The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) (6 page)

‘All night?’

Brad looked over to Marv who nodded. ‘Yeah. All night.’

‘Both of them?’

‘I... I think so.’

‘And they left when?’

‘No idea. We left at about eleven with a lovely young lady.’ Brad high-fived Marv.

Morton looked at them. They didn’t look like the kind of guys to be too successful with women. ‘What was her name?’

‘How’s that relevant?’ Marv asked.

Morton sniffed. ‘You know, I think I do smell pot–’

‘Verity. Her name was Verity. There.’

‘The same Verity who works for the twins?’

Marv nodded. ‘She came out to a late bar with us, and then on to a club.’

‘Interesting. Thank you, gentlemen.’

T
uesday April 7th 13:30

Morton had a message waiting for him at the front desk when he arrived back at New Scotland Yard after lunch.

The secretary on the front desk, a man whose name Morton could never remember, smiled at him politely. ‘The superintendent wishes to see you, DCI Morton.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

Morton nodded his thanks, headed into the lift and jabbed the button for the top floor. Getting called in was never a good sign. The superintendent was notoriously hands-off in his management of the staff, so to be called in meant that he felt something was wrong. It made Morton feel like a truant schoolboy caught outside of school bounds on a weekday.

The superintendent was waiting for him when he knocked. He was sitting behind his desk with a copy of
The Impartial
spread out in front of him and the twins sitting in two chairs in front of his desk.

‘Superintendent. Mr and Mr Kennard. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘David, come on in. Grab a seat. These gentlemen came to see me early this morning. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.’

Morton took his seat and leant back. ‘What misunderstanding would that be, sir?’

‘These gentlemen have been in to complain that you’ve been harassing their clients.’

‘Harassment? Hardly. We went to verify their alibis, which was wholly justified as a matter of procedure, and especially so in this case. Their secretary lied to us.’

Freddy threw Morton a dirty look. ‘Verity? What did she say?’

‘She told us she was with you two all night. Your clients told us she was with them.’

‘Did you ever consider that we might have all been together?’ Freddy said.

‘Were you?’

‘In a way,’ Christopher said. ‘We were all at the same event.’

‘Which you could have left.’

‘We didn’t!’ both twins cried in unison.

‘Can you prove that?’

Freddy stood up. ‘Guilty until proven innocent, is it? When did that law come in?’

‘Gentlemen,’ the superintendent said, ‘things are getting a little heated here. DCI Morton was just doing his job.’

‘Him doing his job cost us our biggest client. Près Ice dropped us this afternoon. They don’t want to be associated with’ – Freddy mimed air quotes with his fingers – ‘a “potentially toxic brand.”‘

Morton paled. This was why he’d been summoned. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry to hear that Près Ice dropped you. I had to follow up on your alibi. It’s standard procedure. Verity did you no favours by lying for you.’

‘We didn’t ask her to!’

‘But she did lie, all the same. You have to see how that looks.’

‘It looks like we have staff who are loyal to a fault. I’ll be talking to Verity later. But you need to stop harassing us. We did not kill our mother. There’s photographic evidence, for God’s sake! Just check out our website. We were at a product launch!’

‘None of your photos show you both at the same time. Do you have any more pictures that you didn’t publish?’ Morton said.

‘So, it’s a twin thing. We look alike, so one of us must be a killer. Do you think we swapped clothes or something? How childish.’

‘It’s interesting you say that. You were wearing identical shirts and the same suits. It would have been child’s play to swap over your tie and cufflinks, wouldn’t it?’

‘You’re insane. And deaf. We. Didn’t. Kill. Her.’ Freddy jabbed his finger towards Morton with every word, and then stormed off towards the exit.

The other twin, Christopher, remained behind. ‘I don’t know what you want from us, Detective Morton, but we can’t prove a negative. I’d like you to stay away from my brother and me. Every second you spend investigating us is another second for the real killer to get farther away. If you’ve got to talk to us again, do it through our lawyer. He’ll be in touch.’

Chris rose and followed his brother out of the superintendent’s office.

Morton cursed. The lawyers were at it again.

W
ednesday April 8th 13:00

‘Jump and jive, number thirty-five!’ The voice echoed throughout the hall, booming through the silence. A plump lady with a contralto voice was sitting behind a desk where she rolled a large metal cage with a hand crank to churn out the bingo balls.

Morton loitered at the back of the hall with Ashley Rafferty by his side. Highgate Regal ran the bingo hall as a low-budget option for the over-sixties, and business was booming. Hushed voices whispered throughout the hall, chatting quietly over fifty-pence bingo cards.

‘Tickety-boo, sixty-two!’ the caller called out.

The players lurched into action once more. ‘Bingo!’ cried a voice towards the back.

‘Where was that?’ asked the plump lady. ‘Raise your hand so I can see you.’

A skeletal hand topped with far too many garish rings slowly rose into the air, and the plump lady darted forward to check the card.

‘We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen! That’s it for now. We’ll be back in a little bit, after I’ve had lunch. Dale and the boys will be bringing around your tea and biscuits shortly.’

Morton edged towards the longest table, where two women, one of whom was perched atop an overly large mobility scooter, and a man were lamenting how close they had come to winning.

‘One more and that trip to Brighton would have been mine!’ said the lady sitting atop the mobility scooter.

‘I know the feeling. I never win. It’s only fifty pence a time, but that sure adds up,’ said the woman next to her.

Morton approached them slowly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m DCI Morton, and this is DI Rafferty. Do any of you know Primrose Kennard?’

‘Why? What’s she nicked now?’ said the woman on the mobility scooter.

‘Shh, Phyllis, you shouldn’t say stuff like that. It was only a rumour.’

‘I saw her, Marlene,’ said Phyllis. ‘Those security guards in the Shop’N’Go dragged her off to their office. Jeremy saw them too, didn’t you, Jezzer?’ She elbowed the man next to her in the ribs none too gently.

Jeremy, the sole man in the group, looked uncomfortable.

‘I say we give him a break. Jezzer doesn’t want to talk about it,’ Marlene said.

Phyllis scowled. ‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ She turned to Morton. ‘He’s been trying to seduce Prim for ages now. A right lothario, he is, and eighty-two years old with it. Dirty bastard.’

Rafferty burst out laughing. Poor Jeremy had turned a bright shade of red at the sudden attention and slunk down in his seat as if to hide from view.

‘Ladies, I’m sure Jeremy’s love life is fascinating, but can we steer the topic back to Mrs Kennard, please?’ Morton said. ‘When did you see her last?’

Marlene turned to her friend. ‘Wednesday. It was Wednesday, wasn’t it? That was the night Primrose won a line, didn’t she, Phyllis?’

‘That she did,’ Phyllis said. ‘It was only five pounds, but she seemed pleased as punch.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Primrose?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Never. Who’d want to hurt an old lady? Primrose could be a bit standoffish, but she couldn’t have annoyed anybody that much. Are you sure it was murder?’ Phyllis looked from Morton to Rafferty as if expecting them to admit that it was, in fact, an accident after all.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘You sure? How’d she die?’ Marlene chimed in.

Morton saw expectant faces staring at him. He’d have to tell them. ‘The killer ripped her lung from her chest.’

He expected horror, but Jeremy and Marlene merely sat in silence while Phyllis let out a small gasp.

‘Ooh,’ Marlene cooed. ‘Someone stole her new lung? That is a funny business.’

‘New lung?’ Rafferty feigned ignorance in an attempt to see just how much the ladies knew.

‘Prim had a lung transplant, see,’ Marlene said. ‘She had something wrong with ‘er, see. She never said what, exactly, but she was in hospital for a while.’

Morton and Rafferty exchanged an odd look.
Primrose’s transplant was common knowledge, then.

‘Was it done on the NHS?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Oh, yes, of course. Like any private doctor wants to do proper medicine. Her boys gave her a lobe each, and came out of it fit as a fiddle. Dead proud of ‘em, she was.’ Phyllis nodded sagely, as if she too had raised Freddy and Chris.

Morton watched as Rafferty’s jaw dropped, the wise woman playing the fool. ‘The twins donated lung lobes? Is that safe?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Do I look like a doctor? Lassie, I wouldn’t know. But I assume the twins are still walking and talking.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Morton said. ‘Would you know of any reason someone might have wanted to hurt Primrose?’

‘Robbery, maybe?’ Marlene volunteered.

‘Aye, that’d be it,’ Phyllis agreed. ‘She had loads of stuff. New clothes and jewellery every week, that one.’

Morton turned to the old man. ‘Jeremy, what do you think?’

‘Bingo!’ Jeremy cried, and waved his card in the air. On it, in blue marker, he’d drawn a car.

‘Don’t mind him. He’s been gaga for a decade. Can’t believe I was married to ‘im once,’ Phyllis lamented.

Morton spotted the bingo caller walking back into the hall. Lunchtime was over.

‘Thanks for your time, ladies. Have a good day.’

T
hursday April 9th 10:00

The first time I killed a man, I didn’t feel a thing.

It was almost as if nothing happened. He was there one minute, gone the next.

No doubt the next one will be the same.

I’ve been watching him for a week now. Boring. That’s the only word for Niall Stapleton.

Or so I thought.

Today felt different. Niall wasn’t the office drone he had been all week. No; now he seemed possessed of manic energy. He walked with purpose. He was keeping his head down, not making eye contact with anyone, which was fortunate for me because I was just three seats away from him on the tube to Chancery Lane.

I almost missed him getting off the tube. Every other day he’d carried on to his insurance brokerage’s main office in Marble Arch, but this time he hopped off at Holborn Station.

The rain came pouring down as we came out onto High Holborn. I flipped up my umbrella, a boring black thing with no distinguishing features, and bowed my head against the rain as I followed Niall.

The crowds provided ample opportunity to hide as we made our way east. It wasn’t until we turned off onto Hatton Garden that I had to be careful. There were still people around. The jewellers of Hatton Garden were bound to be on high alert for anyone looking too suspicious, and I could not risk attracting their attention.

I kept on him, trying to stay far enough away that he wouldn’t notice me, but close enough that I could see him. I paused at the occasional window display, just another shopper.

Just past Greville Street, Niall disappeared. He ducked under an archway and out of sight.

I sped up. The gap narrowed in no time. Fifty feet. Forty. Twenty. Ten. I came to a halt by the archway and glanced through the gap. There was just one door down a short alleyway. When I reached it, I found it unlocked. I turned the handle and the door opened with a tiny creak.

I paused, held my breath and strained to listen for any sign that I had been rumbled. When all was quiet, I left the front door open and followed the light at the end of the hallway.

Niall was standing inside a small office lit by an elegant chandelier hanging from a high ceiling. Blueprints were taped to the wall behind him. On a table against the far wall there were a variety of weapons laid out in a neat row. A gun. A knife. A rope. Explosives.

I knew it.

Niall Stapleton was not the boring office worker he pretended to be. I drew from my breast pocket a scalpel and stepped into the room. While Niall was busy studying the blueprints, I crept up behind him – and slit his throat.

T
hursday April 9th 13:00

Morton had thought his week so far had been bad, but Thursday was destined to be much worse.

Shortly after lunchtime he received a call that a body had been found hanging from a chandelier in Hatton Garden. At first, he thought it sounded like a garden-variety suicide. None of his business, thank you very much. That was, until he learnt that the man’s throat had been cut.

He found the place easily enough. A uniformed officer was standing discreetly just inside an archway off Hatton Garden, blocking off access to the crime scene. He needn’t have bothered. No passer-by would pay much heed to the dingy little alleyway when there were shop windows full of sparkling gemstones to ogle. It was, Morton thought, an opportune location for murder.

Morton greeted the officer as he approached. ‘DCI Morton. Who’s inside?’

‘Just the coroner so far, sir.’

‘Who was our tipster?’

‘Mr Archibald Frey. He owns the lapidary business next door. He came by to welcome the new tenant to the building, found the body, and called us first of all.’

‘Us?’ Morton asked.

‘Holborn Police, sir. I’m PC Buchanan. I’m the designated point of contact for the merchants of Hatton Garden.’

‘They’ve got their own contact? I guess money does talk.’

Buchanan scowled. ‘It’s not that so much, sir, but that they’re an obvious target for robberies and the like.’

‘Right. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not going to fit through the alleyway at the same time as you.’

Buchanan shuffled forward to allow Morton to pass and then snapped to attention once he had done so.