Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (11 page)

Chapter 17: Computer Down!

Wednesday April 9th – 18:00

Stuart Purcell didn’t really report to Morton but somehow the policeman always managed to get under Purcell's skin. Of course he could triangulate a mobile phone! Any one of his team could do it. The computer did everything... Or it would normally.

In theory it was so simple. High signal strength meant quicker responses when a phone was close to a tower. By comparing the lag between tower and phone, the distance could be calculated between a given mobile phone and the nearest masts.

London had no shortage of towers. They varied in height, which meant the calculation was a little more difficult, but nothing that would have made the computer sweat. But the computer wasn’t working; he had to do it by hand.

The problem there was the phone kept on moving, pinging different towers every few minutes. It was clear as day that it was being driven around London. Every time Purcell worked out the phone’s location, it had already moved. It was travelling too fast to be in a pedestrian’s pocket. The phone was still pinging towers, which meant it wasn’t underground, and the route didn’t match any of London’s overland train or bus services. Whoever had the phone was driving around with it.

CCTV was no good either. Trying to find the phone by whatever vehicle it was travelling in meant trawling a dozen local authority CCTV cameras with spotty coverage. The temptation to simply call the phone and see who answered grew stronger with every passing hour.

When the signal finally came to a stop, Purcell felt himself give a great sigh of relief. It had landed, at just gone six thirty, in a residential street in Upper Norwood.

Purcell victoriously snatched up his mobile and dialled Morton’s mobile. He answered after two rings.

‘What?’ Morton demanded grumpily. ‘I’m about to have dinner. This better be important.’

‘I’ve got your mobile.’

‘Nope. Fairly sure I’m talking to you on it.’

‘Very funny. Your anonymous tipster’s phone is active at an address in Upper Norwood. Want me to text it to you?’

Morton didn’t immediately reply. Though Purcell was miles away, he imagined Morton staring longingly at a whiskey decanter he had just set on the coffee table in anticipation of a drink after a hard day. For just a moment, he hoped Morton was about to say, ‘No, come pick me up.’

Instead Morton answered in the affirmative. ‘Don’t forget the postcode,’ Morton chastised before ringing off.

So near, but so far. For Stuart Purcell, it was time to call it a night and head home.

***

By day Upper Norwood might have been quite attractive, but by the time Morton arrived the sun had set and torrents of rain poured from the sky, giving the neighbourhood a gloomy appearance. Two nineteen-eighties council blocks loomed large in the sky to the east.

Purcell had supplied grid co-ordinates rather than a full postal address. When Morton arrived, he found that the location housed a semi-detached three-story Victorian-style house with a balcony over the main doorway.

He parked up, squeezing in behind a white van marked ‘
DMC Electricals’
. He strode briskly towards the door to avoid getting too wet and was presented with two doorbells: one for the upstairs flat and one for the downstairs flat.

He took a gamble and hit the button for the ground floor flat first. A young man answered. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty and seemed perplexed to find Morton on his doorstep.

‘What you want?’ He demanded. It wasn’t an English accent, but Morton couldn’t place it.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton. I’m looking for the person who has a mobile phone with the number 07500654091.’

‘It mine.’

‘Did you place a call to the emergency services last Sunday?’ Morton knew the answer. It wasn’t the same voice as the recording on DS Mayberry’s call.

‘No,’ the man said. ‘I just get phone.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘It gift.’

‘You got a decade-old mobile phone as a gift?’

‘I told to bin phone. I kept it.’

‘Why?’

‘Had credit. Also, I like Snake.’

‘The game? But...’ Morton felt himself trip over his tongue.

‘I go now?’ He turned as if to retreat back inside the house.

‘I need to know where you got the phone.’

‘My boss. He give me. Say to bin it.’

‘Why would he ask you to bin a mobile phone?’

‘I say enough. Can I go?’ The man was shifting his weight from left to right foot and back again restlessly.

Aha! He thinks it’s nicked
, Morton thought. ‘I’m afraid you and the phone need to come down to the station.’

‘That what I was afraid of. I get shoes.’ He turned again and went to close the door, and Morton had to quickly jam a foot just inside the door. The man seemed surprised but shrugged and went off to pull on a pair of filthy old trainers.

***

The man with the phone was Sergei Krasnodar. It turned out that the white van Morton had parked next to belonged to him. Sergei was weeks away from finishing his electrician’s apprenticeship, which was due to finish on his nineteenth birthday. Morton watched him through a one-way mirror. He was slowly chewing his fingernails and glancing around nervously.

Thank God he’s eighteen
, Morton thought. He’d had enough of dealing with minors on his last case. Morton was about to go into the interrogation suite when a voice called out down the hall.

‘DCI Morton! W-wait up!’ DS Mayberry came jogging down the hallway.

‘Mayberry, you’re here late.’

‘So are you. I p-passed Purcell as I was leaving. He told me you’d gone to find the guy so I thought I’d wait. C-can I sit in on the interview?’ He looked up at Morton hopefully with big puppy-dog eyes.

‘Fine,’ Morton said. Then an idea popped into his head and he added: ‘But do one thing for me first.’

‘Anything.’

‘Take this.’ Morton handed him Sergei’s mobile phone, which was wrapped up in an evidence bag. ‘Get them to run the IMEI, prove that it is stolen.’

Mayberry took the phone, and trotted off down the hallway to carry out Morton’s bidding.

That ought to keep him busy for half an hour
. Morton headed into the interview suite.

‘Sergei. Tell me about your job.’

‘I fix electrics. Most days I fix lights.’

‘Do you like doing that?’ Morton tried to build a little rapport with his suspect.

‘Yes. It tiring. Long hours. But I like know do good job.’ Sergei smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

‘It can’t pay well though.’

‘True.’

Morton met his gaze. ‘So how do you afford to live alone in London?’

Sergei broke eye contact. ‘I live Norwood. It’s not expensive.’

‘How much do you make?’

‘Fifteen thousands.’

Not enough to easily afford a one-bed apartment, even with housing benefit.

‘Do you do any other work?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t, hmm, get rid of mobile phones in return for money?’

‘That one-time thing.’

‘It was stolen, wasn’t it?’ Morton put it to him.

‘I didn’t steal phone.’

‘I didn’t say you did. My colleague has gone to find out if that phone has been reported stolen. What’s he going to find out?’

Sergei shrugged.

‘Let’s wait and find out, shall we?’

‘I need lawyer?’

‘You tell me. If you want one, I’ll get you one. But if you’re dealing with stolen goods, I’m not interested in that. I need to know if your boss might have stolen it.’

Sergei hesitated and then said: ‘It’s possible.’

‘Were you working last Sunday?’

‘No. Just weekdays.’

‘When did he give you the phone?’

‘Monday. After work.’

‘And you’ve used it since?’

‘No. I had to buy charger.’

That explains why the phone has been off for most of the week
, Morton thought. Morton strained to think of anything else he needed to ask Sergei. DI Mayberry’s return saved him from having to come up with anything. Mayberry slid an IMEI report across the desk as he sat down.

Damn. Not stolen. Looks like the kid gets to skate on handling stolen goods.

‘Sergei. We’re going to have to talk to your boss about this. Could you write down his address for me?’ Morton handed him a pen and paper.

‘Thank you. Once you’re done with that, you can go. You can’t tell your boss that we talked to you though, otherwise we can charge you with perverting the course of justice. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. No tell boss. I keep phone?’

‘I’m afraid we need to keep hold of it for the moment. You’ll get it back when we’re done with our investigation.’

Sergei finished writing the boss’s address down in loopy handwriting.
DMC Electricals
was owned by Mr. David McArthur of Oak Cottage, The Close, Potter’s Bar, North London.

Chapter 18: Late To Bed, Early to Rise

Thursday April 10th – 08:00

Despite Morton’s late night tracking down the mobile phone he still made it into the office by eight o’clock the next morning. The first task of the morning proved to be a fairly simple one. Chiswick had readied the body of Ellis DeLange to be released to her family. Her body bore few visible signs of the damage inflicted during the post-mortem examination. Morton pinged off a quick email to Ayala to let him know to call Brianna.

The case had made the morning news again.
The Impartial
had run with the headline
Underwear Salesman Caught Short!

The Impartial
had reprinted the CCTV picture again but this time they had added a paragraph underneath.

‘Aleksander Barchester, CEO of popular women’s clothing company Wiles is thought to be the Richmond Streaker. Barchester had been attending the birthday party of murdered fashionista Ellis DeLange the night before his sojourn through Richmond in the buff. Is this a sign that the once-revered businessman saw something terrible that night and snapped? Turn to page 14 for the full story.’

‘Damnit!’ The journalists had beaten them to identifying the Richmond Streaker. It seemed they knew far more than the police. Though they had yet to connect Barchester with Brianna’s claim that he had been illicitly using the name Lord Culloden.

‘Barchester is currently en route back from New York after an extensive photo shoot for the new Simply collection that will appear later this year in the Summer Wiles catalogue. For that reason we were unable to reach Mr Barchester for comment.’

Morton had been assuming Brianna was leaking information to the press, but as far as Morton knew, Brianna was clueless as to the whereabouts of Aleksander Barchester. She didn’t even know his name. Morton had learned about the trip from Gabriella Curzon. It looked like he had two witnesses selling information to the press.

On the upside, the fact that the press hadn’t reached Barchester meant that Barchester remained blissfully unaware of the publicity surrounding him. He wouldn’t be in at Heathrow for a couple of hours yet so Morton still had time to ambush him at the airport.

Chapter 19: Homeward Bound

The trip from LaGuardia had been exemplary. Aleksander Barchester kicked back in a reclining chair in the first class cabin. His in-flight table was stacked with copies of every major paper, which he had perused while supping Dom Perignon. Unfortunately for Alex, he missed the mention of the Richmond Streaker tucked away on the middle pages of the morning edition of
The Impartial
. He even missed the knowing giggle of the lady seated three rows back, mistaking her curious gaze for attraction.

Alex enjoyed flying, but it had to be first class. First class meant no tussles over legroom with the row in front bashing his knees. It meant free drinks all the way through the flight, and it meant no screaming children. Alex couldn’t even complain about the Foie Gras which, while tasty, hardly lived up to the experience of the same at a decent restaurant. There was something about flying which made food bland. Alex supposed it was the pressurised cabin or something.

After seven and a half hours the seatbelt sign pinged on and a voice crackled over the plane’s intercom system. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing mild turbulence this morning. We expect to land in the next fifteen minutes, so please place your seats in the upright position with the tray folded up and ensure that your seatbelts are fastened.’

Alex picked up his glass of champagne, his fifth of the flight, and downed the last few drops before handing it to an air hostess who seemed to spring out of nowhere to take the empty glass. Alex watched her walk away, admiring her ample buttocks as they swayed. Then she stumbled slightly. The turbulence was picking up. Alex gripped his armrest with a ferocity unbecoming such a frequent flier. This was the part he hated. As the plane descended it swung to the right in alignment with Heathrow Runway Two. The pressure built up slowly as they descended. With his free hand, Alex tore open a pack of sherbet lemons and popped three in his mouth at once. They didn’t help.

By the time the plane landed, Alex could feel his ears had gone funny. When the cabin door opened to the waiting umbilical corridor of the airport, they popped gently and Alex finally let go of his armrest.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the sound system again. ‘Welcome to Heathrow. It’s sixteen degrees and balmy outside, so put away your brollies, ladies and gents, you won’t need them today. The local time is ten fifteen. Thank you for flying with
Imperial Airlines
. We wish you a safe onward journey.’

The seatbelt indicator light switched off, and Alex released his seatbelt, then stood to stretch his legs. It felt good to finally be on the ground. He was about to join in the dash for the exit in the hopes of getting to the front of the customs line when the air hostess picked up his hand luggage for him.

She smiled but it was forced. Her eyes revealed a look of concern. ‘Allow me, sir. We have a complimentary escort waiting for you in the terminal.’