Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) Read online

  Ten Guilty Men

  Daniel Campbell

  Sean Campbell

  Ten Guilty Men

  First published in Great Britain by De Minimis, September 2015

  © Sean Campbell 2015

  The moral rights of Sean Campbell & Daniel Campbell to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover Art designed by Nadica Boskovska, © Sean Campbell 2015

  All characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Edition

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Edgecombe Lodge

  Chapter 2: The Old Coach House

  Chapter 3: Too Much Information

  Chapter 4: Date with Death

  Chapter 5: Next of Kin

  Chapter 6: The Boyfriend

  Chapter 7: Parole

  Chapter 8: HMP Pentonville

  Chapter 9: The Culloden Estate

  Chapter 10: Missing Something

  Chapter 11: Walworth Veterinary Clinic and Pet Hospital

  Chapter 12: Wake Up Britain!

  Chapter 13: Sources

  Chapter 14: Pied-à-Terre

  Chapter 15: Finders, Keepers

  Chapter 16: #RichmondStreaker

  Chapter 17: Computer Down!

  Chapter 18: Late To Bed, Early to Rise

  Chapter 19: Homeward Bound

  Chapter 20: Peek-A-Boo

  Chapter 21: Hook-A-Duck

  Chapter 22: Money, Money, Money

  Chapter 23: The Thief

  Chapter 24: The Wedding

  Chapter 25: The Father

  Chapter 26: Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way

  Chapter 27: The Cavalry

  Chapter 28: Walkies

  Chapter 29: Jailhouse Snitch

  Chapter 30: Secrets

  Chapter 31: Authenticity

  Chapter 32: The Findy-Windy Thing

  Chapter 33: Making a Splash

  Chapter 34: The President of the United States of America

  Chapter 35: Thicker Than Water

  Chapter 36: Got Your Back

  Chapter 37: Bad Blood

  Chapter 38: Front and Centre

  Chapter 39: If at First

  Chapter 40: Legal Extortion

  Chapter 41: Video

  Chapter 42: Then I Got High

  Chapter 43: Sleeping Beauty

  Chapter 44: Three Down, Two to Go?

  Chapter 45: The Dungeon

  Chapter 46: Rehab

  Chapter 47: Connections

  Chapter 48: The Queen Did It

  Chapter 49: Lost

  Chapter 50: In the Wind

  Chapter 51: Against Time

  Chapter 52: Burning

  Chapter 53: Ayala in Charge

  Chapter 54: Crisis

  Chapter 55: Means

  Chapter 56: Means, Motive and Opportunity

  Chapter 57: The Other Sister

  Chapter 58: Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Chapter 59: Richmond Magistrates’ Court

  Chapter 60: Three Sundays

  Chapter 61: The Old Bailey

  Chapter 62: Scapegoat

  Chapter 63: Betrayal

  Chapter 64: The Reason Why

  Chapter 65: Cut-Throat

  Chapter 66: Gamble

  Chapter 67: Equal

  Chapter 68: Damned Silence

  Chapter 69: Ten Guilty Men

  Chapter 70: Recess

  Chapter 71: Unanimity

  Chapter 72: Deliberations

  Chapter 73: The Jury Returns

  A Note from the Authors

  The Patient Killer

  Prologue

  Five Years Ago

  Reporters, photographers and a television crew camped out opposite the home of Ellis DeLange. Rafe Soros had been outside since daybreak, his camera remaining focused on the DeLange residence for nearly six straight hours. It was fast approaching midday and Ellis DeLange had yet to show her face.

  Rafe didn’t blame her. In her place, he’d be hiding behind an eight-foot wall too. If he had one anyway. Such things were the preserve of the successful. While Rafe rarely grumbled about his lot in life, he had managed to sleepwalk into his forties with sod all to show for it. Twenty-five-year-old Ellis however had never had to struggle. She was the daughter of steel magnate Gregory DeLange and had been born with platinum spoon planted firmly where it still remained.

  A bout of schadenfreude had struck Rafe when he got the call that morning. His wife didn’t understand why he was grinning as he leapt out of bed at four a.m. Little Miss Perfect, the darling of the fashion world, had been caught smuggling coke into the country hidden inside Daddy’s private jet.

  Ever since, she had holed herself up in her Richmond home. The only sign of life was the occasional curtain twitch, but Ellis was too smart to give the mob a chance to catch her looking out.

  It was at precisely half past twelve, after half of the reporters had adjourned to a nearby pub for a working lunch, that the front door swung open with a creak. A young man stepped out and strutted towards the gate. The front gate slid open as he approached it, as if by magic, and then closed the second he was beyond the boundaries of the DeLange residence.

  A dozen cameras leapt into action, though quite what his colleagues thought they were photographing, Rafe had no idea. Likewise, microphones were thrust towards the man and questions shouted at him.

  The man waved an arm for silence as if to make a statement.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he announced flatly.

  ‘Hokum!’ one journalist, a noxious old scab by the name of Gifford Byrnes, spat. ‘We’ve been camped out all morning. We know she hasn’t had a chance to leave.’

  ‘Look, she’s not here. Why don’t you lot clear off?’

  ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Never you mind. I’m only here to tell you to clear off. This is harassment.’

  ‘Can’t be harassment if she isn’t here to be harassed,’ Gifford said with a look of smug satisfaction. ‘And hang on, I know who you are! You’re Kallum Fielder, the Fulham striker!’ The same dozen cameras immediately began snapping away in his direction. Rafe reluctantly joined in and snapped a quick shot of the young footballer. He glanced down at his camera screen and smiled. The picture was perfect. Kallum stood shoulders back with his arms folded tightly across his chest. At six-foot-six, Kallum stood nearly as tall as the gate but the house loomed larger still, three storeys of stonework which framed the photograph. It would be an easy sale to one of the weekly gossip magazines.

  ‘So I am.’

  ‘Are you dating Ellis?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘If you’re not, why were you in her house?’

  ‘That’s totally irrelevant. I told you she isn’t home. Now you can either believe me, which will save you from blocking up the pavement all day, or you can sit here and waste your time.’

  ‘And why would we believe you?’

  ‘Because in the’ – Kal glanced at his watch – ‘four and a half minutes we’ve been chatting, she’s gone out the back door and down the private alleyway at the back of the property. Thanks for the chit-chat.’

  With that, Kal strode back towards the security gate, which opened again just for a moment, and then he was gone. The press would still get a story, but it wouldn’t make the front page. Job done.

  Chapter 1: Edgecombe Lodge

&nbs
p; Sunday April 6th – 06:59

  The call came in at precisely six fifty-nine in the morning, right at the very end of the graveyard shift.

  ‘Dead body. Edgecombe Lodge. Richmond. Door’s open.’ The caller’s voice was male, but it sounded distorted, almost robotic.

  In the seven seconds that the call lasted, Detective Sergeant Roger Mayberry went from dozing gently in his chair to wired with adrenaline. Before he could reply, the line went dead.

  ‘Damn!’ Mayberry cursed. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. Not on a Sunday morning before breakfast, and certainly not on his watch. He’d only agreed to take the shift to keep the Superintendent happy.

  Now he had to go all the way out to Richmond to prove the caller was a troublemaker.

  But it was no hoax.

  ***

  Edgecombe Lodge appeared to be just like its neighbours: a detached family home in the leafy London Borough of Richmond. The house was double fronted, with windows guarded by heavy drape curtains which were drawn tightly shut, and the small garden out front had been immaculately tended in an identical manner to the rest of the street.

  But Edgecombe Lodge’s apparent respectability was only a facade. On closer inspection, the wrought-iron security gates that separated it from the road were entwined with blue-and-white police tape, and the pearly-white paint on the window frames had begun to crack.

  Detective Chief Inspector David Morton leant casually against the gate as he waited to be let inside. Morton had left Richmond Station only five minutes ago, but the moment he had turned onto Gallow Crescent the flurry of rush hour gave way to a serene quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Morton watched the house opposite Edgecombe Lodge as an elderly lady pulled back the living room curtains only to slam them shut again the moment Morton waved at her.

  Edgecombe Lodge itself was eerily still. Morton’s team were already on-site but from Morton’s vantage point on the pavement, there were no signs of the activity within. Edgecombe Lodge was a solid thirty feet away from its nearest neighbours and had an ugly electrified security fence running around the perimeter. Bloody eyesore but a great place to commit murder, Morton thought.

  Morton glanced impatiently at his watch: oh-nine-hundred hours.

  A few minutes later, a familiar figure emerged from the house and walked briskly towards him. The gate unlocked with a click, pulling crime scene tape taut across the gap between the gate and the wall. Morton ducked under the tape and extended a weathered hand in greeting.

  ‘It’s about bloody time, Ayala,’ Morton said as the pair shook hands. As usual, Bertram Ayala was impeccably dressed. He had on a slim-fit suit, with the jacket slung over one shoulder. A smattering of designer stubble made him look more like a model than a detective.

  ‘How the other half live, eh, boss?’

  When Morton didn’t reply, Ayala prompted him again, ‘It’s mighty impressive, isn’t it? It’s got to be worth a few million. Ten minutes from Richmond Station, but quiet enough to hear a pin drop. That’s luxury for you.’

  Morton cocked his head to one side. ‘I wonder how our victim managed to afford it. She’s in her early thirties, I believe?’

  Ayala scrunched his nose up in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious, boss? Ellis DeLange is... was,’ he corrected himself, ‘loaded.’

  ‘You knew her?’ Morton walked slowly towards the door, and Ayala trailed in his wake.

  ‘She’s like the most famous fashion photographer of the noughties... or she was. The press are going to be all over this.’

  Morton shrugged indifferently, pulled a pair of slip-on evidence booties from his pocket and then leant against the wall so that he could pull them over his shoes.

  ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘An anonymous tip called it in this morning. DS Mayberry has gone to try and chase down who the caller is,’ Ayala said.

  Morton sighed. ‘That berk? He couldn’t find a virgin in a nunnery. But you get to stick around when you’re engaged to the Superintendent’s daughter.’

  Mayberry had long become a running joke in the office. He was regularly sent to find tartan paint, left-handed screwdrivers and long weights. Every time someone sent him down to procurement, he came back with a puppy dog expression. ‘They h-haven’t got it,’ he’d say apologetically. It didn’t help that he had a mild speech impediment and regularly mixed up his words.

  But just like a puppy seeking approval, he kept coming back for more. He’d never make it beyond Detective Sergeant, so Morton couldn’t even promote him out of the unit.

  ‘He’s the one that took the call. You know how short staffed we are right now.’

  The pair exchanged glances. Few officers seemed to last too long under Morton’s command.

  ‘Can’t we get the Irishman back?’ Ayala said.

  ‘No chance. No officer of mine will ever beat a suspect, no matter how much they might deserve it. Anyhow, I heard he’s off running some private eye outfit out of Balham. I’ll be looking for another DI soon. But until then, I expect you to help make up the shortfall. Speaking of which, you get to do all the paperwork for the crime scene. Oh, and you get to double-check everything Mayberry does, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘No way! I’m not taking responsibility for him.’

  ‘Oh yes, you are. At least he’s finally learnt how to answer a telephone and write down the right information.’

  Ayala grimaced. ‘He didn’t. Mayberry didn’t even manage to write down the whole address. I had to check the recording to get that. Our caller didn’t say much and Mayberry didn’t prompt him for any details... Not even a name. The man just said there was a body at this address, and that the front door was unlocked. Then he rang off. Sure enough, when we got here the gate was ajar, and the door was unlocked.’

  ‘What sort of accent did the tipster have?’ Morton asked.

  ‘It was a bit distorted. I’d say pretty neutral, possibly south London. Not cockney, not too street. Male, obviously. Probably middle-aged, white, definitely a smoker – I’d know that wheeze anywhere.’

  ‘How are you doing without cigarettes? I remember quitting. I was an irritable bastard for months.’

  Ayala rolled up a sleeve to show off his nicotine patch. He grinned lopsidedly as if about to quip that Morton was still an irritable bastard but thankfully, for his sake, he thought better of it. He pushed the front door open, then stood aside to let Morton pass.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Morton exclaimed. The entrance hallway should have been the height of luxury and yet it looked like squatters had taken up residence.

  Oak flooring extended towards a pair of twin staircases where a plush red carpet began, but Morton could barely see it for the mess. Several bin bags, flies buzzing around them, lay on the floor against the near wall. The stench was overpowering.

  Morton darted through the open doorway to his left in search of fresher air, and found himself in an open plan living area. The lounge was just as messy but the smell seemed less pungent. Two scene of crime officers were already at work at the back of the room.

  ‘Hard to believe this place was nominated for The Impartial’s “Best in Design Award”,’ Ayala said as he ran his finger along the mantelpiece where dust had gathered nearly a centimetre thick. ‘Looks like she hasn’t cleaned in months.’

  ‘Quite.’

  The living area wasn’t quite as messy as the hallway, but it came close. It was split in two with a lounge at the front, and a kitchen at the rear. The lounge was comprised of four dark leather sofas arranged around a coffee table atop which Morton could see needles, white powder that looked like sherbet but Morton knew it wouldn’t be, and a number of empty beer cans together with a solitary wine bottle.

  ‘Chateau Neuf De Pape,’ Morton said. ‘Someone has good taste.’

  ‘Or had good taste, if it was the victim,’ Ayala said. ‘There’s a lipstick stain on the glass next to it.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ Morton said. He called over to one of the crime s
cene techs ‘Can you bag this please?’

  The tech nodded. Behind the sofa, there were a series of artsy canvas prints on the wall. Morton gestured at them, and asked: ‘Did she take those?’

  Ayala nodded. ‘Same over-saturated style she was famous for. I’ve got one you know. An early print that is.’

  ‘Better you than me.’

  ‘Peasant,’ Ayala said quietly. ‘It’ll be worth a fortune now she’s gone.’

  Morton pretended not to hear him.

  The scene of crime officers swarmed around Morton and Ayala in a flurry of activity as the two spoke. Morton watched as they worked in threes to photograph the evidence, bag it and then replace it with tiny plastic markers.

  ‘Mind if I grab that?’ one asked. He pointed at a used condom on the sofa next to Ayala.

  Ayala turned to look, then jumped backwards almost into Morton. ‘Eww!’

  ‘Grow up, Bertram. There’s another one over there,’ Morton said. He pointed towards the kitchenette, where a second condom lay atop the counter.

  Ayala shuddered, and turned away to watch one of the techs swabbing away at the stovetop.

  ‘I wouldn’t look too closely at that stove either.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s just say those aren’t chocolate drops.’

  Morton chuckled at Ayala’s reaction, and walked into the kitchen. The brown pellets sat atop a film of grease that shimmered lightly. Every surface was covered with some sort of detritus.

  Still more techs were dusting the walls for fingerprints, of which there appeared to be many. Morton used his foot to clear a small area on the floor. Underneath was the same hardwood as in the hallway, but Morton was willing to bet that it had been many months since it had seen the light of day.

  ‘That doesn’t look like it belonged to a woman.’ Morton pointed to a large suit jacket folded on the breakfast bar which separated the lounge area from the kitchen. He picked up the jacket, and turned it over in his hands.

  He turned to Ayala. ‘It’s nowhere near as dirty as the rest of this place. It’s got to be recent.’ A partially torn label was sewn into the hem. ‘Ike Feltham. Could that be the owner’s name?’

  Ayala laughed, as if the question was so elementary that the truth should have been obvious. ‘No! He’s a tailor and my God is he amazing! Well, I say he but his name isn’t Ike–’