The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) (2 page)

‘Ah. Good spot, boss.’

Morton spun on the spot, staring intently at the ground. ‘There’s not enough blood for her to have been killed here. Can anyone see blood drops that might indicate which direction she came from?’

Ayala shook his head. ‘There’s no sign of blood, boss. We looked.’

‘Then the body was wrapped in something,’ Morton said. ‘Did you find tarpaulin sheets or bin bags?’

‘Nope.’

‘Footprints, then?’

‘Hundreds,’ Ayala said. ‘Any of them could belong to the killer.’

It was true. Highgate Cemetery was not just home to the dead, but had become something of a tourist attraction, a Mecca for the morbid and the gothic. Before Morton could reply, Ayala yelled out in pain. Morton looked up to see him glare at the new girl, Ashley Rafferty.

‘What’d you do that for?’

Rafferty shrugged. ‘You were being an idiot,’ she said simply. ‘If the killer carried the old lady, then their combined weight would mean deeper footprints. She’s what, five foot six and carrying more than a few pounds of extra weight? Our killer was probably a man. Her killer had to have been tall enough to carry her, so we’re probably looking for bigger footprints too.’

‘Right. So, we should look for larger, deeper prints that appear to be recent,’ Ayala said.

Morton smirked. ‘Sounds like you’ve just volunteered. Off you go, both of you. While you’re at it, look for any potential points of entry and egress. If we know where the killer came from and how they got out of here unseen, we’ll know where to concentrate the canvass.’

Once Ayala and Rafferty had departed, the coroner stood up. ‘She’s a feisty one. You get to choose your own new hire this time?’

Morton nodded. ‘I did, although Mayberry isn’t working out too badly after all. Don’t tell him that. If I play the three of them off against each other, I’ll never have to buy a round of coffee again.’

‘Lucky sod. All I get is as much complimentary formaldehyde as I can steal.’

‘Why on earth would you steal formaldehyde, Larry?’

‘Exactly,’ Chiswick said with a smile. He turned his attention to the body. ‘I’ll give you three guesses how this one died.’

‘The great big hole in her chest?’

‘Winner, winner, chicken dinner.’

Morton leant in for a closer look at the hole. It looked like her chest had been ripped open with something sharp, leaving the skin cut rather than torn. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Looks like someone took a sharp blade to the left-hand side of her chest.’

‘They cut out her heart?’ Morton said.
Some sort of lovers’ quarrel?

Chiswick shook his head. ‘Nope. Looks like they took a lung. You ever seen anything like this?’

‘Never.’
Who’d steal a lung?
Morton wondered.

‘Do you reckon it’s a message? Like, “Don’t breathe a word”?’

‘Doc, I think you’ve been watching too many mob movies. Any clue who she is?’

Larry prodded the victim’s necklace with a gloved finger. ‘Only this. She’s got no pockets, no wallet, and no identification.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Rigor mortis says time of death was eight to ten hours ago.’

‘Between eleven o’clock last night and one o’clock this morning, then,’ Morton said. That put her death well after closing time for the cemetery. ‘She wasn’t killed here, was she?’

‘Nope. Lividity suggests a body dump. I’ll get her back to the morgue and collect trace evidence.’

Morton nodded his thanks. ‘I guess I’d better go find Mayberry.’

‘Too late. Look.’ Chiswick pointed down the pathway to where Mayberry could be seen jogging along the path towards them. A few moments later, Mayberry skidded to a halt next to Morton and paused to catch his breath.

‘Mayberry. Where have you been?’

‘The r-r-records office. At the ch-church.’

‘What for?’

‘The-the ...this.’ Mayberry handed Morton a printout which read
Plot Ownership Records, Plot 1227: Hubert Kennard
. Farther down the page, a section entitled
Administrative/Billing Contact
was highlighted:
Primrose Kennard (Widow)
. Primrose’s address and contact details were listed just underneath her name.

‘Nice work, Mayberry. Looks like she lived just around the corner. Go find Ayala and Rafferty. Tell them to meet us there.’

‘Y-yes, b-boss.’

S
unday April 5th 10:00

The address on record for Primrose Kennard was in Swain’s Lane, less than five minutes’ walk from the cemetery entrance. It was a quiet residential road that ran between the East Cemetery, where the body had been found, and the West Cemetery. A fence made of brick and ironwork ran along the perimeter.

‘Do you think someone could climb that, boss?’ Ayala asked as they walked along the road.

‘There’s one way to find out. Give it a go,’ Morton ordered.

Ayala craned his neck towards Morton. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You and Rafferty. One of you climb the fence. The other can pretend to be the body.’

Rafferty folded her arms. ‘There’s no way you’re picking me up. You’re not exactly the Hulk, are you?’ And with that, she bent forward, shoved her right shoulder into the back of Ayala’s left knee and shoved him against the fencing. Then, with an enormous strain, she pushed and pushed until she lifted him off the ground with his weight split between her and the fence.

‘Put. Me. Down! Boss, tell her to put me down!’

‘You heard the man. Put him down.’ Morton winked.

Rafferty smiled, put a foot onto the lower half of the fence where it was made of brick, and then, with a giant heave, she pushed with her leg – and unceremoniously dumped Ayala over the top of the ironwork.

He landed on the other side of the fence with a thud, narrowly missing the shrubbery. A portion of his trouser leg was attached to the spiked top of the fence, and a small cut ran down his shin.

‘That bloody hurt,’ Ayala complained. ‘And now I’ve got to walk all the way back to the entrance to get back to you.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Morton said. ‘Go get cleaned up, and then start on the crime scene paperwork. It won’t take four of us to check out the victim’s home.’

‘Fine,’ Ayala grumbled. He clutched at his shin as if mortally wounded and limped off muttering.

Morton, Mayberry and Rafferty walked onwards, barely a hundred and fifty feet at most, until they found the house. Primrose Kennard’s home was a large, Georgian-style affair tucked away behind a high fence.

‘Looks fancy. Solar panels, loft conversion, dormer windows. Isn’t it a bit big for one elderly lady?’ Rafferty said.

‘It c-could be a f-family home?’ Mayberry suggested.

‘It probably was,’ Morton said. ‘Mayberry, why don’t you head next door and talk to the neighbours. Ask them if they heard anything. If not, find out what Mrs Kennard was like as a neighbour. You got your pad and pencil?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Then, off you go. Rafferty, help me look for a key.’

‘Nobody sane hides a key under a rock in London. Here. Let me.’ She knelt on the doorstep and pulled a wallet full of pins from her bag. She picked two and inserted them into the lock, then listened as she twisted the pins.

‘Aha!’ With a click, the lock came undone, and the door swung inwards.

‘You deviant. Where’d you learn to do that?’

Rafferty tucked the pins back into the wallet and stuffed them back into her bag. ‘It’s amazing what you pick up as a probation officer. After you, sir.’

‘First, these.’ Morton passed her a pair of evidence booties, pulled on his own, and then pushed the door open slowly. ‘Is there anyone there?’ he called out.

When nobody replied, they headed inside. The hallway was a long, narrow passageway leading right the way through the house. Piles and piles of uniform packaging boxes, in some places ten deep, lined the wall.

Morton picked one up. The side was marked
You Shop We Drop! TV
.

‘Nasty shopping channel,’ Rafferty said. ‘Overpriced tat for undersexed housewives.’

‘Speaking from experience?’ Morton asked.

‘Don’t be nosy,’ Rafferty said, as if curiosity were the gravest sin. ‘...Wonder what she’s been buying.’

Morton carefully opened the box he was holding, unfolded the tissue paper inside, and then emptied the contents into the palm of his hand. A garish red ring with a wafer-thin gold band glistened up at him.

‘Nice ring!’ Rafferty said sarcastically. ‘Is there an invoice with that?’

Morton checked inside the box again. ‘Nope.’

‘Not there. The address label on the outside. It’s designed to double up.’

‘Ah.’ Morton tore the address label off. Sure enough, an invoice was printed on the reverse. ‘Three hundred and ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pence! Plus delivery.’

‘What did I say? Overpriced tat. You wouldn’t get more than twenty quid in scrap back on it.’

‘But there have to be a hundred and fifty boxes here. At least we can rule out robbery. Hey, do you hear that?’ Morton placed the box back down atop the pile and edged towards the doorway.

‘Hear what?’ Rafferty said.

Morton nudged the door open with his foot. The television was on, with
You Shop We Drop! TV
yammering away at full volume. The light blared out in the otherwise dark room.

Was she hard of hearing, or did our killer turn up the volume?
Morton wondered.

The curtains were drawn tight, and only a slither of sunlight was creeping around the edges, illuminating a trail of dust in the air. Morton moved towards the windows and heard Rafferty rumbling for a light switch. She found it, and a dim, energy-friendly bulb began to reluctantly flicker to life.

Then Rafferty screamed.

Morton turned to see a room bathed in blood. The shag pile carpet, which was off-white at one end of the room, was stained a dark crimson, thick and matted with blood. In the middle of the pool of blood, there was a cat barely older than a kitten.

Morton imagined the cat had once been the same colour as the carpet. It looked up at him and nonchalantly continued to lick its paw before padding across the room to meow loudly at him.

‘He must be hungry. Rafferty, go see if you can find some cat food. I’m going to see if this bloodbath carries on upstairs. And don’t forget to change your booties – it looks like you’ve got blood on those.’

Morton paused long enough to turn the television off and snap a quick picture on his phone. He emailed it over to Ayala:
Found our primary crime scene. Send forensics
.

Upstairs the house was orderly, but two of the three bedrooms appeared not to have been used in some time, as all the surfaces were thick with undisturbed dust.

The third room was the master bedroom, which had been decorated in a Bedouin boudoir style with silk draped artfully from the ceiling to frame a large sleigh bed in the middle of the room. Morton sniffed the air. The room reeked of potpourri mingled with cigarettes.

Morton headed towards the rear window and cracked it open. From here he could see out onto a neatly manicured garden. There was a seat running the length of the window with a heap of books piled up at one end. They looked well-thumbed. Morton picked up the first one and scoffed. Romance novels. Dozens of them, many of them almost as old as the victim.

A large canvas print dominated the longest wall opposite the window. It showed a much younger Primrose with a weatherworn gentleman and two young boys, twins by the looks of them, with tousled blond mops and fierce, angled noses that marked them as their father’s sons. A door at the back of the room led through to a wet room with percale towels stacked on a heating rack.

Once he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found upstairs, Morton went in search of Rafferty. He found her in the hallway cradling a cat box.

‘What’re you doing with that?’

‘I can’t leave her here, can I? I lured her into the box with food. I’ll take care of her until we find next of kin.’

‘Right,’ Morton said. He looked from Rafferty to the cat, which was purring contentedly. ‘Be sure you don’t get any hairs inside my car, or you’ll be cleaning it on your own time, OK?’

‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘Boss, you’ve got to see the kitchen.’

Morton waved a hand to tell her to lead on, so she set the cat box down beside the boxes of shopping channel merchandise and led him through to the kitchen. ‘Empty. It’s totally empty. What am I looking at?’

‘Open those cupboards.’ Rafferty pointed.

When Morton did so, his jaw dropped in surprise. On the left-hand side, the cupboards were full of nothing but cat food, all of it a blend of chicken and tuna which Morton recognised as a big name brand. On the right-hand side were twenty-six bottles of SW4 dry gin.

‘She liked a drink, then.’

‘That’s not all. Look in the fridge.’

Morton walked towards the American-style fridge with trepidation. He pulled open the left-hand side, which housed a freezer. Empty. Then he opened the right.

‘Blimey!’ The freezer was stacked with ready-meals, the kind intended for those on a diet. ‘If she ate this crap every day, then she probably wasn’t long for this world anyway. I can’t see a single piece of fruit or veg anywhere.’

‘And yet,’ Rafferty said with a grin, ‘she’s got all manner of blenders, soup makers and smoothie machines hidden under the sink.’

‘I suppose it fits with the compulsive shopping we saw in the hallway. Have you seen a diary or phonebook anywhere? We need to identify her next of kin.’

‘Back in the lounge by the TV. I’ll go.’ Rafferty bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

‘No. You go see to the cat. I’ll find it.’ Morton tiptoed into the lounge, careful to minimise the disruption to the crime scene. He found a notepad full of phone numbers sandwiched between a well-worn church directory and a crystal ashtray.

He skimmed through to the ‘Family’ section and ran his finger down the page. There were numbers listed for Christopher and Frederick Kennard, but nobody else. Morton jotted their numbers down and headed for the front door.

Mayberry was waiting for them on the front drive.