Barnaby Cotterell’s trial for the murder of Alistair Moreton came up on everyone fairly quickly. Tamsin Cotterell had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Daisy-May. Cotterell wasn’t there for the birth which had hit him hard.
Carson thought the speed may have something to do with Sandy Moreton’s claims that he had friends in the justice department. It was strange, because there was still a lengthy backlog of cases piled up at the court. But someone, somewhere, obviously thought this one needed fast-tracking. There was the usual press interest for a murder trial, but scaled up. Not only because the victim’s son was a public figure. But he was a controversial public figure who was also in a spot of trouble having suffered a resoundingly humiliating defeat in the recent by-election. The press interest was national not just local. Ottey and Cross kept their eyes on the trial and had the occasional discussion about it. They couldn’t help it, even though they weren’t involved. It was a bit like a jilted lover who can’t keep their eyes off their ex’s Instagram feed with its endless photographs of them and their glamorous new partner.
Ottey kept in touch with the in-court machinations through DC Murray. She didn’t particularly like him, mainly because he was firmly in the anti-George camp in the department. This small, exclusively male club had grown in numbers since Warner’s secondment. Murray’s personal reading of the first few sessions in court was, unsurprisingly, that it was a slam-dunk for the prosecution. The jury was clearly taken by the narrative the prosecuting KC was putting in front of them. Painting a damning picture of a well-to-do young London couple who were classic second-homeowners. No interest in the local community. Entitled, snobbish and self-righteously affronted by an elderly local resident defending his property from their metropolitan encroachment. The case was definitely heading for a conviction. From her own reading of the media coverage, she thought Murray might be right. It did seem to be coming over like a case of a neighbour dispute getting completely out of hand and resulting in a tragic death.
As the prosecution built their case Cross received a phone call from Maurice Simpson, the administrator of the All Saints alumni page. He had some important information for Cross. So important that he insisted on travelling down from Cheltenham to meet Cross at the MCU in person. This wasn’t a problem for Cross, as both Carson and Warner, who had reappeared for the trial, were in court. Warner, because it was his investigation, Carson because he wanted to be available for any media opportunities that presented themselves. For him, even being filmed walking into court and not making any comment was an important piece of self-promotion. He’d been known to time his entrances into court for the moment a national TV reporter went live on air. Carson would then be seen walking with grim determination through the back of shot.
Cross had observed over time that people wanted to travel, often some distance, to meet the police at their HQ, when they thought they had information that they felt might well be crucial to an investigation. It wasn’t so much a question of maintaining secrecy, or there being a practical need to meet face to face to, say, hand over a piece of physical evidence. It was because they wanted to witness first-hand the amazed reaction of the police officers when presented with their undoubted case-cracking gold.
Cross and Ottey met Simpson in the VA suite.
‘Since we spoke last I’ve been keeping my eye on the alumni board and any posts that have cropped up,’ he said, pausing to give Cross an opportunity to express his thanks. Cross didn’t take it, so Simpson was forced to continue. ‘I’ve had to delete a lot of messages which were frankly just disrespectful. Whatever you may think of him, the man has now died. In the end it got so bad that I threatened to close the board down permanently. I have to tell you it’s had quite an impact on my mental health. The vitriol. People seem to think they can say the most vile, vicious things online. As if it doesn’t really count. It’s as if social decency and a moral compass fly out of the window as soon as they are in front of a computer. As for the grammar and spelling, well, don’t get me started.’
‘Was there anything specific you wanted to tell us that meant you felt the need to travel here?’ Cross asked.
‘I can show you this because it wasn’t actually posted on the closed group. It was posted on the individual’s personal page. But he tagged the group. His page is set to public, whether he knows that or not I have no idea. But anyway, he posted this at the weekend and frankly it’s beyond the pale.’
He showed Cross his phone. On it was a photograph of a certain Peter Montgomery standing over a freshly filled grave. The caption read ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Alistair Moreton is no more! May the bastard rot in hell.’
‘Is that definitely Moreton’s grave?’ Ottey asked.
‘Good question,’ replied Simpson. ‘Hadn’t thought of that, to be honest. If it’s someone else’s, that’s almost worse.’
‘I can’t say for certain,’ said Cross. ‘There’s nothing identifiable in the background. We can confirm with the vicar though.’
But what Cross was more interested in was what Montgomery had protruding from his right hand. It was an umbrella. Cross zoomed in on the handle. It was a small carved bust. From images he’d seen of the composer on the internet, Cross was fairly sure he was looking at Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He now definitely needed to meet with Montgomery, but thought it could and should wait until after the conclusion of the trial. Simpson was duly thanked by Ottey and asked not to tell anyone of the Montgomery post. Pleased to be part of a, in his eyes, crucial, confidence with the police, he readily agreed.