Chapter 43: Who, What, and When?
Tuesday 28th June, 09:00
The coffee was boiled, and then stewed some more. The four officers found themselves sitting once more around the conference room table, bleary-eyed and out of ideas. The investigation was hitting wall after wall, and little progress had been made.
The suspects were the same suspects they’d had since day one: Faye Atkins, Jake Sanders, Tim Fowler, Laura Atkins, and Pip Berryman. Their names were still on the whiteboard in Mayberry’s meticulously neat handwriting.
‘Ignore Jake Sanders for now,’ Morton said. ‘I don’t think he did it. Even if he did, justice cannot reach beyond the grave.’
‘And ignore Faye too,’ Rafferty said.
‘Polygraphs don’t prove a thing,’ Morton grumbled. But he still nodded, and Mayberry got up to put a red X through her name on the whiteboard.
‘And that leaves us with three,’ Ayala chimed in. ‘And we’re still nowhere on proving which of them did it. We’ve got the mistress, her boyfriend, and the guy from work. Which suspect do you fancy?’
‘Pip Berryman has to be the least likely. Ayala, go talk to him. Take Mayberry with you,’ Morton ordered. When Ayala remained seated, Morton added, ‘Now would be a good time for that, gentlemen.’
Ayala and Mayberry scarpered from the room, pausing only to snatch up their jackets.
‘What do you want me to do, then?’ Rafferty asked.
‘I want to look at the not-so-happy couple. Tim and Laura had the same access to the boat. They had the same meal. They share a common cause by way of motive. Laura is the mistress betrayed, and Tim the lover cuckolded.’
‘Didn’t Tim leave first that night?’ Rafferty asked.
‘That’s his story, yes. If Tim really did leave first, then Laura must become our prime suspect.’
‘Unless Tim returned, or Mark didn’t die on Sunday evening,’ Rafferty countered. ‘Mark could have died on Monday or Tuesday, according to the coroner. We just don’t know the precise timeline.’
‘True,’ Morton conceded. ‘And if our timeline is off, then our suspects’ alibis go out the window, and we have to start afresh. I find it unlikely that he wasn’t seen at all for days after going missing. No calls, no bank charges, no witnesses. None of our suspects could reasonably have held him hostage.’
‘So, where do we start?’
‘Let’s start with the CCTV,’ Morton said. ‘You go get the footage from Tim’s building. That ought to show both Tim and Laura returning home after the dinner party. Get the timestamps, check they didn’t leave again, and look for any exits from their building which are not covered by cameras.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to see what cameras are near the mooring site, and see if we can find any evidence at all that Mark Sanders was still alive on Monday 13th June.’
***
There was no answer when Ayala buzzed the door for Berryman Financial Services Ltd. They had to be buzzed in by a neighbouring business just to get into the building. From there, it was a simple case of walking in the front door unannounced. So much for security.
They found out why nobody was paying much attention to the doorbell the moment they entered the Berryman offices.
Pip Berryman was in the middle of a screaming match when Ayala and Mayberry arrived. He was yelling so loudly that the entire office had fallen silent. Ayala had expected to find the normalcy of an office: quiet, calm, and efficient. Instead, the boss’s son was ensconced in his father’s office, having a rip-roaring argument.
The staff of Berryman Financial Services had paused their work to listen. Not one person was paying attention to their computers or the phones ringing off the hook. Nobody was even bothering to hide it.
Ayala turned to one woman who was listening intently from her desk. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked in a hushed tone.
‘Pip’s yelling about his inheritance. Daddy’s finally cut him off.’ She seemed to be very pleased with this news. It was clear Pip was not a popular fixture among the staff, for this look of rapture was replicated on the faces of everybody listening.
‘Why?’
The woman whispered back, ‘Because he’s feckless and an embarrassment to the family name. That’s what Mr Berryman said, anyway. Shh, I’m trying to listen!’
Ayala gave up trying to talk to her and strained to make out what the Berrymans were arguing about.
‘I’m not you, okay? It’s not like when you were my age!’ Pip screamed.
Mr Berryman Senior’s retort was swift and cutting. He spoke in a deep, rumbling voice which carried throughout the office. ‘You ungrateful little shit! I gave you everything! The best schools, the best clothes, the nicest cars. You know what I had at your age? Nothing. I worked sixty hours a week to build this firm from the ground up. I ate rice and beans for years before we made a real profit. Get the hell out of my office, you entitled, whiny, self-centred, feckless moron. You’re fired.’
‘Fired? No! I quit!’
Berryman Senior smirked. ‘Fine. Then I don’t have to give you a severance package. Get out, or I’m calling security.’
Pip Berryman fled from his father’s office, tears beginning to stream down his face. The office watched in silence at first, and then the jeers began. He sprinted past Ayala and Mayberry and made a beeline for the stairs.
‘Come on,’ Ayala said to Mayberry. ‘We’ve got to follow him.’
***
The crush of peak time at Canary Wharf tube station hit Rafferty as she disembarked from the Jubilee Line. The crowds were jostling for position on the platform, every man for himself. By and large, it was men: big, hairy, suited men carrying Italian leather briefcases, browbeaten expressions, and egos the size of minivans. They flooded onto the train as Rafferty fought to escape past them. The stench of too much cologne and man-sweat hung in the air. It was small mercy that Rafferty only had to escape the tube station rather than wait for a train.
By the time Rafferty found herself on the street, she felt like she needed a shower. The tube had been built for the Victorian era, and the builders had never expected to cram so many people inside such a small space. It had been standing room only from Green Park. Rafferty found herself jammed in between two commuters whose armpits were inconveniently located at nose height.
There was a light breeze in the air as Rafferty headed towards Westferry Road. Laura Keaton and Tim Fowler shared a penthouse apartment in one of the ritziest towers on the Isle of Dogs, the Medici building. It was a crescent-shaped development with views over the water, and was home to some of the wealthiest financiers, who prized it for its proximity to Canary Wharf, the river views, the helipad, and the private dock on the Thames. Even a studio in the Medici building would set the buyer back a cool three million pounds.
Morton had given Rafferty two tasks: find out what time Laura and Tim had returned home on the night of June twelfth, and then see if there was any way out of the building without being seen or heard.
She took the second task first, encircling the whole building on foot. There was one main entrance foyer, guarded by a smartly dressed doorman who eyed her cautiously as she walked by. Around the back, there was a small communal garden with a fence surrounding it. Behind the garden, there was an alleyway for taking out the rubbish.
Rafferty found access to the alleyway easily enough. It ran in the shadow of the next building and was just wide enough to push an oversized rubbish bin along. There was one metal gate from the doorway into the inside of the complex. It had a single padlock securing it which could be accessed from either side.
‘Fifteen seconds?’ Rafferty mused, wondering how quickly she could pick the lock. She knew Morton would disapprove, but she had to find out. She produced lock pins from her handbag and went to work. It took just thirteen seconds before she heard the satisfying click of the padlock coming undone. She swung the gate open and took a quick glimpse inside the garden.
It wa
s empty. Despite the sunshine, none of the building’s occupants had taken to the garden. There were no lounging employees, no summer jugs of Pimm’s, not even a smoker lingering in the doorway.
Rafferty clicked the lock shut behind her and headed for the back door of the building. Locked. She loitered, fishing in her handbag, acting as if she was looking for a smoke. If the garden had been busier, she might have been able to tailgate her way inside the building. After fifteen minutes of waiting for someone to emerge, Rafferty gave up on that plan. It didn’t really matter how hard it was to get into the building. What mattered was how easily Tim or Laura, or both, could have left without being seen. There was no CCTV on the back door, and it seemed there would have been few witnesses.
She glanced up. Above the gardens were the private balconies of the flats. There might have been someone sitting out on their balcony who could have seen someone coming and going. Or there might not have been. Tim and Laura had returned late in the evening on a Sunday, hardly a popular time to be gazing down at the gardens below.
The gardens provided access. If Tim or Laura had a key to the lock, or it had been left unlocked, or either of them knew how to pick a lock, then it was a short hop from there to the City Road Canal where The Guilty Pleasure had been moored up. Rafferty put the padlock back as she made her way out of the garden.
Back at the main entrance, Rafferty flashed her badge at the doorman and demanded to be escorted to see the CCTV tapes for the front door.
‘I can’t do that, ma’am.’
Rafferty glanced at the doorman’s name badge. ‘Look, Eric. I’m investigating a murder. I don’t care about your residents’ privacy, your CCTV policy, or anything else. I need those tapes.’
Eric glanced down at his shoes. ‘My apologies, ma’am. If it were up to me, I’d give you them. But our CCTV is all in the cloud. I don’t have access to it.’
‘Then, who does?’
‘Westferry Security Services. They’re based nearby. But you’ll need a warrant, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Eric asked.
‘Actually, yes. Are you here full-time?’
‘Every weekday, ma’am. Seven in the morning ‘til eight at night.’
Damn. He wouldn’t have been working on Sunday 12th. ‘Are there night staff?’
‘No, ma’am. We have a weekend porter, but no night service. At night, the residents simply use their keys and door code to get access to the building. The weekend porter keeps the same hours that I do.’
Rafferty thought back to the time that Tim and Laura would have left The Guilty Pleasure. The weekend porter would have been long gone by the time they got home that night.
‘Eric, are you acquainted with Mr Tim Fowler?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Of course,’ Eric said. ‘He has the penthouse, ma’am.’
‘Then, you know his girlfriend?’
Eric bit his lip. ‘I am... familiar with Miss Keaton.’
‘You don’t like her?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say, ma’am.’
‘Just blink twice if you don’t like her.’
He blinked. Twice.
‘Thank you, Eric. Can I ask a delicate question?’ Rafferty said.
‘You can ask. I may not be allowed to give you the answer.’
‘Has Miss Keaton brought another man home before?’
Eric’s face remained impassive. He blinked twice.
‘Thank you, Eric.’
Rafferty made her way outside. Westferry Road was almost exactly five miles away from where The Guilty Pleasure had been moored up on the City Road Basin. It was too far to walk easily, but not far by taxi. At that time of night, with no traffic, it would have been well under half an hour. There were black cabs in the area, though they might well be less frequent on a Sunday, when the banking crowd wasn’t on the Isle of Dogs. Either Laura or Tim could have doubled back to the boat, and there was no CCTV to prove it either way.
***
The nerd sitting behind the big desk wasn’t the normal guy. Instead, his place had been taken by a large gentleman with furious ginger hair and the bushiest beard Morton had ever seen.
‘Where’s Zane?’ Morton demanded.
‘Who?’ the man asked in a Glaswegian accent. ‘There’s naebody here by that name.’
‘I can see that. Where is he?’
‘Gone, laddie. Off to work fer Google or summat. You’re stuck with me. Noah Brodie. I’m the new guy.’
Great. Another novice. ‘You any good?’
‘Try me,’ Brodie said, flashing a toothy grin.
‘I’ve got a murder on a narrowboat on the canal. I need a broad search of any local authority CCTV cameras in the area.’
‘Facial recognition? Have ye got photos of who we’re looking for?’
Morton had come prepared. He handed over a thumb drive. ‘Here. Mug shots for each of our suspects, home locations, possible travel routes, known credit card numbers, the lot. I need to know where each of them has been, and exactly what they did from June 12th onwards.’
‘Leave it with me, laddie.’
‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector,’ Morton said as he turned to leave. ‘If you want to work here, you’ll do well to remember that.’
‘Aye, I will,’ Brodie said, and then added under his breath, ‘Laddie.’
***
The offices of Westferry Security Services were only a few minutes away, as the doorman had promised. They occupied a tiny unit on the third floor of a communal office block.
As it turned out, Westferry Security Services was really just one woman: Jamie Black. She reluctantly buzzed Rafferty into the building and was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.
‘Miss Black, I’m Detective Inspector Rafferty. I understand you run the CCTV for the Medici building.’
Black nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘I need to see the recordings of the front entrance on the night of June 12th.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Rafferty asked. ‘I was told you’re the person I need to talk to. I’ll level with you. I’m working a murder enquiry, and I need this footage.’
‘I can’t...’
‘Miss Black, my boss is a very old, very white, very old-fashioned guy. He doesn’t think I can cut it just because I’m a woman,’ Rafferty lied. ‘If I can’t get this footage, it’ll prove him right, and I’ll be in trouble. Can’t you help a sister out?’
She could see Black wavering. ‘I really can’t... Can’t you come back with a warrant?’
Not with the way the mags have been lately. ‘Jamie – I can call you Jamie, can’t I? I can go get a warrant, but it’ll take time, and I’ll have to come back and search your premises with a team, and you know the guys will take the credit for my work. I don’t want to see you out of action for the rest of the week.’
Black’s hands began to tremble. ‘But my clients...’
‘Your clients pay you to look after their privacy and security, don’t they? I can’t imagine you ever agreed to help cover up a crime. And your clients don’t want to see the police poking around here, do they? Imagine how bad it’ll be if there are marked police cars outside. Jamie, you seem like a really nice person. How about you let me take a peek at the footage, and, if there’s nothing there, I’ll be out of your hair in half an hour.’
‘And if there is?’ Black asked.
‘Then, I’ll get a warrant and come back – and I’ll make sure we keep the disruption to a minimum, in light of your co-operation.’ Rafferty smiled sweetly. She had her on the ropes.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise,’ Rafferty said.
‘Alright. Follow me.’
Jamie Black led the way to her desk, booted up the computer, and began to search through her archives. She easily found the video files from the evening of June 12th. ‘Fast-forward to ten o’clock onwards, please, Jamie.’
‘You got it.’
Rafferty watched at 30x s
peed as people zoomed in and out of the building. ‘There! Go back a minute.’
Black rewound and hit play at normal speed. There was Tim Fowler wearing a sports coat and jeans.
‘That’s my man. 23:03. Now, can you forward a bit more?’
The tape was fast-forwarded once more. ‘There! 23:47. That’s Laura.’ Rafferty snapped a quick picture on her phone for the team, then turned back to Jamie. ‘Thank you, Miss Black. We’ll be in touch.’
The timings lined up with what the witnesses had said. Tim had left first, leaving Laura to chat with Mark. She arrived just forty-four minutes later. It didn’t seem like much time to commit murder.
But Rafferty still couldn’t prove whether they had stayed in. Either of them could have doubled back in plenty of time for Mark to disappear by the morning.
Chapter 44: Interrupted
Tuesday 28th June, 12:00
They found Pip in The Green Man drowning his sorrows. He hadn’t been hard to find. The younger Berryman had fled the offices of Berryman Financial Services and headed straight for the nearest bar.
He was ordering a double whisky, straight up, when Ayala and Mayberry accosted him.
‘Pip Berryman?’ Ayala asked.
‘Who’s asking? Did my father send you?’ Pip looked accusingly from Ayala to Mayberry and then back again.
‘Metropolitan Police,’ Ayala said, flashing his ID. ‘This is Detective Inspector Mayberry. I’m Detective Inspector Ayala.’
Pip downed his whisky and motioned for the barman to pour him another. ‘He’s got the Met at his beck and call now, has he? Haven’t you anything better to do? I only smashed his precious lamp. He fired me, you know!’
Mayberry shot Ayala a look that clearly said, “What an idiot.”
‘Sir, you’ve just confessed to criminal damage. I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you in for questioning.’
‘Really?’ Pip said disbelievingly.
‘’Fraid so. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back, please.’
Ayala waited for him to comply, then slapped cuffs around his wrists. It was incredibly satisfying to see Pip’s face as they clicked tightly shut.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 14
