all have a motive. What makes Tim’s more plausible than anyone else’s?’ Morton said.

  ‘He’s proven to be violent. He can’t stand anyone taking his precious Laura away. You know he keeps her around like a showpiece? He can’t stand to be out of her company, not even for a few minutes. She’s not human to him, she’s a plaything.’

  ‘And Faye was being cheated on. Laura was the lover Mark didn’t choose. You have financial difficulties. From where I’m sitting, any of you could be plausible. Did you or did you not lose money gambling?’

  ‘I... Yes, I have a problem. There, I’ve said it. I’m an addict. I can’t help it.’

  ‘And, where did you get this money? We know you don’t earn enough to gamble the way you do.’ Morton produced the bag of winning gambling slips from under the table.

  Passek cleared his throat. ‘And, just how do you know that? Those are his winning slips. All you have proven is that my client lawfully won quite a lot of money. Besides, those slips only speak to the volume of betting that my client undertook, and not the net outcome.’

  This time, Morton’s smile was a sad one. ‘Anybody who gambles this often ends up losing money overall. The house always wins.’

  ***

  The shredded betting slips had been piled up on a table in the forensics department. Mayberry had begun to sort through the tiny pieces to try to reassemble as many slips as he could.

  At first, Mayberry thought it would be an impossible task, a gigantic collection of puzzle pieces for hundreds of tiny puzzles, but then Brodie came to the rescue.

  ‘Feed ‘em in here, laddie,’ Brodie said, indicating a huge scanner. He watched as Mayberry began to lay the shredded slips face-down on the scanner.

  Mayberry filled all of the available space on the scanner. He had barely made a dent in the main pile. ‘D-done.’

  ‘One batch, laddie, one batch. We’ll have to do every piece.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we see what we can or cannae do. We’ve got slips from a few dozen betting shops. Each shop has their own font, their own colour, and their own paper. That’ll let us group the pieces by shop. From there, we’ll try to match the text.’ Brodie turned away to start running the software required for the task.

  ‘W-will it work?’

  ‘Mebbe. It’s a big ask. Come back to me on Monday, and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘You mean I’m d-done?’ Mayberry smiled.

  ‘After you finish scanning that lot, laddie.’ Brodie grinned as he pointed at the big pile of shredded paper still to scan.

  ***

  It seemed harder this time around. Moving the boat in the sunshine with no wind had been a challenge, and yet it didn’t measure up to doing the same in the pouring rain. The wind whipped up droplets of water all around Faye as she stood up top to steer. The movement of the boat felt sluggish against the wind. Turning took more time and effort than ever before, and, more than once, Faye bumped up against the towpath while trying to keep clear of oncoming boats.

  Faye went farther and farther west, crawling along at less than walking speed. The spaces that were available were miles from civilisation. The best spots were near the footbridges, and the only empty spaces Faye could see were miles away from any of the major footbridges. Boats were clustered three abreast where the canal network passed a London Underground station, and there was barely room to get by.

  Eventually, Faye found a space she liked. It was almost out of sight of the next narrowboat. She sidled The Guilty Pleasure alongside the towpath and quickly jumped off to secure the mooring pins.

  The rain was pelting down harder than before, and the bank had begun to turn muddy. She hurriedly drove in each pin, then looped the mooring rope through, just as Mark had shown her. As soon as the boat was secure, she dove back inside, desperate for cover. Mud tracked her footprints.

  She kicked off her trainers by the door and sat on the sofa to peel her sodden socks off her feet. The cat plodded over, pawed at her leg, and then sat by the front door as if asking permission to go out.

  ‘Not today, Fabby.’

  Chapter 29: Denied

  Friday 24th June, 09:00

  Morton personally filled out the application for a search warrant.

  As usual, he had to go through the rigmarole of an appearance before the Magistrates’ Court. It seemed redundant to follow their inane procedure every time. Morton knew he could attend via live-link now, but it seemed weird to mix the formalities of a court appearance with what was tantamount to a fancy version of Skype.

  Morton quickly found himself before the bench, a single magistrate looming above him, peering down over his glasses as if Morton were an ant to be studied. A bailiff approached with a Bible and pressed it into Morton’s hand.

  ‘I know what to say.’ Morton waved him off. He recited, by rote, the oath. ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To the best of my knowledge and belief, this application discloses all the information that is material to what the court must decide, including anything that might reasonably be considered capable of undermining any of the grounds of the application.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morton.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Morton, actually.’

  ‘DCI Morton, I have your application before me. This is a search warrant for a narrowboat. You’ve listed it as a residential premises.’

  ‘Yes. It is used full-time as a permanent residence. It belongs to the estate of a murder victim and is currently occupied by his girlfriend.’

  ‘It is a vehicle, is it not? Should this not be an application to search a vehicle?’ The magistrate looked over to his clerk for confirmation.

  ‘That is an irrelevant question,’ Morton said flatly. He’d come prepared with notes, just in case. He turned to the section defining premises and read aloud: ‘Premises as defined in s23 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act include any vehicle, vessel, aircraft, or hovercraft. If I can deal with the reason why we need to search The Guilty Pleasure, I’m sure you’ll agree that a search warrant is in order here.’

  ‘Hmm. Is a boat really a vehicle after all? I’m going to need guidance on what a vehicle legally is.’

  This guy would be fun at a party, Morton thought. ‘While your clerk researches that point, can I outline why I’d like to search the boat?’<
br />
  The magistrate gave Morton a thin-lipped smile. ‘Please.’

  ‘Simply put, it was the last place the victim was seen alive. We know he was there on the night of Sunday 12th June, and nobody has seen evidence of him being alive since. It is perfectly possible that the boat is our primary crime scene.’

  ‘Then you must have a suspect in mind.’

  ‘Faye Atkins.’

  ‘The same Miss Atkins who lives on the boat and was the partner of the deceased?’

  ‘Yes. She was on the boat on the last night he was alive,’ Morton said.

  ‘Is there any exculpatory evidence that might undermine your suspicion?’

  Morton hesitated. He was oath-bound to give them all the facts. ‘We performed handwriting analysis on a ransom note left at the scene. It did not match Miss Atkins’ handwriting.’

  ‘Presumably you agree that Mr Sanders’ murderer is the most likely suspect to have written the ransom note?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Then it would appear you’ve disproved your own theory, wouldn’t it?’ The magistrate pushed his glasses up his nose with a spindly index finger and glared down at Morton.

  Morton met the magistrate’s glare with one of his own. ‘It’s possible the ransom note was opportunistic. It’s also possible that someone wrote the note on her behalf. Regardless of the odds of a conviction based on current evidence, I believe it is readily apparent that there could be material on board which could be of beneficial importance at trial. That is the legal test you must apply here.’

  There was a pregnant pause. The air seemed to weigh heavily in the courtroom. The magistrate leaned down to whisper to his clerk. The clerk flipped through a legal textbook and seemed to be arguing with the magistrate.

  Finally, the magistrate nodded firmly, as if he had made up his mind.

  ‘Your request is denied.’

  Morton wanted to swear. ‘I must protest. This is a murder investigation. How can you expect me not to visit the deceased’s home?’