Cleaver Square Page 8

  He locked the car, and looked around searching for a house number. The nearest homes were marked with names rather than numbers, 'Edwards Cottage' and 'Dappled Townhouse'. Further along, Morton spotted the first house number, 28, and realised that number 36B must be five houses further along.

  'This way.'

  With Tina in tow, he strode towards the darkened door of number 36B Cleaver Square.

  ***

  Morton walked up to number 36B slowly, careful not to trip on the ice underfoot. He knocked on the door to the last known abode of Charles Matthews.

  The woman who answered Morton's knock engulfed the doorframe, obscuring the view into the house. She peered down sternly at the two detectives on her doorstep.

  'Mrs Brenda Lattimer?'

  'Yes, I'm Brenda Lattimer.'

  'My name is Detective Chief Inspector David Morton, and this is my colleague Tina Vaughn. May we come in?'

  'It's my Roger, isn't it? What happened to my husband?' Mrs Lattimer's eyes began to water.

  Morton felt himself bristle at the speed with which Mrs Lattimer reacted. Crocodile tears? He wondered, 'No, Mrs Lattimer, we're not here about your husband. We're here about Charles.'

  Mrs Lattimer still didn't move. 'What's that little twerp done now?'

  'It's probably best if we come inside.'

  'As you wish.'

  They stepped inside but only went as far as the front sitting room. A steaming tea tray sat on a trestle table by the sofa, but their host did not offer them a drink.

  'Mrs Lattimer, I'm sorry to inform you that Charles Matthews is dead.'

  Morton watched Mrs Lattimer for her reaction, hoping to spot a flash of guilt that would betray her, but his suspicions proved to be off-base. Instead of guilt, grief, surprise or anger, Mrs Lattimer only showed confusion.

  'I think you've got the wrong Charlie, officers.' Her voice was firm, unwavering.

  Tina took Mrs Lattimer's hand, 'I'm afraid not. We found an item belonging to Charles Matthews on a body in the Marshes. You are the carer for Charles Matthews, twelve years old and the son of Eric and Jacqueline Matthews, aren't you?'

  'I am, but let me clear this up for you, officers. Charlie is downstairs playing with my son right now. Would you like to come and see?'

  Morton's muscles tensed as he and Tina followed Brenda Lattimer, half-expecting her to attack them or run: the denial could simply be a ploy to distract them. Instead, Mrs Lattimer led them to a stairwell. The stairs creaked heavily under her weight as she descended.

  Morton and Tina followed slowly, forced to go single file by the treacherously narrow steps. At the bottom of the stairs, they reached an open-plan room. Sure enough, as Mrs Lattimer had so vehemently declared, two boys were splayed out on beanbags, lazily mashing buttons on their video-game controllers. The larger boy was the spitting image of his mother, the Lattimer genes evident in his ruddy complexion. The other boy was so slim that he appeared diminished in comparison to James Lattimer's ample bulk.

  The boys continued to play their game, ignoring the shadows cast by the three adult intruders.

  'Charlie, pause that, will you… son?' Mrs Lattimer demanded, stepping in front of the screen. She hesitated slightly as she added son, almost as if she had added a term of endearment for the officers' benefit.

  Morton's eyes darted to Tina's face. She looked as confused as he felt. All the evidence pointed to Charles Matthews being on a slab in the morgue. If Joe Bloggs wasn't Charlie then who was he?

  Charlie looked up, and then hit the pause button on his remote. He was emaciated, sullen and not at all pleased to have his game interrupted, but he was definitely alive.

  'These nice officers are here to see you,' said Mrs Lattimer.

  Morton turned to Vaughn. This was completely unexpected. For the first time in his career, he was speechless.

  Sensing Morton's hesitation, Tina stepped in, 'Hello, Charlie, we're here to check on you. Is everything OK?'

  Tina's training in dealing with child witnesses paid off; improvisation worked, and Charlie nodded meekly, blissfully unaware of the real reason for the presence of two police officers.

  An awkward silence filled the room as the detectives pondered their next move.

  Finally, Tina said: 'Mrs Lattimer, could we have a word upstairs again?'

  Mrs Lattimer shrugged in an accommodating manner and the trio ascended the rickety stairs to the ground floor hallway. Away from Charlie, Morton began to zero in on the details.

  'Mrs Lattimer, how long has Charlie been with you?'

  'Oh, I'd say six weeks now.'

  'And before that?'

  Brenda looked around warily, wondering if it was a trick question. 'With another foster family. Charlie lost his parents a while back, so he spent some time with short-term foster carers. I'm not trained to deal with trauma cases. I'd much rather have a nice, quiet, long-term thing.'

  Morton chewed a nail thoughtfully, his brows furrowed. Then he asked, 'Has Charlie ever worn a gold watch?'

  Mrs Lattimer shook her head. 'Not that I've seen. He only had two bags on 'im when he got here, and they only had clothes in, and a ratty old teddy bear.'

  'Mrs Lattimer, would you consent to us interviewing Charlie to confirm that?'

  'Like I said, he ain't got a watch. But yeah, no skin off my nose.'

  'We'll have to arrange for a social worker to attend. My colleague here, Miss Vaughn, will conduct the interview. Are you available to come to the station tomorrow?'

  'Not 'til after three. I can bring him down after school? Children's Services will have my guts for garters if I pull 'im out of school.'

  'Why would they have a problem with that?'

  'He's already behind, isn't he? Probably down to being bounced around a bit, and what with what happened.'

  'What happened?'

  'One of his previous foster families, they died in a house fire.'

  Morton nodded. He'd read the report on the Dalkeith Grove fire in which Mr and Mrs Grant had perished.

  'We'll see you and Charlie at the station tomorrow at half past three.' Morton handed her a business card. 'Call me if you need to change the appointment, or need us to arrange transport.'

  'I've got a car, thank you very much!' Mrs Lattimer protested indignantly.

  'Yeah, and going by the size of your stomach you drive everywhere,' Tina jibed under her breath, too quietly for Mrs Lattimer to hear.

  ***

  'Well, that was unexpected. If our Joe Bloggs Junior isn't Charlie Matthews, then who is he and why the hell does he have Charlie's watch?' Morton said as he and Tina returned to the car.

  'Could we have made a mistake with the watch?' Tina asked.

  'Maybe, but it appears to be a one-off, totally unique. Let's try and track down when and where that watch changed hands.' Morton unlocked the saloon with a beep then climbed into the driver's seat.

  'Won't the kid be able to tell us himself in tomorrow's interview?'

  'Sure. But before the interview, I need you to go over Ayala's paperwork and make sure we've not made any silly mistakes. I don't want the interview to be a complete blunder like today.' Morton's voice trailed off as he wondered if Charlie might be fond of playing with matches.

  'Isn't it odd that the both his real parents and his foster parents die in tragic circumstances, and then he appears to be murdered. What are the odds of that?'

  'It is peculiar, but murder always is. I'll be in late tomorrow, so get started without me. I need to go see my bank manager.'

  'Leave it to me.' Tina patted Morton's knee reassuringly.

  CHAPTER 17: HOMOGENISED MILK

  Shortly before nine o'clock, Morton stood outside the Westminster branch of his bank and waited for it to open. At the moment Big Ben began to ring out on the hour, the doors opened and Morton strode in, and made a beeline for the corridor leading to Lance Peters' office. He made it past the row of cubicles housing mortgage advisors without issue, but mere steps from the manager's offic
e a giant of a man appeared from a side door.

  'That's off limits, that is,' he declared, physically interposing himself between Morton and the manager's office.

  'I'm here to see Lance Peters,' Morton bluffed, as if he had an appointment. The security guard leant to the right so that he could see through the glass door into the manager's office. Lance Peters was deep in conversation with two businessmen. He was pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly.

  'Mr Peters is busy. Talk to his secretary.' The guard gestured towards a cubicle near the mortgage brokers.

  Morton sighed, pulled out his police badge and said, 'I'm going nowhere. Get Mr Peters for me, please.'

  'Got a warrant?'

  'No, but...'

  'Then talk to his secretary.'

  Morton flushed red. 'This is important. Get Mr Peters. Now.'

  'Calm down.'

  'Calm down? I am calm.'

  'Sir, don't take that tone with me.'

  'Take what tone?' Morton said, a little louder than he had intended. The occupants of the cubicles rose to see what all the fuss was about, a sea of faces suddenly watching Morton.

  'I'm not going to ask you again. Calm down or I'll have to escort you off the premises.' The security guard reached out to grab Morton's arm, intending to steer him towards the exit.

  Morton batted his hand away and shouted, 'Lay a hand on me, and I will arrest you.'

  At that moment, the businessmen exited Lance Peters' office, followed by the man himself.

  'Is there a problem?' he asked mildly.

  'No sir, just escorting this gentleman off the premises,' the guard replied.

  'No, you're bloody not. Mr Peters, do you have a moment?'

  Lance glanced at his watch, then nodded briskly, 'Very well.' He beckoned with his index finger for Morton to follow him, then disappeared back into his office. Morton followed, then closed the door behind him with an audible click.

  'So what do you want?'

  'I need you to tell my wife I didn't cheat. I didn't use my password. Those aren't my transactions,' Morton said bluntly, without any preamble.

  'Mr Morton. Let's walk through this logically. Have you given your password to anyone else?'

  'No.'

  'Ever write it down?'

  Morton remembered the copy he kept in the safe for Sarah. 'No,' he lied.

  'I know from your account details that you're an online banking customer. Do you keep your computer clean? I don't mean dusted,' Lance laughed at his own joke, 'I mean do you run security scans, anti-virus software and the like?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'Do you download using peer-to-peer systems?'

  'No.'

  'Do you, ahem, use adult entertainment sites?'

  'No,' Morton said, more vehemently this time.

  'Then do you use any other computers?'

  'No, I don't. Where are you bloody going with this? I didn't authorise these transactions.'

  'Mr Morton, I'm simply trying to establish how this has happened; if you didn't authorise these charges someone else had to have done so.' Lance Peters sounded sceptical.

  'I didn't,' Morton said through gritted teeth.

  'OK. Do you stream live sports events on your laptop?' Peters asked with the air of a man taking a stab in the dark.

  'Yeah,' Morton shrugged.

  'Legally?'

  Morton remained silent for a moment. Come to think of it, the cost for watching those games was a bit on the cheap side... way less than a Sky Sports subscription. Morton hastily retreated back onto safer grounds: 'Look, I didn't authorise those transactions. I've got my card still. I know my rights. You're liable.'

  'Not if you didn't act reasonably we're not. I think you've taken up enough of my time. I'm not going to waive these charges.'

  'That's fraud!'

  'I suggest you take that up with the police.' Lance smirked.

  ***

  'Date of birth?' The police clerk's voice was monotone, never wavering out of a low octave.

  'October 14th, 1961.'

  'Driver's licence?'

  'Here,' Morton slid a scan over, notarised as a true copy at the desk in the Fraud Squad's foyer. Since this was a branch of the City of London Police, Morton didn't expect to receive the deferential respect he enjoyed at the Met.

  'National Insurance number?'

  'LN 29 AB 6D 0.' Morton passed a second scan across.

  'Telephone numbers please – work, home and mobile.'

  Without comment, another piece of paper went across the desk.

  'Bank account details – name, numbers, any customer service and investigators' names from the banks. We'll also need copies of any communication, notes of any conversation including the times of said conversations, and a chronology of the frauds.'

  Morton repeated the clerk's request in his head, trying to discern if he had all the papers he had been asked for. 'N, N, CS, C, NC inc T + C,' Morton mumbled, using an archaic police memory trick to recite the request.

  He flicked through his folder, taking out a copy of all the requested documents. Finally satisfied he had everything, he handed them all over. His gut churned with the realisation he had just handed over everything a criminal would need to rob and defraud him to a mere police clerk. Morton often chastised those who were too free with their personal data, but it appeared he had just joined their number.

  ***

  'Homogenised Partially Skimmed Sterilised Milk,' Morton read aloud to the empty room; 'delicious.'

  Like almost every other budget hotel Morton had stayed in, the walls were beige. Even the bed linen matched the walls. Only the blue hues of a plastic chair and desk broke up the monotony.

  The room had no minibar, but Morton had stopped off at a convenience store on the way back for a bottle of Laphroaig. A generous portion sat in front of him in one of the hotel's coffee mugs. In one quick motion, he tossed back the amber liquid. A smoky fire engulfed his mouth and slowly travelled down his throat with a satisfying warmth.

  Morton grabbed a pen, and held his hand over a blank page. If he couldn't take Sarah away for a second honeymoon then he'd go back even further. He had barely finished his police training when their paths first crossed. He'd written the attractive way-out-of-his-league Sarah a poem, and agonised for days about sending it to her. His poetry had first won her heart over thirty years ago. His hand hovered over the paper, then began to briskly dance across the page recording the words that could never be spoken.

  CHAPTER 18: QUESTION TIME

  The half past three appointment quickly became four o'clock as Morton struggled to assemble the right people for Charles 'Charlie' Matthew's interview. He would take an observer role in the interview, as dealing with child witnesses required specialist training. Morton, along with Detective Ayala and Dr Jenkins, would observe from the Incident Room. One of the investigation boards had been turned around to reveal a matte white surface. Ayala's borrowed projector lay on one of the benches painting a low-resolution picture from a nearby laptop. There were no speakers free, so the team was relying on the laptop's tinny built-in speakers.

  'Shh. I think we're finally on,' Morton addressed the Incident Room in a hushed tone.

  On the video, Morton could see three chairs set up in a rough triangle with an ankle-height table between them. The room was only one floor up, but could have been virtually anywhere thanks to the video link. A similar set-up could be found in a guest waiting room which had been made available to Mrs Lattimer. She had declined to watch, however, opting to take the opportunity to chain-smoke outside the building.

  'Hi, Charlie. I'm Tina.' Tina Vaughn spoke softly, forcing the detectives to lean towards the tinny laptop speakers.

  'Hi.'

  'And you already know Hank, don't you, Charlie?' Tina indicated the social worker who would play a passive role in the interrogation, speaking up only if he felt Charlie needed him. Charlie's eyes flickered over the social worker, and then stopped as if transfixed by a spo
t behind him.

  'That's a nice shirt. Do you support Arsenal, Charlie?'

  Silence met Tina's attempt to build rapport. Charlie continued to stare off to one side. Tina twisted to see where he was looking, but there was nothing there.

  'Do you know why you're here, Charlie?'

  Charlie bit his lip nervously, and then shook his head.

  'Charlie, I'd like to ask you about watches. Do you have a watch?' Tina lifted up her arm to indicate hers. Almost immediately, Charlie mimicked her, showing off a plastic Casio watch.

  'Is that yours, Charlie?'

  Charlie nodded, a slight smile indicating he was starting to relax.

  'Have you ever had another watch, Charlie?'

  Charlie pursed his lips as if he wanted to speak, and then shrugged.

  Tina hesitated. Child witnesses were prone to being led, and she was keen to keep asking open questions to prevent any issues with defence counsel at a later date. At some point, she'd have to show him the Keppler Oechslan watch. That could wait.

  'Where do you live, Charlie?'

  'Number 36B, Cleaver Square,' he replied slowly, as if struggling to pronounce each syllable.

  'Who do you live with, Charlie?'

  'James. And Mrs Lattimer.'

  Almost as soon as Charlie had finished speaking, Morton's voice buzzed over the radio reminding Tina that he lived with Mr Lattimer too. She ignored his advice, and pressed on towards the detail she really wanted.

  'How long have you been there?'

  'A little while.'

  'Did you move before or after Christmas?'

  'Before.'

  'Do you like it there?'

  Another shrug, 'I guess.'

  'Charlie,' Tina paused for a moment to double-check the printout of Charlie's care history that Ayala had cajoled from the local authority, 'where were you before that?'

  'Another house.' Charlie shifted in his chair, sitting on his hands to stop them fidgeting.