***
A knock on Morton’s door startled him. He had been filling out paperwork for most of the afternoon, a task which seemed to take more and more of his time with every passing year.
‘Enter,’ he called out.
Noah Brodie bounded in with the manic energy of a man possessed. He took a seat without waiting to be asked and slammed his laptop down on the desk.
‘Sit down, why don’t you?’ Morton said dryly.
Brodie grinned sheepishly.
‘I take it you have some CCTV footage for me?’
‘Nope, none.’
‘You came all the way up to my office to tell me you couldn’t find anything.’
Brodie chuckled. ‘I ain’t that much of a bampot. I got your boat.’
‘You what?’
‘Yer boat. The Canal and River Trust log the boats. They’ve all got a unique number, don’t they? I can show you when and where the boat went. Does that help?’
Morton paused to think. They knew The Guilty Pleasure had travelled from east to west and that the body dump site was probably somewhere along the way. The body could have floated or been dragged under another boat, but it showed she could have done it.
‘Can you look up any boat?’
‘Course I can.’
‘Where has Jake Sanders’ Mobile Office been? Was he anywhere near the location where we discovered the body?’ Morton asked.
‘Gimme a sec.’
Brodie opened up his laptop and began to type furiously. For a few minutes, Morton’s office fell quiet, with only the click of keyboard actuation punctuating the silence.
‘Is this going to take long?’
‘Hold ya horses, Detective Chief Inspector laddie,’ Brodie said. ‘And... here we go. Yep. Blimey, this one’s been busy. He did move down that way. Now, the logs aren’t perfect – they’re recorded manually, so ye only get a snapshot – but it looks like The Mobile Office was moored up next to The Guilty Pleasure on Monday 13th, early in the morning.’
‘Jake never left until the next morning?’
‘Nope,’ Brodie said. ‘He was seen again later that day, way over in Limehouse. Then again at King’s Cross. He’s a busy laddie.’
‘Both of them were there?’ Morton mused. That suggested Jake had had better access than they had thought. But he was dead, and dead men told no tales. ‘Has he done that before?’
‘Gone to Limehouse?’
‘Moored up near The Guilty Pleasure,’ Morton said.
‘Hang on...’
Brodie once again began tapping. If this was a one-off, it suggested Jake had stayed for a reason. If it was habitual, then perhaps Jake had simply moved the boat the next morning to avoid moving it after an afternoon beer with his brother.
‘He’s done it before. Lots of times. There aren’t as many logs – Jake’s not a continuous cruiser, and the Canal and River Trust lot don’t have to worry about him overstaying when he’s got a permanent mooring, too – but it looks like a pattern to me. Wherever The Guilty Pleasure went, The Mobile Office followed.’
Habitual, then. Jake could have done it. Any of them could have done it. Yet again, the evidence was inconclusive. Morton wanted to bash his head against the desk in frustration. Would they ever catch a break?
***
Pip Berryman fidgeted awkwardly in his seat. His brow was furrowed, and there were visible sweat patches under his armpits. He looked as if he’d never set foot in a police station before, let alone an interview suite at Scotland Yard.
Morton eyed him up through the one-way mirror in the corridor. He was of two minds about the dandy man-child waiting to be interviewed. Pip was certainly nervous, but he hadn’t, however, asked for a lawyer.
Looks were often deceiving in Morton’s line of work. Innocent men and women told lies to conceal secrets that had nothing to do with the crime at hand. Guilty men and women told lies to cover up their guilt.
What never lied was the evidence. A cursory glance at Pip was enough to persuade Morton that he probably wasn’t the killer. He looked too scrawny to have ever been in a fight, and his hands were the palest white and perfectly manicured. They were the hands of a man who had never done an honest day’s work in his life.
Morton kept him waiting for another ten minutes. Poor Pip grew visibly more agitated as Morton watched. He was fidgeting in his seat and looking anxiously from the door to the one-way mirror and back. Every now and then, he glanced at his wrist. His watch looked expensive, but it was a brand Morton didn’t recognise. When the ten minutes were up, Morton walked in casually and took a seat opposite Pip.
‘You know why you’re here, don’t you, Pip?’ Morton said.
‘Yes. And I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? What for?’
‘For yelling at my father,’ Pip said. ‘For smashing his precious lamp. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry. There. Can I go now? You’re not really going to press charges over this, are you?’
Morton paused. Was Pip leaping to the lamp out of genuine concern, or was he trying to play the victim? He stared at Pip, letting the silence build awkwardly in the knowledge that Pip would feel compelled to say something – anything – just to keep the interview moving.
Pip broke sooner than Morton had expected. ‘It was a damned lamp, all right? I’ll buy Daddy a new one. He can’t be this mad at me. Do you really waste your time on petty criminal damage? Don’t you have real criminals to look for?’
Daddy? Morton tried not to laugh. It was almost inconceivable to hear a grown man call his father Daddy in public – and even more laughable that a murderer would do so. Unless it was an elaborate act.
‘No, Pip. I don’t care about the lamp. Tell me about the man you killed.’
‘K-killed? You can’t seriously mean... me? You think I killed Sanders?’ Pip was hesitant at first, almost on the verge of nervous laughter, but his voice grew stronger as he spoke. He seemed to take pride in the idea that someone might think him capable of murder.
‘You hated him, didn’t you?’
‘Hated him?’ Pip echoed. ‘I wanted to be him. He was tall, handsome, charming. He got sales that nobody else did. He made my father proud. I’ve never had that. I so badly wanted to impress Daddy. That’s why I stole Mark’s client. I didn’t know he’d been murdered. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be like that.’
Morton watched Pip well up. His remorse seemed to be genuine. If he was acting, Pip Berryman deserved an Oscar.
He thought back to the broken lamp. ‘What was the argument with your father about?’
‘He found out. Someone tipped him off that my big new client – the first time he’d ever patted me on the back, the first time he’d proudly told his friends that I was his son – wasn’t my client. He wasn’t pleased that I’d picked up the slack when Mark didn’t – couldn’t – turn up at the meeting. He was angry that I’d, like, that I’d taken credit for the whole deal when it wasn’t really mine.’
‘And that’s when you broke his lamp,’ Morton said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Then, where were you on the night of Sunday 12th June?’
Pip paled. ‘I was... at home. On my own.’
‘Can you verify that in any way? Did you order take-out? Did you make any phone calls?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Pip said.
He was lying. Morton knew it in his gut. But why? What was he hiding?
‘Okay,’ Morton said slowly. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Berryman.’
‘Am I free to go?’
‘Oh, no. You confessed to criminal damage. I’ll have a constable come in to take your statement on that front in a moment. Are you sure you don’t want that lawyer?’
***
Tuesday 28th June, 17:45
Morton made it home early that night. He was cooking when his wife came home from her psychology course. They cracked open a bottle of Barolo and settled at the dinner table to enjoy an evening meal of smoked venison loin, pickle
d radish, pea powder and Swiss chard with chestnut pomme puree. It was a lot of work, but oh so worth it.
Sarah smiled as she tried the venison. ‘Mr Morton, are you trying to impress me?’
‘Always. Even after all these years. Every day with you is a privilege, not a right, and I’ll never forget that.’
She punched Morton’s arm gently. ‘You old softy.’
‘Hey! Less of the “old”. You’re my age, you know.’
‘Nope. You’re several months older than me,’ Sarah chided him with a pout. ‘I’ll always be the young, pretty one in this relationship.’
‘Yes, you will.’
Morton leant over the table to kiss his wife. She was his one rock, the constant presence, the only thing that seemed to be the same every year. No matter how bad a day he’d had, she was always there with a sympathetic ear.
‘Come on, spit it out,’ she said. ‘You’re dying to tell me about this case. Have you got another impossible murder to solve?’
Morton rested his chin in the palm of his hand. His chin was rough with stubble. In all the hubbub of the last few days, he’d forgotten to shave that morning. ‘Forget impossible. It’s much too possible. Any of them could have done it. Every single suspect has a motive, everyone has means, and nobody has an alibi. There’s no way we’ve got anywhere near enough for an arrest, let alone a conviction.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
Morton took a bite of his venison while he gathered his thoughts. ‘The girlfriend, Faye. She was on the boat. She had access to the dump site. She had motive because he cheated on her. She was on the boat when it crashed, taking with it any lingering evidence. The live-in spouse is always suspect number one.’
‘But?’
‘But she’s passed a polygraph test, and forensics are certain she couldn’t have written the ransom note. Rafferty’s adamant that Faye is just a victim of circumstance.’
Sarah cocked her head to the side and looked at Morton. ‘You trust Rafferty, don’t you?’
‘Of course, but–’
‘But what?’
‘But I trust my judgement more.’
‘Shouldn’t you trust the evidence?’ Sarah said.
‘If I had any, I would.’
‘Then, find something. You always do.’
Chapter 45: Pointing Out the Obvious
Tuesday 28th June, 18:30
Brodie ambushed Morton on Tuesday evening as he was about to head home. ‘Laddie!’
Morton spun on his heel. ‘How many times have I told you not to call me that?’
‘Sorry,’ Brodie grinned. ‘Won’t happen again... sir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Jake Sanders didn’t have a gambling problem.’
Morton felt himself frown. ‘Come again? I’ve seen the betting slips.’
‘Then, ye’d better look again.’
Brodie led Morton down to the forensics department. All of the slips had been digitised and put on the big screen for Morton to see.
Morton squinted at the fine print. ‘What am I looking at? They look like betting slips. Winners? Losers?’
‘Losers. All losers. Jake kept the winners, shredded the losers,’ Brodie said with a hint of pride.
‘Why is that unusual? All gamblers want to win, and shredding the losers isn’t unreasonable.’
‘Not when they’re money laundering. He wasn’t stealing to gamble. He was gambling to steal.’
Morton felt his jaw slacken. He knew something hadn’t been adding up. Jake was an accountant by profession. He had to know gambling was a fool’s errand. ‘He used the betting shops to turn money he’d stolen into legitimate tax-free winnings?’
‘Exactly, laddie. Jake had a system, alright. He chucked his money on the best bets where he could lose the smallest amount. I spent yesterday calling round to confirm, and by my best guestimates, he was funnelling nearly half a million a year into twenty or so betting shops and getting eighty-five percent back.’
Morton was impressed. Jake had turned stolen money into legitimate winnings with only a minimal cut lost to the laundering process. ‘Hang on. Where’s the money now, then?’
Brodie held out his hands palm-up. ‘That, laddie, is one for you to answer.’
***
Faye was trying to sleep when she heard the key in the door. The lights were off, and everything else was quiet. Faye shot bolt upright, startling the two cats, which darted underneath the sofa bed in the blink of an eye. The clock on the wall said half past six. Rafferty couldn’t be home this early, could she? She’d gone out not more than half an hour earlier. Hadn’t she said something about dinner with somebody? A man? Faye couldn’t remember exactly what Miss Ashley had said.
The door opened with a creak. A man’s silhouette was visible in the doorway, and his height cast an enormous shadow across the lounge. Faye felt her muscles tense up, her heart rising in her throat. Her pulse raced. She darted her eyes around the room looking for something – anything – with which to defend herself. She briefly considered running for the kitchen, where she knew Rafferty would have sharp knives on the countertop next to the microwave, but there wasn’t time.
There. On the table. It was only a corkscrew, but it would have to do. Faye leapt up off the sofa as the man came through the doorway carrying two bags full of groceries.
If she’d taken a moment to pause, Faye would have realised just how much the man looked like Miss Ashley. She might have had time to consider that few aggressors bring groceries into the places they’re robbing. She might even have simply slammed the door shut and pushed across the dead bolt.
Faye was like an animal possessed. It was as if instinct had taken over her entire body. Her heart had accelerated so fast, it felt like it was going to thump right out of her chest. Her muscles had tensed up, poised and ready to strike. She felt powerful, feline, capable. It was fight or flight, and there was nowhere to run. The corkscrew was in her hand before she knew it. It was one of those corkscrews made of solid stainless steel with a bottle opener at the top and two ratchet arms along the side. There was no flimsy handle to break or any good place to hold. Faye held it with the ratchet arms folded up and the screw point facing out like a dagger.
She planted a foot on the coffee table. The intruder was taller than she, easily over six foot, and broad along with it. She needed every advantage she could get. She seemed to move without thinking. With her right foot planted firmly on the oak coffee table, she pushed downwards to launch herself into the air. She seemed to hang in the air just long enough to see a startled expression form on the man’s face. He dropped the bags of groceries, spilling their contents all over the floor.
Faye landed on him with the momentum of her leap behind her. She stretched out, still holding the corkscrew, aiming for the man’s neck.
The point of the corkscrew pierced his shoulder, eliciting an almost inhuman yowl of pain. He roared and threw Faye off of him, leaving the corkscrew embedded where his neck met his left shoulder.
The man staggered forward. For a moment, it looked as if he might fall to his knees. Faye looked around the room, desperately searching for another weapon.
And then the man howled again as he yanked the corkscrew from where it had been embedded in his shoulder. He held it out in front of him, staring shell-shocked at the sight of his own blood dripping from the metal. Blood poured from his shoulder where he had been impaled, turning his white shirt crimson.
***
Patrick Rafferty fell to his knees. One moment, he had been walking through the front door of his little sister’s flat, and the next, he was collapsing on the floor drenched in his own blood.
He couldn’t see the girl. He could barely see anything. His mind was concentrating on the burning pain. Then he heard footsteps. The front door was still open, and the neighbours must have heard him screaming.
‘Paddy! Paddy! What happened?’
Patrick could have sworn it was his sister’s voice. He t
urned to see her kneeling above him. ‘Stabbed,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Who stabbed you?’
‘Some... girl.’ Patrick tried to raise his arm, to point towards the girl, but his arm wouldn’t listen. He looked up, his vision growing increasingly blurry, and then... nothing.
***
The door was open when Rafferty made it home. She saw her brother on the floor, surrounded by the groceries he had bought to cook them dinner. He shouldn’t have been there. He had made it to the Elephant before she did, and that never happened. The one time he was early, and this had happened.
‘Paddy! Paddy!’ Rafferty shouted at her brother. ‘What happened?’
He seemed to twist and writhe, turning his head towards her. He whispered something, his voice hoarse and raspy with pain. Rafferty couldn’t make out what he saying.
Paddy seemed to be trying to look towards the bedroom. Rafferty followed his line of sight. ‘Is there someone in there?’
Fuck. Rafferty tore the sleeve off her shirt and wrapped it tightly about Paddy’s shoulder. She did so as quickly as she could. If there was someone in the bedroom, she had to find out. Satisfied that Paddy wouldn’t bleed out before she could return, she hit 999 on her mobile.
It was answered immediately. ‘DI Ashley Rafferty. I’ve got a stab victim bleeding out. I need an ambulance.’ Rafferty reeled off her address and then chucked the phone down on the floor.
‘Paddy! Stay with me, Paddy. You’re going to be okay,’ Rafferty said, her voice full of false confidence.
Paddy’s eyes were glazed over, and his expression was one of agony. Good. All the time he could feel pain, he was still alive. The endorphin rush would kick in soon.
‘Paddy, you’ve got to stay awake. Whatever happens, fight this. You’ve got to stay awake, do you hear me?’
Rafferty kept glancing towards the bedroom. Faye should have been home. Had she been hurt too?
‘Paddy, I’m going to check on Faye. Stay with me. There’s an ambulance on the way. Just stay awake.’
Rafferty rose, and then, with one last glance at her brother, she headed for the bedroom. The door was pulled to, but not properly shut. Rafferty held her breath so she could hear if anyone was inside. Someone was definitely breathing inside the room.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 15
