Read Online The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) by Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell
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them wanted to talk to him. None admitted to recognising the floor plan from the blueprint.
Rain pelted Ayala as he emerged from Suresh Mehtani’s shop. It was three doors down from the crime scene and seemed to fit the blueprint, but Mehtani was having none of it.
Ayala dashed back into the alleyway that led to the crime scene. The officer from earlier, PC Buchanan, was still standing guard.
‘No luck, Detective Ayala?’ Buchanan asked.
‘None. They’re secretive, these jewellers, aren’t they?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? They’re guarding the treasures of the wealthiest people in the world. Some say there’s more gold buried beneath Hatton Garden than in the Bank of England itself. Discretion has always been the order of the day around here.’
‘You know a lot about them.’
‘I should. My dad ran a watch repair shop out of Leather Lane for nearly forty years. I grew up here.’
Ayala’s eyes glazed over. He didn’t need a trip down memory lane. He needed a lead.
‘Can you do me a favour? Tell Morton that I’m heading over to forensics.’
Buchanan nodded and then resumed his guard at the entrance of the alleyway.
Chapter 12: The Last House on the Left
T hursday April 9th 16:00
The gym card in the victim’s wallet proved fortuitous. A quick call from Rafferty to the gym, and they had Niall Stapleton’s home address.
It was an end-of-terrace on the outskirts of Balham, miles away from the tube station, and thoroughly unlike central London. Here the roads were lined with houses rather than flats, and no tower blocks loomed overhead for what seemed like at least half a mile. Morton parked up outside Stapleton’s home and heard Rafferty slide her car in neatly behind his.
‘Ayala not with you?’ Morton asked once they were both standing on the pavement.
‘Nope. Buchanan said Ayala’s taken evidence over to forensics,’ Rafferty replied.
‘What evidence?’ He should be here , Morton thought.
Rafferty shrugged and began to walk in step with Morton towards the house.
Niall Stapleton’s home was the last house on the left in the row of terraced homes. Farther to the left, the road carried on underneath a railway bridge and out of sight while homes stretched to the right for as far as the eye could see.
Niall’s front garden had a ring of conifers running around the perimeter and a low wall along the front where the property met the road, giving it an unusually private air; the greenery shielded the home from the rest of London, and once the gate had opened with a creak, Morton found himself in a small front garden which was neat if somewhat sparse, with a rockery taking up the lion’s share of the space. A gravel path led Morton through the rockery up to the front door.
Morton knocked on the door. No answer.
‘Let me, sir,’ Rafferty said, and stepped forward, plainly intending to pick the lock.
‘No need,’ Morton said as he turned the door handle. ‘It’s open.’
The front door opened directly into Niall Stapleton’s living room. A large leather sofa ran the length of the left-hand wall, and a television was mounted in the far right corner above a bookcase.
The room was in a chaotic state, as if a fight had broken out, and detritus covered every available surface. The coffee table in the middle of the room had one leg torn off, and the sole chair had fallen over backwards so that it leant against the window, which had cracked from the impact.
The floor, which was scuffed and dirty, was littered with cable ties and personal possessions. A smashed photograph lay next to a small trestle table by the door. Niall Stapleton was pictured with his arm wrapped around a young woman, a cheesy smile plastered across his face.
‘What in God’s name has gone on here? It looks like they’ve been robbed!’ Rafferty said.
Morton held a finger to his lips to beckon for silence, pointed at the flat screen on the wall, and then whispered: ‘No thief would leave behind the television.
Rain pelted Ayala as he emerged from Suresh Mehtani’s shop. It was three doors down from the crime scene and seemed to fit the blueprint, but Mehtani was having none of it.
Ayala dashed back into the alleyway that led to the crime scene. The officer from earlier, PC Buchanan, was still standing guard.
‘No luck, Detective Ayala?’ Buchanan asked.
‘None. They’re secretive, these jewellers, aren’t they?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? They’re guarding the treasures of the wealthiest people in the world. Some say there’s more gold buried beneath Hatton Garden than in the Bank of England itself. Discretion has always been the order of the day around here.’
‘You know a lot about them.’
‘I should. My dad ran a watch repair shop out of Leather Lane for nearly forty years. I grew up here.’
Ayala’s eyes glazed over. He didn’t need a trip down memory lane. He needed a lead.
‘Can you do me a favour? Tell Morton that I’m heading over to forensics.’
Buchanan nodded and then resumed his guard at the entrance of the alleyway.
Chapter 12: The Last House on the Left
T hursday April 9th 16:00
The gym card in the victim’s wallet proved fortuitous. A quick call from Rafferty to the gym, and they had Niall Stapleton’s home address.
It was an end-of-terrace on the outskirts of Balham, miles away from the tube station, and thoroughly unlike central London. Here the roads were lined with houses rather than flats, and no tower blocks loomed overhead for what seemed like at least half a mile. Morton parked up outside Stapleton’s home and heard Rafferty slide her car in neatly behind his.
‘Ayala not with you?’ Morton asked once they were both standing on the pavement.
‘Nope. Buchanan said Ayala’s taken evidence over to forensics,’ Rafferty replied.
‘What evidence?’ He should be here , Morton thought.
Rafferty shrugged and began to walk in step with Morton towards the house.
Niall Stapleton’s home was the last house on the left in the row of terraced homes. Farther to the left, the road carried on underneath a railway bridge and out of sight while homes stretched to the right for as far as the eye could see.
Niall’s front garden had a ring of conifers running around the perimeter and a low wall along the front where the property met the road, giving it an unusually private air; the greenery shielded the home from the rest of London, and once the gate had opened with a creak, Morton found himself in a small front garden which was neat if somewhat sparse, with a rockery taking up the lion’s share of the space. A gravel path led Morton through the rockery up to the front door.
Morton knocked on the door. No answer.
‘Let me, sir,’ Rafferty said, and stepped forward, plainly intending to pick the lock.
‘No need,’ Morton said as he turned the door handle. ‘It’s open.’
The front door opened directly into Niall Stapleton’s living room. A large leather sofa ran the length of the left-hand wall, and a television was mounted in the far right corner above a bookcase.
The room was in a chaotic state, as if a fight had broken out, and detritus covered every available surface. The coffee table in the middle of the room had one leg torn off, and the sole chair had fallen over backwards so that it leant against the window, which had cracked from the impact.
The floor, which was scuffed and dirty, was littered with cable ties and personal possessions. A smashed photograph lay next to a small trestle table by the door. Niall Stapleton was pictured with his arm wrapped around a young woman, a cheesy smile plastered across his face.
‘What in God’s name has gone on here? It looks like they’ve been robbed!’ Rafferty said.
Morton held a finger to his lips to beckon for silence, pointed at the flat screen on the wall, and then whispered: ‘No thief would leave behind the television.
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