Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) (4 page)

Morton scowled at the coroner’s dark sense of humour, and then glanced out into the corridor.

‘Ayala’s long gone. Let’s get on with it. I’ll catch him up later.’

‘Right you are. Ellis DeLange, age thirty. Death was caused by blunt force trauma to the back of the head resulting in a subdural haematoma. Her brain bled out from the inside. It would have been pretty quick.’

‘Definitely murder then?’

‘Unless she ran backwards at about fifteen miles an hour into a solid object, then threw her own body in the pool to cover it up, I think we can rule out accidental death or suicide.’

‘What was she hit with?’

‘Damned if I know,’ Chiswick said. ‘Something oblong, reasonably heavy. The force was dispersed over a large contact area, so it wasn’t as narrow as a pipe. I’d be tempted to say a brick, but there doesn’t appear to be any transfer evidence to support that. You find anything like that?’

‘Nope. All we found were drugs, condoms, pizza boxes and a towel in the garden.’

Chiswick leant against his workbench, and smiled. ‘Sounds like my student days.’

‘She was a bit old for that, and not looking too good for her age either.’

‘That’s nothing more than a poor diet, her make-up being washed off in the water and a touch of adipocere.’

Morton examined the tray of samples ready to go off to the lab. ‘You don’t think she was on drugs then?’

‘Oh, she was taking something but she hid it well. No track marks, so she wasn’t shooting up.’

‘Oral administration?’

The coroner grinned. ‘Guess again.’

‘Injections between her toes? Some sort of cream?’

Chiswick shook his head. ‘Sorry. Your victim liked her barbiturates taken rectally. See that baggie over there?’

Morton glanced over at what appeared to be a woollen rag soaked in a yellow goo. ‘No. You’re kidding!’

‘That was inside her. It’s definitely been soaked in some kind of nembies, and if I had to guess from the bitter smell and yellowing, I’d say its pentobarbital, most commonly used by vets to euthanize animals. We’ll need to wait a few weeks for forensics to confirm that though.’

‘A euthanasia drug? Are you suggesting she was suicidal?’

‘Oh no. It acts like an opiate in low doses. There’s a fine line between getting high and overdosing, but she didn’t cross it. She’d have been high, and lost all her inhibitions.’

‘That’d explain the evidence of drunken sex.’

The coroner grinned, and let out a hearty, booming laugh. ‘See. Just like university.’

Chapter 5: Next of Kin

By the time Morton and Ayala arrived at home of Brianna Jackson, Ellis DeLange’s next of kin, the sun had set. They parked underneath a nearby railway bridge in a bay marked “Permit holders only”, and set off on foot towards Amelia Street. It was a residential area, with a steady flow of foot traffic, but it wasn’t well lit. There were few lampposts, and even where there were lights it seemed that bulbs had been allowed to burn out without being replaced. The faces of those they passed swam into view and then disappeared into the darkness just as quickly.

‘Damn!’ Ayala cried out.

Morton turned to see Ayala on the ground, clutching at his ankle.

‘This is no time to take a break,’ Morton joked, and held out a hand.

‘Bloody bin bags. Didn’t see ’em in the darkness.’

Brianna lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in a listed building. While exceptionally pretty, it lacked the charm of her sister’s home, and there were no outer security doors let alone a perimeter fence. A terracotta archway led through to a narrow hallway with a steep spiral staircase on the right. At the very top of the stairs, Morton and Ayala paused to catch their breath.

Morton spotted Ayala wincing. ‘Your ankle all right?’

‘No. I’ll be suing for worker’s comp next week,’’ Ayala quipped.

‘That’s the spirit. Mind knocking the door? I can’t reach from here.’

The landing was barely big enough for the two of them. The stairwell had a solitary window through which a street lamp could be seen a few feet below casting a pale glow over the street. Three doorways at the top were marked ‘1A’, ‘1B’, and ‘1C’.

Ayala rapped his knuckles on the middle door.

The sound of shuffling preceded a woman’s voice.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked shrilly.

Morton imagined someone pressing their eye to the peephole, and trying to make out the two shadowy figures in the stairwell.

‘Metropolitan police, ma’am,’ Ayala said.

‘What do you want?’

‘Do you know Ellis DeLange?’

‘She’s my sister. Why?’

‘May we come in?’ Ayala asked. The Met had strict rules against giving death notices on the doorstep.

A chain rattled on the other side of the door, a lock clicked and the door swung open inwards. Ayala shuffled in then stopped suddenly, causing Morton to bump into him.

Morton nudged him in the back to keep moving, and then stood on tiptoe to glance over Ayala’s shoulder. The flat, if it could be called that, was little more than a bed, a microwave and a curtained area at one end that Morton presumed concealed a bathroom.

Morton nudged Ayala again, and he shuffled forward just far enough to let Morton squeeze in. Morton pushed the door shut then breathed a sigh of relief. Just by closing the door, Morton had doubled the available space to stand in.

Brianna Jackson, born Brianna DeLange, sat on the end of the single bed with knees tucked up beneath her chin. She looked up expectantly, quickly glancing between the two detectives.

‘Miss Jackson, I’m DCI David Morton. I have some bad news to tell you. I sorry to inform you that your sister has been found dead at her home,’ Morton said.

Brianna inhaled deeply, then nodded. ‘It was it an overdose, wasn’t it?’

‘We believe your sister was murdered.’

She clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes flaring wide in apparent surprise. ‘How? When?’

‘We’re not sure yet. When did you last see your sister?’

‘Her... her birthday party, the weekend before last.’

‘What night was this?’

‘Saturday. She was stressing about turning the big three-oh.... It just seems so silly now. She’ll be young forever now.’ Brianna began to sob loudly. Ayala reached into his pocket, and pulled out a silk handkerchief monogrammed with a golden ‘B’.

‘Was the party in the evening?’ Morton asked.

Brianna nodded. ‘It was supposed to start at seven... but she only picked seven to get everyone there by nine. Everyone turns up late, don’t they?’

‘Do you remember who was there?’

‘I... I’ve got a list. She invited everyone on social media. Pass me that laptop.’ Brianna pointed at a small notebook sat on top of the microwave. She flipped up the lid, and the trio waited for the notebook to boot up in silence. Once it was on, Brianna tapped away at the keys to log in and brought up the details of the party.

She pointed at the screen. ‘See, eighty-two attendees. She even invited my ex-husband, the useless git. He didn’t turn up, thank God.’

‘Eighty-two!’ Ayala cried out.

‘Miss Jackson–’

‘Please, call me Brianna.’

‘‘Miss Jackson,’ Morton repeated firmly. ‘Tell us about the people your sister had in her life.’

‘Me. I’m pretty much almost all she had. We lost our parents a few years back, though Ellis never really got on with them. She was only two years older than me, but she looked out for me.’

Brianna might have been twenty-eight, but she looked a decade younger than her sister. In the most recent photos Morton had seen at the house, Ellis had a sunken, weather-worn appearance with waxy skin and eyes that seemed lifeless and dull; Brianna was still chubby-cheeked and cherub-like.

‘Why didn’t Ellis get on with your parents?’ Morton asked.

‘They disapproved of her lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong, they were proud of everything she achieved... but Ellis got mixed up in the wrong crowd. It was that Paddy Malone that did it. He got her hooked, and she’s been his meal ticket ever since.’

Ayala pulled out a notebook and pencil from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Do you have an address for Paddy?’

‘How should I know where he lives? He comes and goes. Most of the time he’s in her kitchen with a needle jammed in his arm.’

‘Could he have killed her?’ Morton said.

‘I doubt it. He’s a loser, but he’s pretty laid back. And like I said, he needed my sister.’

‘Is there anyone that would have wanted her dead?’

‘No... Yes. Her boyfriend, Kallum. Kallum Fielder. I saw them arguing at the party. It was embarrassing really. We all tried to ignore it.’

Morton’s forehead creased as he strained to remember where he had heard the name Kallum Fielder. He hated it when things slipped out of recall.

‘When was this?’ Morton asked.

‘Ten o’clock, maybe. Maybe a little after. I was gone by eleven so it had to be before then.’

‘And was there anyone else?’

‘Not that I can think of. Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got to make some phone calls. I’m sure you’ve work to do anyway.’

‘Of course. Do you have a phone number we can reach you at?’

Brianna scribbled on the back of a leaflet for a local takeaway, and handed it to Ayala. It had two phone numbers on it.

‘The top one is my mobile number. The bottom one is the landline for my work – the Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital.’

‘Thank you for your time, Miss Jackson.’

Chapter 6: The Boyfriend

Monday April 7th – 08:45

For Morton, a quarter to nine o’clock in the morning felt like an early start for a Monday. But the man he and Ayala were at Broadcasting House to see had been up for several hours already.

Kallum Fielder, known to the nation simply as Kal, was the face of hit morning television
Wake Up Britain!
Over a bleary-eyed cup of tea or bowl of cereal, Kal would read out the morning’s headlines in his deep, soothing baritone. He was also considered something of an in-joke and as celebrity-chaser Gifford Byrnes put it: “Kal speaks smart but acts dumb.”

From the back of Studio One, the detectives watched Kal finish up his six ’til nine stint in front of the camera.

‘And that’s all from
Wake Up Britain!
I’ve been Kal Fielder and I’ll see you tomorrow morning,’ Kal signed off with a wink.

CRT monitors, which were affixed to the ceiling to show what was being broadcast in real time, cut to a preview of the next show.

‘That’s a wrap! Take five, everybody,’ the director called out.

Morton pushed his way past the sound techs stampeding towards the snack tray out in the hall, flashed his ID at the single cameraman giving him a quizzical glance, then stepped onto the stage.

A pair of plum-coloured sofas, one used by the show’s hosts and the other by the guests, were arranged at right angles in the centre of the stage. Almost immediately after Morton stepped onto the stage the heat from the lighting hit him. His suit suddenly felt clingy. But Kal was apparently immune. The television presenter sat right on the edge of the sofa with a mug of coffee in hand. His attention was focussed on holding his head deathly still so that his make-up could be reapplied.

‘Mr Kallum Fielder?’

Kal waved a hand in reply, but didn’t turn away from the beautician desperately trying to paint over his panda eyes.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m DCI Morton. This is Detective Ayala. We need to talk to you about Ellis DeLange.’

Kal tensed visibly, and Morton saw his left biceps twitch. He pushed the hand of his make-up artist away. ‘Leave.’

When the make-up artist was out of earshot, Kal continued: ‘Eli’s been arrested?’

‘No, Mr Fielder. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Ellis was found dead at her home.’

Kal’s biceps twitched again. ‘No. That can’t be.’

‘I’m afraid it is. Her sister identified the body late last night.’

‘But you’ve got to be mistaken. Eli is in New York! She can’t be dead. She just can’t be.’

Morton glanced at Ayala. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘She’s doing a shoot there. She left over a week ago.’

‘When was this?’

Kal paused to think, raising his hand to his lips to bite his nails as he did so. Morton made a mental note: two nervous tics. Finally, Kal replied: ‘Sunday morning. The 30th. She had a midday flight from Heathrow to La Guardia. She’s due back in a few days.’

‘And when did you last see her?’

‘The night before she left. Her birthday.’

‘Mr Fielder, your girlfriend never made it onto her flight. We believe she was killed on the night of the party.’

‘Killed? You think Eli was murdered?’

‘Yes. And we know you two argued that night.’

‘You think
I
did it?’

‘Did you or did you not have an argument in front of witnesses that night?’ Morton said.

‘Yeah, but it was no big deal. Couples argue.’

‘What did you argue about?’

‘You’ll think I’m crazy. I accidentally left my wallet on her nightstand when I got changed before the party. When I remembered and went back for it, the wallet was empty. Her room is upstairs, and our guests were in the main living room, so only Ellis could have touched it.’

‘How much was in there?’

‘Two hundred pounds. I had to walk home that night.’

‘When the argument happened, did you leave straight after?’

‘Not right away. She yelled, I yelled. She’s been stressed about turning thirty for weeks. I thought I’d let her cool off. She stayed in her room, and I went back to the party. She was still asleep when I left.’

‘It was all verbal then? You didn’t hit her at all?’

Kal shook his head.

‘So we won’t find your DNA underneath her fingernails?’ Morton asked on a hunch.

Kal folded his arms, hiding his hands from the detectives. Morton looked at him carefully. Up close, Kal looked a lot less youthful than on the television. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt looked unironed.

‘Alright. So she scratched me. Doesn’t that make me the victim?’

‘You’re still breathing. You don’t look like a victim to me,’ Morton said.