Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (12 page)

They were met at the door by a gentleman in a suit. If Alex hadn’t been on the champers, he might have noticed that the man wasn’t wearing the corporate blue of
Imperial Airlines
. He blindly followed the man off the plane and into Heathrow. He didn’t even notice when they sidestepped the immediate queue of passport control in favour of a small door to one side, which the man opened with a swipe of a key card from his jacket pocket.

The hallway behind the locked door led to another door, which again opened at the touch of the man’s key card.

‘Can I get me one of those?’ Alex joked. It was only when he saw the stark grey metal walls of the interview room that Alex realised he wasn’t being given preferential treatment.

A middle-aged policeman sat on one side of a desk in the centre of the room. He had a microphone in front of him, and a pen in hand. Alex sat down.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

***

‘I’m Detective Morton. And you are?’ Morton omitted his full title deliberately to avoid giving away the reason behind being at Heathrow.

‘Aleksander Barchester. That’s Alex with a ‘KS’, not an ‘X’.’

‘Unusual spelling.’

‘My mother was Russian.’

‘Ah. Now the other formality – I need to confirm your address for me please.’

‘It’s The Culloden Estate, Shirley Hills, Croydon.’

Morton pretended to mishear him. ‘Culloden Manor, Shirley Hills, Croydon.’

Barchester didn’t correct him.

‘Doesn’t that land come with a manorial title? My apologies for addressing you as Mr Barchester before.’

Culloden smiled, puffed up his chest and held up a hand as if to wave away Morton’s apology.

‘Is it Lord Culloden then? Or Lord Barchester of Culloden?’

‘Either is fine.’

‘Really? That’s strange. My sources tell me the actual Lord of the Manor of Culloden is in his eighties. I wouldn’t have guessed you were much past fifty.’

‘I’m forty-seven!’ Culloden retorted. A split second later he realised his mistake and added, ‘And that’s my father you’re talking about.’

‘If I call him, will he verify that?’ Morton reached into his pocket for his phone.

‘Wait!’

‘You’re not Lord Culloden.’

‘No...’

‘And you don’t live at Culloden Manor. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have you prosecuted for attempting to enter the country under false pretences?’

‘I do live on the Culloden Estate. I live in the servant’s cottage on the eastern perimeter, OK? And I never lied about my name. I just didn’t say anything when you got it wrong.’

Morton smiled pleasantly. ‘Passport please.’

Barchester fished in a pocket for a moment then handed it over. Sure enough it read ‘Aleksander Barchester, Lord of Culloden’ in the name field.

‘See?’ Barchester asked.

Morton continued to look through the passport. He flipped to the Observations page where
‘THE REFERENCE TO LORD IS TO THE HOLDER’S NAME AND NOT THE HOLDER’S TITLE’
was printed in bold.

He turned it around so Barchester could see. ‘If you really held the title then that would say that the holder is also known as the Lord of the Manor of Culloden. Why are pretending to be him?’

‘I’m going to decline to answer. I’m a British citizen. Either charge me with something or let me go.’ He stood, as if to make his point.

‘There’s one door out of here, and it’s locked. Stop posturing and sit back down before I do something you’ll regret.’

He sat.

‘Tell me about Ellis DeLange.’

‘That useless bitch? Is that what this is about? What does she say I’ve done now? I waited a full three days before I hired a replacement. If she’d only answered her bloody phone!’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up for second there. Let’s go back a minute. You hired her. What for?’

Barchester looked at Morton as if the detective were an idiot. ‘To take photos.’

‘For your catalogue business?’

‘That’s right. We’re shooting pictures for the Summer Wiles Catalogue, which comes out in July. It’s got to go to print by the end of the month. I’m sorry if Ellis has been telling tall tales here, but I had to hire a replacement when she didn’t show up.’

‘In New York?’

‘Yes, in New York! Are we or are we not sat in an airport?’

‘She was murdered the night before you fled the jurisdiction,’ Morton said. ‘Did you kill her?’

‘No! Wait. I need a lawyer.’

‘You only need a lawyer if you killed her. But as you wish.’ Morton reached for the tape recorder. ‘Interview terminated at–’

‘Stop... I’ll talk to you. Alone. On one condition.’

‘The police don’t usually make concessions to criminals.’

‘I’m not a criminal. I need you to promise me, man to man, that you won’t tell the Board of Directors about me using the title.’

Morton gave Barchester a thin-lipped smile. There was no downside to agreeing. Brianna had already told the world on
Wake up Britain!

‘Deal.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What happened on the night of the party?’

‘I got there late. I’d been out of town all week working so I slept through much of Saturday. I drove the Merc down at about ten thirty. I never saw Ellis that night. When I got there, everyone was talking about the argument.’

He’s awfully quick to point the finger at Kal
. ‘Who did she argue with?’

‘Her boyfriend. That awful bore Kallum Fielder. He’s got two topics of conversation – football and women. I don’t know what they were arguing about. It was probably the usual.’

‘The usual?’

‘Money. Kal gambles. He earns well. Perhaps not as well as Ellis, but that’s only because I’m a sucker for a pretty face. She says he spends every penny, won’t stop asking me for a raise every time.’

It sounds like he’s been played... Unless he’s hiding her drug addiction.
‘Did you ever witness the gambling?’

‘Never had reason to, my good man. We weren’t friendly. I tolerated him for Ellis.’

‘Who came to the party?’

‘The usual crowd. Gabby was there, of course. She and Ellis are inseparable. Vladivoben. Patrick Malone.’

‘Vladivoben?’
He didn’t mention that when we interviewed him.

‘Eli’s next-door neighbour.’

‘Why was he there?’

‘Same reason as everyone. He seemed to be having a wonderful time. Why, I even saw him leave with a very handsome young man.’

‘No noise complaints then?’

‘Not to my knowledge. We were pretty loud, but it’s a big house and
The Old Coach House
is quite a way away.’

‘OK. Tell me about the end of the party.’

‘I went to sleep about midnight in the guest room, and then drove home the next morning about six. I never saw or heard anyone else, but I thought people might be sleeping.’ His eye twitched as he spoke.

‘Uh-huh. That’s not what our other witnesses have told us. Patrick Malone says you left some time after midnight.’

‘Does he now? Well, that little berk is a lying toe rag. And he owes me money. I paid for pizza when I arrived. He took two hundred quid. I never did get any change.’

‘Miss Curzon and Mr Fielder confirmed what he said.’

Barchester’s face drained of what little colour it had left. ‘You spoke to them too, did you?’

Morton nodded. ‘We did. Tell us about the fight you had with Miss Curzon. What was it about?’

‘It’s not about anything illegal. It’s not relevant.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mr Barchester. If it isn’t illegal and doesn’t impact on this investigation then it won’t leave this room, I promise.’

‘She’s pregnant. She said it’s mine.’

A gorgeous twenty-five-year-old sleeping with this washed up forty-seven-year-old man? Beer goggles and money can perform miracles.
‘But you don’t believe her.’

‘Would you believe an addict? She wanted money. I know I’m not the only one she’s been sleeping with. I asked for a prenatal DNA test to prove it. She went ballistic.’

‘Because you didn’t believe her or because you demanded an invasive test with a chance of miscarriage?’ Morton asked, his voice full of scorn.

‘Oh, come on. Junkies don’t worry about their unborn babies. She was drinking all evening. Good mothers don’t do that. She just wanted my money.’

‘Who else is she sleeping with?’

‘How would I know? I just know she is. She’s gorgeous and she’s a student. I’m not soft in the head.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘She physically attacked me. I ran from the room and then left. I went home.’ His left eye twitched again.

‘If you’re going to keep trying to conceal the truth, I’m going to have to break my word and call your board of directors. Tell me what really happened.’

‘That’s it, I swear it.’

‘So you didn’t run out the back door then.’

‘Fine. I did. I came back.’

‘Forgot something, did you?’

‘My... My wallet. I left it in the bedroom.’

‘Together with all your clothes?’ Morton said.

‘Yes, if you must know. That’s how crazy she was. I couldn’t even get dressed.’

‘So you thought you’d spend the night in Richmond Park.’

‘No! I told you. I stayed in the guest room.’

‘No one was in the house. Edgecombe Lodge has a smart thermostat. It turned itself off at two o’clock. Besides, you were caught short on camera all the way to the Park and back. Did you come back for your clothes or did you come back to cover up a murder?’

‘I think I’ll have that lawyer now.’

‘Fine with me. But first, I’ll let immigration process you. Thank you for admitting you’ve been in contact with drugs. I’m sure immigration will need to, ahem, check you over for any you might be carrying.’

Chapter 20: Peek-A-Boo

Friday
April 11th – 05:45

Mayberry squinted through the darkness. It was a quarter to six o’clock, and thanks to the combination of darkness and poor weather, visibility was minimal. No shops were open, not even the mini-supermarket by the station; it wouldn’t open for another hour.

Traffic was light. Morning bus services had begun and a few weary commuters seemed to be heading towards central London for the day. Jogging naked down the high street from Richmond Park would have attracted a fair bit of attention despite the early hour.

The still image of the Richmond Streaker published in all the papers had been taken from a low-resolution CCTV camera feed. Mayberry held a copy of
The Impartial
in one hand and lifted it to compare with his view of the road.
There! That looks like the picture.

There was a phone box with a basket full of flowers hanging nearby illuminated by the lights from an estate agent’s window. The same phone box was in the corner of the CCTV image, but the rest of the scene didn’t match up. Mayberry moved closer.

Then it hit him. The CCTV footage was from the other side of the phone box. Mayberry jogged along the pavement until he was twenty feet the other side of the phone box, then held up the newspaper again.

Yes!
The scene from the newspaper was laid out in front of him. He looked around, searching for the CCTV camera, and there it was sandwiched between the awning over a greengrocer’s and the drainage pipe a few inches above. A thick cable ran down towards the awning then disappeared through the wall into the grocer’s. He’d found it.

Mayberry earnestly jogged towards the grocer’s. A black and white ‘Closed’ sign hung just inside. The shop’s opening times were listed underneath. It wouldn’t be open for two more hours. Defeated, Mayberry slumped against the door, then slid down until he was sitting on the step into the shop. He would just have to wait.

After a few minutes, Mayberry felt himself wanting to sleep. The lack of caffeine was getting to him. He was beginning to drift off when a gruff voice demanded to know what he was doing outside the grocer’s.

‘Oi! What are you doin’ on my bleeding step? We’re not open so sod off.’

‘Umm, err, I’m Detective Sergeant Mayberry. I’m here about the Richmond Streaky Bacon. No! Streaker.’

The grocer looked at Mayberry like he had something wrong with him. ‘I already gave you lot a copy of the tape. Did you lose it or summat?’

‘Us lot? You spoke to a p-p-please man?’

The grocer went inside to grab a tray full of vegetables, and started to unload them onto the display in front of the grocer’s. ‘Policewoman. Little lassie. She came in a few days ago, all sweetness and smiles. I thought she was a hooker to be honest. Then she said she was plain clothes. I felt like a right pillock.’

‘What did she say her name was?’

‘Officer Byrnes.’

Mayberry cursed. Gifford Byrnes was a reporter for
The Impartial.
No wonder they beat the canvass team. ‘Did you see any sort of photo badge?’ he asked.

‘No. I didn’t think to ask. Lass said she was plain clothes. Do plain clothes carry badges? I’ve never had one come in before. There were coppers up and down the road. I assumed she was with them.’

‘Do you still have the original v-v-video tape?’

‘Nope. That’s long gone. We cycle them every forty-eight hours.’

Mayberry cursed. ‘S-sorry. That sort of slipped out. I really need some sort of v-video tape. My new boss has been on my back about that tape.’

‘If it helps, I saw the willy-whacker go by.’

Mayberry burst out laughing. ‘The what?’

‘It’s what me mam used to call ’em, streakers. He jogged on by, plain as day. Funny sod had his hands over the front as he walked towards me, then the back as he walked away. He even said good morning!’

‘Did you get a good look at the suspicion, sorry, suspect?’

‘Unfortunately. That sight will be burned into my eyeballs ’til the day I die.’

‘Did you tell Miss Byrnes about that?’

‘Nope. I don’t need to be going down to the station to identify a streaker. I’ve got better things to do.’

‘We wouldn’t need you to come in. We can do a v-v-v–‘

‘Video?’

‘Yes, v-video identification parade right here. It’s incredibly simple. We play you a v-video with nine people in it; the guy we think it is and eight m-more. You tell us which one you saw. It’ll take three minutes, max.’