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

The twins carried on playing, oblivious to the detectives’ gaze. After what seemed like an eternity, for Morton’s vanilla pumpkin mocha had gone from piping hot to lukewarm, the twins picked up their jackets and disappeared through a door at the back of the office.

‘Right. They’re gone. Come on,’ Morton said, and motioned for Mayberry to get up.

They abandoned Morton’s unfinished mocha and wove through the traffic to reach Nuvem Media Associates. The office was much more spacious up close, made even more so by the minimalism with which it had been decorated. The flooring and walls were clad with stark white tiles which made Morton’s footprints reverberate loudly as they entered.

A receptionist was sitting behind a tiny desk well away from the main action. Only she paid Morton and Mayberry any heed as they entered. She was a tall, lanky woman with red hair and a pinched nose that gave her an air of smug superiority, and when she smiled she displayed a row of brilliantly white and totally even teeth which Morton supposed had to be porcelain caps. A name badge pinned to her blouse read
Verity
.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?’ Verity asked.

‘Hello, Verity. I’m DCI Morton. This is Detective Mayberry. We’re trying to confirm the details of the product launch you organised on Saturday night.’

‘Oh, the Près Ice launch?’ Verity said. ‘It was fabulous. We rented out the Painted Hall for that one and had an absolute blast.’

‘Could you tell me which members of your staff were in attendance?’ Morton asked.

‘All of us. They’re one of our biggest clients, so we had to spend the whole night schmoozing them. Champagne, glamour girls, the works. We had industry professionals in, a whisky tasting, and the usual product presentation. Chris handled the presentation, while Mark’ – Verity turned towards the main desk and gestured at a squat, balding gentleman in an ill-fitting suit who was jabbering away on the telephone – ‘handled the whisky tasting.’

‘And F-Freddy?’ Mayberry said. ‘W-what did he do?’

‘General schmoozing. He did the projector for the presentation too.’

‘What time was that?’

Verity frowned, bit the tip of the fingernail on her index finger, and then said: ‘At nine o’clock, I think. It lasted about half an hour.’

Morton paused. The body had been found by the nine o’clock tour group on Sunday morning, and time of death had been put at eight to ten hours prior, meaning Primrose Kennard had died between eleven o’clock and one in the morning, well after the presentation.

‘And w-what h-happened after that?’ Mayberry asked.

‘We networked. Carriages were at midnight.’

‘Did the twins stay all evening?’ Morton asked.

Verity nodded. ‘I was with them all night.’

‘Both of them? Together?’

‘Well, no. Everyone tends to circulate on their own at these things.’

‘So, you can’t be sure they were both there all night?’

‘I suppose one of them could have gone out for a cigarette break without me.’

‘Verity! What are they doing here?’

Freddy and Chris appeared from the back of the office. The entire room fell silent as the twins skidded to a halt in front of Morton and Mayberry. A waft of smoke hit Morton as they arrived.
I guess they went out for a cigarette break.

The twins really were two peas in a pod. The only visual difference Morton could see between them was their choice of attire: they had monogrammed cufflinks marked ‘C’ and ‘F’ respectively, but from a distance Morton doubted whether anyone but family would be able to tell them apart.

Verity held up her hands as if to defend herself. ‘I was just–’

‘Just what?’ Chris snarled. ‘Haven’t you got work to do, woman? Don’t stand around chit-chatting. Shoo.’

Verity clenched her teeth, but she stood her ground. ‘I was just telling the nice detectives that I was with you all evening on Saturday.’

Freddy turned to glare at Morton. ‘You’re investigating
us
? Stop wasting your time and go find the real killer – and we’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand there gormlessly in our entranceway. It’s off-putting to clients. Now, is there anything else you need, or will you be on your way?’

‘We’ll be on our way, gentlemen.’

Once they were back outside, Morton turned to Mayberry. ‘They really didn’t like us being there, did they?’

‘N-no.’

‘I think one of them could have left part of the way through the product launch, don’t you? A bunch of drunks wouldn’t have noticed if one twin disappeared while the other didn’t. If they swapped cufflinks, I dare say they could have fooled Verity too. How far is it from Greenwich up to Highgate?’

Mayberry checked his phone. ‘T-ten miles, b-boss.’

‘About an hour in Saturday night traffic, then. If the product launch was done by half past nine, and one of them left then, they could have made it up there by half ten,’ Morton concluded. ‘That would give them plenty of time to kill their mother, dump the body and disappear into the night.’

M
onday April 6th 13:00

Morton and Mayberry walked the long way from Archway Tube to Primrose Kennard’s home. Throngs of people, a mix of locals and tourists, ambled with them as they made their way along Highgate Hill towards the northern end of Swain’s Lane.

For Morton, it felt almost like coming full circle.

‘I was born over there.’ He jerked his head towards Whittington Hospital as they passed the front entrance. ‘So was my sister.’

‘I d-didn’t kn-know you have a sister,’ Mayberry said, his forehead creasing up as if he were straining to remember a family member he’d never met.

Morton looked away for a moment, unable to make eye contact. Finally, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he muttered, ‘She’s gone now. Long gone.’

Silence fell, and Morton quickened his pace as they turned onto South Grove, a quiet street that separated Swain’s Lane from the main road. Up ahead they saw Ayala and Rafferty scouting out the CCTV in the area as ordered. Morton waved to them and then carried on south towards Primrose’s home.

Four doors away from the crime scene, Morton stopped in his tracks.

‘B-boss, w-why h-have we stopped?’ Mayberry asked.

‘I see a curtain-twitcher,’ Morton said, and pointed. Behind velvet curtains, an elderly lady was sitting in a bay window, eyeing the detectives as they walked past.

‘A w-what?’

‘Curtain-twitcher. It’s what my old mum used to call ‘em. Nosy neighbours who watch the world go by from behind the safety of their curtains. Shall we go and say hello?’

Morton led the way down a short cobblestone path until they were faced with an old oak door upon which hung a sign beneath a heavy old knocker. It read
The View
. Morton seized the knocker and rapped three times. The crack of metal on wood reverberated through the house, and soon after came the sound of shuffling inside.

The door opened to reveal an elderly lady propped up by a walker, which she leant on heavily.

‘You’re the plod, aren’t you? What are you waiting for? Come on in before that shrew next door sees you.’ And with that she turned away and began to shuffle ever so slowly into the house.

Morton cracked a smile and held out his hand in an ‘after you’ gesture. He and Mayberry followed the homeowner, one small step at a time, until she had resumed her position in the bay window, where she cast a beady eye at a couple passing by.

‘It’s not the same, you know. Used to be quiet ‘round here. Now it’s all flats and tourists. The name’s Ethel Tewson, by the way, but you’ – she pointed a gnarled finger at Mayberry – ‘can call me Babe. Everyone does.’

Mayberry turned a bright shade of red, and Morton had to bite his lip to avoid laughing.

‘Mrs Tewson, we’d like to talk to you about one of your neighbours, Primrose Kennard,’ Morton said.

He stood a few feet away from Mrs Tewson and scanned the room. There were no chairs, and the floor was devoid of any clutter. The only mementos that Morton could see were an old cigarette roller and a leather-bound photo album propped up on an easel above the fireplace. It was open to an old black-and-white photo of Mrs Tewson lying on the beach reading.

‘Oh ho ho. That one thinks she’s whiter than white, she does. But I see her coming and going with her bags. She thinks I’m batty, you know. Gives me a little wave every day as she walks past. Not seen her lately, though. Last time was, hmm, let me see.’

Mrs Tewson turned away from the window for just a moment and snatched up a moleskin notebook that Morton hadn’t noticed. She flipped it open to where a ribbon was being used as a bookmark and then ran her finger slowly down the page. She alternated between glancing up at the road and checking the notebook, as if someone might take the opportunity to walk by unnoticed while she consulted the book.

‘Saturday morning,’ Mrs Tewson said finally. ‘That’s when I saw her last. She went past at nine thirty-five in the morning and came back three-quarters of an hour later.’

‘D-did y-you see her after th-that, Mrs Tewson?’ Mayberry said.

‘Are you deaf, boy? I told you. Last time I saw her was Saturday morning. It’s all right here in my book. And I told you to call me Babe.’

Morton looked out the window. Mrs Tewson had a clear view of almost one hundred and eighty degrees up and down the street. From the fixation she had with staring out the window, Morton doubted she missed much.

‘Have you seen anyone loitering around near Mrs Kennard’s lately?’

‘Oh, yes. I saw a gentleman in a suit. He was exceedingly handsome, much more so than plain Mrs Kennard. I think she was having an affair with him. I’ve seen him a few times, coming and going. He’s always walking a good fifty feet behind her, as if they need to hide it. It’s not like her Hubert is around anymore to stop her.’ Mrs Tewson groaned loudly, and her eyes darted to her watch. ‘Dearie me, I’ve forgotten my pills. Would one of you be a dear and go fetch them for me? They’re upstairs in the bedroom, first door on the right. Big pink bag full of boxes. Just bring me all of them, if you don’t mind, dear. I’d go myself, but those stairs do tire me awfully.’

Morton nodded and spun on his heel. He bounded up the stairs and found the bedroom where Mrs Tewson had said it would be. Inside was a large double bed with a wardrobe on either side of the bed, and a small dressing table atop which sat Mrs Tewson’s pill bag. One of the wardrobe doors was open. Inside Morton could see men’s suits hanging neatly in dry cleaner’s bags, and a pair of leather brogues sat in the bottom looking well-polished but covered in a layer of dust, as if they hadn’t been worn for some time.

Morton snatched up the pill bag and made his way back down to the sitting room. In his absence, Mayberry had fetched a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs from the kitchen. Morton handed over the bag and took the empty seat.

‘Does anyone live here with you, Mrs Tewson?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Tewson said as she rustled through the pill bag. Boxes seemed to be coming out, almost at random, too fast for Morton to see what they all were. Mrs Tewson set them down next to her in the window bay.

‘I live with my husband. My Mark’s at work, though, right now, dear, so if you want to talk to him, you’ll have to wait. He’ll be down the mines ‘til six, and it’ll take him a while to get home, so you’d have to come back at about eight.’

Morton shared a quizzical look with Mayberry. ‘The mines? Mrs Tewson, there aren’t any mines around here.’

Mrs Tewson turned away from the window, the pills momentarily forgotten, and this time she didn’t attempt to steal glances at the street. She stared at Morton as if he were an idiot.

‘Of course there’s a mine. He’s down Baggeridge Colliery right now. Why would you say such a thing?’ Mrs Tewson looked from Morton to Mayberry and back again, desperate for reassurance.

‘Mrs Tewson, what year is it?’

‘Nineteen sixty-seven, dear. When else would it be?’

‘My apologies, Mrs Tewson. The date must have slipped my mind. I’m getting a little forgetful in my old age,’ Morton said. ‘Do you need any help popping those pills? No? OK. We’ll be on our way. Thank you very much for your time.’

Morton rose and beckoned for Mayberry to follow him. ‘She’s off her rockers,’ he whispered. ‘Baggeridge closed back in 1968, and it was in the Black Country, not London. I saw her husband’s clothing upstairs in the bedroom, and there’s no way he’s coming home. Ethel Tewson is not a reliable witness.’

‘B-but what about the b-boyfriend she saw? D-did she imagine him?’

Morton shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

***

A
yala parked outside the Swain’s Lane entrance to Highgate Cemetery. Other than the main road, it was the only place near the dump site that had reasonable CCTV. He and Rafferty had been inside for hours, poring over the tapes.

Nothing.

There were hundreds of tourists coming and going every single day, but there was nothing to suggest a murderer had passed by the camera. It didn’t help that the CCTV didn’t extend beyond the midpoint of Swain’s Lane so that the pavement on the far side went unwatched.

And Rafferty was doing his head in. What was Morton thinking, pairing them up after she’d thrown him over the fence?

The cemetery was open until five o’clock in the afternoon each day, and the foot traffic on the CCTV slowed considerably after that. The tapes from Saturday night – when the body had been dumped – showed nothing unusual, although Mrs Kennard was on the tape earlier in the day, presumably on the way to visit her late husband.

As they went back through the week prior to the murder, it was almost sad to see the lonely Mrs Kennard coming to see her husband’s grave every morning like clockwork. Every day she came in holding a bunch of flowers, and left an hour later with the previous day’s bunch clutched under her arm.

Ayala exhaled sharply. Even cigarettes weren’t doing it for him. If he was going to get paired up with Rafferty every day, then there was nothing for it but to ask for a transfer.

When the cigarette had burnt almost down to the end, he flicked it to the floor and squashed it underfoot.