Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) by Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell Page A
Authors: Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell
Ads: Link
steps reappeared.
‘You rang, m’lady?’
‘Fetch me our plane tickets from his Lordship’s study. The ones from our trip to Venice last month.’
‘At once.’
Grant spun on his heel and disappeared. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Silence ensued as the trio waited for Grant’s return. When he did, he appeared with a small silver platter atop which sat an envelope. Harriet took it from Grant, nodded her thanks and handed it to Morton.
Morton upended it, and two return plane tickets spilled out. First class. Harriet and Lord Culloden were indeed out of the country over the weekend of Ellis DeLange’s birthday.
‘Harriet, why do these tickets say Mr and Mrs Culloden?’
‘My husband’s title is a manorial one. Technically, he is Mr Culloden, Lord of the Manor of Culloden but that’s such a mouthful. Everyone simply calls him Lord Culloden for convenience. I’m sorry to say such titles carry little weight with the sort of riffraff who run airlines.’
‘Do you know Miss Ellis DeLange?’
‘The photographer? The one who the papers say was murdered? Heavens no. We would never consort with anyone like that.’
Morton wanted to curse. He knew the papers would report the death, but he didn’t think it would be quite so quick. Not only did they now have an impostor pretending to be an elderly landowner to track down, but now the press would be breathing down his neck. Instead, he forced himself to smile politely.
‘Thank you for your time, Lady Culloden.’
Chapter 10: Missing Something
Tuesday April 8th – 13:00
By the time Morton and Ayala arrived back at New Scotland Yard, Mayberry had assembled the press clippings from the daily newspapers and placed them on Morton’s desk. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The same large photograph of Edgecombe Lodge, no doubt taken through the gaps in the gate using a long-range camera lens, was splashed across the front pages of all of the major daily newspapers. A tiny caption in the corner of the image credited the copyright to Rafe Soros Photography.
So far all the papers were taking the same tack. Ellis DeLange had been found dead and the famed DCI Morton had picked up the case. A few of the sleazier tabloids made reference to an old article about Ellis. Back then it had been her fall from grace that had interested the media. One day, Ellis had been the darling of the fashion world. The next, she was its scapegoat. Drugs were involved, but she was never prosecuted. Morton made a mental note to find out why charges had not been brought.
‘Look at this. Three days from being discovered dead to hitting the front page of every major newspaper. We’ve got a fairly artsy piece in this one talking about her photography. Apparently some schmuck thinks he’s a millionaire after putting an original print on eBay and seeing it sell for a cool one point two mil. As if the buyer is ever going to pay up!’
‘Ayala, get your nose out of the gossip column. Unless the papers know something we don’t, we’ll ignore them as long as we can. Is Purcell still in the Incident Room? Good. Go get him.’
Morton watched as Ayala left, then pulled out a notepad and began to jot down what they knew so far. The victim had died at home on the night of her thirtieth birthday during a celebratory party which had been attended by numerous guests. She was alive after most of them were gone, but had spent the majority of the party sulking after a fight with her equally famous boyfriend which he claimed was about money. By the end of the night, she had just six people in the house including her: her boyfriend, her sister, her best friend, the mysterious impostor, and her alleged drug dealer.
Five suspects. One argument. One multi-million-pound property in Richmond. One career criminal. And one complete unknown.
The door to Morton’s office creaked as Ayala returned with the Chief Scene of Crime Officer, Stuart Purcell, trailing in his wake. Where Ayala was exceedingly tall,
‘You rang, m’lady?’
‘Fetch me our plane tickets from his Lordship’s study. The ones from our trip to Venice last month.’
‘At once.’
Grant spun on his heel and disappeared. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Silence ensued as the trio waited for Grant’s return. When he did, he appeared with a small silver platter atop which sat an envelope. Harriet took it from Grant, nodded her thanks and handed it to Morton.
Morton upended it, and two return plane tickets spilled out. First class. Harriet and Lord Culloden were indeed out of the country over the weekend of Ellis DeLange’s birthday.
‘Harriet, why do these tickets say Mr and Mrs Culloden?’
‘My husband’s title is a manorial one. Technically, he is Mr Culloden, Lord of the Manor of Culloden but that’s such a mouthful. Everyone simply calls him Lord Culloden for convenience. I’m sorry to say such titles carry little weight with the sort of riffraff who run airlines.’
‘Do you know Miss Ellis DeLange?’
‘The photographer? The one who the papers say was murdered? Heavens no. We would never consort with anyone like that.’
Morton wanted to curse. He knew the papers would report the death, but he didn’t think it would be quite so quick. Not only did they now have an impostor pretending to be an elderly landowner to track down, but now the press would be breathing down his neck. Instead, he forced himself to smile politely.
‘Thank you for your time, Lady Culloden.’
Chapter 10: Missing Something
Tuesday April 8th – 13:00
By the time Morton and Ayala arrived back at New Scotland Yard, Mayberry had assembled the press clippings from the daily newspapers and placed them on Morton’s desk. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The same large photograph of Edgecombe Lodge, no doubt taken through the gaps in the gate using a long-range camera lens, was splashed across the front pages of all of the major daily newspapers. A tiny caption in the corner of the image credited the copyright to Rafe Soros Photography.
So far all the papers were taking the same tack. Ellis DeLange had been found dead and the famed DCI Morton had picked up the case. A few of the sleazier tabloids made reference to an old article about Ellis. Back then it had been her fall from grace that had interested the media. One day, Ellis had been the darling of the fashion world. The next, she was its scapegoat. Drugs were involved, but she was never prosecuted. Morton made a mental note to find out why charges had not been brought.
‘Look at this. Three days from being discovered dead to hitting the front page of every major newspaper. We’ve got a fairly artsy piece in this one talking about her photography. Apparently some schmuck thinks he’s a millionaire after putting an original print on eBay and seeing it sell for a cool one point two mil. As if the buyer is ever going to pay up!’
‘Ayala, get your nose out of the gossip column. Unless the papers know something we don’t, we’ll ignore them as long as we can. Is Purcell still in the Incident Room? Good. Go get him.’
Morton watched as Ayala left, then pulled out a notepad and began to jot down what they knew so far. The victim had died at home on the night of her thirtieth birthday during a celebratory party which had been attended by numerous guests. She was alive after most of them were gone, but had spent the majority of the party sulking after a fight with her equally famous boyfriend which he claimed was about money. By the end of the night, she had just six people in the house including her: her boyfriend, her sister, her best friend, the mysterious impostor, and her alleged drug dealer.
Five suspects. One argument. One multi-million-pound property in Richmond. One career criminal. And one complete unknown.
The door to Morton’s office creaked as Ayala returned with the Chief Scene of Crime Officer, Stuart Purcell, trailing in his wake. Where Ayala was exceedingly tall,
Similar Books
