Peter Montgomery was in his late fifties and lived in Winchester. Ottey informed the Hampshire Police that they wanted to make an arrest and conduct a search. She asked for their help. When Cross had applied for the warrant, the magistrate expressed some surprise that it related to a case already in the crown court. One in which the jury was out considering a verdict, moreover. The magistrate, however, knew Cross quite well and Ottey sensed an amused admiration in him, that Avon and Somerset’s most intriguing detective was yet again swimming against the tide, together with a curiosity to see how this one panned out. He granted them the warrant.
Montgomery lived on a suburban, weary-looking, life-worn estate just outside the city in the top half of a sixties house that had been converted into two flats. They rang the doorbell early in the morning, deeming that a forced entry wasn’t necessary. He opened the door in a pair of pyjama shorts and a string vest. He was visibly and understandably alarmed at their presence, but no more alarmed than Cross, Ottey and the other officers. The man was wearing a white sweatband of the John McEnroe era round his forehead. The sweatband was bloodstained, as was the majority of his scalp which was covered in red, bloody scabs. He looked like he’d been dipped upside down in a chip fat fryer.
‘What on earth has happened to you, Mr Montgomery?’ asked Ottey.
‘I’ve just come back from Turkey,’ he replied.
She wanted to ask him if he’d forgotten to pack his sunscreen but held back just in time. ‘Right,’ she replied.
‘I’ve had a hair transplant.’
‘When?’
‘Just this last weekend,’ he replied. ‘My wife left me, you see,’ he said as if this was an understandable reason.
‘Because you went bald?’ asked Cross.
‘Not just because of that, no. But I don’t think it helped, in all honesty. I’m back on the market now so I thought I’d do some renovations,’ he said, as if discussing property and directing it at Ottey on the off chance she might be interested.
‘We have a search warrant,’ Cross informed him, holding it up.
‘What for?’
‘To search your flat,’ Cross replied.
‘No, I meant what are you looking for?’ he asked as he walked up the stairs to his flat and they followed him.
‘Well, if we told you, that would spoil all the fun. The clue’s in the word “search”,’ Ottey said.
This comment perplexed Cross and it wasn’t for the first time. Why did Ottey always talk about fun when they were investigating a murder? It just didn’t make sense to him. Of course, Ottey had replied in this way because she herself didn’t even know what they were looking for and couldn’t have told Montgomery anyway.
The first noticeable thing about the flat was that it was lined from floor to ceiling with wooden and cardboard cases of wine. All the way up the side of the stairs and in every single room including the bathroom.
‘I don’t have a drink problem if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Montgomery said.
‘I’m not. I know you run an online wine business and with the recent change in your circumstances, both domestic and financial, it looks like you’ve lost your storage facilities,’ Cross replied.
‘Yes, that’s all true. Except for the wines in bond.’
The flat had an acrid, vinegary, smell of spilt wine. It was almost overbearing.
‘Sorry about the smell. A few bottles got smashed in the move. It happens.’
Several surfaces in the kitchen and the living room were covered with open bottles of wine, all about two thirds full, with corks stuffed in the top.
‘I have a wine blog and do live tastings and recommendations,’ he explained as he saw them looking at the bottles. ‘Can I get dressed?’
‘Yes. A constable will have to go with you though,’ said Ottey.
‘You haven’t asked us why we’re here,’ observed Cross.
‘What? Oh no. I suppose it was the shock. Why are you here?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Alistair Moreton,’ replied Cross. This seemed to throw Montgomery.
‘I see. But isn’t that at trial? The jury are deliberating their verdict, aren’t they?’
‘Correct.’
‘Okay, so I’m confused. I had nothing to do with that. I mean, you have your man, so why are you here?’ he asked.
‘The verdict isn’t in,’ replied Ottey.
‘True. What’s more, that CCTV footage did seem pretty good for the defence,’ said Montgomery.
‘You’ve been following the trial?’ asked Cross.
Montgomery hesitated.
‘Only like everyone else. You know. On the news and such. In the paper, that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘Just like everyone else,’ he repeated as if to justify and underline the obvious innocence of his interest. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’ Cross looked at the man for a moment and tried to ignore the fact that he looked like he’d been recently scalped. He seemed familiar. Then it came to him. He’d been in the public gallery when Cross gave evidence.
Cross and Ottey looked round the flat. It didn’t take long as not only was it small, but all of his things seemed to be in packing boxes. It looked like he’d either not lived there long or he’d just packed and was moving out. There were no pictures on the walls. But there was a packing case filled with framed photographs. Cross found a box that immediately interested him. It was marked ‘SCHOOL’ in indelible black ink. In it were framed formal school photographs with their years and names embossed on them. What stood out in various team photographs was the fact that Montgomery was something of a peripheral figure in all of them. On closer inspection, in a football team photograph he was wearing a referee’s uniform. Various cricket elevens in which he stood to one side at the back with a large book under his arm. He was the scorer. It was as if he wasn’t a true participant but, having kept them, he obviously didn’t feel this way.
At the bottom of the box were photographs from All Saints. Three photographs of the entire school with Alistair Moreton sitting plumb centre flanked by the second master and the head boy. In one of the photographs the head boy was Sandy Moreton. Cross ultimately found what he was looking for, leaning against the wall near the front door, and placed it in an evidence bag. Mozart. They must’ve walked straight past it on their way in.
The boxes marked ‘SCHOOL’ were all seized, as were a few others marked ‘correspondence’, together with a laptop, a desktop computer and journals. They were all logged and put in the boot of Ottey’s car. Montgomery finally appeared from the bathroom. He then slept the entire way to Bristol in the back of the car. The two officers had seen this happen many times. Experience told them that there was nothing to be read into it. Some people slept because they were sleeping something off. Some because they didn’t want to speak. Some, because they were so confident they hadn’t done anything wrong that they were completely relaxed. Some, because they very much had done something wrong and had decided there was nothing they could do about it, so were resigned to their fate.
He had expressed no surprise when they finally informed him that he was being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Alistair Moreton. He didn’t object. Didn’t react in any way. But Cross got the distinct impression from the way his eyes were just fixed in the middle distance, not reactive, not following anything going on around him, that the man was considering his options.