'Would it happen again if we had another child?'
'It's possible. The gene that causes the problem is recessive. Both parents have to be carriers, and this gives any child of their union a 1 in 4 chance of having Tay-Sachs. Even if they don't have Tay-Sachs it's likely that they would be a carrier.'
'So what happens now?' Yosef asked.
'Well, we will medicate for the convulsions, and monitor Zachariah twice a month to see how his condition progresses. If he needs a tube to keep his airways open then we will address it when the problem arises. If you have any concerns call me, or bring him in straight away. We'll also put you in touch with a support group for other Tay-Sachs parents here in London.'
'Thank you, Doctor.'
***
Edwin checked his darknet account. Nothing: his subtlety had gone unappreciated. He shrugged and pulled his keyboard closer. He ran the same routine precautions as before, concealing his whereabouts using proxies. Again, he took the time to spoof his MAC address, concealing the physical identity of the laptop. This time, he was sure, the messages simply could not be traced back to him. He typed out a new message, deleting the old one as he did so. The time for being coy was over, and Edwin chose to be completely forthright in his new message. 'Contractor needed to eliminate nuisance. Target is mid-thirties. London based job. Contact for further details.' Satisfied, Edwin hit enter and the message floated into cyberspace for all to see.
***
This time a response came back quickly. In stilted English, the reply informed Edwin that a clean hit could be performed for the fee of £50,000. Payment would be in cash via a drop-box location, and Edwin would never see the killer.
Edwin began to mull it over before he realised how absurd his plan was. While he might be able to scrounge together the cash, it would be child's play for the police to put two and two together. The husband is always the police's first suspect, and with Edwin as the sole beneficiary of Eleanor's rather generous life insurance policy, the police would go over his finances with a fine tooth comb. A £50,000 deficit would stick out like a sore thumb, and Edwin would end up in prison before he could say "It wasn't me."
Then the insurance company would never pay out, and Edwin would lose Chelsea to the foster system. It simply wasn't viable. Edwin would have to find another way.
***
Yosef felt the tension of being a carer flood from his shoulder as he listened to Nathan talk. Nat was the leader of the only Tay-Sachs support group in London. Nat had lost a daughter to the disease, but still ran the close-knit group. He had welcomed Yosef warmly the first time he'd walked in, embracing him and baby Zachariah as members of their community.
Nat spoke in a slow, sombre voice that contrasted sharply with his jovial features. He glanced around the room as he spoke, making eye contact with each group member in turn. Nat's grief was still raw, but somehow Yosef found his voice comforting and familiar. Yosef let his mind, and his eyes, wander. He looked around the hall, which had been donated by the Islington Synagogue for their use every other Thursday. It was a small gesture but without it the support group would not exist.
A small cry escaped from Zach's pram as he woke, bringing Yosef's attention back into the moment. He apologised for the disturbance, and picked the boy up gingerly to try and calm him down.
Zach's decline had been swift. He had seemed to grow normally for several months, and Yosef almost believed that the diagnosis had been wrong. Sadly, the set of tests confirmed his worst fears: Zach was suffering from the usual signs of Tay-Sachs. Not long after that, partial paralysis began to set in, and Zachariah became disabled before he had learned to walk.
The cherry-red bright spots in his eyes had been the red flag. Yosef knew his boy would be unlikely to make it past four years of age. The others in the group were further along that awful road. Even now, one woman, Maya, was making her first appearance in the group in months. Maya's daughter had suffered infection after infection, and had been in hospital for over a year.
Yosef squirmed in his seat, imagining Zachariah suffering that same agony, unable to speak or swallow, and barely able to breathe unassisted. Yosef's sense of calm dissipated as he realised once again just how hopeless it was being the carer for a terminal child.
Guilt clutched at Yosef's heart. He had brought this little boy into the world, and it was because of his Jewish ancestry that the boy suffered. He bowed his head in prayer, and made a silent vow that he would not prolong the boy's agony.
Chapter 3: The Plan
Life had been quiet for Edwin since leaving The Impartial. With no job to go to, no work to do, and no child to look after he had found himself at a bit of a loose end. For the first few days Edwin had drifted. He had allowed himself to sleep in, to watch daytime TV and to avoid physical exertion generally. He had begun to fall into a stupor. The wakeup call came in an unusual form for Edwin. It was when he realised that he could hum the theme tunes to the major morning television shows that he started to appreciate that, job or no job, he needed some sort of daily routine.
He set his alarm for six o'clock sharp, the time he used to get up for work at The Impartial. He forced himself to get dressed, as if he was going to work, but instead spent his mornings at the gym. Edwin didn't consider himself unfit, but he certainly had a slight paunch that had not been there when he was at university. He resolved to get back into trim during his time out from work, which he described to friends as a "career hiatus".
Once he had finished in the gym Edwin's daily routine was to take his laptop and abuse the free Wi-Fi in the British Library to hunt for jobs. It was an auspicious setting that helped Edwin to focus, and he was soon fielding phone calls from recruitment consultants, agents and human resources departments. The loss of work at The Impartial was a blot on his résumé but he was still an exceptionally strong candidate. With a first-class undergraduate degree as well as his MBA, many doors were still open to him.
It was scant surprise therefore that within a week Edwin had secured a telephone interview with a business periodical in Vancouver. It was a slightly different role to editing The Impartial but Edwin was up for a new challenge and he soon wowed the director for human resources in the telephone interview. She was so impressed with his work ethic that he received an invitation to an in-person interview to take place in one week's time.
***
Edwin liked to do his thinking when it was particularly quiet. He had always found that late in the evening was a particularly productive time for him. As the witching hour approached, the number of distractions decreased exponentially. His phone remained mute, and his social media accounts were of little interest while everyone else was asleep.
Edwin pondered on his problems. A new job might ease the cash flow, but his wife was claiming virtually all their liquid assets and an on-going payment to maintain the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. After adding in sale fees for the house, child support and the chance of being out of work for a while, Edwin realised that claiming on Eleanor's life insurance policy might be the only way out. He laughed as he realised that the insurance had effectively become a bounty payment for her murder.
The cold mirth echoed around the room, and Edwin clapped his hand over his mouth. He couldn't risk waking the neighbours.
The best thing about the quiet of the night was that it allowed Edwin to make connections in his mind that never seemed to occur to him during daylight hours. It was almost as if his neurons kept working hours that were the direct antithesis of Edwin's waking hours.
Whether it was the silence, or a by-product of his raw desire to carve out a plan, Edwin's brain began to map out a plan to eliminate his wife. He had been on the right track with using the darknet. It was sufficiently anonymous to fox the Metropolitan Police, and it seemed to work. It had, after all, already led him to a contact who appeared to be an assassin.
'What if...?' Edwin whispered. He grabbed a pen and began to scribble on his notepad, a mouse mat between the laye
rs to prevent any indentations left on the paper underneath.
The darknet was an ideal form of communication for finding anonymous contacts, but paying someone to kill Eleanor would require Edwin to renounce his anonymity in making the payment. Spending money would also leave a trail that even the Met could follow successfully right to him.
In order for it to work Edwin would need to exchange not goods or money, but services. One hit in exchange for another, a murder swap.
It was ideal, as neither person would need to identify themselves, only their victims. They would also have absolutely no connection to each other's victims, and thus no motive. Why would the police ever find them?
Edwin stretched out languorously as a yawn escaped him. It was getting late, but Edwin still had a new advert to post on the darknet before he would allow himself to sleep.
Chapter 4: Working Girl
North London's downmarket Caledonian Road area had always been known for being a place in which certain desires could be satiated, at a price. It wasn't completely rundown, but the London housing boom had forced those on the fringe to live in the most affordable places they could find, and Caledonian Road was still relatively affordable, which attracted the undesirable elements of society.
A central London location was essential for Vanhi. Her tiny flat was rented through a shell company, one of a myriad of properties used by her pimp to sell sex.
While prostitution has never been criminalised, solicitation is and always has been illegal. It didn't stop some working girls, who could often be found near roundabouts touting for business from passing cars.
But Vanhi was smarter than that. She advertised online, finding punters in places the law couldn't reach. Business was brisk.
For a city of over seven and a half million people, it was remarkable how lonely many men were. Sex always sold well and it always would. In a city where it was bad form to smile at another commuter on the underground the market had thrived.
Vanhi lay splayed out on the four-posted bed, a reluctant participant pretending to be enthralled by the rolls of fat oozing off of the middle-aged man on top of her. Sweat poured off his body, and Vanhi wrinkled her nose as the smell overcame her.
She didn't know the man's name, and she didn't care to. Every time he touched her, she recoiled. But there was no other way.
Her customer didn't notice her pained wince as he mounted her. She closed her eyes as the man came to rest on top of her, and then forced her legs apart.
She tried to let her mind drift, to pretend she was somewhere else, anywhere else. Reality bit back as the man thrust himself inside her, violating every inch of her as his carnal urges took over.
Less than two minutes later, the man grunted as he finished. Vanhi fought the urge to run straight to the shower. A small moan escaped her, one of desperation, but the client smiled as if he had won the lottery.
The big man tossed a few notes on the bed-stand, then slowly got dressed before heading for the door. She closed her eyes as he dressed, willing him to leave quickly.
'Thanks, babe. Same time next week.'
She rolled over and clutched at her illicit haul. It wouldn't go far. She dashed to the shower and ran the hot tap. It was only when searing hot water scalded her that she came back down to reality.
When she was finally satisfied that she had finished her post-punter ritual, she dashed out of the shower to clear away the day's mess. It would only be a couple of hours before Jaison made it back from his cleaning job.
She hastily painted her face to hide her day's activities from her beau, and then pulled out a credit card and a small bag of cocaine. One more hit wouldn't hurt. She just needed to forget.
***
Edwin shifted in his aeroplane seat, trying not to elbow the woman next to him. His legs were always a problem when flying. They were simply too long. On a previous flight he had fallen asleep with his legs in the aisle and tripped up an air hostess who tried to shuffle by without waking him, and that was only a short-haul flight.
This time, he'd convinced the company to cough up for premium economy, and asked to be put in the front row, next to the emergency exit. The airlines didn't mind. They needed someone able to open the door in the event of an emergency, and Edwin gained a few extra inches of legroom in return. The airline still refused to confirm that seat until he'd checked in.
He had grudgingly forked out for a travel cushion at Heathrow. He hated wasting money but it was a nine-hour flight, and another £10 made little difference when the bill for the flight had been £1183.
Edwin needn't have worried. He was soon snoozing in his seat, his Kindle tucked under his arm as the 747 soared majestically across the Atlantic.
An automated voice rudely woke him as the plane began the approach to Vancouver International.
'Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened while the pilot begins our final descent. Please keep your seatbelt fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop, and the seatbelt signs have been turned off. Thank you for flying British Airways.'
***
Vanhi yelled out in pain, or she would have if she had not been gagged and bound. She struggled against her bonds, nylon rope cutting into her wrists and drawing blood.
She screamed again as he approached her. His pockmarked face leered down at her with blue eyes, shot through with crimson. He tugged at her hair, pulling her face to within inches of his, parading his power over her. She screamed again, feeling more helpless than ever before. As she screamed he became visibly aroused, advancing on her with a knife in one hand. He held the knife to her throat and slid his hands between her legs.
Vanhi screamed and woke with a start. She was sweating profusely. The dream. Again. She glanced bleary-eyed at the clock. It read 2:32 a.m. She cursed under her breath, careful not to disturb Jaison, and then swung her legs out of bed, before tiptoeing to the kitchen in search of cocaine.
There was none to be found. She searched her purse and found it empty. There wasn't even enough money to buy more, not that it would be easy to score a hit at half two in the morning anyway.
This had to end somehow. It was either her or him.
She pulled a serrated knife from the rack by the sink and placed it above her left wrist. One clean, simple swipe lengthways along the arm and her nightmare would be over.
Just as she was about to use the blade, Vanhi noticed her laptop had a small green LED flashing to indicate a new message had been posted on the darknet site she frequented.
At first, she thought it might be a new punter. She often found clients online, and using an anonymous service avoided being arrested for solicitation. She could find a dealer on there too, one willing to post her drugs to an anonymous PO Box. Meeting up meant losing that anonymity, but with careful screening, it was possible to avoid problems.
The message didn't seem to be from a punter or a dealer. It was curiously titled 'You solve my problem, and I'll solve yours.'
The grammar was too perfect for it to be just another druggie looking to score, so Vanhi opened the thread. No author's name was listed, only the message and a time stamp, 1:08 a.m. GMT. Vanhi flicked the scroll wheel to show the body of the message.
'Help me eliminate my problem, and I'll eliminate yours.'
A small text box invited anonymous replies. Vanhi smiled. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. If she was reading this right she could make sure that man never hurt anyone else as he had hurt her, and do it without ever even having to look at his pockmarked face ever again. First she had to make sure the message was what she thought it was. She typed cautiously, praying that the other person wasn't a prankster, or worse, the police.
'Seems like a fair swap. What is your problem?'
Chapter 5: Oh, Canada!
If Edwin hadn't been a Londoner for most of his adult life he would have found Vancouver to be both imposing and impressive in equal measure. The skyline resembled many of the other major cities Edwin had visited. V
ast office blocks rose dozens of storeys above the waterline, with beautiful bridges such as the Granville Street Bridge in the north and the remarkably well-lit Lions Gate Bridge breaking up the seaways. It was a most beautiful city, with a vibrant metropolitan community, and a strong economy. It would be an ideal place to live and work for a newly single bachelor looking for a fresh start.
The interview was to take place in downtown Vancouver at 5433 West Georgia Street. It was a swanky address, but having lived and worked in the most exorbitantly expensive parts of London Edwin was not one to be intimidated by a postcode.
He was, however, impressed with the building. His office on Fleet Street had been opulent with incredible views, but the home of the Canadian Business Press Co eclipsed even that office. With over thirty floors, including a central atrium complete with indoor waterfall and a glass elevator, the building was a powerhouse.
Upon arrival Edwin was quickly escorted into the elevator by a business-like secretary who had plainly been chosen on merit rather than her looks. The ride gave Edwin the opportunity to watch the laid-back attitude the Canadians took to their work. While the foyer at The Impartial was a veritable circus, CBC Co had a relaxed atmosphere. Colleagues could be seen chatting over the water cooler and strolling casually among the indoor fauna. It was a culture shock, but a pleasant one.
Equally shocking was the proliferation of proper etiquette. Everywhere Edwin went he was greeted warmly and with a politeness that to an Englishman would seem unnatural, perhaps even false. False it was not, however. There genuinely was a strong culture of being respectful and observing social boundaries.
There was no waiting room for Edwin to sit in and muster his thoughts before the interview. He was led straight into a series of psychometric tests. His brain strained as he fought to recall rules of grammar, and how to solve equations by integration. He was nearing a migraine when the secretary reappeared.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 3
